She crawled on. When she thought she had crept far enough to be hidden behind the cabin, she rose up.
“Twenty more feet,” she whispered, burrowing back into the weeds. Now the goldenrod was intermingled with some kind of plant whose tiny thorns tore at her cheeks and forehead as she pushed through. Wincing in pain, she narrowed her eyes and crawled on
Surely she must be there by now. Again, she lifted her head. This time her position was perfect. She had a straight shot down the windowless side of the cabin and onto the porch. Betting her life that no more traps or snake pits awaited her, she stood up.
With the log clutched against her chest, she sprinted to the shadows of the cabin wall. When she reached them, she stopped, half-expecting a man in green camouflage to pop out from the porch and greet her. “Why, hello,” he would say. “How nice of you to drop in! I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
But no such thing happened. The cabin remained as quiet as when she’d first visited. She crept along the wall, listening for the sound of someone stirring, a human body awake, but by the time she reached the porch she’d heard nothing except the frantic thunder of her own heart.
The slate-colored light revealed the porch and the door, but little else. From here on, however, she could make no mistakes.
She grasped the log and eased her right foot on the porch, testing the strength of the board. Tentatively, she shifted her weight. The wood did not give or wobble. She held her breath and straightened her knee, moving her left foot up beside her right. Triumph flooded her. She’d reached the porch without making a sound.
The door stood ten feet away, the latch on the near side. She would have to cross to the other side to get the needed leverage to shatter Ulagu’s skull. She inched her right foot three boards toward the door, then shifted her weight. Amazingly, the ancient boards again held firm.
She crept along for what seemed like a century. She had to crawl below the single front window, and she froze once when a board squeaked loudly beneath her. She pressed herself up against the cabin, waiting for Ulagu’s bellow, but nothing happened. Heavy sleeper, she noted with a quickening in her veins. Smug in the protection of his damn snakes.
Finally, she reached the door. With a single swift motion she crept across the doorway and positioned herself on the other side. She was here. She was ready. She’d gone over what to do a million times in her head, but it wouldn’t hurt to rehearse it again. First wait, when the door opens, to make sure whoever is coming out isn’t Alex. Then, if Ulagu comes out fast, swing like hell for the back of his skull. If he comes out slow, smash his face first, then his head if he goes down. If he doesn’t go down, smash his balls, then the back of his skull. And if none of that kills him, she thought as an early-morning robin began to chirp, then the death song that Uguug was singing must have been meant for me.
FORTY
Morning, sugar.” The words startled her so, she almost dropped the log. “I was wondering when you’d drop back by.”
A coldness seized her body. How could this be? How could he have slipped out of the cabin without her seeing him? Reluctantly, she turned. With a long intake of breath, she lifted her eyes. For the first time, she was going to stand toe-to-toe with Ulagu.
He glared down at her, yellow eyes burning beneath woolly brows. Three fresh red scratches scarred the left side of his forehead and continued down his cheek. In his right hand glittered a hunting knife, the point of which now trembled an inch from her throat.
He grinned, his frank gaze a circular assessment of her face, then her breasts, then her face again. “You’re Cherokee, aren’t you?”
She gave the slightest nod.
Ulagu frowned. “You made an awful racket in my snake pit last night. You weren’t much quieter when you were scampering back to that log pile, either.”
“Sorry,” she managed to croak, her last wisp of hope evaporating like dew in the rays of the sun. She hadn’t fooled him for an instant. He had known all along. Joan! He must have slit her throat the moment Mary had taken off for the cabin.
Ulagu grinned. “You know what I do to people who trespass on my property?”
Mary stood there, unflinching. “Kill them, I imagine.”
“Mostly.” Ulagu’s amber eyes glittered. “But not right off the bat. First, you tell me why you’re here.”
“You kidnapped one of my friends and killed another. And I think you killed my mother.”
“Killed your mother?” Ulagu pressed the knife blade against her throat as if making a pin hole in a piece of paper. “What gives you that notion?”
“The way you walk,” Mary replied evenly.
