tone.”
Xander started edging Sam toward the back of the house. He whispered, “We can go out the back, through the garden.”
Sotto voce, she replied, “I’m not leaving Fletch.”
“He knows what he’s doing. Come on, damn it, or I’ll pick you up and carry you out.”
He started to pull on her arm, and he was too strong; she had no choice but to follow. They’d just reached the back door when she heard Fletcher scream, “Stop!” and the bullets started to fly.
Chapter
18
A BULLET WHIZZES past my head like a supercharged bumblebee and strikes the elm tree to my right, scattering bark and wood chips. The birds shoot into the air and I duck instinctively, ripping the hat off my head, cursing myself for forgetting it. It was clearly the target. I toss it away. It hangs on a bush and spins lazily.
I am not a fan of guns. I know how to use them, all kinds, from sniper rifles to shotguns, semiautomatic pistols to six-shooters. And I know how well they work, as a deterrent, or to bring down dinner. But when they’re pointed at human flesh, something rises in me and I feel the urge to scream. So much hatred, so many deaths that could be prevented. Wars and school shootings and suicides and gangs. It hurts me.
Then again, everything hurts me.
Before the bullets, the forest was quiet. In mourning, as if it knows my loss, feels it along with me. It normally shelters me, hides me from the bad people. I know it like the back of my hands and they don’t. Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, or the day before—they’re all running together now—they got caught up in the limbs and bogs and finally, finally, gave up.
I retreat deeper into the woods, back toward the river, knowing they can’t follow long. So I can grieve properly, in private, without them breathing down my neck. Revisit my memories, my life, with all its twists and turns and hurts.
More bullets fly, but they’re high and back to the right, away from me. Toward the chalky cliff, where they’ll assume I’ve retreated. No one in their right mind would go up, instead of down toward the road and escape.
I don’t stop to wonder who is shooting at me. It doesn’t matter. It used to be us against the world, and now it is only me. Me, and no one else. I have no allies. No friends. No family. No one even knows I still exist.
Five minutes of rough terrain, my legs burn and throb, but I’m on the high ground now, approaching the edge of a steep cliff where I’ve been sleeping, looking down toward the cabin. They’ve defiled it. I will never feel safe there again.
The gunshots are over now. The forest is returning to normal. The birds resettle in the high meadow, chirping madly; the deer creep from their thickets. I push onward, higher and higher, to the one place I know I’ll be okay. Closer to heaven. Closer to him.
I don’t see the branch coming. When it hits me, with the force of a baseball bat, I go down in a heap. Blood pools in my mouth, two molars on the backside are loose, I’ve bitten my tongue. My nose is broken; I can feel blood spurting from the wound.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Every ounce of my being panics. That voice. The voice I’ve been running from for so long, thrashing and screaming in the night to get away from, is here. It’s over. It is all over.
I roll to my hands and knees, still stunned, scrambling backward. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out my thrashing. I can’t speak, my tongue is swollen and in the way. Bloody saliva spills down my chin and mingles with the forest floor. I am afraid to look up, knowing what I will see.
“Where have you been, little one? I’ve been looking for you for such a long time.”
The voice laughs, and my blood freezes. I can’t be taken. Not again. Never again.
I inch toward the edge of the cliff. It is my only hope. I hear the water rushing; the waterfall is less than twenty feet away.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
I have one chance here, one
Xander started edging Sam toward the back of the house. He whispered, “We can go out the back, through the garden.”
Sotto voce, she replied, “I’m not leaving Fletch.”
“He knows what he’s doing. Come on, damn it, or I’ll pick you up and carry you out.”
He started to pull on her arm, and he was too strong; she had no choice but to follow. They’d just reached the back door when she heard Fletcher scream, “Stop!” and the bullets started to fly.
Chapter
18
A BULLET WHIZZES past my head like a supercharged bumblebee and strikes the elm tree to my right, scattering bark and wood chips. The birds shoot into the air and I duck instinctively, ripping the hat off my head, cursing myself for forgetting it. It was clearly the target. I toss it away. It hangs on a bush and spins lazily.
I am not a fan of guns. I know how to use them, all kinds, from sniper rifles to shotguns, semiautomatic pistols to six-shooters. And I know how well they work, as a deterrent, or to bring down dinner. But when they’re pointed at human flesh, something rises in me and I feel the urge to scream. So much hatred, so many deaths that could be prevented. Wars and school shootings and suicides and gangs. It hurts me.
Then again, everything hurts me.
Before the bullets, the forest was quiet. In mourning, as if it knows my loss, feels it along with me. It normally shelters me, hides me from the bad people. I know it like the back of my hands and they don’t. Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, or the day before—they’re all running together now—they got caught up in the limbs and bogs and finally, finally, gave up.
I retreat deeper into the woods, back toward the river, knowing they can’t follow long. So I can grieve properly, in private, without them breathing down my neck. Revisit my memories, my life, with all its twists and turns and hurts.
More bullets fly, but they’re high and back to the right, away from me. Toward the chalky cliff, where they’ll assume I’ve retreated. No one in their right mind would go up, instead of down toward the road and escape.
I don’t stop to wonder who is shooting at me. It doesn’t matter. It used to be us against the world, and now it is only me. Me, and no one else. I have no allies. No friends. No family. No one even knows I still exist.
Five minutes of rough terrain, my legs burn and throb, but I’m on the high ground now, approaching the edge of a steep cliff where I’ve been sleeping, looking down toward the cabin. They’ve defiled it. I will never feel safe there again.
The gunshots are over now. The forest is returning to normal. The birds resettle in the high meadow, chirping madly; the deer creep from their thickets. I push onward, higher and higher, to the one place I know I’ll be okay. Closer to heaven. Closer to him.
I don’t see the branch coming. When it hits me, with the force of a baseball bat, I go down in a heap. Blood pools in my mouth, two molars on the backside are loose, I’ve bitten my tongue. My nose is broken; I can feel blood spurting from the wound.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Every ounce of my being panics. That voice. The voice I’ve been running from for so long, thrashing and screaming in the night to get away from, is here. It’s over. It is all over.
I roll to my hands and knees, still stunned, scrambling backward. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out my thrashing. I can’t speak, my tongue is swollen and in the way. Bloody saliva spills down my chin and mingles with the forest floor. I am afraid to look up, knowing what I will see.
“Where have you been, little one? I’ve been looking for you for such a long time.”
The voice laughs, and my blood freezes. I can’t be taken. Not again. Never again.
I inch toward the edge of the cliff. It is my only hope. I hear the water rushing; the waterfall is less than twenty feet away.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
I have one chance here, one
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