Apparently, she’d already figured out what to do. She took the ax from me, carried it toward the edge, and turned the ax so its haft pointed away from the chasm. Then she squatted and shoved the blade into a crack in the rocks. Standing up, she stomped it deeper.
She tied a loop at her end of the rope and slipped it down the haft until it stopped against the steel head.
“That should do it,” she said. “Rupe, how about hanging on to the ax handle? Just keep it pushed down, and try not to let the head pop out of the crack.”
I nodded. “Okay, but…”
“Or stand on the ax. Whatever.”
“Okay.” Crouching, I clutched the wooden handle just below the loop of rope. “Got it,” I said.
“Good guy,” she said. She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then moved around in front of me. Briefly, we were forehead to forehead. Then she crawled backward, the rope on the ground between her knees.
“Be careful,” Billie said.
“For Godsake, don’t fall,” Connie said.
They both moved in closer. Billie stood near my left side, while Connie sank down to one knee on my right. They were ready to help if anything should go wrong.
So far, Kimberly hadn’t even taken hold of the rope. Hands pressed against the edge of the chasm, she lowered her legs. Then she stopped. She held herself there, braced up with stiff arms in front of me, the ledge pushing a long dent across both her thighs. Her shoulders and arms, usually so slender and smooth, bulged with curves of muscle. So did her breasts. They swelled, smooth and round, ballooning the pouches of her white bikini. Her dark skin dripped sweat and glistened.
“Rupe,” she said.
I met her eyes.
“I’m gonna lose my knife.”
I looked at it.
I’d been trying to avoid looking there.
As usual, the Swiss Army knife was tucked in between her bare skin and waistband at the very front of her bikini pants. Its top end stuck up more than usual—about half an inch. The thickness of the handle held the pants away from her body, and made a bulge all the way down.
I saw her problem right away; if she tried to lower herself any further, the rock ledge would push at the bottom end of the knife, thrusting it up and out.
“Take it,” she said.
“Uh…”
She sort of rolled her eyes upward. “Just do it. Please.”
“I’ll get it,” Connie said, sounding annoyed. Up on one knee, though, she was too far away. She started to put her other knee down.
“Never mind,” I said. Leaning over the ax, I planted my left hand on the ground to hold myself steady while I reached for the knife with my right hand.
I found myself gazing nearly straight down into wedges of open space on either side of the knife handle. Twin triangles formed by red plastic, white spandex, and bare skin. Smooth, flawless, private skin and curls of black hair.
The view sucked my breath out, made my heart start to slam, and sent a quick surge through my groin. I grew hard as I reached down to rescue the knife.
I tried to pinch the tip of the handle where it jutted out above her waistband.
Not enough there to get a firm grip on.
So I slipped my thumb and forefinger down inside. By accident, they brushed ever so softly against her skin. I felt the smoothness, and moaned. I murmured, “Sorry,” in a shaky voice.
I was taking too long.
I squeezed the sides of the handle between my thumb and forefinger, and slowly lifted. The knife slid upward. I could feel the tightness of it, trapped like it was. But it came up smoothly. When it was nearly all the way out, I stole a glimpse down deep inside the gaping front of her pants.
Then the elastic snapped back. Her pants shut like a mouth.
“Got it,” I murmured.
“Thanks,” Kimberly said.
Thank you, I thought. Didn’t say it, though.
I raised my head and forced a smile. The look she gave me, she knew what had happened. She’d intended it. Or maybe I just read that into her look, and all she’d really intended was to have me stop the knife from falling out. Who knows?
“If you need any help down there…” I said. The words were out before I realized they could be taken in a couple of different ways.
I expected Connie to pop out with a nasty crack. She didn’t, though.
Kimberly said, “I might want you to lower the knife to me. We’ll see.”
“Sure. Just let me know.”
She bent her arms. The stone edge rubbed its way up her thighs, her groin and belly. Propped up on her elbows, she grabbed the rope with one hand.
I took my position beside the ax. Keeping the knife snug inside my right hand, I held the ax handle down with my left. By the time I looked at Kimberly again, only the top of her head showed. A moment later, it vanished below the rim.
With Kimberly out of view, I focused on the ax and the rope. They looked fine. The ax seemed to be solidly planted in the crack. The rope, taut and stiff, vibrated slightly.
Connie was still beside me on one knee.
Billie still stood near the edge, watching Kimberly’s descent.
Someone yelled “YAHHHHHH!”
The noise of it almost stopped my heart. For an instant, I thought Kimberly’d fallen. The yell didn’t sound like her voice, though.
Sounded like a man’s voice.
I raised my head.
He came at us from the other side of the chasm, yelling as he charged. He didn’t look like Wesley. He was Wesley, though. And he was bigger than the guy in the chasm.
Even though I only saw him for a few seconds, I remember every detail as if I’d snapped a photo of him. Or caught him on videotape, to be more accurate—they’re moving pictures. Often, I see them in slow motion.
Somewhere, Wesley had gotten hold of a blue cap. He wore it backward, the plastic adjustable tabs across the middle of his forehead so he looked like some sort of fat, white gangsta rapper.
He also wore Thelma’s large, red brassiere. He seemed to be using it as a harness to hold a bandage in place against his left boob; the red cup on that side was stuffed to bulging. The right cup had been cut away, so his hairy tit bulged out through the frame, bouncing and flopping as he dashed toward the chasm.
Since the night of the ambush—the last time I’d seen Wesley—he had also found a leather belt. If he’d come upon a pair of pants to go with it, though, he’d chosen to go without. He wore the belt around his waist, and hunting knives in leather sheaths at each hip.
On his feet, he wore a pair of high-topped sneakers.
He wore nothing else except his own sweat, hair, and hard-on.
He was pretty damn funny-looking, in a way.
But there wasn’t much amusing about how he ran at us yelling like a madman and waving machetes overhead with both hands.
Even though I’m able to see him in slow motion, everything actually happened very fast. He had almost reached the far edge of the chasm by the time I raised my head and saw him coming.
Connie made a squeaky little noise.
Billie let out a loud gasp.
Wesley was in mid-leap before any of us started to move. Connie started trying to get off her knee. Billie began to turn and take a step backward. On my knees, I opened my hand and glanced down at the shiny red plastic handle of the Swiss Army knife, the silvery edges of the blades and tools that were safely folded away.
No chance of getting a blade out in time.
I started trying to get off my knees.
Billie, glancing over her shoulder, flinched and gaped. Her arms began to rise as she continued to twist around. Something about her expression and posture reminded me of a football player lunging for an interception.
In that instant, I knew Thelma must be attacking from the rear.
I heard Wesley’s sneaker whap close by. Still in a crouch, I turned my head and glimpsed him on our side of the chasm—but not directly in front of me. Off a bit to my right. Charging straight at Connie.