In The Forest Of Harm

by Sallie Bissell

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The screech owl perched on the lower limb of the oak tree, as two men and a dog came crashing through the dark woods. It eyed the trio, its saffron-yellow pupils dilating into enormous black orbs, then it spread its wings and soared a foot above their heads, whistling a quivery skreeeee as it passed. This thundering trio had frightened the tiny vole the owl was about to pounce on; now the bird would have to fly on to quieter hunting grounds. Skreeeee , it trilled, again voicing its disgust.

  “Shit!” Mitch Whitman ducked. “That damn thing’s flying low.”

  “They do that in the fall,” explained Billy. “Close to where all those ground squirrels are digging up acorns.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.” Mitch peered up into the night sky as he pulled his jacket closer around his neck. “Gotta go where the game is.”

  The men and the dog trudged on. They hiked for a time in silence, then Billy spoke. “You about ready to stop for the night?”

  “As long as we’ve gotten a good start on the trail for tomorrow,” Mitch replied.

  “We’re about a third of the way there,” Billy told him. “I know a place we can camp, just a little ways away.”

  They’d made better time than Billy had expected. This Mitch Keane was in good shape. He followed along up one mountain and down another without complaint, breathing heavy only as they clambered to the tops of the highest ridges. When he took his sunglasses off, Billy had expected to see the usual jittery look of people who weren’t used to the deep woods, but Mitch didn’t appear nervous at all. He just took it all in, his gaze cold as a winter pond.

  The hike, though, seemed to have spoiled him for conversation. He’d barely grunted when Billy had tried to tell him about Michael’s ears and his own fiddle problems, and when he started talking about taking Tam to Gatlinburg, he’d yawned right in his face. Billy had taken no offense, though. Mitch was probably pondering on Mary Crow, and didn’t want to hear about his little pissant problems.

  When they came to a deep waterfall that plunged thirty feet into a narrow creek, Billy stopped.

  “Mind your step,” he warned as he led Mitch down the weedy creek bank, then along the slippery rocks that lay like huge flat turtles at the base of the falls. “We’ll get a little wet here, but it won’t be too bad,” he called over the roar of the falling water.

  He jumped from rock to rock, Homer splashing haunch-deep in the creek behind him, then they leaped behind the curtain of water, landing on a wide rock ledge. Billy stood waiting for Mitch to follow, but the sound of footsteps did not reach his ears. “Come on, Mitch,” Billy called. “Just do what I did.”

  A moment later Mitch appeared, squinting into the darkness between the rock wall and the falling water.

  Billy grinned. “Come on in. It’s a nice place for a fire.”

  Mitch hesitated, then stepped inside the hidden cavern.

  “See?” Billy’s voice echoed as if coming from the bottom of a well. “It’s downright cozy back here.”

  Mitch glanced around the dark, wet walls. “I’ll be damned. I once camped in a spot like this in Mexico.”

  “What were you hunting down there?”

  “Poontang, mostly.” Mitch laughed. “Latina girls are nice.”

  A little while later, as he was nursing some dry pine twigs into a fire, Mitch unpacked the slickest equipment Billy had ever seen. He set up a propane stove that lit on the first try and then unrolled an all-weather aluminum sleeping bag that looked like something you’d roast an ear of corn in. Billy felt almost shamed by his own threadbare bedroll and the soggy chicken and cornbread he’d brought for him and Homer, but Mitch had seemed happy to share the fancy freeze-dried stew he’d cooked on his stove. Homer had turned his nose up at it, but Billy thought it tasted as good as anything he’d ever eaten at Shoney’s. After they’d washed their plates in the waterfall, they sat across from each other by the fire.

  “Ol’ Homer’s confused,” Billy said as the dog paced back and forth, panting. “He thinks we’re going coon hunting.”

  Mitch studied the rangy hound. “Is coon what you hunt up here?”

