“You all right?” He shook Gloria again. She nodded with a moan. “Okay. Try to open your door. Use your legs.” They would both have to climb out her side, using the door like an overhead hatch.
It took a while for Gloria to twist around so she could face her door. When she did, she slipped the toe of her shoe under the handle and pulled. When it clicked open, she pushed against the door, hard, with both feet, making it snap out. For a minute, Cutter was afraid it would slam back shut. When it didn’t, he helped Gloria with her seat belt.
“Get your cell,” Gloria said when she’d finally worked her legs through the door. She hung upside down like a daredevil on a trapeze. “But first give me a push.”
He did, then searched for the phone but couldn’t find it. When he saw Gloria’s purse dangling from the steering wheel, he grabbed that. Her cell would have to do. He pulled the purse strap over his shoulder and across his chest, then released his seat belt and felt his body drop against the door beneath him. It took a while for him to curl his legs under him, but finally he got his feet to touch the door. Using the door as a springboard, he pushed up, grabbed the edge of the open portal and pulled himself out. Gloria was crouched nearby, waiting, the right passenger tire still spinning over her head.
In the distance, Cutter heard the loud muffler of the Harley, as if the stalker were pacing his bike, thinking of what he should do next. Any minute now, he might decide to head down the ravine. Cutter crouched next to Gloria and took a quick inventory. She looked all right, except for that cut on her forehead and the fact she kept rubbing her right leg. Behind them was the stalker; ahead was rough terrain. They couldn’t stay here. They had to go forward. But would she be able to make it?
When Cutter heard the sound of twigs breaking and loud pipes getting louder, the whole issue became academic.
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Gloria’s arm.
Chapter Twenty One
CUTTER HAD BEEN in these woods a thousand times. That would be his advantage. He knew just where the vegetation grew thickest, the location of the bog, the granite sill, all those areas where a motorcycle couldn’t go.
But their escape would be hard on Gloria. Already she favored her right leg. She’d need his help. He put one arm around her waist and propelled her forward. Behind him he heard the motorcycle sputter, then crash. He squandered precious seconds looking backward to see what had happened. The motorcycle and rider were sliding down the embankment, but not together. The motorcycle skidded on its side, ripping the undergrowth as it went, until it hit what looked like a stump, then flipped end over end. To the right, about two yards away, the stalker was making his own descent on his back, his hands grabbing frantically at saplings and underbrush in an attempt to stop. Even from this distance, Cutter heard groans as the stalker’s back scraped across rocks and sticks that protruded from the slope.
Finally, the motorcycle ended its riderless ride with a crunch as it became entangled in the dead branches of a felled tree. Cutter noticed that the front wheel was bent. The stalker would have to continue on foot. The advantage was now theirs.
Cutter didn’t bother waiting to see the stalker come to his own abrupt stop beneath some thornbushes. Instead, he turned, handed Gloria her purse, wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, and pulled her forward.
“I couldn’t find my phone. Use yours. Call J.P. Tell him what’s happening.”
As he half lifted, half dragged her, Gloria managed to open her purse, fumble inside, and pull out the cell. When Cutter saw she had trouble balancing the purse and phone in one hand and punching in J.P.’s number with the other, he pulled the purse away and let it drop onto the carpet of pine needles beneath their feet. “Leave it,” he said, as Gloria tried to slow down and retrieve it. “There’s no time.” The crunch of cold, dry vegetation told Cutter the stalker was no more than eighty yards behind.
Now with both hands free, Gloria quickly raised J.P., then spoke in short, rapid sentences. They had run off the highway. About three miles from the junction. The stalker had run off too. But was pursuing. On foot. They were one mile south of the fishing hole. And heading …
“To the old smokehouse,” Cutter said, loud enough for J.P. to hear. Since they had gotten out of the car, Cutter had been trying to formulate a plan. A few yards ahead, the vegetation got so thick it would be impossible for the stalker to find them, unless he was like those Native American trackers from the movies, who could tell if a person spit on the side of the road and how long ago. But Cutter doubted that were the case. Once inside the thicket, he and Gloria would head for the collapsed smokehouse. Unless you knew it was there, you’d never find it, not the way it was covered with all that overgrowth.
