Cathy and Danny piled in the back seat of the Olds while Peter jumped in front. He started the car, and a moment later, a gunshot exploded not far away. They ducked, but Peter let the car roll forward. A series of shots followed as they rolled downhill, away from the driveway and the Bronco.
As the last shot echoed and died, the Olds swerved violently; Peter swore and fought for control. Cathy bounced around the back seat as the car veered, and she grabbed an armrest to steady herself. Danny sat up, holding onto the seat in front of him.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Bullet hit one of the tires. Damned radials aren't supposed to do that." Peter clutched the wheel and the car straightened out some. His voice was tense with the effort of maintaining control. "There's a curve ahead; I'm going to roll down and around it. We should be hidden from view for a moment or two on the bend. I'll pull over and everyone dive out the right side. I'm afraid it's back to trying to get away on foot."
Cathy said a few choice words herself; her feet were the last things she wanted to be depending on right now. They hadn't yet quit complaining about her recent mistreatment.
And the curve proved more exciting than anticipated. Peter had avoided the brakes because they'd needed speed and he didn't want to risk a skid, but the curve banked sharply, and the land fell away from the road in a steep incline on the right. On foot, it would be an interesting descent. In the car, it would have provided more excitement than they could wish for, assuming any of them lived.
As the car careened down into the bend, Peter struggled with the uncooperative steering, pulling it to the side and braking as hard as he dared. The car skidded, front pointing into the road toward the curve, the rear sailing right onto the narrow dirt shoulder. They slid that way some fifty yards, halfway around the bend, with Peter fighting to stop the car while maintaining some control of its course. It was a magnificent bit of driving under adverse circumstances, and one part of Cathy's brain—the part that wasn't praying—recognized and admired it as such.
Still, a few minutes of that and she'd seen enough of his driving skill. After tense, exciting minutes of pumping the brake and hanging onto the recalcitrant steering wheel, he finally brought the car out of the skid and rolled to a stop on the shoulder.
"Out," he ordered. They wasted no time obeying. Behind them, they could hear the squeal of another set of tires. Danny, who'd clambered out first, reached back in to help Cathy, though his interest was speed rather than politeness. She clung to his hand as they stepped off the edge of the road and started to slide down the embankment. Danny was on her right again, and she saw moonlight glint off Peter's hair to her left. He slid in their direction and took her left hand, so once again she was sandwiched between them.
They continued to slide down the hill, avoiding a few outcropping rocks and isolated trees. The sparseness of the trees was a mixed blessing. There were fewer obstacles to avoid and the light was bright enough to show the way clearly, but she feared they could still be seen from the road. They alternately slid and ran for two hundred yards.
Then the slope leveled out as it approached the edge of a narrow, shallow stream, and there was a pleasant interlude of grass underfoot. On the other side of the stream was a denser stand of trees forming a black screen. Behind and above, she heard the screech of tires rounding the bend.
After the initial shock of the cold water, the stream felt wonderful to her scraped and painful feet. Its soft bottom soothed her soles, and the coolness drew the ache. Cathy would have loved to walk a while longer, but Peter and Danny, who both wore sneakers, found it less comfortable.
As they crossed the narrow strip of grass on the other side, approaching the trees, she heard the sound of a car door slam back on the road, then feet scrambling down the incline. Peter heard it, too. He pulled them into the trees. They'd been walking abreast, but the denseness of the wood necessitated they go single file with Peter in the lead.
The trees were mostly pines, huge and ancient. The ground was carpeted with half-rotted pine needles, scratchy but not uncomfortable. The occasional pine cone kept her from becoming complacent about where she put her toes, however. One undesirable consequence of wading through the stream was an increased awareness of the air. It was getting chilly. She shivered, even in the sweater she wore. Peter was the only one who'd come equipped for cool weather; he had a nylon windbreaker. She worried about Danny, who wore only jeans and a thin, sleeveless tee shirt; he was in the worst physical condition of the three of them. But his hand holding hers felt warm and steady, and there was nothing she could do for the time being anyway.
