“Get up, I said!” He gave the cord a vicious tug. It sliced into her bare skin like a hot knife. Still she did not move.
“Trudy!” he bellowed.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw his left leg jerk back, then felt pain rip into her side. The breath whooshed out of her involuntarily as a wave of agony engulfed her chest.
He tugged the cord again. “I’m telling you to get up, unless you want to kiss a few more ribs good-bye.”
She lifted one hand in surrender and squeezed her eyes shut, willing a rising tide of nausea to recede. When she could breathe again, she raised up on her arms and pulled her legs beneath her. Her whole right side throbbed in a wall of fire. Ribs, he’d said. She’d never before realized how much pain could radiate from the bones that encased one’s heart and lungs. Biting back a whimper, she pulled herself upright. Her legs buckled, as if she’d drunk too much tequila. He laughed when she fell and prodded her with his foot.
“That little love tap was for yesterday afternoon, when you snookered me with those buzzards. But that’s all I’m gonna do about that, Trudy. The important thing to remember from here on out is that even though you’re older than me, I’m in charge. Not Papa. Not Mama. Me. Little Heinrich, and my rule is this: People who don’t mind get hurt. Gehorchen the next time I tell you to get up!”
Gehorchen? Alex blinked, bewildered. What language was he speaking? Gehorchen sounded nothing like the Spanish she’d grown up with in Texas nor the French she’d muddled through in college. Another tug seared across her midriff and she struggled to her feet, wobbling dizzily.
Tugging Joan’s Yankees cap low on his head, he picked up his sack, slung his gun over his shoulder, and pulled her deeper into the shadows.
She staggered along behind him, clasping her throbbing side, sickened as the mottled camouflage pattern on his back blended into the dappled forest. Everything had happened so fast. She had been lying on the rock when she heard Joan say “Mary?” then she’d opened her eyes to see his hungry yellow gaze, then the snake, then his fist turning Joan’s nose to mush. When his hands began scurrying over Joan’s body like crabs, she’d closed her eyes, thinking crazily that if she didn’t see it, it might not be happening. But she couldn’t close her ears to Joan’s soft mews of pain or the dead slaps her buttocks made against the sandstone. They’d gone on forever, then after one final expulsive groan, she heard scrabbling in the rocks, a muffled thud, then silence.
She waited, then, for his hands to start crawling on her. Instead, the cord that bound her legs loosened. He’d jerked her head forward and dragged her to her feet by a fistful of her hair.
“Come on, Trudy!” He’d tugged her off the rock and over to the willow tree. To her shame she’d obeyed him, docile as a naughty child being led away for a spanking, too scared to do more than sneak a hasty glance at Joan.
“Which one of those pursey-books is yours?” He’d pointed his gun at the two packs. She’d nodded at the green one. He’d fitted it on her naked back and then retied her hands in back of her, forcing her breasts to thrust out and together.
“Saftig,” he’d chuckled, caressing her right nipple with one filthy fingernail. He jammed her socks and boots back on her feet, then pulled out a long leather cord from his sack. “This time I’ve finally got you,” he laughed, tying one end tight around her waist, then looping the other end around himself.
He hoisted Mary’s backpack over his shoulder, then pulled Alex into the woods as someone might lead a mule. She craned her neck, desperate for one last glimpse of Joan or Mary. She thought she saw something once through a small gap in the trees, but the view was as elusive as everything else in these mountains, and soon the spring disappeared into a lattice of golden leaves.
Now with every step she stumbled as she tried to keep up. Who was this man? Who were Mama and Papa? He spoke a language she didn’t recognize; he called her Trudy. He seemed to think that they had some kind of history together. Could he be some crazed environmental storm trooper that her corporate papermill merger had somehow pushed over the edge? No. Enviro-nuts tied themselves to trees or sabotaged chain saws. They didn’t stalk attorneys like prey. And even enviro-nuts didn’t wear live snakes for undershirts. That kind of psycho stuff was Mary’s terrain.
