CHAPTER
THI
RTY-TWO
The bear
charged forward, Cheryl pressed her back against the tree in an effort to
conceal herself, and was prepared to turn and run when instead, the bear ran
past her.
Incredulous,
she watched it lean away from the flames and trample through the woods in an
effort to escape the death it otherwise would have faced.
She
stood there, breathing hard, the smoke burning her lungs.
The fire she set was in full blaze,
ripping toward the sky, finding oxygen at its peak and flourishing because of
it.
Flames
ribboned around the base of trees and lit them faster than she
anticipated.
The heat, which she
once welcomed because she was cold, now was almost too much to bear.
She could feel it against her skin,
tightening it to the point that she felt it no longer would fit her body.
She needed to find a way out now or
she’d be in trouble.
But
which direction was best?
Should
she run left?
Right?
Which way would lead her to freedom?
And if it didn’t lead her to freedom,
which direction would at least lead her away from the fire as well as the man
who was hunting her?
Those were
answers she didn’t know.
Or did
she?
The bear
went in that direction for a reason.
The bear knew these woods better than she.
Did it know a way out of them?
Of course, it did.
It was running in that direction to save
itself.
Nature and instinct had
taken over.
They sent that bear on
that specific course for a reason.
Fleetingly,
her father’s voice entered her head:
“Respect the deer,” he once said to her during a hunt.
“This is their home and they know it
better than you do.
If they hear
you, they’ll cut through the brush so fast, you’ll never see them again.
Or their friends.
This is their habitat, not yours.
They know where to hide and they know
how to leave here.
If you want to
be successful as a hunter, being quiet and patient isn’t good enough.
You need to understand that these woods
belong to them and that they know them best.”
To her
left, she heard movement, which had nothing to do with the rising sound of the
heated wind, the fire or the trees it was destroying.
Something was crunching through the
brush.
She raised a hand to shield
her eyes from the brightness of the fire and saw two fox hurry into the
clearing, glance up in concern at the flames, and then scurry in the same direction
the bear went.
Though
she couldn’t see them, all around her she knew that other animals were moving
in a similar direction.
They were
fleeing the fire and they were choosing the same way out.
If they had a choice, they wouldn’t go
deeper into the forest.
Instead,
they would leave it and find shelter elsewhere.
Time was
running out for her.
Bits of fire
were raining down from the tips of the trees and igniting the pine needs on the
forest floor.
If she didn’t get out
of here fast, she’d have no way out.
She
looked around and picked up a heavy stick to protect herself against him should
she come upon him or some animal if, in its panic to escape, it decided to
challenge her.
Her mind
raced.
Somewhere
around here there had to be a break in the woods.
Whoever brought her here drove her here
―he
certainly didn’t carry her.
There
had to be a road or a path somewhere, which either would lead to an open field
on the other side of it or to more woods.
The animals might be drawn to the former, which would be a
blessing.
But they also might know
of a
large water source, in which they could plunge themselves and wait this out.
But that
would only keep her here longer.
Regardless
of where they were going, Cheryl had to follow.
She stepped away from the protection the
tree offered, felt the full brunt of the fire’s rage encompass her, and then
lifted her white shirt over her nose and mouth so she could breathe.
She ran,
keeping as far left of the fire as she could.
Behind her, in the clearing that the
fire soon would overcome, there was a loud snap and the ground shook.
She knew what it was without
looking.
A thick branch weakened by
the fire had fallen.
More would
fall.
This
whole forest is going to fall.
Because of me.
What have I
done?
In spite
of the pain she felt from what he did to her earlier, and in spite of the
weakness she felt from not having any food or water for so long, Cheryl Dunning
did what her father would have done.
She dug deep into her soul, she found the strength she needed to survive
and she ran faster, hoping beyond hope that someone soon would see the fire,
report it and then maybe, just maybe, she’d hear the sounds of sirens and would
be able to move in their direction to find a place of safety.
CHAPTER
THI
RTY-THREE
“There’s
a fire,” Patty Jennings said.
“In
Monson.
Look.”
Along
with Barbara Coleman, who asked her to stay the night with her and James
“because we’ll worry terribly about you if you don’t,” Patty sat in a fresh
pair of clothes on a generous-sized sofa and looked at the television across
from her.
They
were in the living room.
The six
o’clock news was on.
In the center
of the screen was an aerial shot of the portion of Monson that was burning.
“I don’t
see any signs of the fire department,” Barbara said.
“Out
there, it’s strictly volunteer.
It
might take a while.”
“A fire
that size should attract the help of a few towns.”
“It
probably will.
But it’s so rural
out there, even the surrounding towns that have fire departments are
volunteer.
What they need to do is
get Bangor and Brewer out there before it really gets out of hand.”
