Pressing a finger to my lips, I looked Birdie in the eye, shook my head. I rose to my knees, checked over my shoulder, heard someone or something slam against the wall in the living room. The house shook, and behind me the bedroom door creaked open another inch. Stilling the trembling in my hands, I pressed a palm against the screen, pushed gently, then harder, with both hands.
The screen, encrusted with paint and dirt and riddled with holes, tore like old fabric, the mesh dry and rotten around the edges. Dust fell in a cloud, and bits of rotten wood landed silently in the growth of weeds outside. Checking over my shoulder, I motioned for Birdie, lifted her onto the windowsill, then leaned through, lowering her down. She stepped away from the house, her blue eyes skittering about helplessly.
“Wait,” I whispered, then drew back so that I could go through feet first. Chaos broke loose in the living room. I heard the fight moving into the kitchen, saw the bedroom door swing open, saw Len and another man fall across the doorway in a twisted heap, heard Norma scream.
A hammer thumped in my chest. I tried to scramble through the window. Something was holding me back. My purse. The strap was hung up and still wound around my shoulder. I threw my weight against it, felt the strap tear, heard my wallet and car keys spill onto the floor.
The jagged window frame sliced my back as I tumbled toward the ground.
Norma screamed. “C.J., look!”
“Hey! What’re you doin?” one of the men yelled. I didn’t know if they were yelling at us – if they’d seen us or not. Shedding the last shreds of my purse in the tall grass, I grabbed Birdie and ran, crashing through weeds and cedar bushes. Tripping and rolling into a drainage ditch, Birdie and I tumbling in a painful tangle. I heard the struggle, and the dogs, and the shots. I didn’t look back, just grabbed Birdie and started running again. If we could make it to the road, maybe we could find help – a passing car, another house. Anything.
But when we reached the road, they were there – a white SUV roaring up Len’s driveway, then along the road, the headlights illuminating the dusky gray in the ditches, Norma was calling Birdie’s name, the tone falsely enticing. Birdie grabbed my hand, pulled me back into the cedars.
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
“Ssshhh,” I whispered against her ear.
The other men were crashing through the brush somewhere downhill, calling Birdie’s name, telling her she’d better stop hiding before her mother got mad.
Pulling her close against me, I pressed deeper into the cedars, the limbs grabbing my T-shirt, clawing my skin. If we tried to walk out via the road, we wouldn’t get far before they saw us. In the woods, in the dark with no flashlight, I’d be completely lost. I didn’t have any idea which way to go to find help.
“It’s all right,” I whispered against Birdie’s ear. “I won’t let anything happen. We’ll just wait. We’ll just wait for someone to come.” But nobody knew where I was. How long before anyone might come looking for me? How many times might Dustin call before he figured out something was wrong? I thought of him, far away on a trip with his father, with no idea that I wasn’t safely home. Would he even call to check in tonight? If I didn’t answer, would he bother to call back?
It could be hours. It could be all night. What condition was Len in now? Where was he? He might not have all night. We probably didn’t, either.
If we stayed this close to the house, sooner or later C.J., Norma, or the other men would discover us. I had to find a way out. It was getting darker by the minute, the night settling in moonless and damp. I had no way to see, no keys, no cell phone, no means of protecting Birdie or myself. How much chance was there of getting to safety on foot, in the dark, with a six-year-old?
But I had to do something.
Think, Andrea. Think.
The road wasn’t an option. My vehicle wasn’t an option. If I took Birdie into the woods now, anything could happen. We could end up wandering in circles . . . or worse. How many times had Dustin come home filled with Mart’s war stories about campers and hikers lost in the state park? Word of a hiker attacked by a mountain lion a few months ago was still the talk of the community. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen.
If you’re ever lost, head for the water,
Mart’s voice was in my head now.
In the summer, there’s plenty of traffic on the lake. . . .
The path to the river was back by the cabin, but if we went that way, we’d be circling right into C.J.’s men.
Every place in the woods has its own sound, if you stop and listen,
Mart had told me as we picnicked near Eagle Eye, listening to the mockingbirds and the Wailing Woman.
