Great slabs of stone, leaning at angles against one another, formed a roof. I ducked beneath the top slab, grazing my head. The first drops of rain pattered upon the frozen ground outside, but in here I was dry, if not warm. I went to the very back of the little overhang and there the wind ceased. After circling around several times, I lay down on a nest of dried leaves. As I tucked my legs in close and rested my chin on my front paws, I thought of Faustine, that droopy scrap of fur that for a short time had belonged to me.
I even missed her.
—o00o—
I awoke sometime in the night. It was a while before I remembered where I was. On my belly, I scooted to the edge of the little cave and watched. Between shifting patches of clouds, moonlight shone down, etching branches in silver. Wind moaned softly through the trees, gathering to a roar as it rushed down to the valley, then dying away as it met the hills’ broad swell of earth.
Here, I was safe from wind and rain and cold. But I was still not fed and I was still very much alone. Come morning, I would have to leave.
So I did, when the sun returned, pale and distant, beyond the eastern treetops. This time, after taking a drink from the river, I went straight toward the rising sun. I had grown used to the hunger, but my legs shook with weakness. Slower and slower I went, stumbling often.
Twice before the sun was overhead, I had to stop and sleep. When I woke up again the second time, the sun was hidden behind gray clouds. I was disoriented. And so I picked a place where the hills parted and went that way, even though I was aware that it smelled more and more like humans. But where there were people, there was food.
As I reached the edge of the forest, I paused to gauge my surroundings. In the distance was a cluster of buildings. Cars and trucks rumbled along the road that led there. But well before the town sat a house. A small house where an inside light glowed through drawn curtains. To the side of that house was a shed. With chickens.
Oh, glorious bounty! A buffet of feather-covered meat. Saliva filled my mouth.
Carefully, I wormed my way closer, hiding behind trees, watching to make sure the humans did not see me. A clothesline stretched from a hook at the corner of the house to a rusted metal pole. Bed sheets dangled from clothespins, the damp fabric stiff from the cold, obscuring the view to the house.
When I was within striking distance, I hunkered low next to an empty trash can, twitching with excitement. I studied the pen, trying to figure out how in the heck to get in. There was a gate, but the latch was up high and by the looks of it too sturdy for my puppy teeth. In one corner of the chicken-wire fence, a gap yawned, just big enough for a young dog like me to squeeze if I flattened myself and wriggled through.
Yes, there.
To be truthful, I never thought I would actually need to hunt for my supper. I wasn’t sure I could. Yet if I didn’t, I could die right here, writhing in hunger, my lips contorted in a snarl of pain. I stepped out from beside the trash can, being as quiet as I could.
A gust of wind stirred the sheets. They snapped loudly, then fell. I jumped back, but when I saw there was no one there, I went forward again.
A hen lifted her head, having caught sight of me. I froze. She swiveled her tiny yellow beak side to side, beady eyes glinting in the fading light. Unconcerned, she lowered her head again and scratched at the dirt. Another hen clucked, but did not look my way.
There must have been twenty of them. If I ate one right away and carried another off with me, I would be full enough for a few days, at least. I could return later as needed.
But what if they sounded the alarm well before I was inside? I pondered it. Unlikely. They were all too busy searching for bugs and weed sprouts to eat.
One last time, I glanced toward the house. No cars sat outside it. No voices came from within. No shadows moved across the window. It was possible they weren’t even home. In which case, I could feast to my stomach’s content.
And while the thought of it revolted me, if I wanted to survive, I had to do this.
By the time I pushed my nose into the space between the wire and the dirt, the chickens had gotten used to me. Because I had approached slowly. I took in the distance to the house, how far back from the road it sat, where the back door was, and considered the nearest hiding places for future raids.
Unfortunately, there was no alternate escape route once I was inside the pen. The best course, I decided, was to take one chicken and run. I could eat it elsewhere, then come back later if I didn’t find an alternate source of food.
