by Reid, Ruth
The hound’s ears perked. He took off running toward the house, but quickly changed directions when he noticed Ben wasn’t with him. The dog ran to the edge of the woods and barked. That wasn’t the footpath they had taken when they were searching for Mitch.
“Nett that way. Kumm on.”
The dog looked at Ben, barked, then darted into the woods.
Lord, I hope this is right. Ben headed in the direction of the fire. He entered the woods with the dog running ahead. A moment later the hound returned carrying a stick and dropped it at his feet. “You’re nett a tracking dog.” And he was crazy to follow him into a burning forest on an unknown path. Ben turned and jogged a few feet before a heavy force launched itself against his back and knocked him down. Ben spit a mouthful of dirt. The hundred-pound dog panted over him a moment, then barked. “I should’ve left you chained up.” He clambered to his feet.
The dog picked up the stick and pushed it into Ben’s hand.
Ben growled under his breath. He tried to grab the stick and the dog not only wouldn’t release it, but he pulled Ben a couple of steps. Ben let go of the stick, but once again, the dog tried to give him the stick, then tugged him into the woods. This time Red dropped the stick, and when Ben glanced down, he spotted a shiny nail. He picked it up and rolled it over in his hand. It was the same type of nail he’d used for Grace’s shoe. Ben smiled. God had given him a sign. “Danki, God. And danki, Red.”
A chunk of bread landed in Grace’s lap as she was sitting on the ground with her back against a log.
“That’s all you’re going to get for a few hours,” Jack said. “I suggest you eat it.”
She stared at the bread and knew she wouldn’t be able to choke down anything, not with her stomach in knots. The wet ground had soaked through her dress and she silently thanked God for the rain they’d had over the last few days. Maybe the fire wouldn’t consume the woods after all.
Grace squinted at Jack as he went down to the river, then glanced at Gordon sitting beside her, turning the knobs on the radio. He hadn’t been given much to eat either. She offered her portion to him. “Would you like this? I can’t eat it.”
“Really? You want to give me yours?” His eyes lit, staring at the piece of bread.
Grace nodded.
He frowned. “Gordon’s not allowed.” He shook his head. “No sharing allowed. Stay in your seat. Eat your own food. Those are the rules.” He rocked back and forth. “Rules are good for us. They are.”
“You follow all the rules?”
“Rules are good.”
She forced herself to smile even though it hurt. How did this man get involved with Jack? “I think rules are gut also.” She looked at the bread. It would be a shame to feed it to the birds when Gordon was hungry. “Have you ever been on a picnic where people sit outside?”
He shook his head.
“Everyone shares their food on a picnic.”
“We’re outside. Is this a picnic?”
“If you want it to be.”
He nodded but quickly frowned again. “But I don’t have nothing to share.” He set the radio down long enough to hold up his dirty palms with his fingers spread. “See.”
“It’s okay,” she said, holding out the piece of bread. “Next time you can share with me.”
He looked at her, the bread, then back at her.
She nodded.
Gordon snatched the bread from her, then hunched over as if guarding it and the radio.
She glanced at the balsam wood nailed to her shoe, then over to the hot bed of embers. With Jack down by the river and Gordon eating, maybe she could toss a few pieces of wood into the campfire without them seeing. She wiggled the wood, but the nails held it tight. She had to think of something else. She focused on the shovel. If she grabbed the shovel, would she be able to swing it? Grace sighed. She didn’t believe in violence. Besides, she wasn’t even sure which way she should run—and she would have to run.
Birch trees clustered close to the riverbank. A few oak saplings were green with buds. Without being close enough to the river to judge the depth, she couldn’t be certain how far downriver they were. Still wiggling the wood from her shoe, she caught a glimpse of Jack climbing up the river embankment in her peripheral vision. She lay down, placed the prayer kapp over her face, and pretended to be asleep. The cloth was no longer cold, but she wasn’t concerned as much about reducing the swelling as she was about avoiding eye contact with Jack. His face had a leathery, sun-beaten look, and his cold, penetrating eyes made her insides shudder.
