Charlaine Harris (75 page)

“This is ridiculous,” he said, so close I almost shrieked. “I mean, after all, you must be nuts to react to a man talking to you that way. Kicking and screaming, fighting and biting. Who could expect anyone in your line of work to be sane, anyway? I was just trying to take you to the hospital when you started having a fit, that's all. Your overreaction caused me to panic. I took the wrong turn. Now here we are out in the middle of nowhere in very cold weather and you won't let me know where you are so I can get you the help you need.”

The help I need is for someone to come along and shoot you,
I thought. Barney was busy building a story, some kind of story that would enable him to hold on to what he had. He was doomed to fail. But then, he'd lasted this long, and it must be hard for him to believe it was the end.

And to think I'd suspected Doak Garland. Well, I shouldn't relax too soon. There might have been
three
of them.

And I really was thinking about that, so you know my mind was wandering. It was the cold and fear that were doing me in. I sharpened back up mentally just in time. I'd almost laughed at the picture of the whole town of Doraville being in on the kidnapping and the murdering. Like a Shirley Jackson short story!

And then he caught me.

HIS
big hands grabbed my shoulders, and like so many young men had been, I was now in his power. Except I had a knife in my hand. He pulled me up and up, until I was almost off my feet. In the twilight it was hard to make out details but I could see the white of his shirtfront, where his unbuttoned coat flapped open, and I swung my arm as hard as I could. The knife went into his skin easily enough but skidded along a bone, maybe his rib, and he screamed as the blood welled through his shirt.

He dropped me and I ran. He caught up with me after a second, though; he was quicker to recover from the shock than I expected. He tackled me, and I twisted, coming up on my side and swinging the knife back. This time I got him in the shoulder and it went in much farther. He really did scream, and heaved off of me, scrambling to his feet. We were close to the edge of the lake then, and I saw a sign or two—we were in some sort of public fishing area. I backed up closer to the water because he was coming at me and I didn't have a choice.

He'd done all the talking up till now. “Come get me, you bastard,” I said. “Come get me, rapist.”

“They loved it,” he said, amazingly. “They loved it.”

“Sure,” I said. “Who doesn't like being chained and burned and sliced before sex?”

“No,” he said, panting, “not the boys. Tom. Tom and Chuck.”

“Okay, you make me sick,” I said. “You going to stand there and make me sick some more, asshole?”

And he charged. He can't have been stupid, because he had a good job and he did it well enough to keep it, but he was stupid that night because of the strain and the pain and the freezing temperature, and he did lunge right at me. I leaped to one side and as he shot by I shoved him as hard as I could using both hands, even with the broken arm screaming at me. He landed right at the lake's edge, so I hadn't been close enough, damn it. I'd wanted him to go into the chilly water. But he wasn't getting up, and I took off. All those years of running finally gave me a reward for good behavior.

I was in the trees and working my way around the lake toward the inhabited cabin, the one with lights, which—I was almost certain—was the Hamiltons'.

I thought I heard him a million times. I hid for ten minutes, not moving, at least once; and maybe more than that. I was in too much pain to make sense, too cold to reason. I still had the knife, and though I thought of dropping it, I was scared to be without it in case he caught up with me. When I remembered how it had felt when the knife went into him, I had to stop and throw up. This was a queasy case. I didn't remember ever getting the heaves over any case before. Probably, I thought, I could excuse myself for it over the knifing. But I'd gotten sick outside the barn, too. Maybe it was the torturing, not the knifing?

I knew I wasn't thinking clearly, but knowing that didn't seem to help. I actually shook my head, maybe in the hope that my brains would resettle in a more sensible configuration, but I was really sorry I did that after I got sick yet again. Something was wrong with me, something bad. I needed to go to the hospital! I giggled.

It sure must have been Tom that hit me with that shovel,
I thought.
If it had been Barney, he would've killed me.

I'd forgotten to move for a couple of minutes. I'd just been standing in the dark woods with my mind far, far away. I listened hard, but I couldn't hear anything. That didn't mean it wasn't happening. I didn't trust my senses anymore. But I made myself move, because I couldn't stay out in the cold. I had to reach shelter.

That was the hardest struggle of my life. But I could see the lights and they were getting closer. I was farther from the road, far enough that I could only see lights passing occasionally. And who could tell whose lights they were, anyway?

I finally approached the first cabin. The woods ended, not abruptly, but with a gradual shift from heavy brush and trees, to trees with no brush, to scattered trees, to lawn and cabin. I didn't know anything: where Barney was, if I was for sure at Pine Landing Lake, if Tolliver was even looking for me. How could he not be? But what if he thought I'd gone off voluntarily? We'd been a little irritated with each other. No, that would never happen. He'd never believe I'd leave him.

