In The Forest Of Harm

by Sallie Bissell

THIRTY-SIX

  Mary helped Joan down through the trees, in the direction of the smoke. Thimbleberries pulled at their scratched and bleeding legs, as if begging them to stay in the sanctuary of the ridge. They pushed their way down through the prickly branches to emerge in an old-growth forest.

  “Jeez, these trees are tall,” said Joan, gazing up at a hundred-foot hickory.

  “The timbermen never got up here.” Mary breathed easier as the air felt cooler, the earth springier beneath her feet. She squinted at the wilderness below, but saw nothing beyond the understory of the forest—young maples and hornbeams sprouting from a knee-deep evergreen carpet of galax and trillium.

  With Joan following close behind, Mary crept on from one tree to the next. After a few minutes she gestured for Joan to stop behind a clump of locusts. Ahead, glimmering through the sun-dappled shadows, lay a broad expanse of tall yellow weeds. Could that be where the smoke was coming from? They crept on to a huge bass-wood that rose just in front of a weedy meadow lying like an island in the middle of the dense woods. Suddenly, Mary caught her breath. At the very back of the field stood a run-down cabin with a tendril of smoke wisping from the stone chimney.

  Her muscles tightened. Was this just some hunter’s remote cabin? Or had they stumbled upon the lair of Ulagu?

  Mary slipped from behind the tree and was just about to pull Joan forward, when a flicker of a motion caught her eye. Quickly, she threw both of them back against the trunk and peeked out.

  A figure emerged from the cabin. A man, wearing an old army camouflage suit and a Yankees baseball cap. A long hunting-knife scabbard hung from his belt. He raised his arms high above his head, as if stretching, then slung a bulging sack over his shoulder and stepped off the porch. Mary’s heart froze. Though she and Joan crouched a hundred yards away, she could still see the dark beard and deep-set eyes.

  “I see him!” she whispered, not believing their luck.

  “Where?” Joan tried to peer around the broad tree trunk. “I don’t see anybody.”

  “There!” She pressed Joan against the tree, barely daring to breathe herself, praying the bearded man would not walk toward them. He paused, lazily scanning the perimeter of the field, then strode away at an angle, into the woods that bordered the northeast side of the meadow.

  “Come on,” urged Mary. “Let’s see if we can get closer.”

  For a moment Joan looked as if she might weep, then she closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “Okay,” she said, sighing deeply. “I’m ready.”

  “Crawl from tree to tree now. Remember, he’s out here somewhere, so we need to be quiet.”

  “No kidding,” muttered Joan as she dropped to her knees and began to follow Mary through the lush forest floor.

  They reached a tulip tree, then crept on through some spicy-smelling sassafras. Once they thought they heard footsteps behind them. They froze, trying to press themselves into the damp earth. For an eternity they lay motionless, listening, scarcely breathing. Whatever it was came toward them, paused, then rustled slowly away.

  Mary raised her head and looked toward the meadow. She saw a low pile of rotting logs just inside the edge of the forest—a perfect shelter if they could get there undetected.

  “Over there.” She mouthed the words and pointed her finger. Joan nodded. Her face was pale and her lips tight.

  Inch by inch, the two women snaked through the underbrush. Thorns ripped at their skin; yellow jackets whined around their eyes and mouths. Crawling ten feet seemed to take ten years, and all the while Mary kept waiting for a shotgun to click and a male voice to bellow “Hold it!”

  The woodpile logs were cedar, cut years ago and forgotten. Now silver with age, they afforded a knee-high shield behind which two people might possibly conceal themselves. Mary reached it first, then Joan crawled up beside her, breathing as if her lungs were clogged with sand.

  “Thank God,” she rasped. “I was sure I heard him fifty times.”

  Silently, Mary studied their situation. If they lay on their stomachs and craned their necks, they could peer through a gap between two logs that offered a narrow view of the cabin beyond. Cautiously, she raised up and peeked through the slit.

  The cabin was barely standing. Both windows on the side were broken. The chink had crumbled long ago from between the logs; planks gaping in the front porch gave it the snaggletoothed look of a piano with missing keys. Smoke still rose from the chimney, but beyond that, nothing moved.