It was all going so well. Bolstered by the thoroughness of my plan and the ease with which it was unfolding, I slid underneath. When my rump was free of the fence, I stood.
Their heads snapped up. They scuttled into a clump. A murmur of clucks rose to a cacophony.
They were on to me. I had to work quickly.
I dove at the nearest pair. They divided, one darting one way, the other bursting upward in a flurry of feathers. A smaller hen flapped frantically before me. I snapped at a wing, but caught only air. Twisting sideways, I scurried after a huddle of them in the corner. But the little monsters were quick, exploding in ten different directions. I slammed a paw down, pinning one to the ground. It squawked, an ear-splitting, gut-twisting sound. I yanked my paw back, startled.
Remorse overcame me, filling me with a sickening feeling. I wanted to nuzzle it, lick the underside of its mouth, and soothe its overblown fears. I could never have killed one of them. Never. I would sooner die of hunger than hurt another creature.
Turning around, I sought my retreat. Confusion and terror reigned. Chickens, once agitated, apparently do not settle easily. They were now in full-blown hysterics. Wings beat frantically. They clucked and clawed and raced around as if their heads had become detached from their bodies.
At last, opportunity appeared. The opening in the fence gaped wide on the other side of the enclosure. I started for it, but pulled up short as a bigger chicken strutted before me. He had a big red comb atop his head that flopped to the side and a wattle beneath his chin that dangled conspicuously. Long shiny tail feathers trailed behind him like the hem of a royal robe. At the back of each foot was a long talon, sharp enough to puncture flesh. Arrogance glimmered in his piercing black eyes. Since he was the only male there, no doubt he had killed the others. This was a creature to be feared and respected.
Averting my eyes, I backed away. Somehow, I had to get around and past him. But the hens were bunched to either side of me. If I forced my way between them, they would raise a ruckus again. Even so, if I was quick enough, I could still get away without being discovered.
I went left, keeping my movements smooth. The hens collided into one another. Which incited the rooster. He came at me, wings outspread as he launched himself upward. I ducked just in time to evade being sliced by one of his talons. He hit the ground and tumbled sideways. I sprinted for the opening before he could recover and come at me again.
Too late.
Because just as I was only a few feet away, a pair of boots stomped before me. The gate slammed shut. I skidded to a halt, the top of my skull smacking squarely into a pair of knees. Rocking back, I looked up.
Just in time to see the trash can swooping down over me.
The metal rim banged down on the ground around me. I had barely pulled my right rear foot inward in time to avoid having it pinched. If my tail had been longer than a stump of two vertebrae, it would have been squashed.
An old woman’s cackle rang out. She thumped a hand on top of the trash can, her words garbled by guffaws. The tinny noise reverberated down to my bones. I tried to flatten myself, but I couldn’t.
My second impulse was to run, but I sat there in darkness, trapped. My breathing quickened. My heart hammered against the inside of my rib cage.
Then, a slice of light appeared along the ground. A hand groped beneath. I scooted to the back of the trash can, wary. She latched onto a rear foot. I bucked against the side of the can. It toppled backward. But instead o
f leaping free, as I intended, I tumbled farther inside the trash can.
Thin fingers snagged the fur of my ruff and pulled me close. I had no time to think. A shame I was not given to swifter reactions. Any one of my siblings would have sunk their teeth into her bony hand. But I was too slow, too cautious. Some of the strangers who had come to visit and take a puppy home had referred to me as ‘timid’. They had meant it as a weakness, a flaw, which I took offense to.
In this case, I suppose it was.
She clutched me tight, limping toward a smaller building that I had not seen on the other side of the house. Her long gray braid swung before my face, begging to be pulled.
“Think you were gittin’ a free supper, did you? Law says I can shoot strays that maraud my chicken coop, if’n I wanna. But you don’t look like the sort could do much harm. Damn rooster was about to beat the tar out o’ ya.” She cackled again, hugging me tighter. Sharp ribs poked at my side. She was old, shrunken, and wiry, yet her grip on me was so strong I could barely breathe.
