Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

“Tomorrow.” Tobie’s expression was laden with intrigue.

  “No trail blazing or mountain climbing, I’m out of shape.”

  “Maybe you are too old.” Tobie grinned. “We’d better just stick around here. Sit on the porch swing and blow bubbles.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Robbi,” she whined softly, “it’s a special place. We’ll ride double on Madonna.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Tobie knelt before the rabbit cage, poured food pellets into the bowls, then brushed her hands together. “God, I’m starving. This housekeeper makes the best egg and salsa burritos.”

  “She cooks Mexican food? He always hated Mexican.” They spoke of their father in the pronoun.

  “He still does. But she cooks it special for me and Hanley. Oh, don’t worry, Robbi, he’s already eaten. I peeped in the window and saw him in bed with the laptray.”

  A brown and white bunny buried in a cloud of rabbit fur crawled over a mound of siblings. Robbi reached into the hutch, lifted it out, and snuggled it to her face.

  “I know I can’t avoid him forever, but I’m not ready for a confrontation just yet.” Robbi blew on the soft fur. “Do you think he knows I’m here?”

  “Sure. He knows everything. He’ll stay away just long enough to give you a false sense of security, then he’ll come rolling in, real quiet like, and totally bum you out.”

  “How can you stand it?” Roberta asked.

  Tobie shot her sister a guilty look. “It’s better, y’know . .. since the stroke. He’s just as mean, but he can’t get around as much now.”

  The cats complained, rubbed against the two sisters, then scratched at the bag of Cat Chow.

  Tobie scooped out three bowls. “Rob, when you have a premonition, or whatever it’s called, what do you see?”

  Roberta had told her sister that she’d known of Sam Braga’s death before it happened. Although she and Tobie were seventeen years apart, they shared everything, never shocked or critical of the other. Tobie was one of the few people privy to Roberta’s rare and infrequent flashes of clairvoyance, a phenomenon that Robbi had repressed for so long she almost forgot she had it until it hit her right between the eyes.

  “Just flashes, honey. I get cold ... and scared.”

  “I wish I could do that. See things like that.”

  “Be careful what you wish for—”

  “I know, I may get it.”

  Robbi draped her arm over Tobie’s shoulder, squeezed. The light scents of fruit filled Robbi’s head. “Jeez, is that you who smells like a fruit salad?”

  Tobie giggled. “Yeah. Coconut mousse and watermelon bubble gum. Oh, and peach lip gloss.”

  “No wonder animals love you. They think you’re dinner. And you’re making me hungry. Let’s eat.”

  The housekeeper cleared away the breakfast dishes.

  Tobie had gone off to spend the day at the beach with her best friend, Pam, and her family. With her gone, the spacious room seemed limitless and deadly quiet. The entire ranch-style house with its score of rooms took on an eerie emptiness.

  Lois Paxton sat across from Roberta at the formal dining room table, slowly sipping a cup of herbal tea. Roberta noticed deep furrows in her brow, the squinting of her eyes.

  “Headache again, Mom?”

  “Still,” Lois replied, rubbing the base of her skull. “Just the tail end of one. I wonder if I’ll ever stop having these damn migraines.”

  “Go lie down till it’s gone.”

  “I’d rather visit with you. It’s not often you stay with us.”

  “I’ll be here for a couple more days. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”

  “I know, but—”

  Roberta cut her off. “I thought I’d go riding this morning. With Tobie gone for the day, I can have the horse to myself.”

  “Well, in that case, while you’re out maybe I will lie down for a bit. Have Hanley saddle Madonna. And when he’s done, send him in to tend to your father, will you?”

  Outside, she crossed the yard to the stable, looking for Hanley Gates. Hanley, the Paxtons’ caretaker, had been with them the seven years they had lived there. Although Roberta knew him only slightly, her sister was very close to him. For Tobie he served as the father figure she so desperately needed, a position her own father scorned.

  Hanley wasn’t in the stable or the tack room. As she neared his bungalow, she saw him through the open door. He sat on the edge of a bunk, hunched over, a hand working absently through his hair, splaying the wispy gray strands up and out, staring at something in his other hand.