  “That and boar. Wild turkey and whitetail, if you go down to the flats.” Billy pulled his harmonica out of his pocket. “Maybe if I play some music he’ll calm down.” He played a scale, then launched into several verses of “Old Joe Clark.” Homer finally lay down with his head on his paws as notes bounced off the dank walls like chips of bright sound. After Billy had run through “Pretty Polly” and “Columbus Stockade,” Mitch held up one hand.

  “Enough. The dog’s calm now.”

  Billy frowned. “Don’t you like harmonica music? It cheers most people up.”

  “I’m topped off with cheer as is.” Mitch stretched his long legs out by the fire.

  “This thing’s kept me company ever since I was a kid.” Billy stole a glance at Mitch’s black Colt rifle. This fella might be a lawyer in Atlanta, but he carried hunting gear Billy had seen only in Jonathan’s magazines. “I guess I’m used to it.”

  “I wouldn’t want Mary Crow to hear it.”

  “Oh?” Billy cocked his head. “We’re not trying to sneak up on her, are we?”

  “Nah.” Mitch’s face cracked into a grin. “I’d just hate to wake her up if she’s asleep or something.”

  “Well, unless she’s got ears like a bat she isn’t gonna hear us. Atagahi’s still about six hours away.”

  “I see.” Mitch poked at one fiery log with a stick, then he looked at Billy. “So you’re a Real Life Cherokee?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you grew up with Mary Crow?”

  “Went all the way through school with her. She’s one brainy gal. It was a shame about her mama and everything.”

  Mitch cocked his head. “Her mama?”

  “Yeah. The way she got murdered at the store. They never could catch who did it.”

  Mitch gave an odd smile, as if he’d just learned a secret that gave him pleasure. “Never did, huh?”

  “Nope.” Billy peered into the falling water. “They finally decided some drifter must have killed her, but you never know. It might have been a maniac who could still be out there right now, just a-waitin’ for another throat to slit.”

  Another moment of silence passed; Billy said nothing as Mitch stared into the crackling flames.

  “I don’t reckon he’s out there, though, what with all these Hell Benders around.”

  “What’s a Hell Bender?” Mitch looked up.

  Billy nodded toward the water. “That old river dog over there, a-givin’ you the evil eye.”

  Mitch turned. A long, squat four-legged shape stood just inside the falls, looking straight at them. Tiny pig eyes glowed with pinpoints of firelight as the creature grinned the soulless smile of a lizard.

  Mitch laughed. “That thing looks like something you’d flush down a john.”

  The Hell Bender eyed the two men for a bit, then waddled along the ledge, its tail slapping wetly on the moist rock.

  “Take it out of here, Homer!” Billy commanded.

  “No, wait!” Mitch reached behind him and grabbed his rifle.

  “Hold on!” Billy cried. “He’s not worth—”

  But before he could finish his sentence, the cave erupted in a roar that made Billy squeeze his eyes shut and cringe down into his clothes, his ears ringing as if he were sitting on the inside of a bell. When he opened his eyes, the spot where the Hell Bender had been was just a smear of bright red blood. Mitch’s bullet had disintegrated the thing. Billy clapped both hands over his throbbing ears, while Homer ran around the cave like a dog gone berserk.

  “Good God, Mitch!” Billy cried. “Don’t you know better than to fire a gun inside a cave? That old lizard didn’t mean you no harm!”

  Mitch’s mouth moved, but Billy couldn’t hear what he said. Mitch leaned his rifle back against the cave and both men sat for a long time staring at the fire, waiting for the ringing in their ears to subside. When Bi
lly could finally hear Homer’s whimpering, he put the harmonica to his lips again. The mournful notes of “Wayfaring Stranger,” his Daddy’s favorite song, began to float through the damp air. This time Mitch made no complaint about the music.

  When he came to the end of the tune, Billy slipped the harmonica back in his pocket.

  “Sorry about the lizard,” Mitch said gruffly. “I haven’t fired that rifle since I hunted elk in Montana with my dad. I guess I wanted to see if she still shot straight.”