“Well, I might have helped a few pilgrims on to Glory, but I don’t know that any of them were your mother.” His upper lip snarled away from teeth brown with decay. “And here you are, fixin’ to kill me with that stick.”
Mary looked at him without speaking.
He traced the tip of the knife down her throat and between her breasts, bringing it back to rest just under her jaw. “Why don’t you drop that log on the ground and come inside with me? I think Trudy and I need to have us a little family conference.”
For an instant she considered trying to bash his head right then and there, but she remembered the swiftness with which he’d skinned that coon. Wait, she decided as she let the log thud to the porch boards. Your time still might come.
The cabin was not much lighter than it had been the night before. The dripping snake skins gave the place a feeling of macabre festivity, like decorations left over from a witches’ ball. Animal hides adorned the walls like posters—a fox, a skunk, a dingy piebald thing that had once been a Jersey calf.
As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, Mary saw what she’d come for. Alex. She lay curled on the floor by the cot, her back to the door, one hand scratching limply at her scalp. Relief swept over Mary—whatever else Ulagu might have done, at least he had not yet killed Alex.
“Get up, Trudy! We got company!” Ulagu slammed the door behind him. Alex jumped. Slowly, she twisted toward them. This morning both her hands and legs were bound tight together, and a shorter leather cord tethered her to the cot.
“Mary!” Even beaten and tied, she still managed her old smile. Mary wanted to cry, then she felt a hard shove between her shoulder blades.
“Go sit on that bed. I need to think about this.”
Mary stumbled over to the cot and sat next to Alex. She smelled of old smoky fires, and an ugly grid of switch marks crisscrossed her breasts. Her face was swollen and bruised. Still, she looked at Mary and smiled.
“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” Alex said, giving a wheezing chuckle. “Then I remembered you’ve never been on time for anything since I’ve known you.”
“You shut up, Trudy!” Ulagu barked. “My business is with her today.” He waggled his knife at Mary. “This is amazing. I didn’t even know you existed, and here you are, the girl tracker of the century, coming to avenge her mama.” He squinted, then grinned as if a marvelous idea had just occurred to him. “Why don’t you stand up there and take off those clothes? I’m ashamed to say I’ve never seen any Native American pussy.”
Mary stared at the blade of Ulagu’s knife. A thousand scenarios flickered through her head. She could wrestle it away from him and cut his throat. Or she and Alex could knock him down and stab him to death with the palette knife. Even if he was armed, it was two against one. But Alex’s hands and feet were bound, and what good was a flimsy painting knife against a Bowie? Still, there must be something she could do. She sat motionless, feverishly thinking.
“Hey! Sacajawea! Look up here! Now’s not the time to be shy!” Ulagu swished the knife. “All your girlfriends have done it. Now it’s your turn. I need to make sure you’ve got all your parts.”
“Shogwa.” Mary began to count in Cherokee, stalling for time. “Talee, zoee . . .”
“Don’t give me that Indian shit!” Ulagu screamed, the veins standing out in his ne
ck. “Get up and get your clothes off! The three of us are gonna have some fun today!”
“Do what he says, Mary,” Alex advised wearily. “Little Henry here can throw a real tantrum when he doesn’t get his way.”
Mary stopped counting. With Ulagu’s eyes upon her, she stood up and walked toward him. Only the creaking of the floorboards and the rasp of his breath broke the silence of the old cabin.
Brank made a soft moan of anticipation as Mary stood before him, her fingers fluttering at the button of her jeans.
“Any particular way you want this done?” she asked, drawing out the moments between them.
“The knife don’t matter,” Brank chuckled. “As long as the fruit gets peeled.”
Slowly, she grasped the hem of her sweatshirt as if to pull it over her head, then she stopped. She pulled her sweatshirt back down and began to unzip her jeans. She had just eased them over her hips when suddenly she plunged her hand in her sweatshirt pocket and pulled out Wynona. Faster than she’d ever moved before, she aimed, hurling the little statue at Ulagu’s head. It struck him just below his left eye. Not a heavy blow, but it was enough. For an instant, she had surprised him.
