When she was done unloading, the fridge was not exactly full, but there was enough to keep them well fed for the weekend. She didn’t want to have to go looking for a store tomorrow, so she had insisted that they bring all the basics as well as a few luxury items. David had brought beer. She couldn’t drink alcohol because of the baby, but she had taken two bottles of sparkling cider from the wedding so that it would seem like champagne. Emma closed the door to the fridge. From outside she could hear the sound of cracking as David began to split the wood. She glanced out and saw him there, placing the logs on a stump and cleaving them deftly with a shiny ax.
I’d better make up the bed, she thought. Even if they did pull the mattress into the living room in front of the fire, it would be better if the sheets were already on it. Ever since she became pregnant, she had a tendency to fall asleep at a moment’s notice. Out here in the fresh air, she could probably fall asleep standing up. She went into the bedroom, turned on the bedside light, and emptied their suitcases into the narrow closet. Then she went and reached for the sheets she had placed in a large shopping bag. As she began to stretch the bottom sheet around the corner of the bed, she realized that the cracking sound of the logs being split had ceased.
That was quick, she thought.
She walked around the bed, pulling on the sheet, and then she tossed open the top sheet and let it drift onto the bed. As she began to tuck it in, she felt a little twinge in her abdomen. Overdoing it, she thought. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked out the bedroom window. A sliver of the river was visible through the pine trees. It gleamed silver like a knife. The whole world seemed to be silent, except for the odd call of a bird in the trees and a faint rustle of dessicated leaves.
I like this, she thought. I need this. She heard a creak, as if the front door had opened.
“David?” she called out.
There was no answer.
Probably the wind, she thought. Or the Jersey Devil. She thought immediately of her conversation with Burke about monsters. Over the years, the legend of the Jersey Devil, if not the devil himself, had proved durable and been blamed for much mayhem in the Pine Barrens. It added a certain mystery to these woods. But it was just a legend. Albeit a truly scary one. Don’t be a dope, she told herself. Now you’re scaring yourself. She took a deep breath, got up off the bed, and resumed tucking in the sheet. For a minute, she wished she had a radio to keep her company until David came back inside. Yeah. That would do a lot for the peace and quiet, she chided herself.
She finished the sheet and turned to pick up the blanket. Through the bedroom door, she thought she saw a movement in the outer room. “David?” she said.
There was no reply. She swallowed hard and took another breath. You’re spooking yourself. You’re just not used to silence. Emma smoothed a blanket over the sheets, put the pillows in their cases, and then picked up the bedspread.
Typical David, she thought uneasily. He probably took off exploring somewhere. Couldn’t wait until tomorrow. She straightened up and patted her belly. Let’s go out and call him, Aloysius, she thought, using her pet name for the baby growing inside of her. What do you say?
Turning off the bedroom lamp, she went back out into the great room. The light was on over the kitchen stove top, but everything else was in a twilight gloom, and the temperature seemed to have plummeted with the fading of the day. Still, it all looked quiet and undisturbed. She opened the front door and walked outside onto the tiny landing of the top step. There was wood, stacked by the piles of logs, but no sign of her husband anywhere. Emma thought about trying to find him, but she didn’t know which direction he might have gone. From where she stood on the steps, Emma could see the shafts of golden light withdrawing from the trees and disappearing abruptly from the brown, leafy forest floor. Don’t go out there, she thought. If you get lost in those woods, you’ll really be in a pickle. Stop being so jumpy. He’ll be back any minute.
With a sigh, she reopened the door and went back inside. The musty room suddenly felt uncomfortably dark and chilly. There were two fat, red pillar candles on flat pewter holders on the mantelpiece and a pair of squat, straight candles in ceramic holders on the little gateleg dining table. I could light those, she thought. Get the place in the mood. On the mantelpiece was an old box of wooden matches with every bit of the striking surface streaked back and forth. She pulled out a match and dragged it across the surface. It sprang to flame. She lit the red pillars and both the straight candles. The room was instantly transformed. While it was still dim, with only the wavering candlelight, it felt warmer already and cozier. I wonder if I should start the fire, Emma thought. There was one basket of wood next to the hearth and some old papers. Your mother can do this, Aloysius, she thought. She learned to make a fire when she was not much bigger than you.
Emma went over to the hearth, bent down, and began balling up the papers. She set them in the hearth with its strong smoky meat smell. At least a fire will get rid of the odor, she thought. She placed some short branches on the paper for kindling and then arranged the wood in a teepee, as her father had taught her. Okay, she thought. That looks right. Emma stood up and found the matchbox. She struck one match, but before she could bend down to light the edge of the paper the match went out.
