Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 15

 

***

A half-hour later I was ready.

I yelled out toward the cavern wall: “I think I remember!”

Moments later, Dr. Eastbrook came in, followed by Blue Boyle. My back was to them.

When I was sure they were both inside, I whirled around and blasted Blue Boyle in the forehead with a rock I’d found on the cave floor, a rock I’d propelled with the homemade sling I’d just fashioned from part of my top that I’d ripped away.

Blue Boyle collapsed like a frail statue in an earthquake.

Dr. Eastbrook looked stunned.

So I took that moment to sprint through the opening in the wall, saw the Hudson River not far away, jumped in, and the current swirled me away.

The last thing I heard was Dr. Eastbrook scream, “You idiot!”

***

Moments later, I was pretty sure I was an idiot. The river swept me along in its swift current, heading south, heading toward … what?

***

Toward an island.

It wasn’t that far south, a pretty big island, too. Covered with trees.

As I neared it, I was able to swim closer and eventually pull myself ashore, where for a few minutes, I lay soaked, tired, cold. But relieved. And thrilled, too: I had escaped Dr. Eastbook, had taken Blue Boyle out of the game for a while.

But I also knew this: Dr. Eastbrook knew which way the river flowed and would quickly be in pursuit. Realizing this, I pulled myself into the woods, to a place where I could see out but no one could really see in.

I don’t know what I was waiting for. I’d read Robinson Crusoe, so I knew that a shipwreck, at least in fiction, could leave you on an island for a long time. For about twenty-eight years Crusoe lived alone on an island off the coast of Venezuela in South America. That didn’t sound all that appealing to me. Twenty-eight years with no books to read?

But, watching from the woods, I realized that there was a lot of river traffic. If I could be certain that the boat flowing by did not contain those who were chasing me, maybe I could wave one over?

I figured it would take a long time for Dr. Eastbrook to get a boat and pursue me … or would he do it by car? Would he guess I had struggled ashore on the eastern side of the river? Had made it to a highway? Where I would try to get a kind person in a car to stop and pick me up?

It wasn’t long before I saw what looked like a father and a young son in a small fishing boat. I took a chance. They saw me waving, saw my torn top, heard my cries (though I’m not sure they could tell what I was saying—neither could I, to tell the truth).

The father quickly swung the boat toward the shore and waved me toward them.

“What on earth has happened to you?” he asked.

The son looked dazed.

I had already crafted a lie. “I fell off a tour boat,” I said. “Luckily it was near this island.”

The father didn’t look as if he believed me, but he signaled for me to get in the boat.

“There’s an I-87 rest area not far from here,” he said. “We’ll let you off near there, and you can get help inside.

And so they did. And so I did.

 

From Blue Boyle

That rock hurt. That was mean.