Once she was outside, she was glad for the extra layer. It was a clear night, but the temperature had dropped since the day before, her breath billowing. She felt oddly calm, breathing in the night air, and wondered if she was in shock.
She was about to step off the back deck when she noticed a bow leaning up against the railing, maybe left there by Bruce. She wondered if he’d had it with him while he’d been searching for her, as though he really were a hunter and she was his prey. Next to the bow was a quiver of arrows. She lifted the bow by its handgrip to see how it felt, then pulled the string back as far as she could. She’d used a bow once before, at a Renaissance fair she’d gone to with Zoe back when they’d been in high school. Zoe had shot once, missed the target, then quit. Abigail had stayed at the archery tent and fired about twenty arrows, determined to hit the bull’s-eye, which she eventually did. The overattentive man in charge had shown Abigail how to stand, how to position her arms, how to release the arrow cleanly. The memory came back now in crushing clarity, a reminder of a life in which she wasn’t being hunted. She took the bow and arrows with her.
It was relatively easy to find the path that led down to the pond, and once she was on it, she broke into a slow jog, wanting to move fast but not wanting to make any unnecessary noise. She ran through a copse of trees, the world darkening, and had to slow down to look where she was going. The woods whispered around her, black trees converging, and she felt the bubble of fear in her chest expand into a balloon. Her lungs shriveled, and her heart jackhammered. Something snapped up ahead of her—a twig breaking, a pinecone dropping from a tree—and she instinctively stepped off the path into the dark shadows, standing as still as possible, willing herself not to make a sound. The child in her remembered that if you stayed quiet, the woods would absorb you. The fear went briefly away but was replaced by a kind of grief. When she’d been a young girl hiding in the woods behind her house, she’d been in a world of her own making, but one that she could leave at any time. Her parents had been in the house less than a hundred yards away. Her father probably had been puttering around his study, her mother either in the garden or in her favorite reading nook in the sunroom off the kitchen. Here, now, she was all alone. She might as well be on an island floating in the coldest reaches of space. And the woods were filled with psychotic men, intent on killing her.
But not Bruce, she thought. He had bled out on the floor of their honeymoon cabin. Her mind flashed back to the way she’d slipped the point of the knife in and out of his throat as easily as popping a balloon. And the way the blood had sprung from his body. What had it reminded her of? Something in the distant past. And she thought of the tires she’d slashed all those years ago on Kaitlyn Austin’s car after Kaitlyn had said those awful things about Abigail’s parents. She remembered it all clearly, the pilfered kitchen knife slicing through the rubber, the instant deflation, her own body relaxing. And she thought of Bruce, enraged, choking her, and then a few jabs from her knife and he was on the floor, leaking blood instead of air.
Abigail told herself to stop thinking about what had happened and listen to her surroundings. There had been no other sounds since that single, horrible snap of a twig, and she steeled herself to step back out onto the path. She moved as quietly as possible, holding her breath, planting her heel on the path, then rolling forward onto her toes. The darkness was both comforting and dreadful. But then the path broke right, and the pond was in front of her, iridescent in the moonlight.
Abigail stopped and crouched, letting her breath return to normal and watching the boathouse for any sign of activity. There was enough light for her to see the canoes lined up along the shore, and also the kayaks she’d seen earlier that week. Each kayak was for one person, made from fiberglass, and Abigail knew from experience that it probably weighed only about fifty pounds. When she’d been thinking about how to get off the island, she kept going back to the fact that there were no boats here, but of course there were boats, sailboats and kayaks and canoes, but they were on the pond, not on the ocean’s shore. Abigail was pretty sure she could drag, or carry, the kayak to the ocean and paddle to the mainland. What she worried about right now was whether they’d thought of that, too. Would there be a guard? And if so, where was he?
The boathouse was a simple building, more of a shell, really, with unpainted wood sides and a green plastic roof. The side of the building that faced the pond was completely open, and Abigail imagined that if there was a guard, he’d be sitting in the boathouse, waiting, maybe even dozing.