  Gravel crunched loudly beneath her shoes, yet he failed to hear her approach. She stepped up on the low stoop. As she raised a hand to knock, she wondered about his age. He had one of those timeless faces; he could be anywhere from fifty to seventy. At that moment he looked the latter.

  She tapped on the door frame.

  He looked up, confusion clouding his eyes, then slow recognition. He greeted her with a timid smile.

  “Roberta. For a minute there I thought it was Tobie.”

  “She’s gone for the day.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He quickly rose to his feet, his back straight, shoulders squared, and with that simple motion his age seemed to reverse.

  “I was jus’ wool-gathering.” He waved a yellowed snapshot, then slipped it out of sight on the dresser top. “My wife, Em, and grandson. Em died a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looked away, nodded. “Had a daughter too. She died before my Em did.”

  “Are you close with your grandson?”

  He shrugged, looking solemn. “Naw. Lost track of him. Got the wanderlust like his mama.” Then he smiled, a broad grin that crinkled his eyes. “Got my hands full right here with your little sister. That one can’t sit for a minute. And always wanting to know ‘bout everything.”

  “I’m glad you’re here for her. She really cares for you, y’know? It’s always Hanley this, Hanley that.”

  Hanley seemed embarrassed by her comment. He shrugged again. They stared at each other for several awkward moments.

  He smiled and quickly crossed the room to the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ll be taking Madonna out...” Roberta began.

  “Well, sure, sure. I’ll saddle her for ya.”

  “That’s okay, I can do it. My mother needs you inside.”

  “Well, let me get you lined out.” He reached for a canister of snuff and, with his long wrangler legs, strode through the door and toward the stable.

  Hanley helped Roberta saddle the horse. As he led Madonna out of the stable, he stared intently at the sky.

  “Looks like we might get a summer storm,” he said. “You be careful you don’t get caught out in it. Head back the first sound of thunder.”

  Robbi heard a harsh voice raised in anger coming from the house. She felt her stomach knot.

  Her father’s voice made her cringe.

  Hanley quickly handed the reins over to Roberta. “He don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Halfway to the house, he called over his shoulder, “Keep an ear open for that thunder.”

  A mile or so from the stable, Robbi slowed the horse to a walk. It had been a long time since she’d ridden, and she realized she was pulling too tightly on the reins. Irritably, Madonna sawed at the bit until Robbi loosened the tension.

  She had been thinking about her father. Why was he so damn unpleasant, not happy unless he was browbeating someone? She swallowed the anger, forced herself to calm down. Hadn’t she come to this pristine wilderness, away from the city and the pressures of her job, to unwind and rejuvenate? Breathe in the crisp, clean air, the woodsy scent of trees and grass? Fill your lungs and head. Enjoy, she told herself.

  Finally allowing Madonna the reins, Robbi let her body relax. Looking around, her eyes feasting on the verdant landscape, she attempted to identify the different types of pine trees by the
shape of the cones, at the same time chiding herself for not bringing something, a satchel or bag, in which to collect pine cones.

  Sometime later she came to the wire fence that marked the southwest boundary of the property. She was in a deep-wooded area that butted up to land once crowded with logging camps. She crossed a small creek, no more than two or three inches deep. The echo of the horse hooves clopped over wet stones and moss, splashing water on Roberta’s jeans.

  A half mile farther, a sudden chilling gust of wind blew dust and debris into her face. She turned her head away, rubbing her eyes. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees in just minutes. She tilted back her head and looked over the tops of the tall aspen trees, their leaves quaking silver and green in the wind. The sky, which an hour before was more blue than gray, was now entirely obscured with a gloomy mass of clouds. Thunderclouds.

  A quarter-size raindrop hit the back of her hand. Then another. Then she was being pelted with large drops.

  The horse snorted, pranced nervously. Robbi flicked the reins and leaned forward. Madonna, needing no more encouragement, turned her head in the direction of home and broke into a trot, following the fence downhill.

  Within moments a torrent of water beat at her, obstructing her vision. Roberta knew that the hard, dry ground beneath them could soak up only so much water before it began to run off, taking pebbles and pine needles with it.