Mary. At the thought of Mary, her throat tightened. What on earth had happened to Mary? Was she still sketching a tree somewhere? Or had he found her first and killed her without a sound? The realization hit her like a kick in the gut. Mary was dead. He must have sneaked up on her as she sketched and stabbed or strangled her. Otherwise she would have warned them, somehow. Mary. Killer Crow. The kind, quiet, haunted girl she’d loved since they were both eighteen. The woman she played racquetball with every Sunday morning and met for lemongrass soup at Bo-Thai’s, and spent whole Saturdays following from bookstore to bookstore. The last time they were at Borders she’d gotten impatient with Mary, called her a hopeless bookworm who would rather read about sex than actually have it. She blinked back tears. Now she would happily carry Mary Crow on her back to every bookstore in America, if she only had the chance.
Another thought occurred to her. Her captor certainly looked old enough. And powerful enough. And he was definitely at home in these woods. The odds were astronomical, but not impossible. Her heart flopped in her chest. Could this snake charmer be the same man who murdered Martha Crow?
She looked up into the crystal-blue sky, struggling to clear her mind of all emotion. She must not allow herself the luxury of fear or rage or sorrow. Her feelings would consume her if she let them. Right now she had other things to take care of.
She straightened her shoulders and marched a little more briskly behind him. Although every movement sent a shock wave of pain up her right side, she began to test the knot that bound her wrists together. It was a thin rawhide rope, tied securely. She couldn’t budge it, and wiggling her hands only seemed to pull it tighter. No dice there, she thought. She turned her attention to the cord that tied her to him. This was the same kind of rope, only thicker. A complicated knot rested just above her navel; the other end was laced around the man’s waist. There was no way she could untie it with her hands bound behind her, and the rope was too thick to break with her weight alone.
Damn, she said to herself, touching the greasy-tasting bandana with the tip of her tongue. Asshole’s thought of everything. For an instant she panicked, certain she was going to throw up and gag on her own vomit. Center yourself, she thought, remembering the one thing she’d learned in a hundred yoga classes. Center yourself. Ride on the breath.
She tried as best she could. Though every breath burned like fire, she concentrated on the mottled-green man ahead of her and breathed, trying to float above her pain.
Okay, Sarah Alexandra McCrimmon. You might not be able to get out of this alive. But just once, before you die, you’re going to make this bastard pay for Mary and Joan and maybe even Martha Crow. He’s going to wish that on this particular Saturday he’d picked wildflowers instead of women.
TWENTY
Billy Swimmer leaned into the sharp curve of Bear Wallow Road, the bald back tires of his truck squealing. Homer, his Plott hound, braced himself against the side of the truck and turned his nose to the wind, his ears blowing back like little wings on either side of his head. Billy punched the pickup into third gear and climbed the rest of the way up the hill hunched forward over the steering wheel, as if that might propel the old truck faster. An impatient stranger with a thousand dollars was waiting for him, but who knew for how long? Billy figured he had about fifteen minutes to pack his gear and break the news of his adventure to Tam.
He turned up the steep, weedy driveway that led to their trailer and pulled the truck up by the front door. He hadn’t had time enough to think of a way to make this go down sweeter, so he guessed he would just have to tell Tam the truth. He grabbed his feathered headdress from the passenger seat and raced to the front door, Homer following at his heels.
“Billy!”
Tam looked up, surprised, as they came in the door. She sat cross-legged in the faded green La-Z-Boy that sprawled in front of the TV set. Pink rollers sprouted from her head and she dabbed gold eye shadow on her upper lids while a lady on the shopping channel cooed over a fake diamond bracelet. “How come you’re home so soon?”
“Something happened.” Billy placed the headdress in the middle of the card table they used as a dinette. Homer’s toenails clicked on the linoleum as he headed for his water dish in the kitchen.
Tamara’s blue eyes darkened with fear. “Zell Crisp didn’t try to beat you up again over that money you owe him, did he?”
“No, nothing like that.” Billy took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. Tam had been planning this evening for months. He walked over and knelt down beside her chair.
“Tam, I need to tell you something, and it’s God’s own truth. A few minutes ago a man came by and offered me a thousand dollars to lead him to Mary Crow.”
