Strangers She Knows

by Christina Dodd

  “She deserves a resting place.” Surely that woman who worshipped the natural world should be interred in the good earth.

  “Not my problem. Listen, we’re off subject. Here’s the way today is going to play out.”

  No more talking. No more gathering her strength. Kellen ate pizza, and listened.

  “You’ll take off running, and after thirty minutes, I’ll follow. I’ll chase you like a dog that deserves to be put down, and I’ll kill you.”

  Kellen had been expecting something like this. How could she not? Rational people who wanted to rid themselves of a pest…would have just killed it. But Mara wanted to prolong the agony.

  Calmly, Kellen drank her milk—she needed the calcium—and her water—for hydration—and took another slice of pizza. “This chasing me down thing. That’s a cliché. Didn’t your father teach you the importance of creativity?”

  “Yes, he did.” Mara stabbed a tomato with her fork. “He gave me personal lessons in the creativity of suffering.”

  Uh-oh. So there was more to the father story than Kellen first thought.

  Mara stared as red oozed down the tines of her fork. “A cliché is if I shoot you right now.”

  “What made you think of killing Rae? She’s a child. She’s never done anything in her whole life that could make her deserve death.”

  Mara’s leaned across the table and shouted into Kellen’s face. “I didn’t kill her!”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she’ll never recover from that drug you gave her.”

  “Why do you keep harping on about Rae? If she dies, it’s not because I tried to kill her. It’s not my fault if she can’t take meds.”

  Suddenly, Kellen saw Mara through a veil of livid red. This woman hurt Rae, forced Max to take Rae into the greatest of danger to save her life, and then Mara blithely shrugged aside responsibility. In a calm voice that came from a place deep inside, Kellen said, “You said you would chase me around the island until you caught me and I died.”

  “That’s right.”

  “All right. That’s what we’ll do today. Because I have no choice. When I get back to the house, alive, I’ll have beaten you at your game. Right?”

  Mara laughed, a deep indulgent laugh. “Sure. That’s how it’s going to turn out.”

  “You’ve made up the rules. The house is a haven. You can’t hurt me here.”

  Mara wavered.

  Kellen dug deep into Mara’s insecurities. “You know I’m better than you. You’re afraid to make the promise because you’re afraid I’m going to win the game.”

  “If you get back here after sunset, you can live another day. In the morning, we’ll start again.” Mara chortled as if the idea was impossible.

  “I’ll come back here after sunset, and live uninjured until tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” Mara made the promise easily. “You know, I’m doing you a favor. If you’re so fond of your husband and your daughter, and so sure they’re going to die, you’re better off when I kill you.”

  Kellen could see it. Mara was working it out in her mind, making herself blameless, telling herself that with Kellen’s death, she’d done her a favor, and in a fury, she leaped at Mara, shouted in her face. “If Max and Rae die, I’ll kill their murderer, then I’ll spend my life hunting down every crazy, stupid killer like you.”

  When Mara’s pistol touched Kellen’s chin, she realized what she’d done. In her rage, she’d lost her advantage.

  She stepped back.

  No more mistakes. Before this game was over, Mara would die.

  All Kellen had to do was figure out how.

  40

  Kellen ran out of the kitchen door and jumped down all the steps in one bound, into the tempest. The wind slapped rain into her face and blasted more rain through her still-damp clothing. As she raced around to the front of the house, she formulated her goals:

  1. Live through this day.

  2. Figure out a way to kill Mara.

  3. Until that point, annoy the hell out of Mara.

  Really, at the moment, all she had to do was stay out of reach. On an island like this, large and wild, thrashed by the storm, that wasn’t such a big challenge—if she handled a few things now.

  Mara had parked the golf cart by the front door, apparently to make it less work for her to drag Kellen up the steps, and still bruising for Kellen.

  Kellen leaned into the cab.

  The key wasn’t in the ignition.

  Of course not. That would be too easy.