  Then Mary saw a shadow melting through the woods on the far side of the cabin. She grabbed Joan, and they both turned back to the slit, trying to see everything and not be seen.

  The dark shape shifted through the trees: Joan gasped as a green-clad man ambled into the clearing.

  “That’s him!” she cried, her voice a thin squeal. “That’s the one who hurt me!”

  “Shhh!” Mary pressed Joan down hard. At last, she thought with a strange satisfaction. I’m going to gaze upon the face of Ulagu.

  He stood lankier than she’d imagined. The sun cast no highlights upon his snarled beard and his eyes glittered out from beneath the cap as a lizard might peer from under a log.

  With a hitching gait he carried his sack to a rickety gambrel attached to the porch. Mary studied his walk. Could his odd, shuffling steps be the same curious tread she’d heard on the porch that afternoon, moments after finding her mother?

  A brown bullet of tobacco juice flew from his mouth, then he knelt on the dirt and pulled a limp raccoon from his sack.

  Mary knew what was coming as he hung the creature from the gambrel by its hind leg. “Turn away, Joan,” she warned.

  “Why?” Joan asked, still watching. “What’s he going to do?”

  With his knife flashing in the sun, he made one swift cut along the underside of the coon’s legs, then began to peel the skin away from the flesh. Once something attracted his attention. He looked up and seemed to stare straight at them. Not now, Mary pleaded, unable to tear her gaze away from his face. Please don’t see us now. He stared at the forest, unblinking. Then he spat again and turned back to his work.

  “He must have a trapline somewhere,” Mary muttered as he tugged the animal’s pelt down from the fatty white carcass. When he began to make tiny cuts around the coon’s eyes, Joan made a retching noise deep in her throat and rolled away to vomit.

  “Close your eyes,” Mary told her. “Sing Puccini in your head.”

  Joan obeyed, curling herself in mute misery against the logs. But Mary waited intently as the man untied the skinned carcass, then made quick work of another big coon and a small dun-colored rabbit. When he’d finished, he carried the skins and carcasses into the cabin. Mary waited, but he did not reappear.

  Finally, she sagged back against the woodpile, feeling the small fire of hope she’d kindled for Alex die. She knew trappers loved leaving nasty little surprises everywhere they went. Leghold traps, deadfall traps, underwater traps. She studied the meadow that stretched between them and the cabin and felt her heart sink in despair. The field might as well be ringed with razor wire and land mines.

  She looked down at Joan. Her friend’s mouth was slack, her breathing shallow. She had taken herself far away, indeed. Maybe she was singing at La Scala, the notes soaring from her throat clear and beautiful, just as they had at Atagahi, so long ago. Mary gave a rueful smile. If she had somewhere else to go, she would be doing exactly the same thing.

  She decided to keep watch on the cabin and let Joan sleep for a time. Then they could take turns watching until dark. The adrenaline rush that had carried her here had dissipated, leaving her shaking and exhausted. She settled back against the log, her eyelids gritty, her scratched arms and legs heavy as lead. The Old Men have given me Ulagu, she told herself as the warm sunlight made her drowsy as a shot of whiskey. Now if only they’ll give me Alex.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Mary opened her eyes. A hard white circle of moonlight burned through the black lacework of limbs above her. Joan
snored softly beside her, curled against the logs that shielded them from the cabin. Panic shot through Mary. She had not awakened Joan to keep watch; instead, she had fallen asleep herself and both had carelessly dozed away the afternoon and most of the night. Her plan of watching the cabin in shifts had failed. She’d screwed up already. He could have sneaked up on them and slit their throats as they slept. How could she possibly expect to rescue Alex like this?

  She rose and peered over the logs. The cabin sat silent in the silver meadow; not even a wisp of smoke seeped from the old chimney. Mary rubbed the sleep from her eyes and touched Joan’s arm.

  “Yeah!” Joan jumped awake.

  “Have you been asleep the whole time?”

  “I woke up about dusk. A big flock of bats or something came swarming out of the chimney.” Joan shrugged. “I guess I fell back to sleep after that. Shit, my foot hurts like hell.”