Tam snorted. “Yeah, right, Billy. And Dick Clark just dropped by here with balloons and a big ol’ check from the magazine sweepstakes.” She checked one eye in her makeup mirror.
“No, honey, it’s true. I swear.” Billy sat down on the floor and put a tentative hand on Tam’s foot. “This man’s from Mary’s law office down in Georgia. They need her for some kind of emergency. Probably some criminal’s escaped and she needs to help catch him.”
“What’s Mary Crow doing back up here? I thought she lived in Atlanta with that rich old grandmother of hers.”
“She’s gone camping with some of her friends.” Billy shrugged. “I talked to Jonathan this afternoon.”
“Then why don’t you let Jonathan go after her? He’s the hotshot tracker. And he’d like nothing better than a good excuse to go running after Mary Crow.”
Billy stared at the floor, guilty. “The man said the more who track, the less the pay.”
“So?” Tam began to dab moisturizer under her left eye.
“So this fella’s in a real swivet—he needs to find Mary as soon as he can. I’m going to lead him up to Atagahi by myself.” Billy coughed. “So I guess we won’t be going out tonight.”
Tamara turned her eyes away from her mirror and stared at him, stunned. “We what?”
Billy kept looking at the floor. “I don’t reckon we can go out. Not tonight, anyway.”
“Billy, this is our anniversary! We haven’t been anywhere in months. My sister’s coming all the way from Robbinsville to watch Michael.”
“I know, Tam, but do you know how far a thousand bucks would go? I could get my fiddle out of hock and pay off Zell. Then I could stop wearing those stupid feathers and make some real money playing music. We might could even take Michael to Dollywood.”
Tamara glared at him, unsmiling. “Billy, if this is just some scheme so you can get more money to waste gambling with Zell Crisp, I’ll kill you—”
“No. I swear. This guy just drove up in this brand-new Taurus while I was out by the picture stand. He’s big and strong, but he talks just like a lawyer. He’s waiting for me right now.” Billy inched his hand up Tam’s leg.
She started to blink away tears. “Couldn’t you just tell him how to get to Atagahi? We could use old grocery sacks and some of Michael’s crayons and draw him a map.”
Billy shook his head. “I don’t think he’d pay me a thousand dollars for a map on a grocery sack.”
“Oh, Billy.” Tam wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. The gold shadow smeared. “Do you have to?”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Billy pleaded. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. When he gives me my thousand dollars we’ll spend the first hundred of it on us. Just ourselves.”
“Promise?” Tam’s voice sounded like the mew of a kitten.
“Cross my heart.” Billy made an X over his chest.
“Promise you won’t go betting any more money on the football games with Zell Crisp again? Ever?”
“Never again,” Billy swore. “This time I learned my lesson.” He got up from the floor and kissed her. At first she held her mouth hard against him, then slowly her lips softened, forgiving him once again.
“Well,” he said finally, hating to pull away from her. “I guess I’d better go pack.”
Tam frowned. “You pack quiet, Billy. Michael’s got the earache again and I just got him down for his nap.”
Billy tiptoed into the bedroom. Two-year-old Michael lay in the middle of the bed, a small hump covered by a red wool blanket. Billy leaned over and looked at him. The child slept curled on his stomach with his mouth open, his nose encrusted in green snot.
Billy remembered the last time they’d taken him to the clinic, sitting in a smelly waiting room crowded with other Indians. The old woman next to them had blistered her fingers on a hot skillet; the man on the other side had pneumonia. They’d waited for hours, Michael crying, pulling at his ears, then finally lying limp with fever in Tam’s arms.
“This child has chronic otitis media,” Billy remembered the young doctor had told them when their turn finally came. “If you’d put tubes in his ears, you’d solve all his problems,” the doctor had said, his voice scolding. Billy and Tam could only look at each other, their faces hot with rage and shame. They could barely afford Michael’s antibiotics. There was no way they could pay to have tubes put inside his ears. Before any more light-eyed doctors in crisp white coats could offer any more advice, they put the boy’s jacket back on him and hurried out of the clinic. The memory still brought a bitter taste to Billy’s mouth. Didn’t that doctor think he would buy Michael tubes for his ears, if he could?