  The sudden force of the storm surprised her. Already soaked to the bone, she shivered from the cold, relentless rain. It stung like bits of gravel. Where was the thunder Hanley had warned her to listen for? How far was she from the house? She was uncomfortable but not overly concerned—not yet. The horse knew its way home, and as long as they remained a team, she’d get there. She prayed Madonna wouldn’t bolt, throw her, and run.

  She reached the creek that she’d crossed earlier, but instead of the six-foot-wide rippling stream, it was now an angry rivulet, surging with muddy, debris-littered water. Madonna balked, refused to cross.

  Roberta sat stiffly in the saddle and took stock. The swollen creek ran perpendicular to the barbed-wire fence, cutting through it. They had no choice but to cross the creek.

  Robbi dismounted and, taking the reins, she stepped into the roaring water. The water pulled at her ankles.

  She teetered, her heart pounded. Rocks cut into the bottom of her running shoes. She pulled on the reins, coaxing Madonna to cross with her. A scene flashed in her head, nearly blinding her. A scene of a river, a wide river. A gray concrete bridge. A small hand desperately gripping a bush. Screams, rendered silent by the raging rapids. Ronnie . , . ?

  In a panic, Roberta slipped, fell to her knees. She cried out. The water pushed and pulled, threatening to drag her along its muddy course. She grabbed onto a stirrup, pulled herself up. Holding tightly on to Madonna’s neck, Roberta nudged the animal until it clattered across to the other side. She buried her face in the horse’s neck, gasping for air, waiting for her heart to steady.

  Ronnie ... so long ago, yet still so painful. The sight of the rushing water had triggered her memory.

  After several moments she pressed on, deciding to walk the horse rather than ride. The ground, like the creek, had become unstable. Flashfloods were common to this area. She worked her way down a rocky ravine, the rain beating against her face, her feet slipping beneath her. After going only a short distance, Robbi found herself at the edge of a steep projecting mass of rock and twisted pinion pines. She stood shivering alongside the burned-out stump of a large pine tree, its roots exposed beneath the edge of the crag. Madonna shifted, moving in behind her. Suddenly the ground gave way under her feet. A scream ripped from her throat as she, the horse, and the huge stump plunged forward off the rugged edge. Over and over she tumbled, crying out as the rocks drove into her body from all directions. Pain burst in her head.

  Everything became still. Even the rain eased. Robbi opened her eyes. Lightning flashed, followed by a low rumbling. There’s the thunder Hanley spoke of. A little late now. Then she closed her eyes and drifted off to the sound of horse hooves, muffled by the sodden earth, disappearing into the distance.

  After an indeterminable amount of time Robbi came around. She lay on her stomach, her head turned to one side. A patch of velvet moss cushioned her cheek, but the pain in her head was intense. She wove in and out of consciousness. Her legs and arms felt like dead appendages. Was she paralyzed? She couldn’t say, but she knew for certain she was going to pass out again soon. It hurt too much to endure.

  The rain felt good. She moved her tongue forward, pushing bits of grit from her lips. She tried to lift her head, and it seemed to explode from within.

  She slowly opened her eyes. Over the droning of the rain she heard twigs snapping. Someone was out there. Thank God, someone was coming for her.

  “Here . . It was merely a whisper. “I’m . .. here . .”

  Between the thin boughs of young saplings surrounding her, Roberta saw a woman in a transparent white dress running through the woods. The woman seemed to glow. What a delicate thing the mind is, Roberta thought. She’s not really there. There’s no woman running through the forest in the rain.

  The woman came within several yards of her. She stumbled and fell to one knee, crying out. Angry crisscross scratches covered her legs. Her bare feet bled. Around one slender ankle something glittered in the dim light, reflecting into a puddle under her foot; a gold and silver ankle bracelet.

  “Help me.” Roberta forced out the words.

  The woman turned her face toward Roberta. In her eyes Roberta saw terror—sheer unequivocal terror. The woman in white jerked her head from side to side as though looking for something, then she abruptly rose and continued to run.

