by Tia Siren
I race across the dooryard, and start wending my way down the path to the carport. I stick close to the trees, not wanting to bump into someone coming the other way in the dark. Can’t hear much of anything, with the rain pounding on the leaves. Whoever’s out there would have to fire off another round for me to hear him coming.
When I hit the blind curve above the carport, I feel around till I find the big rock. (Wet moss. No gloves. Disgusting.) I circle behind it, and wedge myself into the bushes, to await the next lightning strike. The intruder would have to be practically on top of me, and looking me dead in the eye, to pick out my shape. I pull up my collar to make it even harder.
Cold water’s dripping down my neck. I ignore it.
That lightning’s taking forever.
Hope Boone’s all right.
That’s just rain, on my leg. Definitely not anything alive.
And, there it is: illumination! Someone’s standing there, maybe twenty feet down the slope—but not quite the armed intruder I was picturing. It’s a woman, soaked to the skin, long black hair plastered to her face and shoulders. She’s trying to shelter under a dead tree. Its bare branches make for a crappy umbrella.
I ease out from behind the rock. Going to have to approach with caution. Can’t have her panic and run off the path, where I might not be able to find her again. Can’t discount the possibility that she’s some kind of bait, either: that she’s standing out there, all pretty and helpless, while her boyfriend waits in the brush, to...what?
Shoot me? Hold me for ransom?
Only one way to find out.
2
Sarah
Driving in the rain is the pits. Especially up here, where one false move has an equal chance of wrapping you round a tree, slamming you into a rock face, or plunging you down a gully.
The rain’s deafening, but I can still hear my phone. It’s buzzing, again. Vince, of course. It’s never not Vince, any more. I quit sending everyone my new number after the third or fourth change. I drag my purse on top of my phone, but I can still hear the alerts, one after another.
I don’t have to look. I know the script:
babe?
where r u?
skyped you 3 times
pick up. pickuppickuppickup
where did you go?
i know where you are
dont make me come over there
please
i wont lose my temper
u owe me a chance
were not breaking up
didnt agree to that
answer ur FUCKING phone
bitch
“I blocked you!”
And now, I’m yelling at a phone.
Maybe he’s trying to drain my battery, so I won’t have a lifeline when he finds me.
I take a deep breath. The wipers whip back and forth. It’s almost soothing. Concentrate on that. Just that. Can’t be far now.
A sign whizzes by, too quick to read. It’s a big one, though. South Deerfield town limits? Turnoff for Conway should be a couple of miles down the road. I peer through the rain, but all I can see are the black lumps of cars, and what might be darkened storefronts beyond.
There’s a traffic light coming up. I slow down. I’m spacing out a little. The panic’s wearing off, and my lids are getting heavy. Soon, I’ll be curled up under one of Mom’s cheery quilts, with a hot cup of—
A set of high beams blazes to life just shy of the intersection. A truck peels off the curb. It nuzzles up behind me, practically kissing my bumper. I squint against the glare, but it’s no use. Can’t see a thing. I inch ahead, willing the light to turn green. Mr. Highbeams creeps up, too, and this time, I feel a nudge.
And my phone isn’t buzzing anymore.
My phone isn’t buzzing anymore!
“Vince!”
Lying in wait—he’s been lying in wait! He must’ve known the whole time, and—
I floor it through the light. The traffic cam flashes. I have a moment to hate the idea of my last close-up decorating a speeding ticket, before Vince fills my rearview mirror. He’s playing bumper-cars with my rental, the one I got so he wouldn’t see me leave. So much for that—and why didn’t I spring for insurance? Fuck!
Fuck!
I keep my palm to the horn all the way down Main Street. Maybe someone’ll be pissed enough to call the cops. I think I see a light flick on as I tear past a squat little building: success?
Vince slams me hard enough to spin me forty-five degrees. I accelerate into the skid—is that the right thing? Or am I thinking of flying? Accelerate into a dive; but do what for a skid? My mind is scrambled. Before the answer can come to me I’m bouncing over a parking block. I careen through a car parkparking lot—old; deserted; potholed—and emerge on a street I don’t know.