She put her bow down on the ground, alongside the kitchen knife she’d used to kill Bruce, and ran her hands through the fallen leaves and needles till she found a stone about the size of a golf ball. She stood and threw the stone as far as she could, past the boathouse. It skittered along the rocky shore of the pond, and almost immediately a figure emerged from the boathouse, running after the sound, his head swiveling. He was too far away for Abigail to make out who he might be, but she could tell that he carried a rifle with him. The sight of the gun was shocking; maybe the plane she thought she’d heard earlier had brought guns as well as dogs.
Abigail picked up the bow, notched one arrow into the string, and ran quietly down to the boathouse, pressing up against its back wall, then moving to its edge, peering around at the man, who was still scouring the area. She suddenly felt stupid with the bow, remembering how long it had taken her at the Renaissance fair to get in one decent shot. What made her think that she’d be able to hit this man on her first try, before he turned and simply shot her? She should have brought the knife and charged him while his back was turned. At least then she might have had a fighting chance. She decided to wait in the shadow of the boathouse until he gave up wondering what had made the sound, then go back and get her knife and try to get the drop on him.
Just then she heard a sound, a brief snippet of static, and saw that he was on his walkie-talkie, probably calling for reinforcements. Without thinking, she took a step away from the boathouse, squared her feet, and pulled the arrow back. He must have heard the creak of the bow, because he turned and looked at her, and she fired, the string smacking against the windbreaker on the inside of her arm, but the arrow flying straight, striking the man below his left shoulder. He stepped backward, lost his balance, and went down. Abigail ran over and knelt above him. It was the island detective—Bob something—instantly recognizable by his white hair. He looked up at her with fear in his eyes, then yelled, “She’s here.” Another staticky squawk came from the walkie-talkie, still in his hand. Abigail picked up the rifle and, holding it by its barrel, smacked the other end down toward his forehead, but hit his nose instead, breaking it, blood pooling into his mouth. He squealed, an almost purely animal sound, and she hit him again, this time in the head, and he was quiet.
She ran to the kayaks and examined the nearest one. It had a convenient handle on its bow, a plastic grip attached to two inches of synthetic rope. She stowed the rifle inside the kayak, then went in search of a paddle, finding several lined up against the interior wall of the boathouse. She picked the shortest one. On the way out of the boathouse she smelled coffee and spotted an open thermos next to a lawn chair. She picked up the thermos and took a long pull, the coffee hot and milky and sweet. And there was a sharp undertaste of alcohol, probably whiskey. She spotted the thermos’s lid, on top of a paperback novel splayed open on the floor, and twisted it back onto the thermos, deciding to bring it with her. She didn’t know how long it would take her to kayak from the island back to the coast of Maine, but it couldn’t hurt to have some fuel with her.
With the rifle, the thermos, and the paddle all stowed, she grabbed the handle and began to pull the kayak along the shore.
CHAPTER 31
She was on the bluff when she heard the dogs.
Two distinct howls followed by the sound of barking.
She didn’t know exactly how long it had been since she’d taken the kayak from the edge of the pond, but she thought it was
at least an hour. The hardest part had been along the shore, the boat scraping over the rocks, her heels banging against the bow. Then she’d remembered that there was a better way to move across land with a kayak. She even remembered the word—portaging—something her father had taught her many years ago. She bent her knees, then slid an arm through the rim of the kayak’s cockpit and lifted, settling the kayak on her shoulder. She tilted it slightly so that the paddle and the rifle wouldn’t fall through the opening. Once she was upright the kayak didn’t seem too heavy, and she quickly reached the path through the woods. She had to climb an embankment, the path covered with mossy rocks and occasional patches of weeds, and she was terrified of slipping. But she kept going and, ignoring a painful stitch in her side, little by little made her way through the woods.