  “I’d say she does all right,” grumbled Billy. He sighed. He was surprised that Mitch would do such a stupid thing, but he’d known other people who’d gotten trigger-happy in the woods with much worse results. He guessed there was no point to getting all huffy about having your head rung like a church bell.

  “So how come you’re fetching Mary Crow back to Atlanta?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Mitch’s mouth drew tight. “There’s a problem with one of her convictions.”

  “Oh? Did somebody escape from prison?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I bet y’all have some right fierce criminals down there,” surmised Billy with a wink.

  “Some are.” Mitch’s voice took on an edge. “Most are just fuck-ups.”

  “You hunt a lot on your off-time?”

  “I go with my dad.”

  “Sounds like y’all have tracked some pretty exotic stuff.”

  Mitch looked at the fire. “Elk in Montana. Moose in Maine. Once we even tried brown bear in Alaska, but we didn’t get anything.”

  “I hear those brown bears are crazy. They’ll even kill their own kind.”

  Mitch shrugged. “So would most of the human race.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Mitch turned to Billy. “I once knew a man who set up his own brother after he killed his girlfriend.”

  “Really?” said Billy, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

  Mitch laughed softly. “Nothing. The asshole brother got caught. He’s rotting in jail right now.”

  “What about the other fellow?”

  “He took some heat on the witness stand, but the DA couldn’t put it all together. Guy’s a free man now. Builds dams in South America. Goes hunting every chance he gets.”

  “So one’s in the pokey and the other’s free as a bird.”

  “Just about,” Mitch agreed.

  Billy shook his head. “That doesn’t make for a right happy family, does it?”

  “No.” Mitch gave a careless shrug. “Guess it doesn’t.”

  Billy stood up and walked to the edge of the falls. The moonlight shone through the falling water like a liquid silver curtain, and the soft, constant gurgle of the water soothed him like the tide of the ocean he’d never seen. A fine, cool mist dampened his face and the smell of iron laced the air. This creek is probably full of sapphires, he thought, watching as the moonlight danced on the water. Rubies, too. If anybody had the time and the equipment to dig them out, they’d probably wind up a rich man. He smiled, then wondered how Tam had done at bingo. Maybe she’d won the coverall. If she’d come home with fifty dollars in her pocket then she might not be so disappointed about him coming up here with Mitch. He touched the five hundred-dollar bills that lay curled deep in his front pocket. Mitch would give him the rest as soon as they found Mary. That would get him his fiddle back, and he would never tie up with Zell Crisp again.

  He turned and walked back to the fire. Mitch had already tucked into his corn-roaster sleeping bag and pulled the flap over his head.

  Billy unrolled the old flannel bag he’d used since he was a kid and wrapped it around him, curling up close to the flames. Bathed in the silver glow of the waterfall and the golden glow of the fire, he felt as if he were sleeping in some great hall that blazed with the colors of the stars. He closed his eyes, feeling content. Tomorrow they would find Mary. Tomorrow he would get the rest of his money. Tomorrow his life would begin to take on the richness of the colors that surrounded him.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Alex lay with her eyes open. She curled not in her usual tight coil, but flat on her back, open like a flower, her boots laced tightly on her feet.

  Brank lay beside her. Alex knew without looking that he was asleep; his snores droned steady as waves on a beach. For hours she’d feigned sleep, watching from under her captor’s ragged tent as the nearly full moon glided across an indigo sky.

  That night he’d left her legs untied when he pushed her under the tarp, and the prospect of flight had tantalized her ever since. He’d gone to bed woozy from his moonshine, and ever since she’d lain awake, trying to figure out what to do. Murder tempted her—the thought of easing the knife out of his belt and plunging it deep into his chest brought a smile to her lips. But she hadn’t seen where he’d put the knife when he’d collapsed on his blanket, and if she woke him fumbling for it, she knew she’d be the one who would wind up with a blade through her heart.