The river has a sound, and the
hills have a sound, and the rocky draws have a sound, and the cliffs have
a sound. Folks wouldn’t get themselves so lost in these hills if they’d stop
and listen.
He was probably on the water tonight. Why did I feel as if he were close by?
“Birdie, do you know how to get down to the river?” I whispered. “Do you know how to get there from here?”
Birdie nodded, her eyes round and earnest in the fading light.
I hesitated a moment longer, wondering at the wisdom of depending on a traumatized child. But what other choice did I have? I took Birdie’s hand, and we crawled through the cornfield to the forest, then started walking.
Finding our way in the dark was harder than I’d thought it would be. I had a feeling we’d been wandering in circles, but in the dark it was impossible to tell. The distant shots pushed Birdie closer to me. If those shots were coming from somewhere near Len’s cabin, we’d traveled a long way. Birdie had stopped trying to lead. Now she was following, as lost as I was. The blind leading the blind.
The night air was surprisingly cool, and Birdie’s fingers had turned icy inside mine, clinging mechanically as she stumbled along. I didn’t dare pick her up. I’d tripped over roots, twigs, and rocks at least a dozen times and fallen hard. My left ankle was swollen from our hasty escape out the window, and a sticky film of blood had pasted my T-shirt to my back.
Maybe we should stop until morning,
I thought.
Curl up in the driest
spot we can find and try to sleep.
Maybe we were far enough away from the cabin to be safe. . . .
But what if they were still following us, still searching for us? What if we fell asleep, and they found us? I couldn’t take that chance. And what about Len? I had to get help.
I thought again of Dustin. Had he called my phone? Was he worried?
Birdie sniffled, a small, wavering, vulnerable sound that touched the deepest part of me. I stopped beside a tree, picked her up, and she wrapped herself around me, her legs bare and thin and cold.“It’s all right,” I whispered. “It’ll be all right.”
I realized that she knew this kind of fear all the time. Possibly, she’d known it all her life. Perhaps Len’s house was the first safe place she’d ever been. I couldn’t fail her now. I couldn’t fail myself. As much as I’d tried to tell myself that my ending up in this job was a random act of nature, I’d known for a while that it wasn’t. This job was my calling, something I was meant to do. I hadn’t just ended up here. I’d been brought here. Even a weary, tattered faith like mine knew that we’re never given a calling without being given the resources to accomplish it. I still believed that.
I still believed.
Birdie shifted in my arms, tightened her fists over my shirt, holding it in handfuls. “Shhh,” I whispered. Leaning against the cool bark of the tree, I closed my eyes, let the forest, the darkness, the mist fade away, heard only the whisper of my own thoughts, of a prayer.
Show
me which way. Give me a sign. Find me.
The night grew impossibly quiet, seeming to close in around us. Through the silence, I heard a song, the notes far away but clear, no two measures the same.
“Bird,” Birdie whispered.
“I hear it, too,” I said.
“Her a mockin’ bird.”
“Yes, a mockingbird.” My mind traveled back to the picnic grounds along the river, to the mockingbirds. Could we be close by? What were the chances that we’d somehow circled back toward the river? I listened to the bird’s repertoire, waiting for the Wailing Woman’s telltale moan.
“Her cryin’,” Birdie whispered, as if she’d read my mind. I felt Birdie’s breath against my neck as she let out a long, low whistle that sounded like the Wailing Woman. I listened, but all I could hear was the bird. So far, it hadn’t mocked the Wailing Woman’s cry. Was it possible that Birdie was so in tune with the sounds of the lake that she could hear the Wailing Woman cliffs in the distance when I could not?
“Which way?” I asked. “Where do you hear the crying?”
Birdie pointed in the direction of the birdsong.
Setting her down, I caught a breath, felt hope flow through me. “You lead the way. Go toward the crying lady, all right?”