“We’re heading for the smokehouse,” he heard Gloria repeat, obviously to insure that J.P. got the message. There was fear in her voice. Then she added, “Okay, J.P. I’ll keep the phone on, but I don’t know how long the battery will hold.”
And then Cutter heard a shot.
Then another.
An unmistakable whizzing sound near Cutter’s shoulder made him turn to the left just in time to see the bark of the tree in front of him splinter.
He quickened his pace, hardly letting Gloria’s feet touch the ground. A few yards more and they would disappear into the thicket. Another shot rang out, and pulpy bark coming from somewhere directly over his head rained down on him like snowflakes. “J.P., you better get here, pronto!” he yelled, hoping his voice would reach the receiver Gloria still held in her right hand. But the hand dangled limply at her side, and when Cutter looked, he saw blood dripping down her wrist.
“What … ?” The phone slid from Gloria’s hand, made a small hop on the ground, then disappeared into the carpet of pine needles. He barely caught her as she stumbled.
“I think … I’m shot.” Surprise laced Gloria’s voice, but she was still on her feet, still moving forward. It was obvious she had taken the stalker’s first bullet.
“Where are you hit?” Cutter didn’t slow down. Even now, the crunch crunch of vegetation underfoot warned them that the stalker was close behind.
“I don’t know … my right shoulder, I think … that’s where I see the blood … but I don’t feel anything.” Another bullet exploded in the tree beside her just as Cutter dragged her into the thicket.
“Hang in there,” he said, lifting her as much as he could with his right arm. His muscles burned. Willpower alone enabled him to hold and drag her like he did. With each step, she leaned more and more heavily against him.
Oh, God, please don’t let her die.
The quarter of a mile to the smokehouse was gained in inches. Branches, briars, and hanging vegetation tangled with their hair and ankles and clawed their exposed flesh. From time to time, Cutter would stop, hold Gloria like a limp doll against his side, and listen. Once he thought he heard the rustle of footsteps, but they sounded far away. Even so, he found himself praying, asking the God of his youth, the God he had barely spoken to in years, to protect them, to keep Gloria alive, and to send J.P. in time—though he thought prayer a useless gesture. Why should God listen? Cutter was a stranger by choice, a stranger who had kept his distance for most of his life. He had even been proud of that fact, as though it were proof he could handle things on his own. But now, something deep within him welled up—something he thought he had smothered to extinction—making him cling to a wild hope that God really was listening.
Because this was one thing he couldn’t handle alone.
Gloria felt Cutter’s strong arm clutching her waist and propelling her forward. She felt dizzy … light-headed … and found it hard to concentrate. She was sure she had blacked out at least once, maybe twice, because one minute she was near some trees, and the next minute she was being clawed by brambles and bushes. It had to be because she was losing so much blood. The entire right side of her shirt and jacket was wet. She thought it strange that she felt no pain, only fatigue. She was so very, very tired. How long could she go
on losing blood? Now that they were off the road, it would take J.P. a lot longer to find them, to get them help. Would he be in time? A sudden thought bolted through her brain like lightning: Or … was this the day she was going to die? She was only mildly surprised to realize that the prospect of her own death didn’t frighten her. It’s not that she wanted to die, or that she wasn’t saddened by the possibility of her life being cut short. It was just that she knew with certainty where she would end up. If she died, she’d wake up in Jesus’ arms. And that would really be something.
Cutter’s arm jerked around her waist—apparently trying to get a better hold—and when it did, Gloria remembered. What was to become of Cutter? Would he die today too? At least she had told him she loved him. At least she had been able to give him that. Her head lolled forward, and it took all her willpower to snap it upright. She couldn’t black out again. She had to help Cutter as much as she could to get to safety. Because nothing could happen to him. If he died … Pain stabbed her chest as she thought about what that would mean. With her last ounce of strength, her spirit cried out to God. Please, God, don’t let Cutter die in his sin. Don’t let anything happen to him until You’ve given him a chance to know Jesus.