Mary lowered her head then, and threw herself into him like a tackle on a football team. As the top of her skull plowed into his chest, she felt the breath whoosh out of him. With one startled “Uhmpf!” he fell backwards, his knife clattering. Together they tumbled to the floor.
“Try to get loose, Alex!” she screamed as she tried to pin him down. He twisted and bucked beneath her. With her knee pressing hard on his throat, she groped for the palette knife. It should be here, somewhere in the pocket of her jeans, but she couldn’t find it. She pressed herself desperately onto his chest, hoping the sheer weight of her body would keep him down until she could get the knife, but he was writhing like a wild animal. With a sinking feeling in her gut she realized that he was too strong for her; in just moments she’d be on the floor with a madman on top of her.
“Try to get out of here, Alex!” she screamed. “Try to get out of here now!” She was losing this fight, fast. She gave up on finding the palette knife and wrapped her hands around his throat, trying to bang his head against the floor. His neck was thin, but tightly corded with muscles. She tried to squeeze his windpipe shut, but his eyes only seemed to brighten. He connected with hard, sharp blows to her breasts and ribs, then, with an insane grin, he winked and brought his fist smashing into her left ear. A flash of bright pain jolted through her head and all she could do was try to hold on to him, blind, and hope that Alex could break her ropes and get away. She struggled with all her strength, but she knew she had lost; already she could feel him squirming away. Soon he would be free.
Frantically she tried to knee him. A blow to his scrotum might slow him down. He was too quick, though. He twisted on top of her and with one move, pinned her shoulders to the floor. “You’re a regular wild Indian!” he snorted as he sat down on her stomach, his stench filling her face.
With the bulk of his weight over her hips, he grabbed her sweatshirt and pulled it up over her face. She could see only blackness now, as she felt his rough fingers pawing her breasts. Alex began to yell as he lifted himself off and yanked Mary’s jeans and panties down around her knees.
“Look, Trudy,” she heard him cry. “Just look at what your little brother’s gonna do to your friend.”
Alex thrashed to get loose from the cot. Mary squirmed, struggling to pull the cloth away from her face. She needed to look him in the eye while he did this.
He perched on top of her grinning, feasting on her nakedness. He pried her legs apart with one knee while he fumbled with his fly. “Didn’t your poor dead mama teach you that it’s not nice to hit people with logs? Didn’t she tell you it’s not höflich?”
He pulled his penis out. Huge and hard, it was violet with anger and desire. Don’t look away, Mary commanded herself. Die with your eyes open. Honor your mother’s memory.
She was trying to stare into his face when a small movement caught her eye. She glanced toward the door and gasped. Joan stood just inside the cabin, her eyes blazing.
She’s not dead, Mary realized, her hopes catching fire. We still have a chance. Keep him busy and we still have a chance. . . .
Mary turned her gaze back to Ulagu, and stared at his penis. “You call that a dick?” She guffawed.
“It’s big enough for you, Pocahontas,” he growled, prying her legs farther apart.
“Looks like a funny little frankfurter to me, Ulagu. Doesn’t it, Alex?” Looking over at Alex, Mary shook her head and gave an extravagant laugh.
“Don’t you talk to her!” He slapped Mary hard. “And don’t you laugh at me!” He smiled. “You know, that little Native American mouth is a lot prettier than your pussy. How about we put it to good use?”
Reaching backward, he pulled something from his boot. At first Mary thought it was a pencil, but he flicked his wrist once and a slender, sharp blade whisked out.
Mary caught her breath. An old-fashioned straight razor, the weapon of choice for her third conviction, a skinny carpenter who had a penchant for carving his initials in female flesh. The pictures in his evidence file still made her queasy.
“Ha!” Brank laughed at her expression. “This little beauty gets your attention, don’t it?”
She did not answer.
“Okay, Sacajawea.” Brank scooted toward her head, his penis thrusting forward like the prow of a ship. With one hand he held the tip of the razor at the inside corner of her left eye. “You know what to do. But I warn you— if I feel one tooth nibbling at my frankfurter, you’re gonna kiss your face good-bye. Verstehen?”
Mary nodded, her heart thudding. Where was Joan? Had she lost her nerve?