They wound their way in and out among the pines, and after a few minutes she could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit from behind. That didn't necessarily reassure her. Her brain had been working while her feet were running, and she'd remembered that Hammond had a rifle with a night-sight. The trees might provide enough interference to render the sight less useful, but the thought still chilled her.
As though the memory had brought the deed, a bullet suddenly whined in harmony with a report from the rifle. It didn't hit any of them, but ricocheted off a tree ten feet ahead. Too damn close.
"Heads down," Peter warned as led them still further into the pines. The trees grew denser, and if the cover was better, visibility was almost nil. They tripped and stumbled frequently. Once Danny went to his knees, falling over something and nearly dragging Cathy down with him. He murmured in reply to her concern and got to his feet.
They tramped and stumbled a long way through the trees. Two more shots were fired, but neither came as close as the first. They stopped to listen several times. Only the singing of the night breeze in the pines and the rustling and calling of nocturnal animals disturbed the silence. Still, they continued pushing their way through the undergrowth for a good distance. The land began to rise again, and occasional large rocks blocked the way.
As they tramped upward, the trees began to thin, but the undergrowth thickened. Branches and vines caught and tore at their clothes, hands, arms, and faces. Peter, in the lead, probably took the worst of it. Cathy heard him swear occasionally and break off a troublesome branch or stomp on something. Time passed after the last bullet, and they heard nothing following. Gradually the fear that they were still being pursued faded.
With the receding of that fear came the awareness of just how alone and tired they were. Danny was clearly weakening. Cathy had been pulling at him for some time and feeling his grip on her hand occasionally fail. He stumbled more often, and she strained to keep him on his feet.
Over an hour had passed and she had no idea how much distance they'd covered, but their progress was getting slower as the underbrush thickened. Spiky bushes pulled at them, and increasingly Peter found his way blocked by stands of rhododendron and mountain laurel. He had to search for paths around them.
Danny, who was behind Cathy, gave a sudden yelp and dropped her hand. Frightened, she turned back. Moonlight streamed through the trees in a patch large enough to show the branches of an ugly thorn bush surrounding him. He was trying, carefully, to free his right leg from the painful grasp of three long branches. She bent, wary of the thorns herself, and helped him work the branches free. The thorns were some of the meanest she'd ever seen: each was a miniature rapier, an inch long and wickedly pointed. The third branch was the hardest to loose because one point was embedded in his thigh at the bottom of a jagged, three-inch tear.
Peter stood by, watching and trying to help, but there wasn't much he could do. She finally worked the thorn free and removed the last branch. Danny gasped as it came loose and started to shiver. Peter must have felt it, too; he took off his windbreaker and threw it around the younger man's shoulders. It was a measure of how far gone Danny was that he didn't protest.
A dark spreading stain on the leg of his jeans, difficult to discern in the moonlight, gave the only indication that the wound bled freely. Cathy looked for something to stop the flow, but she didn't even have a handkerchie
f.
Then she thought of another possibility. Her skirt was a favorite and the action a damned cliche, but cliches had their uses and occasional grains of truth. There was enough material in the skirt, and she needed a bandage. Unfortunately, it was difficult to tear a skirt bare-handed.
She struggled with the cloth for several minutes before Peter suggested that the thorn which had torn Danny's leg might serve the skirt equally well. Using it to get the tear started, Cathy finally removed a six-inch strip of fabric from her skirt and wound it around his leg. The makeshift bandage started to darken almost immediately, but she couldn't do anything more. What remained of the skirt was stylishly shorter then her normal length.
They linked hands and started out again, with Peter leading them as far as possible from the stand of thorn bushes. It soon became clear Danny had gone as far as he could. He didn't complain, but he was limping, shivering, and stumbling on every other step. Cathy herself, now that she thought about it, was tired, hungry, thirsty, and her feet were killing her.