All right, she thought. Try that again. She crouched down, holding the matchbox, and lit the match. This time she was able to set the burning match to the paper and it caught. The flame seemed to hesitate, dancing for a moment, and then it ran down the edge of the paper and began to burn, the flames leaping to ignite the kindling. All right, she thought. Wait until David gets back. He will be so proud of me.
At that very moment, as she felt the little triumph of having lit the fire, she felt the candlelight from the table beside the kitchen island disappear as if the flames had gone out. At the same time, the flames on the pillar candles on the mantel wavered and began to smoke. Emma’s heart seized. Someone was moving up behind her. “David?” she said. She turned, still crouching, and looked up.
In the twilit gloom, she saw him. He was upon her. Three feet away. A figure in a bulky hooded sweatshirt. A black ski mask covered the entire face save two ragged holes outlined in red around the shadowed eyes. Emma’s limbs were stone. Her heart was bursting. “Who are you? What do you want?” she cried.
He did not reply. In his gloved hand he held an ax. Its edge gleamed in the flame from her fire as he advanced on her. She put up her hands to try to shield herself, her baby. Oh my God, she thought. Oh, please! This can’t be happening. God help me. As he lifted the ax, she looked around frantically. She screamed and tried to scramble away from him. It was no use. He was too close.
She saw a flash of steel descending.
C
LAUDE
M
ATHIS
had not had a good day. Last night he had bet Holly, his ex-wife, that his fourteen-year-old son, Bobby, would want to come hunting today, but when Claude showed up at dawn, in camouflage from head to toe, at the trailer where his ex lived with Bobby and her new boyfriend, Holly had come to the door in her big, old, terry cloth bathrobe and told him, with immense satisfaction, that Bobby was still asleep and was planning on going to some kind of Japanese animation festival today. Whatever that was.
Claude had driven out to the woods in his pickup, his hound, Major, patiently flopped down on the rear bed. Claude was trying not to feel angry at his kid, but he couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t the kid show an interest? There was a lot he needed to learn, and it was time he started learning it. Besides, it was humiliating when Holly was right about these things. “I told you so” were her favorite words. Claude had fumed about it all day, and it had probably affected his aim, because he had had a few opportunities but no luck. He had silently positioned himself within range of a pair of grazing deer, who looked up, but froze. Claude took aim, not making a sound, but when he got the shot off, he missed.
Finally, after a day of complete and utter frustration, it was time to go home. He was tramping through the woods, thinking about the bar he liked to go to, its welcoming glow visible in his mind’s eye. Sausage and sauerkraut and a golden brew. He was trying to make up a story he could tell about today that wouldn’t be humiliating, that the guys would find funny, when he heard the woman’s scream.
Claude, trailed by Major, stopped short. It was a horrible sound that made Claude’s thinning brown hair stand on end. Major knew better than to bark. They both remained dead still for a moment, and then it came again. At the same moment, Claude smelled woodsmoke, and he realized exactly where that scream was coming from. He had passed that little cabin not too far from the river. Cocking his automatic rifle, he began to lope in that direction, Major keeping pace with him.
There was still a gray light above the dark trees. Claude crashed through the brambles and toward the clearing he could see up ahead. He burst through the trees and saw the little house. There was a curl of smoke coming from the chimney, a flickering light inside the windows. And that scream raking the air. Claude bounded up the stairs and threw open the door, plunging into the cabin, which was so much darker inside than the woods.
E
MMA
,
SCREAMING
, had rolled away from the first blow, which landed with a horrible clang on an andiron. All she could think about was her baby. She had to protect the baby. She had to get away. She tried to scramble to her feet, to run, but the second blow fell, and this one hit her. The ax caught her vest and tore through it. The down filling of the vest kept the blade from landing on her with full force. But it landed all the same, slicing through her shirt, cutting her side open, bringing her down to the floor. Her blood flew through the air as she tried to lunge out of his range. Through her panic, she noticed the canoe paddle, which was propped near the fireplace. She clambered to her knees and lifted the paddle to ward off her masked assailant. The ax fell again, this time splintering her would-be shield into bits. The paddle part flew across the room. Emma was holding only the short handle. She threw it at him, scrambling across the braided rug around the edge of the sofa as she tried to escape, blood splattering in her wake. He slipped in her blood, following her, and righted himself. The sofa was no protection. She had to try and get away. The pain in her side felt like a hot poker had perforated her lungs. She wanted to curl up and wrap her arms around herself. But she couldn’t just give in and let him kill her. She forced herself to her feet and launched herself toward the door, collapsing on the floor as he hit her again, a glancing blow on the back of her thigh. She let out an unearthly cry of pain.