“Turn that radio off,” Jack barked at Gordon, then nudged her leg with the tip of his boot. “Get up. We’re leaving.”
Grace removed the wet kapp from her face, set it on the ground beside her, and pushed to her feet, her hair falling in front of her face.
Gordon stood, clutching the radio, blaring static. “Where are we going now?”
“You tell me,” Jack said, handing Gordon the basket. “It’s your treasure we’ve come to find. Where is it?”
Gordon shrugged.
Jack jerked the radio from Gordon’s hands. “Think hard.”
He jumped, trying to reach the radio.
“Where’s the treasure?” Jack stormed over to the riverbank and tossed the radio, deadening the static din. “If you don’t tell me where the treasure is, I’ll take you back to the Behavioral Unit.”
“No!” Gordon rubbed his upper arm. “No more shots. Shots hurt. No-no-no-no more.”
“Settle down.” Jack tapped his shirt pocket. “Or I’ll give you one now.”
Gordon shook his head and fixed his eyes on her. “Gordon will be good.”
“I believe you,” Grace whispered.
“Quiet.” Jack motioned for Grace and Gordon to get down, then crept a few feet over to a large beech tree. He crouched down behind it.
Grace’s pulse quickened. Had Mitch followed them? Knocked unconscious, she couldn’t be certain how much time had passed since she had seen him last. The sun wasn’t helpful either; the smoke and storm clouds had it hidden.
“What do you see, Jack?” Gordon asked.
“Hush and bring me the rifle.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ben focused on the carpet of pine needles, searching for more nails as he trudged through the woods. Red, the name he’d given his floppy-eared companion, darted from one side of the path to the other, chasing squirrels up the hemlock trees. The dog had as much pent-up energy as a hooked worm.
“Where is she, Red? Where’s Grace?”
The dog looked at Ben with his head cocked, ears perked, and tongue dangling from the side of his mouth. For a moment it looked as if the dog understood what he’d said, but a fuzzy, gray rabbit hopped over the path and diverted Red’s attention. The dog leaped over a fallen log and disappeared into a thicket.
“You’re about as loyal as Toby,” Ben called out. He kicked at a rock on the path, wishing he could cast thoughts of his friend’s betrayal aside too. How could he have been so blind—so stupid? His friend was a coward. Had Toby said something—or even thrown a punch at Ben after he kissed Neva—things would be different. Toby wouldn’t have rejected her, Neva never would have been drunk on the beach that night, and Ben would still have his father’s respect. Toby shouldn’t have assumed Neva had fallen for Ben—Toby should have asked Ben straight up what had happened.
The past no longer mattered. Grace mattered. She hadn’t asked him to stay, but something in her eyes beseeched him. When the time came to board the bus—he couldn’t leave. Her sullen expression, when he tried to convince the kidnappers to take him instead, flashed before his eyes. She must have thought it cruel of him to point out her limp. But he could think of nothing else to say to make them leave her.
The woods came alive to the musical sound of rain falling on the ferns. God had answered part of his prayer. Danki, Lord. Nau, please guide me to Grace. Ben whistled for Red, but the dog wasn’t anywhere in sight. The hound would have to fi
nd his way home. Ben wasn’t about to wait. While trying to skirt the fire area, he’d gotten off the main path. The deer trail wound through some thick and thorny bushes, which scratched his face and tugged on his shirt and pant legs.
Ben came upon a black, mucky creek. He placed one foot on a moss-covered log and tested his weight. He started slow, teetered for balance, then increased the length of his stride as the foul scent of rotten eggs leached from the loam below.
He’d made it three-quarters of the way across when he heard a splash. If this were Florida, he would assume it was a gator. Ben made the mistake of glancing behind him and his foot slipped on the mossy log. Suddenly he was straddling the log, tilting sideways, his face inches from the putrid, black pit. Wrenched in pain and breathing raggedly, he didn’t want to move.
Red lumbered through chest-deep muck to reach him. The dog licked his face.
Ben clawed at the bark to right himself, but at the cost of stepping in the muck. His foot sank into the soft ground. The clinging substance made a sucking noise when he pulled it out. Afraid his wet boot would cause him to slip, Ben crawled the remaining feet to dry land.