I see sparks in my side mirror. Something’s hanging off my car, scraping on the asphalt. I will it to fall off. It doesn’t. If Vince didn’t see where I went, he’s sure to now. Those sparks are like a beacon: hey, psycho!
I spot another turnoff on the outskirts of town, barely more than a dirt road, and veer off at the last second, hoping Vince will hurtle past and have to double back. He doesn’t—and now we’re headed into the mountains. And my car’s starting to sputter. And he’s edging up beside me, and there isn’t room, and he’s going to run me off the road! He’s honestly going to kill me out here!
I don’t want to die like this.
I don’t want to die at all. And especially not out here.
I pump the gas, but Vince keeps pace. My back wheels lose their grip as he sideswipes me. There’s a blind curve coming up, and I swerve into it, knowing, just knowing there’ll be a deer, or an oncoming car, maybe a—
There’s nothing but open road.
I breathe in and out.
This isn’t how it all ends.
Vince is gaining again. On my left, there’s a wall of black rock; nothing but trees to the right. Pretty soon, Vince’ll hit me too hard. I’ll plow into one or the other—or be plowed into it—and—
(Don’t think about it.)
I scan for a place to pull over. The road only narrows ahead. I hit the window button, and am instantly drenched in driving rain.
“I’m trying to pull over,” I yell, loud as I can.
Vince bumps me again.
“Fucking give it a rest! Do you see a shoulder!?”
He can’t hear me. Of course he can’t. I stick my hand out the window, and instantly jerk it back as I feel myself losing control. It’s not like there’s a hand signal for “quit trying to ram me, you miserable psychopath,” anyway.
I scream around another hairpin turn, and there it is: a wide spot in the road. I aim for it, not daring to slow down. My eyes narrow involuntarily as I brace myself for a suicidal plunge into the bushes—but there’s nothing but mud and darkness ahead, a trail leading up the mountain.
Someone’s driveway—I’m on someone’s driveway. That means...that’s got to mean there’s a house up ahead with a phone, doors that lock, maybe a couple of big, mean dogs.
Vince hates dogs. Used to lose his mind when mine put his paws on his chest. Broke out that stupid lint-roller from his car.
Never trust a man who doesn’t love dogs.
Metal shrieks, as I scrape along the tree line. Something flies into the forest: , either my side mirror, or somebody’s mailbox. Too dark to see.
Vince doesn’t make the turn. He whizzes by, but I know he’ll be back. My car grinds to a stop and I spill out. I think about running straight up the driveway, but Vince won’t be far behind, and I’m in heels. I don’t want to, but there’s no alternative.
I dart into the woods.
Surely, he won’t follow. It’s pitch dark under the trees. I’m navigating by touch. A person would have to be insane to leave the path. And I’m not the insane one. I’m the cautious type, the stick-to-the-path-at-all-costs type. He’ll be looking for me around the car, and I’ll be….
Don’t think about th
at.
I’ll be...absolutely fine. It’ll work out. It has to. I didn’t come this far to tumble down a scree, or get eaten by a bear.
Are there bears?
Of course there aren’t bears. Or if there are...there’s a better-than-average chance they’re asleep, or on another mountain, or sheltering from the rain...right?
My foot squelches in mud, and comes up without a shoe. I toe around for it, but it’s gone; it’s gone, and now I’m hobbling.
Worst. Hike. Ever.
I slog through mud and dead leaves, and something that feels like a patch of toadstools. Pretty soon, my bare foot is numb with cold. At least I haven’t stepped on anything sharp yet. I start sliding my feet along the ground to make sure I don’t.
From somewhere down the hill, I hear a car horn blast. Good. Vince isn’t on my heels. I could survive this. A little luck, a little persistence—
Lightning flashes. It leaves me with a brief afterimage of trees, more trees, and something that might be the roof of a shed, below me and to the right, at the foot of a steep dropoffdrop-off.
Not that way then. I shuffle forward, slow and steady. Can’t stop thinking about that dropoffdrop-off now, the possibility of stepping into nothing, falling—I can’t even see my hands in front of my face.