“What the hell?”
Emma and the masked assailant looked up in the same instant and saw a man dressed in camouflage coming through the door, holding his rifle. His long, horsy face was aghast at the bloody scene in front of him. “Help me,” Emma cried.
The hunter stared for a moment—a moment too long as he tried to adjust his eyes to the dimness. Spinning away from Emma, the man in the hooded sweatshirt lifted his ax and struck at the hunter. The ax came down in the front of the hunter’s balding head, cleaving a bloody channel through it. His shocked gaze turned empty, and he began to crumple, the gun falling from his hands.
“Oh my God! Oh God. Oh no!” Emma shrieked in horror. The hunter was on the floor, an inert bundle of flesh and camouflage, the area around him slick with blood. Emma’s assailant pulled the ax from the man’s skull and turned on her again, stepping between her and the dead hunter, the rifle lying on the floor.
Now he will kill me, she thought.
She could not see his face, just the wild gleam of his eyes, encircled with red by the mask. She thought of her child who would never see this world, and what a pitiful job of protecting that child she had done. And in the instant that it took to pray for both their souls, Emma heard a horrible growl, and a brown and white setter bounded into the cabin and leapt at the man in the mask. The dog hit the assailant full force, knocking him off balance, snapping at the man’s heavy gloves, and sinking his teeth into the bulky fabric of his sweatshirt.
“Good boy!” Emma screamed and scuttled across the floor to where the hunter’s rifle lay, just out of reach of his lifeless hand. She’d never shot a rifle. Never even held one. She’d shot tin cans with her father’s revolver. That was all. It didn’t matter. It was a gun. She would use it. The assailant jammed the dog’s snout with the ax handle, and the dog let go with a wail of pain. The assailant kicked him away with his heavy boot. The dog growled and shook his head, stunned. The man lifted the ax and Emma lifted the rifle. She pulled the trigger.
A deafening roar thundered in the cabin and the gun bucked in her arms. The empty shell flew from the port, and Emma heard another shell click into the chamber. The assailant staggered back, and for one moment Emma thought she had shot him. Then she saw a black, smoking hole in the wall beside the doorway where he stood. For one second they all froze. Emma on the floor with the rifle, the setter growling over the body of his dead master, and the man in the mask.
Emma did not hesitate. She had never thought she would be able to kill someone, but now she knew better. She could. She would. She held the sight up to her eye. The barrel wavered slightly and fixed on him. “Now,” she whispered.
The assailant tossed the ax in her direction as the angry dog leapt at him again. The ax missed Emma and embedded itself in the pine floor. Emma fired again, but the assailant had bolted out the door, pulling it shut against the howling hound who was barking as if possessed.
Shaking where she sat, Emma clutched the rifle to her chest and crawled over to the hunter bleeding on the floor. She tried to reach out to him, but the dog turned and snarled at her.
Help, Emma thought. Help was nearby, and yet she had been unable to access it. Help was in her pocket. She reached inside the vest, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed 911.
“Is this an emergency?” said a calm voice at the other end.
“Yes,” Emma wailed. Then she began to sob so hard she could barely speak.
C
HIEF
A
UDIE
O
SMUND
, a fifty-five-year-old native of these woods, dressed in a khaki uniform stretched taut over his wide belly, a black down vest and a black cap over his white hair, was standing beside his patrol car, talking on his radio to the New Jersey State Police, putting out an APB on the suspect. The female victim had been sedated and was weak from loss of blood, but she had given him a sketchy description of the killer. Unfortunately, it wasn’t worth too much because of the mask and the probability that the killer had already discarded the clothes. The male victim, hunter Claude Mathis, was beyond all help, DOA. “Yeah,” Audie was saying to the state police commander on duty. “We definitely gonna need some help on this one. These folks aren’t local. The dead man was a local, but the other folks are from up Clarenceville way.”
Audie was trying to sound as businesslike as possible, but the bloody scene had left him shaken. He had never come across a crime scene quite like it. The ferociousness of the attack reverberated around the clearing, like the echo of a scream, and left him feeling unequal to the level of violence. He knew that a lot of local police chiefs would be reluctant to cede any authority to the state police. But he didn’t have the manpower or the technical sophistication to process the evidence on this crime.
The state police commander promised to send a detective down there tonight. “Don’t let anybody mess with the crime scene,” he said.
“We’re guarding it,” said Audie. “Thanks for the help.”