  “Did you see anything besides bats?”

  “No. Thank God.”

  “No sign of Alex?”

  “Mary, if I’d seen Alex, I’d have woken you up,” Joan said testily, rubbing her grotesquely swollen foot.

  By the high angle of the moon Mary guessed it was close to midnight. She and Joan had been asleep for hours. What could Ulagu be doing to Alex in the cabin? If indeed Alex was still in the cabin and not buried somewhere in the mountains. She shook her head. Some thoughts were better turned away at the door.

  Joan was shivering, although a feverish heat radiated from her body.

  “What are we going to do now?” she whimpered.

  “I’m not sure.” Mary had hoped to sneak down to the cabin under the cover of night and peek in a window. But Ulagu’s being a trapper had given her pause. She had seen what traps did to an animal’s leg. The thought of those metal teeth snapping into her own flesh made her cold inside. She ignored the sudden queasiness in her stomach and said firmly to Joan, “First we need to see if Alex is really inside. If she is, then we’ll go get her when he’s out checking his traps.”

  “What do you mean if Alex is there?”

  “Like you said before,” Mary reminded her bluntly. “He could have killed her days ago.”

  “But sneaking up and peering inside?” Joan shuddered. “Jeez, Mary. What if you looked in and there he was, staring right back at you?”

  Mary did not answer. The sky above them shone like a clear obsidian bowl. It was a hunter’s moon, for sure. All prey would be illuminated tonight. She studied the terrain around the cabin. If she jumped over the logs and ran straight ahead, anyone who happened to be looking outside would see her the instant she left the cover of the trees. Circling around to the front offered no greater advantage, either. So that left the rear. She scowled at the weedy creek that ran across the back of the property. A trapper might have it studded with sets that could break her ankle as easily as snapping a twig. An injury like that would forever destroy whatever slim chance they had. But if she could make it unobserved to the water and then wade down the creek . . . then she might stay hidden until she could sprint across the back field to the cabin. The whole idea made her cold inside, but with Joan so crippled, it seemed like their only hope.

  “How about this.” Hastily, before her brain had a chance to reconsider, she blurted out her plan to Joan. “You have to stay up here and be my lookout. If anybody comes out, yell.”

  “Yell?” Joan stared at her as if she were insane. “Yell what? Fire? Police? Bloody murder?”

  “Anything. Just something to warn me.”

  Joan’s mouth curved down in disbelief. “And what will you do then, Mary, when I start yelling? That is, if I could yell. I’m dying of thirst.”

  Mary shrugged, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. Out loud, all her plans sounded ludicrous. “Have you got any better ideas?”

  Joan scowled at her. Then her expression softened. “No, I don’t guess I do.”

  “Okay, then. That’s it.” Mary braced herself. More death might soon be upon your head, she thought, but she couldn’t help that now. As her mother had told her so long ago, sometimes there was no other direction to go but forward.

  She tightened the laces on her boots and told Joan: “I’ll take the paint box and bring us some water from the creek. And remember, if you see anyone, yell.”

  Joan studied her face, then reached over and touched her cheek. “Please, Mary, promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  With her paint box tucked under her arm, Mary Crow nodded, and slipped into the shadows.

  She reached the creek with surprising speed. The brilliant moonlight allowed her to thread her way easily between the trees. Every few moments she glanced at the cabin to see if anyone was sighting down a gun barrel at her, but the yard remained vacant, the cabin eerily silent. As far as she could tell, she was the only creature moving upright on two feet.

  In the moonlight the creek rolled like a ribbon of gurgling black ink. It edged the clearing as neatly as a fence, keeping the wild dark tangle of the forest back from the cabin. Mary knelt on its bank and looked for any submerged stumps that a trap might be attached to, but the surface of the water flowed smooth and unbroken. If this creek concealed a trapline, the sets were buried deep. She shoved her paint box beneath a thicket of bearberry as she sat down to remove her boots. Wet shoes might squeak. After she untied the laces, she felt Wynona safe in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

  She tucked her shoes beneath a bush and tentatively stuck one foot in the creek. Involuntarily, she gasped. The water pierced her skin like needles and a wet iciness began to numb her legs. If she was going to get there this way, she would have to move fast. She began to hurry forward, but her left foot slipped on a slick, algae-covered rock. For an instant she teetered over the chill water, then, miraculously, she regained her balance. More cautious now, she hunched over and began to creep down the center of the creek as if she were walking a tightwire, arms extended.