“Maybe now, Big Guy.” Billy leaned over and kissed the little boy’s thick black hair. “This tracking job is gonna turn things around, I know it.” Michael smiled once in his sleep, then stuck his thumb in his mouth and snored on.
Billy unbuttoned his buckskin Indian suit and hung it in the closet, next to Tam’s old prom dress. Maybe, he thought, this job really would be some kind of turning point. The Freight Hoppers were holding a place for him, if he could ever get his fiddle back. Everybody loved their music, and they made shit pots of money. He fingered the fringe on the Indian suit and sighed. Maybe, if things went just a little right this time, he would never have to dress up in these stupid feathers again.
He pulled on a pair of old jeans and the hooded Tennessee sweatshirt Tam had given him three Christmases ago, then he carefully tugged his bedroll from beneath the bed, trying not to jiggle the mattress and disturb his son. After lacing up his field boots, he grabbed his harmonica from the dresser and reemerged to face Tam once more.
“Look, Tam, since you’ve already got your sister lined up, why don’t you and Lena Owle go on out tonight?” He walked over to the feathers and pulled two five-dollar bills from inside the headband. “Here’s what I made today. Take it down to Robbinsville and play some bingo. Maybe you can win the coverall.”
Tamara sniffed loudly. “You know I never have any luck when you’re not there.”
Billy knelt down beside the La-Z-Boy and smiled. “I bet you will tonight, though. I’ve been feeling lucky ever since that man drove up.”
“When will you be back?”
“Day after tomorrow, I reckon. Atagahi’s a day and a half away.”
“And you’ll really have a thousand dollars?”
Billy nodded. “That’s what the man said.” He leaned over and kissed her. Her breath smelled like peppermint, and the sweetness of her tongue flooded his mouth.
“I’ll miss you, honey,” he whispered.
“Me, too.”
“Gotta get going now, though.” He stood up. “Before that fella finds somebody else to take him. We got anything I can take to eat?”
“There’s the cornbread and chicken from Thursday night. I thought we’d go to the store tomorrow.”
“That’s okay,” Billy said. “It’ll be enough.” He went into the kitchen, where he wrapped some stale cornbread and a chicken leg in an old d
ishtowel and stuck it down the front of his shirt. Then he picked up his bedroll and walked toward the door.
“Aren’t you taking Homer with you?” Tamara asked. The dog sat by the front door, his eyes imploring Billy.
“I hadn’t thought to.”
“Oh, take him with you, Billy.” Tamara climbed out of the La-Z-Boy and put her arms around his neck. “Look at the way he’s looking at you. He’ll just keep me and Michael up all night, whining.”
“Oh, okay.” Billy smiled. “Come on, Homer.”
The dog’s tail thumped against the front door at the sound of his name. Billy kissed Tam one final time. “See you later. Go out and have some fun with Lena tonight.”
“You just come home with that thousand dollars, Billy Swimmer,” Tam said, smiling as Billy gathered Homer and his bedroll. “You find Mary Crow and come on home. And don’t you spend a dime of that money before you walk back in this house.”
“Not a chance, darlin’,” Billy said, winking at her. “Not a chance in the world.”
TWENTY-ONE
Brank dragged Alex higher into the woods. He hauled her up the mountain without speaking, stealing little glances at her over his shoulder, his eyes glittering beneath the Yankees cap. After a time he seemed to relax about her escaping; from then on he would turn and ogle her breasts with a slack-jawed gape, as if he’d never seen a human female before. At first his leering humiliated her, then it made her mad. By late afternoon she wished she could sharpen her nipples and poke out his eyes with them.
After twisting through a dense growth of buckeyes and sugar maples, they turned onto something that had once been a kind of road. Waist-high weeds and scrub cedar trees choked most of it now, but a faint flat bed was still discernible. She figured it was probably pointless, but she began walking slew-footed, dragging her feet through the long grass, trying to mark a trail. Her brothers would be proud, she thought, picturing the three of them as she surreptitiously bent the thorny stalk of a thistle. Alexandra bought the farm, but she left a hell of a good trail buying it.
In The Forest Of Harm Page 15