Before we reached the small building, she reached inside her pocket and tapped something. A large door moved upward, hinges squealing. There, in the hazy half-light, sat an old van. She pulled open the rear door and deposited me inside a cage and latched it shut. It reeked of chicken manure. She climbed into the front seat, pulling herself close to the steering wheel so she could see over it. Two thick pillows were piled beneath her. Her feet barely reached the pedals.
Hands shaking, she fitted a key into its slot and started the engine. It coughed in protest several times before purring to life. She backed the van up and headed out onto the road. The van jerked with each turn or change in speed she made.
If there had been anything in my gut, I would have puked, so she’d stop.
I only hoped this would be a short ride. Because in my limited experience so far, car rides were never good.
chapter 6: Hunter
Hunter McHugh’s long legs wheeled uncontrollably as he sped downhill. His heart beat erratically, racing like he was high on amphetamines one moment, then skipping and thudding the next. In his forty-two years, he had never known pure and absolute panic like this. Not even the first time he had died.
Right now, though, that was the furthest thing from his mind. It was his five-year-old daughter, Hannah, who he was thinking about as he plummeted toward the river. The crook formed by the river’s abrupt change of course harbored a deep pool, where brownish spume collected in pockets formed by broken branches and large rocks that had tumbled downward from higher up in the valley eons ago. Hunter prayed that Hannah was lying somewhere among those small boulders, on land, with nothing worse than a broken arm or slight bump on her head.
Two men and a woman from the Adair County Fire Department were on the bank at the bend in the river. One of the men had a rope around his waist and scuba gear on. The woman coiled up the slack before handing it to the second man, who clambered up the steep bank and secured the end of the rope to the trunk of a sturdy sycamore.
Hunter faltered in momentary confusion, taken aback by their actions. He checked himself from tumbling into the river by slamming his palm into a boulder. Lungs burning, he sucked in precious air. The muscles of his legs seized and he leaned against the rock for support. His hand wandered to his chest to press against the scar beneath his clothing.
No, she can’t be ...
Bile burned the back of Hunter’s throat as the man wearing the wetsuit slid from the bank into the water. In one hand, he held a long metal crook. He sank up to his midriff, then began to slog forward. The muck on the river’s bottom must have been deep, because he labored like he was marching through quicksand.
Turning his wrist over, Hunter checked his watch. Too much time had elapsed since they discovered Hannah gone from the cabin that morning. His older daughter, Maura, who’d been sleeping in her bunk downstairs had awoken first. Hungry, she’d rummaged around in the coolers they’d packed the day before. Hearing noise downstairs, Hunter crept down from the loft and when he noticed Hannah was not curled up in her bunk, he asked Maura where her little sister was. She looked back at her father and shrugged, perplexed. Immediately, they woke his wife Jenn up and began to call for Hannah. She was not in the cabin or the truck, nor anywhere nearby. They broadened their circle, shouting and whistling for her as they arced outward through the trees, keeping within sight of their cabin.
Despite the dread tightening his chest, Hunter had tried to remain calm. If Hannah was hiding and thought she was in trouble, if there was any trace of tension in any of their voices, she might not come out. She was, in a word, sensitive. Not just emotionally, but she was acutely aware of every sensory input: sounds, smells, tastes, movement. So much so that by the time she turned two, they’d had her tested for autism. The verdict was that she was a highly functioning autistic. Opinions had shifted since then, sometimes almost weekly, but suffice it to say she was in no way ordinary.