She heard a still, small voice say, “Trust Me”; then everything went blank.
By the time Cutter got them to the smokehouse, he was covered in blood. Mostly Gloria’s, but some of his own where briars and other prickly vegetation had connected with flesh. His one prayer, the prayer he repeated over and over, was “Please, God, let Gloria live.” She seemed barely conscious and no longer walked at all. The last several yards, Cutter had carried them both, his muscles quivering and screaming with pain.
With his foot, he flattened a spot where he could lay Gloria. She moaned as he put her down on the matted underbrush, then leaned her against the trunk of a large birch. Her eyes rolled, showing the whites and making them look like hard-boiled eggs. Cutter hesitated, fearful that if he left she might die, then realized he was squandering precious seconds.
He flew at the partially collapsed smokehouse like a madman, clawing frantically at the vines and bushes covering the door. The small, half-buried house creaked and groaned as if it were about to finish its collapse. Was it safe? Cutter pictured the roof caving in on him and Gloria and burying them alive. He pushed the thought from his mind. They had to go in. There was no choice. Out here, their every movement was an invitation for another bullet. It was still possible that the stalker could stumble upon them.
He finally uncovered the door, then gave it a fierce jerk, but it wouldn’t budge. He clawed at it with his fingers, digging his nails into the rotting wood, feeling splinters pierce deep beneath his nails. When the pain became too great, he picked up a rock and tried wedging it between the door and the frame. He was rewarded, after several seconds, when the door gave way enough for him to curl his fingers around the edge and pry it open.
Inside, it was dark as pitch. He tried not to think of what might be crawling around in there and entered, feeling for obstacles with his hands.
In its prime, the smokehouse had been large, with two pits —one on either side—for charcoal and hickory wood and grating overhead for hanging meat on rib hooks and gambrels. Now the pits were nothing more than piles of rubble. With his foot, he cleared the center. Then he felt his way back outside. Quickly, carefully, he picked Gloria up and carried her inside.
This was not the carrying-over-the-threshold he had once dreamed about. The thought that he might be carrying Gloria into her tomb made him shudder. He hovered by the opening, straining to adjust to the darkness. Finally, he moved into the interior, feeling more than seeing his way around. When he reached what he believed to be the middle, he bent down and carefully laid Gloria on the ground. She made no sound, and his heart thumped with dread.
Get on with it, Press. Cover your tracks.
He forced himself to leave her and hurried outside. Quickly, he fluffed the matted area where Gloria had sat, covered the blood spot on the birch bark—where she had leaned—with piles of pine needles and leaves, then gathered any blood-covered vegetation and tossed it through the open door of the smokehouse. Finally, he repositioned most of the vines he had just torn from the wall and door, then slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
The darkness of the closed smokehouse was almost palpable. Cutter stretched out his hand as though trying to part a weighty curtain. When that failed, he lowered himself to the floor and crawled toward where he thought Gloria lay. His heart raced. Was she still alive?
He felt her leg first, then worked his way up, probing, groping for her neck and, after finding it, placing two fingers in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to shout for joy when he felt a feeble pulse. She was alive. But if he had any chance of keeping her that way, he’d have to find out where she was hurt and stop the bleeding. He slid his hand carefully across her chest and felt her wet shirt. The right side of her jacket was wet too. She had lost a lot of blood. Just how much blood could a person lose and still live? He didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he probed for a wound and found one beneath her shoulder blade—obviously the site of entry—then another one under her arm. He didn’t think any organs were hit, but the blood loss was enormous. Just touching the area had soaked his hands. He wondered if the bullet had hit an artery.
Moving as quickly as he could in the cramped quarters, he pulled off his jacket, then his shirt. With difficulty, he removed Gloria’s jacket, then wrapped his shirt tightly under her armpit and around her shoulder. He didn’t want to jostle her again, so he just draped her jacket around her, then slipped on his own.