  Mara had said it. She held all the advantages, and she intended to employ them. Cheating meant winning.

  So. Kellen opened the battery compartment and removed the battery. It was compact and heavy, and she used it to smash the spokes of Max’s bicycle.

  Mara didn’t require access to easy transportation.

  Kellen, battery in tow, sprinted across the lawn and into the tall wild grasses. She was searching for the two bikes, hers and Rae’s, that they’d abandoned yesterday. If she could find them, disable Rae’s and ride hers, Mara could never catch her. Easy peasy. Except for that damned rifle in Mara’s hands. How well did she shoot?

  The rain weighed down the grass. The wind thrashed the stalks. Kellen ran and tripped, ran and tripped, and finally settled into a steady, slogging pace.

  She didn’t have a hat; her hair was long and wet, and constantly flopping in her face. Her jeans were sopping, weighing her down. Her shoes filled with water. She zigzagged back and forth, searching, seeking, worried and not admitting it to herself. If Mara caught a glimpse of her in the sights of her rifle…

  She couldn’t. Surely she couldn’t. The rain kept rolling across the land in cool gray squall lines, obliterating the landscape, and twice, blasts of wind knocked her off her feet. If not for her fear, Kellen would have felt alone in the world. But she knew Mara was out there, on the hunt.

  Kellen had almost given up when she stumbled on the bikes, farther away from the house than she had ever imagined. An ill-starred sentiment caught at her throat. Her little girl had loved that bike, had ridden that bike to try to get home to Max and to Kellen.

  Kellen choked. Cried a single tear. But—

  No! No emotion. This was about survival.

  She smashed the spokes, then threw the battery into the grasses and mounted her bike. She shouted into the roaring wind, “Max, I’m still alive. You be alive, too! You and Rae, be alive!”

  No reply, but another explosion of wind. She wanted to believe that somehow, they heard her. That somehow, they had been rescued, or they’d made it to land. That even now, Rae was healing.

  Kellen tried to ride through the tall, wild grasses. Yet a challenge in good times was impossible in this storm. She was forced to take to the paths. She stayed low on the bike to avoid detection.

  But where to go?

  She smiled unpleasantly. She knew where she wanted to be, where she might find a weapon to beat Mara at her own game.

  She arrived at Paradise Cove, and Mara’s camp, hidden under one of the few rocky overhangs on the island. She combed through the backpack and the tent, the sleeping bag, through containers and papers and all the paraphernalia of a working botanist. She hoped for a weapon. She needed a weapon.

  But no. No weapon. No firearms, no knives. Nothing Kellen could use to attack and defeat Mara.

  No hope.

  She picked up the clipboard. It had been carefully placed in a large plastic bag and sealed to preserve the contents. From what Kellen could see, Mara had been telling the truth; she’d been doing the work an intern should do.

  But as to the rest of this stuff—Kellen smashed it. She flung it off the cliff into the roaring ocean. She destroyed the campsite, not from spite, but because she hoped Mara would come here and understand the message; Kellen would destroy Mara and everything she was.


  She mounted her bicycle and rode again, toward the Conkles’. Going this way, she fought the wind, and every half mile a gust took the wheels out from under her. The fourth time, she remained on the ground for too long. She’d landed right on those bruised ribs. It took long moments to regain her breath, and that Taser had undermined her strength.

  But so what? She had to keep moving. She had to survive.

  She needed a weapon. There had to be something in the cottage. Jamie didn’t approve of firearms, and God forbid Dylan had access to one, but surely somewhere the old caretaker had had a rifle hidden in the attic or in a box in the closet.

  As she got closer to the Conkles’ tiny house, she used the rain and the wind to hide her approach. As she came around the corner, she kept low, watched for someone’s recent footprints. Glancing up at the house, she saw greenery draped across the roof. A branch had blown off one of the wide and ancient live oaks.

  No, more than a branch. My God.

  She put her feet down, stopped herself, and stared.