The house has to be farther uphill—or, at least, I think it does—so I focus on climbing. It’s not so bad. It’s dark, and it’s wet, but I haven’t crashed into a tree yet, or tripped over anything spiky or dead. Next time the lightning comes, I can—
Crack.
It’s struck a tree. It’s struck me. I’ll feel it, in a second, a billion volts boiling my blood.
I blink. Still dark. That...wasn’t lightning.
Vince.
He’s shooting at me! What the actual fuck—he’s shooting at me!
The last of my cool goes out the window, and I hurl myself up the hill, arms up, fending off branches, saplings, something that feels like a rotten curtain. My legs ache. My breath’s hot in my lungs. I’m not sure how long I’ve been running when the lightning hits again, and there it is, just ahead: , a narrow path, with a few wooden steps set into it.
This has to be it—the way to the house.
I run for the steps, only to freeze in my tracks: . yYeah—but whose house?
I don’t have a choice...do I?
I flatten myself against a tree, and concentrate on breathing. It’ll be fine. I’m practically in my parents’ neighborhood. No one gets turned into a human-skin coat in sight of Mom’s kitchen.
Sure, they do.
Not helping. Not helping, at all.
I’m getting soaked out here. Don’t think this tree has any leaves.
The entire sky flashes, and this time, it’s not trees I see in front of me, and not an empty path. It’s a man, hollow-eyed, tall as a giant, brandishing the biggest gun I’ve ever seen.
“Don’t scream,” he says.
There doesn’t seem to be much point, so I don’t.
3
Sam
What I mean to say is “Oh, hello! I’m not sure you’re aware, but there seems to be a gunman loose on the mountain. If you could avoid attracting his attention, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
What I say is “Don’t scream.”
Oh, very smooth. Now, she thinks you’re a murderer.
“Sorry. That came out wrong.” I whip out my phone and swipe it on, so she can see my face in the glow of the screen.
“I’m Sam. Sam Lee. You’re in my yard.” I grin, to show her I’m not crazy. Hopefully, it doesn’t come off like some lunatic snarl in the dark.
“I’m—I’m Sarah. Sarah Bell. Were you—that wasn’t me, if you’re looking for who was shooting up your forest.”
I chuckle, hoping it’ll help her relax. “Yeah. I can see that.” My phone blinks out—probably shouldn’t have risked it in the storm.
I chew my lip. “Look, it’s dark, and it’s wet, and I’ve got a dog inside who’s probably worked himself into a full-on panic attack by now. I realize I’ve just jumped out of the woods at you, under some pretty freaky circumstances, but would you like to come inside? I’ve got a landline that ought to be working.”
Nothing. Should’ve figured.
Suddenly, she laughs. “Oh—yeah! Sorry! I was nodding. Real helpful, in the dark.”
I think about taking her hand. Probably not the best idea. “Follow my voice,” I say, instead. I start back up the path, taking care to warn her of every step, every intruding root. Soon, the porch light twinkles into view. I swear I hear her heave a sigh of relief.
Boone meets us at the door, apparently more scared of being alone in the dark than of the thunder. He squeezes past me, and butts at Sarah’s knees. Of course he does. Fickle mutt. She leans down to tickle his ears.
“What’s his name?”
“Boone.” I flick on the lights, in time to catch her wincing.
“Oh, God—say it’s not Spaniel Boone.”
“It’s...not Spaniel Boone?”
“It is, though, isn’t it?”
“Totally.”
“Oh, wow. Wow. That’s...so bad.” She’s grinning, with one hand over her eyes, like she’s embarrassed for me. Better than scared of me, at least.
“What’s yours called?”
“How do you know I have one?” She eases past Boone, and shuts the door behind her.
“I think you’re avoiding the question.”
“Killer. It’s Killer. My dog.”
Oh, this is too rich. I smirk. “Follow-up question...is he a Chihuahua?”
“Old English sheepdog.”
Can’t let this one go by. “So, basically, a giant walking mop. Named Killer.”