  That was when she’d decided on escape. Although running through the blackness of the forest with her hands bound would be dicey, anything was better than being Henry Brank’s plaything, listening to his weird Germanic ramblings about mad Trudy and Papa and Pennsylvania. She took a deep breath. The moon had already passed its apogee. If she was going to escape, she needed to go now.

  He lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring the easy sleep of a man unbedeviled by dreams. Cautiously, she pulled herself upright. A shock of pain flared down her rib cage, but she inhaled deeply through her mouth, tamping it down to the point that she could bear to move. The nylon sleeping bag beneath her seemed to rustle with every eye blink, betraying her movement. She glanced over again at Brank, certain she’d awakened him, but he snored on, apparently undisturbed.

  She started to pull her long legs beneath her, then realized that struggling upright without the leverage of her hands would make far too much noise. She would have to roll over and push up from her stomach. Keeping her eyes on Brank’s face, she rolled to her left. Hot fire instantly consumed her battered body, but she ignored it. Broken bones could not concern her now.

  Every motion sounded like a cannon shot. Her sleeping bag rustled like a chorus of high-pitched violins. Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. Any second now he will open his eyes and see me. For an eternity she crouched motionless, holding her breath until her lungs burned, waiting to see what would happen. Her forehead grew damp with sweat. He snorted once in his sleep, making her dizzy with fear, but then turned his head away from her; his snores resumed.

  So far, so good, she told herself. Cautiously, she rose to her knees. Then she brought her left knee forward, balanced her elbow on top of it, and lifted herself up. Her knees wobbled and nearly buckled, and she had to stoop to keep from hitting the top of the low tent, but at last she stood upright and untethered. She nearly wept with joy.

  Standing seemed to make even more racket than turning over, but still Brank snored on. Now she had only to slip out of the tent. Then she would be free.

  She held her breath and turned. Three more steps and she would be outside. It would be treacherous to find her way at night, but the moon still shone bright overhead and she’d taken extra care yesterday to try to memorize their trail. If she could run fast enough and long enough, she might be miles away before he even knew she was gone.

  She took a step, then stopped. The nylon bag rustled, but still Brank did not move. The next step took her to the end of the bag. One more step and she would be free of the tent and into the forest. She pressed her arm against her right side and looked at Brank one final time. He slept on, still as death. Steeling herself against the pain, she ducked beneath the ragged flaps. The cold, dark air caressed her like a lover. She had done it. She was free.

  She wasted no time. With rapid strides she slipped past their smoldering campfire, desperate to avoid any twigs that might crunch beneath her feet. Tall hemlocks thrust up into the night about twenty feet away. If she could reach them, she could slip into th
eir shadows. . . .

  She had to fight the urge to cut loose as she had done on her high-school track team. Go slow, she commanded herself. Go quiet. Just get into the trees.Then you can run. She took two more long steps. She longed to look over her shoulder, to make sure Brank wasn’t coming after her. Don’t stop, she told herself. Just get to those trees.

  Three more quiet steps, then two, then the forgiving branches of the hemlocks reached out and enveloped her. Their pungent aroma reminded her of Christmas. Her heart pounded as if she’d sprinted a mile. Her breath came in gasps. I’ve done it, she thought, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. I have gotten away.

  She twisted to look back at the tent, still expecting to see Brank roaring out like a madman, waving his gun in the air. But nothing moved. She knew, though, that would all soon change. He would wake up and find her gone. She had to put as much distance between her and that moment as possible. For an instant, however, she crouched beneath the hemlocks, breathing in their sharp, clean scent, remembering the Christmas she’d gotten a shiny blue twelve-speed bike.

  “Whatever happens after this,” she said softly, gripping one branch tight in her hand, “at least I escaped once.”

  She stood up and turned toward what she hoped was east, where the trees cast thick smudges of shadow on the ground. She might not remember the trail exactly, but she knew she must go opposite from where Brank had been taking her. Impulsively, she turned back to the tent and poked up the third finger of her right hand. “Fuckensie you,” she said under her breath. “You and your dumb cat-woman sister.” With that she turned and ran into the night.