  The whole tree had toppled. The impact split the cottage in two. The house Kellen intended to search had disintegrated into a mass of dried and splintered boards, rusted nails and shreds of insulation. Wind had ripped open the attic, dismantled cupboards and furniture, left everything inside open to the elements.

  Whatever weapons Kellen might have been able to glean had sunk into the mud.

  Stunned, she rode toward Jamie’s greenhouse. There, one of the oak branches had smashed through the glass, taking out the growing tables, leaving the plants exposed to each blustering squall. The deluge had destroyed the carefully composted soil, and the plants had been uprooted.

  It was as if Jamie’s spirit had claimed the house and the greenhouse as hers, and only hers, and broken them apart.

  Kellen hid her bike and headed into the greenhouse. There she rescued a few cucumbers, some green beans and some baby carrots. She let the rain wash them clean and ate with eager appetite. The water barrel was intact and overflowing, and she scooped up the stream of water in her palms and drank until she couldn’t drink anymore. She concealed herself in the wreck of the oak tree and relieved herself. When she was done, she thanked God Mara hadn’t found her at that moment; Kellen didn’t want to die with her pants around her ankles.

  Her trip so far today had yielded nothing. She had hoped for a weapon at Mara’s camp. She had hoped for a weapon at the Conkles’ home. She was still alive, but so far, she had survived, yet not advanced her cause at all.

  Where now? What was the plan?

  She set off for the grove of redwoods. As she rode, abruptly, the winds stopped shrieking, and the downpour became a mere rainstorm. The ride became comparatively pleasant, if Kellen could forget the fact Mara was out there somewhere.

  Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Mara had sent Kellen out to exhaust her while Mara stayed in the house and survived the storm in comfort.

  Kellen straightened and grinned.

  No way. Not Mara. She’d never allow Kellen to run a race that Mara didn’t run, too. Mara’s competitive spirit allowed no rival.

  Kellen heard a rumble in the distance. She looked up; the return of the storm turned the afternoon skies to black. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding her. She wobbled.

  Then the wind snatched up the bike’s rear wheel and blasted it to pieces.

  Kellen found herself on the ground, stunned and sure she’d been hit by a lightning bolt. She lifted herself onto her elbows and looked at her bike—and realized that damage wasn’t caused by lightning, but by a gunshot.

  In those moments of lessening storm, Mara had caught sight of her, used her rifle and proved she could shoot.

  Kellen whispered, “Max and Rae… I’m sorry, darlings.” She had failed them.

  The pain in her ribs was different now. She looked down and saw a long, thin sliver of the bike’s spoke had penetrated her clothing and pierced her just below her right breast. She scooted into the relative cover of the grass, and with every movement, the spoke jiggled, tearing skin and muscle. She stopped, took a few deep, deliberate breaths, pulled it out and pressed her hand over the wound.

  The puncture was small, she assured herself. Painful, but no big deal. She could survive this.

  Within five minutes, she saw Mara running toward the bike, crowing with so much laughter, Kellen knew she thought she’d killed her. Before Mara realized she hadn’t, Kellen crawled deeper into the sodden grass. Then, keeping low, she raced toward the redwoods.

  She was close. Closer. Almost there…

  She heard Mara scream with fury.

  Kellen broke cover and dove for the depths of the trees.

  A shot blasted past her.

  That damned rifle. If Kellen had any firearm, she could even the odds, but to have nothing…

  The mighty trees had taken the typhoon and created a haven, a grove made up of whirling redwood needles and spirits groaning with the effort of resisting the storm.

  Kellen ran, no plan but to survive. She knew where she needed to be. One mighty tree had in its death fallen into another, providing a pathway up into the protective branches. She found it; a broad old tree at a steep angle. She climbed like a monkey, using hands and feet, and made it into the security of the living tree. She crouched there on a massive branch next to the massive trunk, and waited.

  It was always dim in here.

  Now, with the towering clouds above, it felt like midnight.

  She couldn’t see Mara. Mara wouldn’t see her.