I was stalling because I was scared to step out into the open. I listened with all my ears and looked with all my eyes. My heart was thudding and my head began pounding in time with it. I was having to fight a terrible desire to lie down on the cold ground and rest there, just for a minute. I took a few deep breaths and braced myself. I stepped out into the darkening evening. The moon would be out and there would be a lot of visibility, but now it was still twilight, the deepest, darkest part.

One step out into the open. Another.

Nothing happened.

I began to move faster, crossing this lawn and going into the next. Saying “lawn” may give an impression of unbroken sweeps of trimmed grass, but that wasn't exactly accurate. These were summer cabins, or glorified fishing camps, and lawn care was not a big item in the time budget of people who spent weekends at the lake. The lots were not that large, and sometimes there was no division at all between one property and another. Sometimes there was a line of ragged bushes, probably something that flowered in the spring. The ground was often weedy, uneven, and always, it was wet. There were things strewn around: buckets, childrens' toys, boats covered in tarps, even a swing set. One careless cabin owner had left out his deck chairs. I know because I fell over one.

I'd never felt so alone in my life.

I got this feeling that this episode would never end. Forever, for always, I'd be stumbling in the dark through rough territory, with death waiting for me somewhere along the line.

I was actually surprised to find that I had reached the Cotton cabin, where we'd stayed. For the first time I was sure I was at Pine Landing Lake, and the next cabin, the one with lights, was the Hamiltons' place.

But I'd have to step into the bright light to knock on the Hamiltons' door. I might endanger them. Though it seemed to me that Barney Simpson must be heading toward Mexico or Canada in his SUV by now, I couldn't be certain.

I planned it in advance, real carefully. I would run from the shadows of the Cotton cabin, up the slight slope to the Hamiltons' driveway, up the steps to their little deck, across it to the door,
bam bam bam
. Ted would open the door, because it was night. He would let me in. He might not really want to, because I was such a mess and I was bringing trouble with me, but I thought he would.

I gathered myself. Just as I was about to take the step out of the shadows, a large dark shape passed between me and the cottage. It seemed more bear than human, but after a second I was sure I was seeing Barney Simpson—not the kindly hospital administrator, but the beast that had lived within him. He hardly walked like a man. His shoulders were slumped and his left leg was dragging. I was sorry I hadn't hurt him enough to stop him. I thought he was more dangerous now that he'd been wounded.

He stood almost directly outside the Hamiltons' side door, down on the driveway; he didn't mount the steps to the deck. Their security light shone on the top of his head. Barney's hair was full of leaves and twigs. His suit was stained with blood and damp and dirt.

He had a big knife in his right hand. It was really more of a machete than a knife. I wondered if he'd gotten it out of his car, and if so, where it had been during our struggle. He'd been too cocky, then, apparently; he hadn't thought a weapon would be necessary, because he was big and strong.

Okay. I'd just wait until he left.

But Ted Hamilton was on the watch, as always. The door to the cottage opened, and the old man stepped out onto the little deck.

“Is it Mr. Simpson from the hospital?” he called. “Mr. Simpson, is that you?”

“Oh, Mr. Hamilton,” said Barney. “Listen, I'm sorry to disturb you. But that young woman that was here to find the bodies, that Harper Connelly, she's having a mental episode and she's somewhere out here running loose.”

“Oh, goodness,” said Mr. Hamilton, and it was impossible to tell from his voice what his reaction was.

“I don't suppose you've seen her?” Barney asked, and I wondered if I was the only one who could hear the strain in his voice. Barney was having a hard time sounding and acting like a human.

“No, I haven't,” Ted Hamilton said. “What do you plan to do when you find her?”

“Why, take her to the hospital,” Barney said.

“Are you planning to cut off her head first? Because that sure is a big knife you've got there.”

“No, Mr. Hamilton, watch out!” I jumped out of my hiding place, because I was so scared that Barney would attack the old man and his wife.

But Mr. Hamilton was pointing a gun at Barney. He was right on top of the situation, until I'd startled both of them by my sudden appearance.

With a roar, Barney came after me, and I turned to run back to the woods. But then the gun went off behind me.

And Barney wasn't running after me anymore.

I
stopped and turned around. Barney Simpson was lying in the driveway, so newly cleaned of tree debris. Now he was getting it dirty again, because he was really bleeding from a hole in his shoulder.

Mr. Hamilton had come forward to the edge of the deck, and Nita was behind him. She was wearing another tracksuit, and her short hair looked just as neat in the overhead light as it had in the daytime.