He sat near her head, resisting the urge to cradle it on his lap. Keeping her flat seemed best—maybe the wound wouldn’t bleed so much, though he didn’t know why he thought that. He bent low, as close to her ear as possible. “Hang in there,” he whispered. “Just stay with me. We’re going to get out of this.” One hand pressed the wound in her back; the other pressed the wound under her arm. “I love you, Gloria. I’ve always loved you, and I’m not going to let you go now.”
Dirt matted his hair. It coated his mouth. It lay in the corners of his eyes as if he were a corpse who had tried to dig out of his own grave. Between his dirt-caked hands, he held back the life’s blood of the only woman he had ever loved. The woman who had finally—-finally—told him she loved him too. If Gloria didn’t walk away from this grave, then he didn’t want to come out either.
The blackness blotted out all sense of time. Had they been there five minutes? Twenty? An hour? Cutter could only guess. He thought he had dozed, yet when he became aware of the utter darkness again, his hands were still clamped fiercely on Gloria’s wounds. He noticed he was breathing shallow, almost indiscernible breaths that seemed to match Gloria’s. His head had found a rock to rest against, and he thought it odd that the hard, cold surface seemed almost comfortable. For a second he wondered if he was dead. Then he wondered if he was alive but dreaming. The utter silence, the utter blackness, made him believe either of these possibilities. So when the shot rang out and made him jerk and knock Gloria’s head to the side, he was more pleased than frightened because he heard her moan.
Gloria was still alive.
But when he heard more gunshots, and the scraping and creaking of the door as it began to open, then saw the blade of light slice through the darkness like a scalpel, his pleasure gave way to fear.
“Did you think we forgot you?” came J.P.’s deep, booming voice just as the beam of his flashlight reached Gloria’s sprawled body.
Cutter just sat there, pressing on Gloria’s wounds, and watched J.P. turn back toward the doorway and yell to someone outside to call an ambulance. Then once again, Cutter bent his head close to Gloria’s ear and told her how much he loved her. From the beam of J.P.’s flashlight he saw her eyelids flicker once, then again, then again and again, as if she was telling him that everything was going to be all right.
Epilogue
GLO
RIA WALKED UP the steps of the Appleton Full Gospel Tabernacle with Cutter Press at her side. Three months had passed since J.P. had rescued her from the smokehouse. The doctors told her later there was no way she should have come out alive—she had lost that much blood. The stalker’s bullet had nicked her axillary artery. The doctors at Four-Towns Hospital were calling it a miracle.
Those around Appleton who didn’t believe in such things were divided into two camps. The first believed Clive’s chilly old smokehouse had acted like a refrigerator and slowed Gloria’s blood flow, thus saving her. They didn’t understand that with every contraction of Gloria’s heart, blood was forced into the axillary artery and was literally spurting from her side. The other camp believed that Cutter’s tourniquet, plus the pressure he had applied with his hands on the wounds, had saved her life. Both camps, along with the believers in miracles, had spent hours in debate. Gloria suspected the debate would continue for years to come.
For her, there was no debate—no doubt that it was her faithful Jesus who had saved her life. She was a walking miracle, and walking next to another miracle. She smiled at Cutter as he held the heavy church door open for her. He’d said he wanted to know more about this God of miracles. That was two months ago. Last week he had came to know God personally. In another two, he would be baptized.
And those weren’t the only things bordering on the miraculous. Their own US senator, Pierce Haskell, had opened an investigation into the practice of big foundations manipulating the environmental movement for profit, starting with the Slone Foundation. Even though one of J.P.’s men had killed the stalker in the shootout, eliminating a perfect witness, Senator Haskell claimed he still had ample evidence to “blow the lid off.”
Perth was back in school, and Gloria had bought out the Luggets and was still getting used to being a business owner. And she had another cat, a little orange kitten she’d named Sandy.
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