When the path evened out, she began to smell the ocean in the breeze, and when she reached the edge of the bluff the sky, anchored by a nearly full moon, was an expanse that arched above her. Her lungs ached and the muscles in her legs were cramping, but she felt an almost alarming sense of hope. She could see the ocean, placid in the light of the moon.
She walked slowly over the bluff, saving some energy, cutting diagonally across to where the path began along the cliff edge. Halfway there was when she heard the dogs, the distant howls and the barking. They’d be out in force now looking for her. She wondered, also, if there was a guard near the cove where she was headed. It was one of the few places where it would be relatively easy to launch a boat. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed to pick up speed. The dogs would be following her scent.
She turned left at the cliff and began down the path, the rim of the kayak’s opening biting into her shoulder. Another bark reached her, this time much closer. She looked back and saw what she thought was the faint glimmer of a flashlight emerging from the dark line of woods on the other side of the bluff. She peered over the edge of the cliff, wondering if it was worth throwing the kayak off and jumping after it. It looked like about a twenty-yard drop, but the brief line of shore below was covered with black jagged rocks. She kept moving.
The cramp in her side got worse and the roof of her mouth ached, saliva pooling under her tongue. She bent over, resting the bow of the kayak on the ground, and was briefly sick, tasting only the coffee that she’d drunk back in the boathouse. Then she began to run, her shoulder screaming at her, her legs rubbery.
She heard a human voice, a shout that sounded like the words “This way,” and she glanced back again. Flashlights were now visible not too far back and she could make out the dark figure of a dog bounding ahead of the men.
If she hadn’t seen where the path ahead dipped down toward the shore, she would have thrown the kayak off the cliff right there and jumped after it. But the cove was close—thirty feet away—and she picked up speed, reaching the edge and peering over.
There was a man on the beach below, pointing a rifle up at her.
“Hold it,” he said, and she recognized him as Eric Newman. Without hesitating, she dropped the kayak over the edge and watched as it bumped and skidded down toward where he was standing. He tried to step out of its way, but the kayak hit him just below the knees, then bounced off and kept sliding along the seaweed-slicked rocks. He was on his back, gripping his leg, the rifle to his side. Abigail followed the path down as fast as she could, reaching Eric just as she heard the grunting sound of a dog right behind her. She picked up the rifle, spun, and the dog, a dark brown hound, merely bumped up against her, its tail wagging, sniffing at her, obviously pleased to have done its job. Eric grabbed a handful of her windbreaker, but she easily broke free, spun, and pointed the gun at him.
“Abigail, don’t,” he said, and held up his hands. “I was going to let you go. That’s why I asked to guard this beach.” The dog barked twice beside her.
“Bullshit,” she said, and placed the butt of the rifle against her shoulder.
“Listen to me. Don’t do this. No one was supposed to get hurt. We’re going to take care of Alec. He’ll pay for what he did.”
She imagined a bullet ripping through his skull, shutting this man up forever, but she pointed the gun toward where he was cradling his damaged leg and pulled the trigger. He jerked his hand away, but his leg bucked back, blood pumping from his destroyed knee. The dog whimpered, then scrambled away.
As he screamed, Abigail turned and took three steps to the kayak, pushing it with her foot out past the rocks and into the cresting surf. She dove onto the hull as she heard gunshots behind and above her. Holding on to the crisscrossed cording at the stern of the boat, she got her feet through the opening of the cockpit, then slid inside, dropping into the seat. She got her body as low as possible. More shots rang out, but Abigail had begun to paddle, digging deep with each stroke and keeping her head low. The kayak bucked up against a series of waves, and then it was moving steadily along the calm surface, picking up speed. She heard a few more shots, and then there was silence, and then she heard the low howl of the dog, sounding distant and lonely.