“You think you need to shoot him again?” she asked her husband.

“I think he's done,” Ted Hamilton said. “You scoot in there and call the police.”

“I'm one step ahead of you, honey, I already did it when I heard his voice outside,” she said. “Miss Connelly, you want to step around him, real careful, and come inside?”

“Thank you,” I said, in a very shaky voice that didn't sound at all like my own. “I'd love to be inside. Inside anything.”

“You poor girl, come on in.”

I walked very carefully around Barney Simpson, who was clutching his shoulder and as white as a sheet, though the bright overhead light washed the color out of everything. I went up the stairs very carefully, since nothing in my body seemed to be working exactly right. I was careful not to jostle Ted or come between him and the downed man. I didn't want Barney to get any more like the Terminator than he already had.

When I was close to Nita Hamilton and she got a good look at me, she said, “We do need to get you inside. Ted, are you good out here?”

“Yes, honey, you take care of the young lady.”

And just like that I was in a warm place. I could have predicted almost everything about the Hamiltons' cottage, from the maple furniture to the crocheted throws folded over the backs of their favorite chairs, from the framed baby pictures to the china rooster on an end table. Nita efficiently threw a towel over the wooden chair by the door, where they probably normally dumped their keys and coats. After I looked down at myself, I knew that was the only possible place for me to sit.

“You're bleeding,” she said. “I'm going to get a rag and wipe you off. I know the EMTs will do it right, but you don't want to be sitting there dripping. I know I wouldn't.”

And that was true enough, though I didn't really care that much just at the moment.

She was back with a clean rag and a white enamel basin of warm water in just a couple of minutes, and she began the tedious process of cleaning my face.

“Ted'll keep his distance, don't you worry,” she said quietly, as if shooting men was an everyday occurrence at the lake cottage. “He won't get too close.”

“When will the police be here?”

“Any moment. Your brother has been looking for you all over town,” Mrs. Hamilton said, and my heart felt warm again. “He called out here and asked us to keep our eyes open, because he saw Barney Simpson's car parked at the other end of the lake. So we were prepared.”

“I hope the police understand,” I said.

“I'm sure they will. Nothing wrong with our sheriff. She's a good one.”

I wasn't as sold on that idea as Nita, but then the sheriff wasn't answerable to me.

“How come your head's bleeding?” Nita asked, as if to make sure I was completely there with her mentally.

“He pulled me out of the car by the hair,” I said, and she looked truly shocked. “He pulled some stitches out.”

“Well, if Ted knew that, he'd shoot him again,” she said, and that triggered a set of giggles that shook my body in an unpleasant way.

I thought,
Then I wish I'd told him,
but just then we heard an ominous sound outside. It was a deep groan, and it came from right outside the door. Ted Hamilton. Oh, shit.

Quick as a wink, Nita locked the front door, and just barely in time. The knob turned, and when the door wouldn't open to him, Barney threw himself against it.

“Come out,” he bellowed, “come out here!”

“He's hurt Ted,” Nita said. “That son of a bitch.”

Even at that moment, I was shocked. But that was only the beginning. Nita opened a closet on the other side of the front door, pulled out a rifle, and aimed it at the door. “This is our varmint rifle,” she told me, maybe because I was gaping at her. “He comes in here, he's dead. I might turn my own cheek, but I ain't offering up yours.”

Barney threw himself against the door. Since I was still sitting to the right of the door, like a fool, I could hear the click in the quiet night. “Move!” I yelled. “Move, Nita!” And Barney fired Ted's pistol into the house.

The cabin had a good door, but the bullet came in and passed through the living room and into the kitchen beyond. Nita had moved to the side, and it missed her by a foot or more, but it was pretty shocking. For a moment I thought Nita would falter, that all her courage would drain away, but she raised the rifle and fired right back, and we heard a scream.

After a second of staring at each other, Nita said, “I have to see about my husband.” Though I thought it was the worst idea in the world for her to open that door, I said “Of course you do” through stiff lips. I reached up my right hand and unlocked the door, and turned the knob as quietly as I could, though I'm not sure why I was trying to be so quiet at this late date.

The door swung open, and we saw Barney again down and bleeding, and Ted Hamilton crumpled on the deck in a corner, blood running from his shoulder. He was conscious, but only just. Nita said, “Oh,” and it sounded like she was witnessing the end of the world.

Then she simply stepped over Barney to get to her man, and she knelt down by him, and she put pressure on his shoulder like the sensible woman she was, and I finally managed to subtract myself from the situation by fainting.