Whether he felt her dragging or he was listening to the report of his own body, Peter stopped shortly. "We'd better find what shelter we can for the rest of the night," he said. "I think it's safe to say we've lost Hammond."
"I think we've lost ourselves as well."
"Most likely." He sounded tired. "But I don't have the energy to care right now." He looked around, finally pointed to a place where the ground rose sharply with a large granite outcropping protruding from the rise. "That rock should provide some shelter."
"I hope it's not providing shelter for a pack of wolves."
"Always look at the bright side. I'd rather face the wolves than Hammond anyway."
Danny was out on his feet. For the last part of their nocturnal journey, Cathy and Peter had supported his weight. She'd never thought of Danny as heavy before, just the opposite, in fact. But her own body also weighed more than it had a few hours ago.
It was a large and solid rock, rising smooth-sided to a height several feet above Peter's head. Snug in its shadow, they'd be well hidden from even a close inspection, and the rock made an effective windbreak. They let Danny down in the corner where the rock met the side of the hill; Cathy sprawled next to him with Peter on her other side. The three of them huddled close to conserve what warmth they could.
Peter put an arm under her shoulders. It was warm and solid, but giving—an improvement over the hard ground. For a few seconds, she marveled at how very comforting it felt to have his sheltering body wrapped around hers.
-30-
Tuesday
She woke cold, stiff, sore, hungry, thirsty, and otherwise uncomfortable. And irritated. Around her, the first, slanting rays of sunlight cut though the trees, and birds sang cheerfully. What were they so happy about? A belly full of early worms? She wasn't desperate enough to be jealous—yet.
Danny still slept beside her, his body curved into hers. The windbreaker had been carefully tucked around him and he snored in gentle, easy rhythm. The space at the other side of her was deserted.
Cathy rolled over, careful not to disturb Danny, and visually searched the area. She didn't see Peter. She scrambled upright—and nearly fell over again, surprised by the pain in her feet. They were an appalling sight in the calm light of day: cut, scraped, and full of splinters. She wondered how she'd managed to walk as far as she had on them last night. There was nothing for it now, though.
The first shock of contact was the worst; after a minute, the pangs faded to manageable, if not quite ignorable, levels. She walked a little way from the rock, eyes peeled for the sight of Peter's head. For the moment, she didn't see him. Instead she looked out over the route they'd taken the previous night.
They'd come a good way up the side of an increasingly steep hill. Staring back down, she saw the pine forest and the thickets that had given them so much difficulty. The stream and road weren't visible, hidden by the forest or distance.
The rattle of loose stones sliding downhill heralded Peter's return from above. He looked as bad as she felt. His clothes were torn and dirty, arms and face scratched, and a nasty gash above his right cheekbone had narrowly missed his eye. His hair was uncombed, and the morning sun highlighted the glint of stubble on his chin. Even in that condition, the sight of him aroused something more than desire, a deep, unspecified longing. He saw her watching him and smiled. That was part of the longing: he could smile—after a miserable night, when he must be just as uncomfortable as she was right now.
The night before, she hadn't realized he still had the rifle with him, useless as it would have been in the darkness. He propped it against a rock when he walked up next to her and looked her over carefully. Instead of commenting on the obvious he asked, "How are you feeling?"
She reviewed her myriad aches and pains, then considered alternatives. "Alive and grateful for it."
He shook his head, then drew her close and squeezed her briefly against his body. He glanced back up the hill at the rock that had been home to them last night. "How's Danny?"
"Still asleep. He needs it. I don't know how he kept going as long as he did."
"I don't either." His eyes narrowed and darkened.. "This morning I put the windbreaker back around him. I saw... burns on his arms. And those weren't all scratches from bushes."
She nodded in answer to his unspoken question. His green eyes blazed with a rage akin to what she'd felt last night when she'd seen the marks on the boy. Still felt when she thought about it.