  “No, don’t. .. don’t leave....” Roberta sobbed the words, watching her go.

  Suddenly from out of nowhere a large man appeared. The running woman screamed. He chased her, caught her by her long blond hair. He pulled her around to face him. Again the scream, like the long shriek of a train whistle in the night.

  Roberta, horrified, looked on.

  The man hugged the woman to him as she struggled and repeatedly struck out at his face. She squirmed out of his grasp and began to run again. A huge fist shot out and knocked her down. His hand circled her throat and he lifted her off the ground, feet dangling, thrashing. The man trembled with rage. His face twisted, became monstrously cruel beneath a beard and sopping masses of hair. The muscles in his arms bulged from the tremendous tension he exerted in the strangulation of the woman.

  Roberta’s vision blurred, then cleared, blurred again.

  The thrashing stopped, yet, for what seemed like an eternity, he continued to hold the limp, rag-doll figure off the ground by her neck.

  An involuntary moan escaped Roberta’s lips.

  His head snapped up; alert, listening.

  Her pulse crashed at her temples, sending a renewed surge of pain through her injured body. She tried to move but was powerless to budge.

  He released the woman. She crumpled at his feet. His hand swiped across his eyes as he turned in Roberta’s direction. He took a step, stopped, and glanced down at the dead woman, then looking back toward Roberta, he began walking her way.

  Behind the thin saplings she tried to make herself small, invisible. Her throat locked. Her mind screamed. Mercifully, she blacked out.

  SIX

  Sounds. Ordinary, everyday sounds. Traffic in the street, soles on linoleum, metal clinking against metal, a toilet flushing. All quite normal sounds.

  Pain. It rode her body in waves, one following the other, rising, cresting, crashing; never ending.

  Blackness. Not a glimmer of light anywhere. With the blackness came a feeling of unreality, of timelessness and despair—utter despair.

  The universe consisted of pain, sound, and a black void. There was something else ... a strong smell of damp earth.

  The nebulous voices:

  “Robbi, darling, can you hear me?”


  “Roberta? Roberta?”

  “Okay, honey, we’re just going to turn you over.”

  “Can she hear us ... ? Little one, can you hear me?”

  The voices were distant sounds, drowned out by pain.

  She wove in and out of the dreams. Running, running, so tired. Still she ran, mired in the denseness of the night. She ran through the black forest, the stinging rain pelting her, the eyes chasing her. Eyes, glowing and feral. Gaining on her.

  “Robbi.”

  Watermelon. Coconut. Peaches. Tobie? Tobie, turn on the light.

  “I think she can hear me... hear me... I know she can ... can ...”

  Tobie, I’m here. Keep talking. Don’t go away. Would the daylight never come? She tried to choke down the rising panic.

  Where am I?

  I want to see ... Please, let me see!

  And as if in answer to her desperate plea, images began to form. Smoky monochromatic images. Roberta strained to see, grateful for any impression, greedy for the drab, indistinct picture developing before her.

  She was in the woods. Rain stung her face. To each side of her she caught flashes of trees, blurred images in the grim light as she raced pass them.

  The storm.

  Her fall down the ravine.

  Of course. Of course, that explained it. She was dead. She was dead and in a state of limbo in some vacuum in time.

  But could she be dead and feel so much pain?

  She tried to move but couldn’t. Panic rose again. “What was wrong? Was she paralyzed? Tied down? A spirit without physical energy?

  Suddenly another image flashed across her mind. An image of a running woman surrounded by a torrent of rain. A huge man choking the woman to death. The man turning toward Roberta ... coming after her.

  At that moment Robbi gave in to the panic and cried out, her mind desperately urging a helpless body to react—to fight. Never before had she known such terror and anguish. She thrashed out, screaming.

  Instantly hands were holding her, voices shushed, and she felt the sharp jab of a needle. The image disappeared, leaving her to struggle with the black void. As her senses began to dull, despite the dreaded darkness that had ruthlessly clawed at her before the vision, she experienced a ray of hope. She was Roberta Paxton. She was alive. She was in a hospital and she’d had a nightmare.