“Here we go, Cherokee gal.” Brank’s foul breath blew hot in her face. “Open wide and suck hard.”
“Suck hard yourself, you fucking asshole!” screeched a voice from above them.
Brank’s eyes grew wide, then he made a sound as if a rat were crawling up his throat. The razor clattered to the floor as he released Mary and clutched at his neck with both hands. Joan stood just behind his left shoulder, her black hair wiry and disheveled, her one good eye gleaming crazily. She leaned over and spoke into Brank’s ear.
“Stupratoré!” she screamed. “You filthy, cock-sucking stupratoré!”
Brank blinked at her in astonishment, then his body arched backward as blood began to pour from his mouth and nose. With his head bobbing woozily, he looked over at Alex, his glazed eyes pleading in a curiously tender look of betrayal. He moved his lips and tried to speak, but only grunts came out, and soon even they were drowned in a cascade of foaming red bubbles. Mary felt the wet warmth of his blood as he slumped forward on top of her, then Mary Crow felt nothing at all.
FORTY-ONE
The cabin lay wrapped in a hollow silence. Nothing moved, except an errant fly that buzzed over Ulagu’s head and landed on his shoulder. Mary looked up. Joan and Alex stood above her, Joan holding the straight razor, Alex’s bindings dangling from her wrists. Angels, Mary decided. One short and dark, the other tall and fair. They’re both angels now.
“We’re dead, aren’t we?” Mary’s voice echoed through the cabin like an actor addressing an empty house.
Joan shook her head. “He is. We aren’t.”
Mary blinked at the bloody bulk collapsed on her chest, then she looked back at her friends. “Then help me move him.”
Alex and Joan kneeled and grasped Ulagu’s leg. Mary pushed against his shoulders. With his body heavy as stone, the three women shoved together. He flopped over on his back, which pushed the Bowie knife all the way through his chest. Blood spattered Mary’s face and neck. The stink of feces permeated the air.
Alex stared down at the oozing body. “Good-bye, Henry,” she said, her voice a low rasp. “Give my love to Papa.”
Mary sat up. Whatever fire had burned within her had consumed itself; she now felt charred to cinder and cr
umbling ash. Had all this really happened? Had Joan Marchetti really stabbed Ulagu to death just moments before? She looked over at him. Though the knife had completely pierced his chest, his mouth hung open as if he were about to speak, and his yellow eyes still stared at her with a curious combination of menace and astonishment. Mary thought of her mother. Was this the last face she saw before she died?
“I hope not,” Mary whispered.
“What did you say?” Joan frowned.
“Nothing,” Mary replied. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mary pulled up her bloodied jeans as bright gold sunlight streamed inside the broken windows. Joan grabbed her Yankees cap from the cot while Alex helped Mary to her feet. Together, the three women started for the door.
Suddenly Mary stopped. “Wait,” she told her friends. “I think something here might belong to me.”
“I’ve got Wynona.” Alex held up the little figurine.
“No.” Mary shook her head. “Something else.”
She turned and moved toward the rickety junk table, sifting through Brank’s grim collection of memorabilia.
“Jewelry,” she muttered, rattling through a stack of old eight-track tapes and dog-eared paperbacks. “Where’s the jewelry?”
She lifted some moth-eaten scarves and uncovered an old tackle box. Her fingers fumbled with its lid. A dazzling array of cheap, gaudy jewelry had been dumped inside. Glass bead necklaces tangled with dime-store brooches and fly-fishing lures. She rifled through a handful of the stuff; one glittery rhinestone bounced to the floor. Damn, she thought. This is going to take forever.
“It’s not there, Mary.” Alex’s voice floated across the cabin.
Mary turned and stared at her.
“You’re looking for your mother’s medal, aren’t you?” Alex sagged against the doorway. “A knight fighting a dragon. It’s not there. I’ve looked.”
“But . . .” Mary began.
“In the daytime he tied me up with a rope that reached across this cabin. I’ve spent hours staying sane by looking for Saint Andrew when he was out checking his traps. It’s not here. He didn’t kill your mother.”
In The Forest Of Harm Page 28