Red sprang out of the mud and shook, spraying Ben and the ferns around them with the rotten stench. Ben surveyed the area. He didn’t want to get tangled back up in the thornbushes if he could avoid it. He followed what looked like deer prints on the soft ground. The hound sprinted in the opposite direction, this time barking as he chased after something. Ben wasn’t disappointed. He stank, but nothing like Red, who had bathed in the muck.
Swampy water squished out from his boots, making sloshing sounds as he walked. After pressing through another thorny patch, he found a more traveled pine-needle path. The side of his face stung from having been scraped by the thorns. He wiped what he thought was sweat from his brow and found blood on his shirtsleeve.
He hadn’t gone far on the path when he discovered more nails—several were dispersed over the ground in the same area. He picked one up and squeezed it in his hand. “Hold on, Grace. I’m going to find you.”
“Don’t shoot!” Grace charged Jack. She couldn’t cower in fear while Jack aimed the gun at someone or something. She pushed against him, her feet losing traction on the wet ground.
He shoved her aside with one hand. Grace landed several feet away, facedown in the dirt. “Shut her up, Gordon.”
Grace pushed herself up to her knees only to be struck down by Gordon’s heavy foot. The sole of his boot pressed against her back with such force she wouldn’t be surprised if it left tread marks.
Grace lifted her face from the dank soil. “Please, I can’t . . . breathe.”
Gordon released some of the force.
“You made me lose my shot.” Jack lowered the gun. “Haul her up and let’s go.”
Gordon lifted his boot. “What was it, Jack?”
“That rabid fox.” He wiped rainwater from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “I’ll shoot it yet—all of you.”
Once free from Gordon’s foothold, Grace scrambled to her feet unassisted. Trying to save the fox was foolish. But it could have been Mitch—or Ben.
Jack grasped her neck, adding enough pressure on her windpipe that she wheezed for air. He pulled her up against him, and she dangled like a rag doll off the ground. Leveling her nose to nose, he hissed, “The next time you pull a stunt like that, I’ll bury you alive. You got that?”
Unable to talk, unable to nod, she blinked.
He released his hold and she tumbled to the ground, gasping for air.
Jack bent at the waist. “Get up.”
Her arms quivered with weakness as she pushed her torso off the ground. Unable to hold her weight, her arms buckled and she collapsed. “What do you want from me?” She started to sob.
“Security.” Jack stormed a few feet away over to the clearing and surveyed the grassy meadow.
Her cheek resting on the cool soil, she lay still, pleading silently for God to rescue her.
Gordon had covered his ears and was pacing, uttering something indecipherable.
“Stop it,” Jack snapped.
Gordon’s eyes closed. He rambled faster. Louder. Words without meaning. Seemingly able to separate himself from this place and from Jack’s harsh tone, he shuffled his feet through the sandy soil.
She’d never seen someone in a trancelike state. Gordon’s actions had a more calming effect over her than she dared to admit, and that frightened her even more. She started mumbling herself. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me . . .” She finished the Twenty-Third Psalm, then repeated it over and over until Jack stormed back from the clearing.
“Stop it, both of you.”
Grace did, but not Gordon. He walked closer to Jack, chanting defiantly.
Jack knocked Gordon in the shoulder with the heel of his hand. “I said stop it!”
His chanting stopped and Gordon opened his glassy eyes. His gaze drifted over his surroundings slowly, as if his mind were numb. Then, without acknowledging Jack, Gordon walked over to Grace and reached for her hand.
She jerked her hand away and stood without his assistance. She waited until neither of them was looking, then dropped the prayer kapp on the ground.
Directed by Jack, she skirted the riverbank. Acid rose to the back of her throat as she heard the rushing water off to her side. Please don’t make me cross the river.
Showered in rain, her hair matted in front of her face. She stopped and gathered it into a ponytail, holding it with her hand to keep it out of her eyes.
“Keep moving.” Jack shoved her from behind.
She stumbled over a rut and landed hard on her knees. A wave of mallet vibrations thrummed her spine.