"Who did it?" he asked in a cold, tight voice.
"I don't know. Hammond probably; if he didn't do it himself, it was his idea, and he gave the orders."
"Damn him." Peter clenched his hands as though wishing Hammond's neck was in his grip. "I'd like to have fifteen minutes alone with him." He grinned wryly. "I know—unorthodox sentiments from an upholder of the law. Still, what I’d like to do to Hammond right now isn't legal."
He looked out over the hill, into the distance, but he wasn't seeing the landscape. The bright fury in his face faded into that familiar brooding look as he stood still and quiet. Cathy thought she knew what he wrestled with and didn't have the words to help him. She could love him for the loyalty that inspired his overactive sense of responsibility, yet still be appalled by its effects on him. Was that what Danny saw in him, one of the things that inspired his admiration? Possibly. If it took one to know one, Danny should certainly recognize it in someone else.
The irony of the situation struck her and she laughed aloud at the humor of it. Distracted by the sound, Peter turned a questioning glance on her.
"It's my weird sense of humor again. Look, we're a fine trio of guilty consciences." She tried to stifle the laughter that made it difficult to talk. "You feel guilty about pushing Danny into hasty action. Danny feels guilty because his words put us in danger, and, worse yet, because he couldn't hold out against their torture and threats. And I have to learn to live with my mistakes. I never should have trusted Hammond. If I'd reported the kidnapping last Friday and gotten the police involved... Who knows? And if I hadn't stopped you from talking to Danny right away last Saturday, none of this might have happened."
"The thing is," she continued, "we're the victims here! The villain is wandering around the countryside, killing, kidnapping, and torturing without a single qualm, except about how he's going to get back that incriminating book."
Peter listened with stunned amusement, then started to laugh also as she finished. He sat on the side of the hill and wrapped his arms around his knees, still shaking with mirth. For an unguarded moment, his face was bright, vivid, and handsome, lit by his own amusement and the morning sun.
A painful twisting somewhere inside made Cathy back away a step. Unfortunately, when she put her foot down, something, probably a pine cone, bit into her foot and unbalanced her. She fell backwards, painfully and embarrassingly. Peter stopped laughing and came to her. In response to his query, she shook her head, denying any discomfort. He was too observant to
be fooled, but wise enough not to push it. He helped her get back on her feet.
"There's a stream not far from here. I'll bet you could use a drink, and you can bathe your feet."
She nodded. The fall had bruised her, and she hurt everywhere now, inside and out. With his arm around her waist, she hobbled to the stream, which mercifully wasn't far. The feel of his arm was a pain almost as bad as that wracking the rest of her. They didn't talk on the short trip and Peter respected the silence.
The stream ran shallow and swift, winding a rocky course down the side of the hill. The water tasted wonderful: cool, clean, and deliciously refreshing. Cupping her hands, she scooped it up in small lots, continuing until her thirst was slaked. It helped fill her stomach, but the protests from the part that expected breakfast continued for a while. Having drunk her fill, she splashed some over her face, then sat on a rock at the side and let her feet hang into the water. That, too, was a relief.
Peter, who'd sat quietly while she drank, now came and joined her. He still held the rifle across his lap. "I wish we had breakfast," he commented. "I thought about trying to shoot something, but I doubt I could hit a rhino at twenty paces."
Cathy took the rifle from him and studied it. The bolt-action Remington had a four-shot clip. "I could probably get a rabbit or a squirrel."
"Unless you're prepared to tear it limb from limb with your bare hands and eat it raw, it's a waste."
"Ugh."
"I don't suppose you have matches or a knife with you?"
"I don't even have a comb." She smiled.
"Neither do I." He shook his head. "I came rather under-prepared for this camping trip."
"Boy Scout or no, you can hardly blame yourself for being unprepared for this." She thought a second. "I suppose there are berries and stuff we could eat."
A Question of Fire Page 22