Still, the experts had recommended placing Hannah in a special school, which would have meant moving to another state. Hunter thought it would be in Hannah’s best interest to relocate wherever their daughter could get the special guidance she needed. It was Jenn who resisted, burying herself in research, insisting that what Hannah needed most was the love of her immediate family and one-on-one attention. Jenn quit her job as the manager at Adair County’s largest bank. Schooling Hannah became her primary focus, but she did her best to make sure that Maura’s upbringing was as normal as possible, signing her up for softball and 4-H, chaperoning Maura’s class field trips whenever she could find someone to look after Hannah, and making a point of scheduling regular family outings like this camping trip. Still, Maura was resentful sometimes, and even though Hannah seemed unaware of it, Maura was often quick to show a spark of jealousy.
On that morning, however, it had been Maura who discovered the imprint of Hannah’s small sneakers on the trail leading away from their campsite. And Maura who now came to a crashing halt beside him, hyperventilating as she gulped air in between sobs.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Dad.” Maura’s whole body trembled. She hugged herself, trying to stop the shaking. It wasn’t until Jenn reached them and wrapped her arms around her daughter that she began to settle.
“It’s not your fault, Maura.” Jenn kissed the top of Maura’s head and smoothed the hair that hung down her daughter’s back.
Maura shook her head vehemently, dark brown hair whipping across her cheeks. “But it is my fault. I was awake for probably fifteen minutes before Dad woke up. If I’d only looked, noticed she wasn’t there ...”
While Jenn soothed Maura, Hunter stared on as the diver systematically prodded beneath the surface with his metal crook. Hunter shifted around to the side of the boulder to get a better view. That was when he saw the bright pink cloth floating at the top of the water. The current tugged at it, whipping it left, then right, then pulling it under for a second before spitting it back up.
Like a flag run up the mast of a ship, it was unmistakable: the hood of the sweatshirt that Hannah had gone to sleep in last night.
Please, God, no. Not Hannah. Just let it be her sweatshirt, nothing more. Not her. Please don’t let it be her under there.
It seemed to take forever for the rescue worker to reach it. He dipped the crook beneath the water, searching with the end of it. It took far less time for him to discover what was beneath the surface.
“Got something!” he shouted.
Not someone, but something.
Maura and Jenn went silent, breaths held. A lead shot plunged through Hunter’s gut as the realization hit him that they had found Hannah’s body. Hunter cursed at himself. This was his fault. He had urged them to remain calm while searching for Hannah, certain she was nearby and not wanting to scare her off. But in trying to be the voice of reason, he had cost them precious time. Twice, Jenn had asked if they should call 911, but Hunter had said ‘Not yet. She’s got to be around here somewhere.’
When Maura found the tracks leading away from the cabin, it was Hunter himself who made the call. As they waited for help to arrive, he had jogged along the path at the river’s edge, searching for any sign of Hannah. The answer came with the sighting of a dog, a young black and white Australian Shepherd, three to four months old, if Hunter was right. The pup held Hannah’s stuffed giraffe, Faustine, in his mouth. He looked more afraid than harmful. Evidently, he had found Faustine beside the river, judging by how wet it was. Hoping the pup might lead them to Hannah, Hunter had called to him, but he dropped the stuffed animal and ran, away from the river.
Instinctively, Hunter had turned toward the river. He found Hannah’s footprints again. They disappeared beside the river. There, the grass was flattened, as if she’d been lying beside the bank. There were no more footprints in either direction. No further sign of where she might have gone but in the water.
It had taken another fifteen minutes for the rescue workers to reach them and eight more before they stopped at this bend in the river.
Too much time.
If she’d fallen in where her footprints were last found and been swept downriver to here, it could have been as much as forty minutes since then.
Too much damn time.
Suddenly, the man in the wetsuit buried the straight end of his pole in the river’s bottom. “Hang on!” he called over his shoulder, before flipping down his scuba mask and diving under.
A cloud of mud drifted up from the murky bottom, obscuring any view the rest may have had of his whereabouts. Only the bubbles emanating from the water’s depths betrayed his location. Twice, he emerged, empty-handed. Twice more, he dove down again.
Say That Again Page 3