She’s trying to look indignant, laughing too hard to make it work. “Yeah, but...Spaniel Boone?”
“Yours is still worse.”
“As bad. I’ll concede to as bad.” Sarah tousles Boone’s head some more, a serious look slowly replacing her smile. “The gunshot you heard. It wasn’t me, but the guy who fired it—he’s after me. Any second now….”
Instinctively, I glance out the window. Nothing to see. I try to come up with something reassuring. “He shouldn’t be able to find this place in the dark. Come to think of it, how did you?”
“Completely by accident. I ran into the woods, and...just headed uphill.”
I blink. Probably best not to tell her just how lucky she got. She’d only have had to miss the path by a few feet, to end up on the wrong side of a sheer drop, topped with thick brush. She’d have passed the house, sight unseen, and plunged into the wilderness.
“If he’s coming up the driveway,” I tell her, “he’ll hit the carport maybe halfway up. The path from there’s hard to find, even during the day, and there’s a gate. A tall one. Still….” I reach past her, and engage the deadbolt.
“Thanks.” Sarah turns the handle, testing the lock. Her hand’s shaking. So is the rest of her. I notice she’s missing a shoe, and her jacket’s soaked through.
“You must be freezing. Come on—I’d just lit the stove when I heard the shot. You can warm up, while I call the police.”
“Thanks.” She visibly relaxes. I head for the linen closet to grab a towel for her hair, and by the time I get back, she’s found the stove, and dragged the ottoman as close as it’ll go. “I love this room,” she says, gesturing at the overstuffed couches, the shelves of knickknacks. “So cozy. It just needs a rocking chair with an afghan thrown over it, maybe a fluffy rag rug.”
I laugh. “Chair’s on the back porch. Rug’s in the bedroom. More hairy than fluffy, though. Boone thinks it’s his bed.”
Boone lifts his head at the sound of his name. He’s settled himself at her feet. Good boy.
Sarah smiles down at him, and holds out her hand for him to lick. Whoever she is, whatever she’s running from, she can’t be that bad. Boone’s mostly useless, but his asshole radar’s on point. I leave Sarah in his care, and head for the kitchen and the onl
y phone in the house. It’s an elderly wall-mounted model, grudgingly installed by Dad when the rotary stopped working.
And...this one’s not working, either. At least, not at the moment. It was when I got here. Storm must’ve taken out the line.
Well. This doesn’t look great.
Back in the living room, Sarah doesn’t look terribly concerned. “Phone down?”
“Uh, yeah….” I shrug. “I mean, I know it’s got to look bad: first, I come looming out of the dark, telling you not to scream; now, I’m saying there’s no phone…. You should check it, yourself, if you’re—”
She’s smiling again, shaking her head. “I honestly didn’t expect it to work. My parents have a cabin here, north of Conway. Their service sucks, too. One stiff breeze—forget it.”
“That’s where you were headed?”
“Yeah. They’ve probably called the cops themselves, by now. I should’ve been there hours ago.”
I sit down next to her, and peel off my wet coat. She’s already spread hers out on the flagstones under the stove to dry. “What happened, anyway? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but—”
“No, I do.” Sarah frowns. “I mean, if he does make it up the mountain, that puts you in the line of fire. You need to know what you’re dealing with.”
A log snaps in the stove. She jumps, and shakes out her hair to cover up the flinch. Now that it’s not quite so wet, I can see it’s a deep, rich chestnut, not black as it seemed in the dark.
She takes a moment to collect herself. “That was my ex-boyfriend,” she says. “And this is embarrassing. I’m not—I don’t go for the douchebags, the ‘bad boys.’ I know better. But...that’s not him. Or, I didn’t think it was.”
She’s shaking her head, like she can still hardly believe it. “I mean, he’s an accountant. He did my taxes. That’s how we met. One minute, he’s this...this skinny little beanpole of a guy, with his big old birth-control glasses, and his library card, and his stupid, finicky clothes brush—and the next, he’s running me off the road, destroying my rental car, shooting up the forest; talk about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!”