When she was far enough away from the island, she pulled her cell phone out from her jeans. It turned on, showing that it had three percent battery power. She checked for service but there was none, then opened her compass app, held it flat in her hand, and adjusted her direction so that she was heading exactly due west.
She’d kayaked plenty in her life, along the Connecticut River and at a pond one town over from Boxgrove, and she easily got back into the rhythm. She was exhausted and cold, but her arm muscles felt good, and her feet had found the footholds up under the bow.
Trying to remain calm, she worked at a steady pace, occasionally glancing down at the phone she’d placed on the floor of the kayak, making sure she was still moving in the right direction.
The night was quiet, and a steady but slight breeze ruffled the surface of the ocean. She kept imagining the guttural thrum of a small airplane coming to find her, but there were no sounds except for the paddle slapping against the water and her own labored breathing. She felt the stitch in her side acting up again, like a hot needle had been slipped between her ribs. She took a quick break, checking the compass to make sure she was still going in the right direction, then finishing the whiskey-laced coffee, its warmth spreading down her center, making her realize how cold the rest of her body had become. She dumped the thermos overboard, somehow imagining that it would significantly lighten the boat, then began to paddle, harder now that blisters were opening up on both of her palms. She thought of Jill again, lying dead on the cold floor of the forest.
Something streaked in the sky, and she stopped paddling for a moment, searching the glittering expanse above her. Then another shooting star caught her eye, a brief line of light. She repositioned her stinging hands on the paddle, then instinctively looked over her shoulder, her neck creaking. There was no sign of the island she had left, just a black stretch of ocean. And there was nothing in front of her, either. She reached down to touch the screen of her phone, and nothing happened. It was out of power. She was out in the open, and for a moment she felt not just scared but overcome with horror that seemed to empty her out, that squeezed at her lungs. She told herself to keep going, that there would be time in the future for her to have a breakdown.
Wiping her hands on her thighs, then getting a new grip on her paddle, she began to steer in the direction she’d been heading, keeping her eyes on the stars above her, recognizing three in a row that made up Orion’s belt. The constellation was slightly to her left, and she focused on keeping it there as she paddled as hard as she could. The faster she went, the less chance that she would veer off course.
Twenty minutes later she spotted a lighthouse, a dim sweeping beam of light. Its appearance ratcheted up her dread of hearing the sound of a plane, or of another boat, but none came, and the lighthouse got closer, close enough that she could make out its shape against the purple sky. It was built on an outcropping of rock, barely an island, so she kept going. She thought she was in Casco
Bay; she could see shoreline now, and another lighthouse. Her muscles burning, she picked up the pace, dipping the paddle deep into the water, gritting her teeth. Soon she could see scattered lights along the shoreline, even the sweep of what looked like a car’s headlights. Everything was blurry, and she realized that her eyes were watering in the cold wind, tears streaming down her cheeks. She kept paddling toward the lighthouse.
Just as she neared the shore, she saw a faint glimmer of dawn light on the horizon, the sky lightening to gray. The lighthouse was like something from a postcard. White with a black top, below it a lightkeepers’ house, painted red. And in front of the house she could make out a lone car, its lights off, along the edge of what was probably a visitors’ parking lot. Was someone waiting for her? She turned south and began paddling as hard as she could. She was hoping to spot a better place to come onto shore, less rocky, and not someplace where she might be spotted.
The kayak was moving slowly, a rip current working against her, but soon she spotted a tree-shrouded cove, a strip of sand visible in the dawn light. She pointed the kayak toward the shore, slapping against a flat rock just under the water, then the bow of the kayak slid up onto the beach. She stood, lost her balance, and fell out of the kayak into three inches of icy water. Her elbow hit something sharp and her arm went numb. She grunted, then quickly stood, pulling the kayak a little farther up on the beach.
The sky was now a pearly white, and the air was filled with dawn mist.
A man stepped out of the tree line about ten yards from her, a long rifle in the crook of his arm.
CHAPTER 32
Every Vow You Break Page 22