She didn’t reply – just listened a moment, then started forward. I walked beside her, flailing my free arm ahead of me to protect us from branches. The moon was making a low loop over the horizon now, casting a dim light across the canopy, but on the forest floor, it was still impossibly black. Birdie seemed unbothered by the blackness, moving through it with an ease that seemed unnatural. As we followed the mockingbird’s song, I heard the faint, far-off call of the Wailing Woman. An almost euphoric joy overtook me at the sense of finally knowing where I was. No one would be at the day-use picnic grounds this time of night. Birdie and I could go in the restroom building, lock the door, and we’d be safe and dry until I could figure out what to do next.
I sped up the pace, pushing branches out of the way, lifting Birdie over clumps of brambles and underbrush, scrambling up hills and tripping down hills, thinking that we must be close. But after an hour of wandering, we were still lost. In the woods at night, sounds traveled. The voices of the mockingbird and the Wailing Woman had been closer and farther away, closer and farther away, so that it seemed as if they were moving, tantalizing us, playing a game of cat and mouse. The truth, undoubtedly, was that we were walking in circles, following sounds that were bouncing off cliffs, and rocks and hills. Nothing was as it seemed, and in the dark, there were no landmarks. Birdie hung back now, once again uncertain of which way to go.
“Okay, honey, we have to stop. We have to stop for a while.” I couldn’t walk any farther, and neither could Birdie. What was the point, anyway? “We’ll find a spot under one of these trees and wait until morning. Then we’ll be able to see where we are.” Would seeing make any difference? The state park covered thousands of acres. We hadn’t come across a single sign of civilization in all this time. By now, we could be miles from anything recognizable.
I could feel Birdie watching me, confused, uncertain, afraid. If her mother and C.J. were any example of what she was accustomed to, she hadn’t been able to rely on many people in her life.
Squinting into the darkened woods, I turned in a circle, trying to find a place that seemed safe. A breeze slid through the trees, and Birdie shivered, her teeth clattering. She pressed close to my leg, as if she were afraid I might leave her there in the dark. Overhead, the canopy rustled, swaying wildly. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I slipped my hands over Birdie’s shoulders, holding her, looking up into the trees, thinking,
Please, no. Not a storm. Not now . . .
Branches shivered apart atop the hill, and I saw something. A light. Not natural light from the moon, but something else. Something more intense. Headlights? Was there a road up there?
Birdie spotted it, too. She pointed, taking a step toward the glow as the branches closed again, and the light disappeared.
I grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s go.” My body, weary only a moment earlier, came to life. Swinging Birdie onto my hip, I struggled up the hill, my feet sinking into thick piles of dried leaves. As we drew closer, the headlights circled, strafing the trees, illuminating shapes beyond the underbrush – a stone barbecue grill, a table. The picnic grounds! The mockingbird and the Wailing Woman had led us to the park, after all.
The lights turned the other way, leaving only the dim glow of security lamps as we pressed through the last of the underbrush. I squinted through the darkness, trying to make out the vehicle . . . a Tahoe or a Suburban . . . brown or green . . . with some sort of official decal on the back. A park ranger, maybe? The truck was moving away, preparing to turn onto the county road.
“Wait!” I hollered, but my voice was hoarse after the night outdoors. “Wait!” The vehicle continued past the last picnic tables and left the park just as I made it to the edge of the pavement. Birdie swiveled in my arms, trying to see the vehicle as it roared away. Finally she slid to the ground, and we stood like shipwreck victims watching a boat disappear on the horizon.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, but having come so close to finding help, I felt more alone than ever, more helpless. A teary lump rose in my throat, and I swallowed hard. At least we’d made it to the park. We’d found shelter. The men’s restroom door was closed, but the women’s was hanging ajar. “Let’s go inside.” But even as I led Birdie into the tiny restroom building, closed the dry-rotted wooden door and locked it behind us, a cold blanket of fear settled over me, turning my skin clammy. As easily as the park ranger’s vehicle could cruise through this place, Birdie’s mother, C.J., and their accomplices could, too. The park was only a couple miles from Len’s across country – farther via the road, but not that far. Perhaps they’d be watching to see if we showed up here. Maybe they were watching now.