  She moved carefully, testing the slimy bottom with her toes, waiting with every step for the snap of a trap to clamp down on her flesh. Twice, she felt something slither around her ankles, but she pressed her lips together and waded on through the black water. By the time she stood abreast of the cabin, both legs were numb from the knee down. Slowly, she edged to the bank, then stepped out of the water, lowering herself down among the weeds.

  “Wahdoe, Wynona,” she whispered as she peered over the razor-sharp rushes and studied the cabin, yards away. Though the back wall was windowless, the only cover between the creek and the house was a single maple tree. Anybody peering through a missing chink would clearly see her crossing the meadow. She looked up at the hunter’s moon and had to smile at the irony: on one hand she was the hunter, on the other hand she was the prey.

  Run! The warning rippled inside her head. If he has a gun you’ll be harder to shoot. Without considering further, she took a last look around, then leapt out of the rushes and dashed across the meadow. Her feet hit the ground like frozen stumps, but she did not break her stride until she dived into the concealing shadows of the chimney, gulping air like someone drowning.

  Lungs burning, her body pressed tight against the chimney, she waited. Then she realized she was safe. No one had awakened. No one had seen her. The meadow and the cabin were as silent as they’d ever been. Now she just had to find the right window to look into. Cautiously, she turned and moved toward the corner of the cabin.

  Foot by precious foot she slunk along the back wall. A bat swooped low over her head; there was a sudden thick splash in the creek. Dear God, she thought, her heartbeat accelerating. He’s been out setting a trapline. Now he’s coming home. She dropped to the ground and pressed herself against the earth. With the blood rushing through her head she waited for him to lumber dripping from the creek, but the meadow remained empty. When her vision began to blur from staring at the muddy bank she realized that whatever had splashed in the water had nothing to do with her.

  Still, she remained on her belly. It would b
e slower, but down low she would be harder to spot. She crawled along the ground, rising only to press her ear to the cabin to listen for any sounds inside. All she heard was the rattle of her own breath.

  Finally she reached the corner. She tried to spot Joan across the meadow, but the woodpile was invisible in the shadows of the forest.

  For a moment she lay still, thinking hard. The earth felt warm against her cheek; the sweet aroma of autumn grass filled her nose. This is insane, another voice taunted in her brain. You are an assistant District Attorney for Deckard County, Georgia, not some Cherokee commando.

  “Oh, but tonight I am,” she countered silently. “Tonight I am exactly that.”

  If she was going to do this, she must do it now. With a final flex of the cramped muscles of her legs, she crept toward the broken window.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Her toes dug for purchase in the stiff weeds, her fingertips sought the cold metal teeth of a trap. Inch by inch she crawled along the cabin wall. Finally, she looked up. In the moonlight, four grimy panes of glass glimmered above her head.

  She studied them. Three were intact, but half of one bottom pane had been broken out. The jagged hole would reveal the interior of the cabin clearly. It would reveal her just as clearly, but she had no choice. With a swift, silent intake of air, she scrambled up, and pressed herself against the wall. The broken pane was just beneath her shoulder. She would have to crouch down to see inside.

  Mentally cursing the glistening moon, she eased down and turned her face toward the gap in the window. The air inside the cabin smelled sour, its breath redolent of gun oil and roasted meat and another sharp scent she could not identify. She inched forward, peering inside.

  The amber firelight revealed a kitchen of sorts. Embers glittered orange in a stone fireplace. Close to the window stood a small table; on it lay magazines and a bottle of vitamins. Suddenly, she caught her breath. Propped against the vitamins was the smiling photograph of Jonathan and a blonde woman. Jodie Foster. Ulagu had been at Little Jump Off! He must have been following them since Friday afternoon.