Audie didn’t care who found the killer. He just needed that killer found. The people around here were going to be scared out of their minds and clamoring for an arrest. Audie had grown up in the Pinelands and had known Claude Mathis slightly. Audie’s youngest brother, Larry, had gone to school with him. Apparently Claude had come to the aid of this out-of-town woman, like any decent guy would try to do. And he had paid for his good deed with his life. It had been tough to look upon the violent, bloody scene without thinking about revenge, but Audie tried to keep emotion out of his job decisions. All too often, the crimes he saw had been caused by emotions run amok. It was his job, he figured, to remain calm, the eye of the storm.
There was an ambulance with its bay standing open as they readied the stretcher for the woman inside the cabin. The EMTs were in there with her now. Another black-and-white and three pickup trucks, one with a flashing light on the top, were crowded into the clearing in front of the cabin, all still idling, their headlights crisscrossing. The search of the woods had already begun. Audie could see flashlight beams bouncing among the trees.
All of a sudden Audie heard a cry. “Chief, we got him!”
The chief lumbered toward the sound of the voices at the edge of the clearing. He could hear shouting and see the bobbing flashlight beams as the men made their way back. Two men emerged, one a volunteer, the other a police sergeant named Gene Revere. They were half-dragging a third man out of the woods. He had dark hair, gray at the temples, and was wearing a canvas barn coat, heavy boots, and filthy, soaking-wet blue jeans that were torn in the right calf. He was resisting the two men who had handcuffed him, trying to get free of them.
Audie Osmund peered at the cuffed man as the three emerged from the woods.
“Where’s my wife?” the suspect was pleading. “What happened here? I heard shots in the woods. Is my wife all right? Emma!”
“He said he’s the husband,” said Gene, a tall, muscular young father of two toddlers, who had been on his way to the Methodist Church pot roast supper when he received the emergency summons from his chief. He was wearing his civvies—a moth-eaten, old high school varsity jacket and blue jeans.
David looked helplessly at the chief. “Why is there an ambulance? Did someone shoot my wife?”
“David Webster?” asked Audie.
“I’m David Webster. Yes. Where is Emma? I need to see her.”
“Your wife’s been attacked,” said Chief Osmund bluntly. “By a man with an ax. Where have you been, mister?”
“We found him out near the duck blind,” Gene interrupted. “He says he walked out onto a rotten platform in the duck blind and fell through it. He claims it took him a while to get free.”
David Webster stopped struggling and stood very still. His hazel eyes widened and sweat broke out on his forehead, above his lip. He stared at the chief. “Emma. Is she…?”
Chief Osmund watched the man’s reaction carefully. “She’s alive,” he said in an emotionless tone.
David sagged against Gene, as all the blood drained from his face.
The front door of the cabin opened, and the EMTs emerged, carrying a stretcher between them down the stairs. When they reached the ground, they unfolded the wheeled apparatus and began to rush the rolling stretcher toward the ambulance. At the open doors of the ambulance bay, an EMT was readying an IV bag and tube.
“Emma!” David cried.
Her white face was barely visible beneath an oxygen mask. The lower half of her body was raised, and she was covered to the neck with a Mylar blanket, but the stretcher mattress, where it was visible, was blotched with huge red stains. Chief Osmund nodded to his men to unlock the handcuffs that David was wearing. The sergeant unlocked the cuffs and David’s arms burst free. He did not rub his wrists but staggered across the clearing, through the headlights of the running trucks, toward the rolling stretcher. He tried to reach her, but the largest of the EMTs blocked him. “You need to get out of the way, sir,” he said.
“I want to go with her,” he cried. “She needs to know I’m here. Emma.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no room,” said the EMT. “She’s barely conscious. She’s bleeding, and she’s in hypovolemic shock. We’re going to need every inch of space in the bay to get her ready for the ER. Please step back and let us work on her.”
David stumbled back from the ambulance, his eyes wide with disbelief. Chief Osmund and his deputy, Gene Revere, exchanged a glance as the EMTs, illuminated by the headlights from the idling trucks, loaded the stretcher into the bay of the ambulance. The siren began to wail.
“Mr. Webster,” said Chief Osmund. “You’re going to need to come on down to the station. You hop in my car over there and I’ll give you a lift.”
“NO. Emma,” he cried.
“You can’t see her now anyway. They’re going to be busy working on her over at the hospital.”
“No, I have to go to the hospital. I have to be with her,” David insisted.
“You’re in no shape to drive. We’ll let you know if there’s any news from the docs over there,” said Audie.