“Get up,” Jack said, jabbing her with the end of the gun.
Her joints locked, freezing her in position. Nay! Her muscles couldn’t betray her now. “I can’t.” Her hope spent, she bent over, lowered her forehead on the ground, and closed her eyes. “Go ahead. Shoot me.”
Jack sneered and cocked the gun.
The steel barrel was cold against the back of her neck. “Lord, please forgive mei iniquities—the wrongs—I’ve committed—the jealousy I’ve harbored . . .” As she prayed in Pennsylvania Deitsch, her words ran together.
“No!” Gordon shouted.
“Maybe we don’t need her,” Jack hissed.
Thwack!
Jack grunted.
The gun discharged—a deafening blast rang in her ears. Ben jolted at the sound of a gunshot. He spun around, looking all directions as the echoing blast faded in the distance.
“Lord . . .” His throat tightened. “Don’t let me be too late.” He sprinted in what he hoped was the right direction, jumping over fallen logs and dodging low-hanging branches. The rain fell harder, making the pine-needle path more slippery than normal, but at least the fire would no longer be a threat. Deep in the woods, he was sheltered, but that wasn’t the case once he reached a meadow. He bolted across the grassy wetland, his soaked pant legs clinging to his skin and weighing him down.
His lungs burned and his muscles grew weary from running, but he pushed himself to keep going. The sun had disappeared behind a widespread haze of storm clouds. It would get dark soon. Too soon. His stomach clenched at the thought of her being alone with those two men. He couldn’t let that happen.
Ben reached the edge of the meadow and slowed his pace as he reached the river. He looked over the edge of the embankment at the frothy water swirling below. With no sign of Grace or her captors, he followed the river downstream. Ben remembered the day the current swept him away and how every so often he would flip and see Grace running along the riverbank, following him. The water had been so cold that his legs went numb almost immediately and he was certain he’d never feel his legs again. Ben didn’t want to think what Jack would do if Grace couldn’t keep up with them.
“Please, Lord, keep her safe from those wicked men.”
Ben
reached the edge of the embankment and started down the sandy hill. He lost his footing and slid to the bottom, landing with a thud on the sandy shoreline. Ben spotted a set of footprints leading away from the river and followed them. His eye caught a glimpse of a white cloth. A numbing sensation washed over him as he bent to pick it up. A prayer kapp.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grace had lost her sense of direction hours ago when the deer trail they’d been following took them into a dense cedar swamp. Her feet were swollen and the area above her ankle had turned raw from constantly rubbing against her leather shoes.
Gordon had paid a high price for tackling Jack to save her. The bullet hit a tree, but Jack pulped Gordon with his fist until poor Gordon vomited blood. Grace hated to see him suffer, but the hope that someone might have heard the gunshot and would know their direction lifted her spirit.
Gordon, staying a few steps ahead of Jack, trailed alongside of her. “Hey, lady,” he said, after they had been walking awhile. “Did you hurt your leg?”
“No,” she said, “I was born this way.”
“Me too.”
She glanced sideways at him but said nothing. The man wasn’t limping.
“You and me are both special,” he said, sporting a wide smile.
She forced a smile in return. “Jah, I suppose you’re right.”
Jack came up between them. “You two stop yapping and walk faster.”
Grace clamped her mouth closed. She hoped Gordon did the same.
A few minutes of silence went by when Gordon stopped, tossed the shovel on the ground, and sat. “I’m tired of walking.”
Grace would have joined him had Jack not grabbed her arm before she sat.
“You and I aren’t stopping,” Jack said.
Grace inwardly cringed. She wasn’t sure of Gordon’s state of mind, but the thought of being anywhere alone with Jack made her stomach curdle like week-old milk left in the sun.
“Pick up the shovel and let’s go.”
Grace bent down and grabbed the shovel, silently willing Gordon to get up. But he made no attempt to join them, and Jack pushed her forward. She had no choice but to follow his orders. She took a few steps and looked back at Gordon still sitting in the same spot. “Aren’t you worried he’ll get lost in the woods?”