  Directly below her, Mara flipped on a flashlight.

  Kellen was a fool. But she watched Mara, sat very still, and concentrated on being one with the tree.

  Mara was walking slowly, waving her flashlight from side to side, and occasionally, she paused as if she had found something interesting. She walked past Kellen’s tree, then backtracked, and without looking up, she said, “You’re bleeding, Kellen. I’m following your blood tracks.”

  Kellen looked down at herself. She could see nothing in the dark, but she could feel the warm wet seeping through her fingers. Yes. The puncture from the bicycle spoke must have been deep, because she was dribbling blood.

  Mara shone her flashlight into the branches, waved it back and forth, focused on Kellen. “There you are,” she crooned. She lifted her rifle onto her shoulder and aimed.

  Kellen stood and leaped for a branch above her head—and caught it! For one exuberant moment, she thought she could swing herself up and on to the next level. But the branch gave way. In fact, it wasn’t a branch at all, for it was hooked with one end on this tree and one on the other, and with this end loose, Kellen swung like Tarzan across through the air.

  A hammock. She was holding the end of a hammock. Pieces of something rained down onto the forest floor.

  Hanging on with both hands, she slammed into the trunk of the other tree.

  A human-shaped object catapulted out of the mesh bed.

  At the moment Mara screamed in horror, Kellen understood.

  They had found Jamie Conkle.

  41

  Kellen burst into Morgade Hall, ran to the kitchen, turned on the water and leaned into the sink. She was wet, soaked to the skin from the rain, yet still she scrubbed at her face and hands, and tried not to think about what she’d seen, about the sickened sounds Mara had made.

  But in Kellen’s mind, it all made sense. Dylan had killed Jamie, but he had also given Jamie the funeral he thought she would want. She loved the island above all things, the deer, the foxes, especially the predacious birds. So like some Native American tribes, he had taken the body, placed it in a hammock and hung it high, and allowed the birds to feast.

  For all that Kellen had found tradition in the Morgade cemetery, she had to admit she found comfort with the idea of Jamie traveling the skies with the peregrine, the hawk, the eagle.

&
nbsp; Using a swathe of kitchen towels, she dried herself, and thought encouragingly that the storm had washed her as nothing else could.

  She had run and ridden all day. She was famished and dehydrated. She knew Mara was coming behind her, delayed only by whatever harm had occurred from the weight of a dead body hitting her.

  She didn’t honestly think Mara would keep her promise and allow Kellen to remain unharmed tonight. But in a house of this size, how easy to hide in one of the rooms! Kellen pressed her hand on the wound on her side. As long as this time as she didn’t leave a trail of blood.

  Desperate for more water, she returned to the faucet, leaned down and drank.

  Desperate for a weapon, she rummaged in the knife drawer. An eight-inch butcher’s knife. A short, sharp paring knife. She stowed them on her person. Mara would try to finish her—but not without a fight.

  Needing food, she headed into the pantry. She didn’t trust Mara and her drugs, and everything she chose was sealed in the proper packaging. Canned tuna and crackers. Dried fruit. A sealed sports drink.

  Leaving the pantry, she blinked at the canned tuna and sealed package of crackers already on the counter.

  Who had placed them there? Was Mara here?

  She looked around the kitchen. She didn’t see Mara, but the table was growing, stretching from a circle into an oval, and the light over the top had developed a smile, like the Cheshire Cat, only brighter.

  “This isn’t right,” she muttered. “The table can’t stretch and the Cheshire Cat is in Wonderland. This isn’t Wonderland. I haven’t drunk anything to make myself larger.” She looked down at her legs and up at the ceiling. “Nope. I’m not taller. I haven’t eaten a mushroom to make myself smaller.”

  The light over the tables smiled brighter and nodded. “Then what happened?” it asked.

  “She drugged me.” Kellen was sure.

  “How could she do that?” the light asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t drink or eat anything that she could have touched.”