“I hate
fires,” Barbara said.
“Especially
forest fires.
I always worry for
the animals.”
“So do
I.”
“There’s
just a breeze here in Bangor, but there, it looks as if they’re having gusts of
wind, which will only make the fire worse.
And it’s dark now, which will make it harder to fight when the fire
departments arrive.”
She shook her
head.
“What a shame.
Monson is a ghost town.
How did a fire like that begin?”
Patty
shrugged.
“The only thing I can
think of is that it’s hunting season.
Somebody either took a shot and it created a spark, or they were smoking
and didn’t put out their cigarette properly.”
“Don’t
get me started on hunting season,” Barbara said.
“I have no issue with hunting deer or
moose or whatever if a family needs the meat to get through the winter.
That just makes sense to me.
So does thinning the herd, which is another
service hunters offer.
But sport
hunting just so you can mount a dead head on a wall?
That repels me.
Who wants a glassy-eyed head mounted on
their wall?
Or a big fish stuffed
to gills?
I don’t get it.”
Patty
smiled, but didn’t respond.
The
newscast cut to another story and she sat in something of a fog as she recalled
her day.
The emergency room
visit.
The judgmental look she
caught from one of the nurses on duty while her vagina was swabbed.
Taking her story downtown with James,
where they continued their conversation with one of his detective friends.
The humiliation of having to tell some
stoney-faced detective that she l
eft her friend behind to go home with a
stranger who ultimately raped her―and then posted photos of her on a
website, which she also shared with him.
At least
his face is out there
, she thought.
At least they got the drawing right.
Earlier,
when she first turned on the news, his face and the act he “presumably”
committed were the lead story.
People who were at The Grind the night before were asked to call the
Bangor Police Department if they had any leads on who the man was, what he
drove, and if he left with anybody.
So far,
her name was kept out of it, but eventually it would break, and then people
would know what she’d done.
They’d
say she deserved what she got, they’d say she was a horrible friend to Cheryl
Dunning, and the fire that had smoldered for years about her personal life,
skewed and ruined by her ex-boyfriend’s lies and malice, would burst into
flames again, making the fire burning in Monson look small in comparison.
But
could she blame them?
She played
straight into their hands.
She
became the person everyone thought she was.
What was
I thinking?
If she
thought before that living in a small town was dangerous, once news hit that it
was she who was raped, she knew she’d find out just how dangerous it really
was.
Her
colleagues at the bank would be relentless in how they treated her, which in
Maine meant stone-cold looks and long stretches of silence with plenty of
back-stabbing occurring out of earshot.
They would ridicule her in such a way that it might undermine her
performance and cost her her job.
There’d be no sympathy for what she’d been through.
She knew that.
She knew that they’d only want to get
rid of her.
At last, this was their
opportunity.
They would seize upon
it.
So,
maybe it was time to move.
Start
over somewhere else.
She was still
young.
She could remain in Maine,
which she loved, but just go to Portland, where there were plenty of jobs.
It wasn’t a bad idea.
But
staying here was.
The
front door opened and Patty looked up with Barbara as James Coleman entered the
foyer.
He was wearing a black top
coat and gloves, which Barbara took from him when she stood up to greet
him.
“Have
you heard anything?” she asked.
Patty
reached for the remote and turned the television on mute.
“Would
you mind a coffee, Barbara?”
“Let me
get you one.
It won’t take long
with that new coffee maker I bought.”
He
thanked her and took the chair to Patty’s left.
Fatigue was all over his face.
He looked troubled.
“How are you?” he asked her.
“Worried.”
“And
physically?”
“I’ll be
fine.
Have you learned anything?”
“I have,
but we’ll wait for Barbara.”
When
Barbara entered from the kitchen, she gave her husband a cup of coffee and sat
down on the sofa beside Patty while he sipped.
“Detectives
found blood on the pavement outside The Grind.
A good deal of it.
Cheryl’s parents were notified and the
good news is that somewhere in their records, they had their daughter’s blood
type, which is O positive.
The bad
news is that happens to be the most common blood type.
Still, since Cheryl is nowhere to be
found, it’s reasonable to believe that that blood is her blood.
There is evidence that a body was
dragged several yards, probably to a vehicle.
A trail of smeared blood proves that
fact.
Whoever was driving made the
mistake of leaving a bit of rubber in their wake when they tore out of the
place.
The detectives were able to
get a read on the make of the tires, which suggest they belong to a Ford F-150
XTL.
The detectives will be here
soon to collect samples of Cheryl’s hair from her pillow case and maybe from a
brush or a comb in her bathroom.
The DNA test will take between five to ten days to complete and thus to
confirm that the blood belongs to Cheryl.”