Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I charged over and flung myself down on the bank and drank. Nothing tasted so delicious. I plunged my face into the icy water, instantly cooling it. Thank you, Lord.

  With the cold water, I rinsed my scratches and the gouged areas where the arrows scraped my skin. Bruises checkered my body. Standing, I looked for movement behind me. I didn’t see the cougar, but the terrain was heavily timbered.

  Shadows started to stretch across the small valley. Night would not be my friend if I had no flashlight or lantern. Moving as swiftly as I could through the underbrush, I crossed the valley and started up the mountain.

  The climb was steep, with loose rocks that carried me backward one step for every two I made. Dust clogged my nose, branches snagged my clothing, and my toes felt like they were one big blister. Partway up, I paused to catch my breath. Sweat again soaked my torn T-shirt and mixed with Phil’s blood, creating a reeking stench. I turned and watched for the cougar. The trees and shrubs framed a small section of creek far below.

  The cougar stalked to the creek, sniffed, then looked up.

  His eyes stared directly into mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  TURNING, I SPRINTED UP THE SLOPE, PLOWING THROUGH the underbrush, shoving pine limbs aside. A grouse burst from the bushes near me. More crashing came from my left as something very large and dark moved away. I caught a glimpse of lighter fur on the rear. Elk.

  The noise could be covering up the sound of the approaching mountain lion.

  Running faster, I gasped for breath, my legs made of cement, my muscles burning. The dense woods around me darkened. Indigo clouds blocked the sun.

  I tripped, fell forward, and landed on a patch of pine needles. The ground leveled.

  A long clearing dotted with small pines and patches of wild daisies narrowed toward a massive pine in the distance. The remains of a small plane wrapped around the base of the tree.

  The sight blurred for a moment and I blinked hard. My hands made fists, my nails digging into my palms.

  A brisk wind stirred and bent the tops of the forest surrounding the field, and more clouds moved in, blotting out the sun.

  If it rains, I’ll never get a fire started. And without a fire, that cougar . . .

  I ran as fast as my tired legs would propel me. The nearer I came to the wreck, the smaller the plane looked.

  The burnt sienna color I’d seen wasn’t the paint on the plane, it was the rust. The landing gear was gone, the fuselage resting on the ground with the front facing me. A pine had crushed the pilot’s side. A large, horizontal branch the size of a small tree had destroyed the windshield, slicing off the top of the cabin to where the wing attached to the roof. Evidence of that long-ago recovery showed with the passenger door cut and pried open. It now swung gently in the breeze. Rescuers had removed the seat—reduced to wire and rotted leather—and placed it on the ground next to the cabin.

  I walked around the wreckage. The plane was now a part of the giant ponderosa. The scars from the crash were gone, but it appeared the plane tried to land, sliced into the tree, wrapped around the trunk, and finally was stopped by the tree limb.

  Beth had called the plane a Skymaster. Without the traditional tail, only the fuselage remained. The right-side wing rested partly on the branch. A support structure still kept the wing horizontal, though the tip had rusted through. The left wing was a crumpled mass of metal some distance away. Over the thirty-plus years, pines had sprouted around the plane.

  My parents were sitting there when the plane spun around the tree. No time to duck.

  A drop of rain pulled me out of my sooty-black thoughts. I’d need a dry spot for the night. The right wing afforded some protection. Quickly I gathered fallen tree branches, dried pine needles, and pinecones, placing them in a pile under the wing.

  Dusk took on a jaundiced hue with the approaching storm. The breeze turned cool and smelled of rain.

  Pausing, I glanced down the field. A flash of tawny fur at the far end told me I was out of time. The cougar still stalked me. Gathering the dried needles, a bit of old bark, and a few small twigs, I opened the matchbook. I had six matches. Six chances to start a fire.

  The cat approached.

  I lit a match with shaking hands, then dropped it. It went out. A second match was no better.

  The cougar moved steadily through the brush and grass, tail low and twitching.

  The third match went out with a puff of wind.

  Please, Lord. I tore the top off the matchbook, adding the bit of paper to my small pile. The next match caught some needles on fire, burned for a moment, then went out.

  The cougar grew larger. He was at least three feet tall at the shoulder and over two hundred pounds.

  If I couldn’t get the fire going, I’d have to stand and try to appear larger than the cat. I had two rocks I found to throw. After that . . . well, I needed to get the fire going.

  The fifth match I placed under the paper, then cupped my hands around it. The paper caught fire, which spread to the needles. Gently I blew on the small flames as I fed the fire more needles, then a pinecone.

  The mountain lion stopped twenty feet away and hissed.

  “Get out of here!” I stood and threw a rock. Missed.

  The cougar hissed again and crouched.

  My lips were numb. Even though the air was chilly, sweat broke out over my body. I added more pinecones and sticks to the fire. The cones flared and popped.

  The cougar flattened his ears, hissed again, and moved a few steps away. I could barely see him in the dark. Behind the mountains to my right, lightning flickered like a strobe light and distant thunder rumbled. A shhhhhhhh grew louder as the rain splashed through the trees before pinging on the airplane wing above me. I piled more wood onto the fire, then checked my supply of fuel.

  I didn’t have enough wood to last until morning. Not even close.

  A streak of lightning lit up the field. The cougar crouched thirty feet from me.

  Help wouldn’t come before morning, especially with the storm.

  Boom! Thunder rattled the metal wing above me.

  Lifting a small burning branch, I inspected the fuselage next to me. The tree limb had peeled the roof of the cabin as far back as the rear seats. I could crawl inside that area to be safe, but a four-foot gap remained where the front passenger seat had rested. If I could put the removed seat back in place, the cougar couldn’t reach me. Maybe. Assuming I could keep the door shut. And attach the seat.

  And there could be spiders.

  I stuck the burning branch inside the space and moved it around, hoping any creepy-crawly bug would die or leave.

  You’re worried about a spider when a cougar is just waiting to make you his dinner?

  The two rear bucket seats of the plane were still somewhat intact, protected by the remnants of the wing and large tree limb.

  The lightning flashed every few seconds, with thunder rolling across the sky. The cat lay a short distance away in the rain, ignoring the storm, watching me.

  Saving one good-sized branch, I added the last of the wood to the fire. It blazed with a welcome warmth. After throwing the branch into the rear of the plane, I stepped into the rain and grabbed the rotting seat. I was instantly drenched. I manhandled the seat into the front of the plane.

  Closing and fastening the door would help keep the seat in place, but the latch was broken. A piece of rope, shoelace, or belt would hold it shut. I had none of these.

  Slipping my arms inside my clammy T-shirt, I reached back and unfastened my bra. I removed the breast prostheses, Ginger and Mary Ann. Pulling my arms back out, I chucked them into the rear of the plane. I tied the bra firmly to the door, crawled under the tree limb into the fuselage, and pulled the door shut. The undamaged portion of the cabin smelled of moss and mildew. Weaving the bra between the metal frame of the rotted seat, I fastened the door closed.

  The icy rain pounded overhead. My hands shook so hard I could barely jam the chunk of wood through the wire
s, connecting the two front seats.

  The storm continued, with the lightning and thunder getting less frequent, but the rain increased. Large droplets of cold water dripped down my back and neck. I brought my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around my legs, and shivered. The fire I’d left burning looked warm and inviting as it flickered on the undersurface of the wing. The cougar would come as soon as the fire died down.

  I was wrong.

  Thump! The fuselage rocked as the giant cat leaped to the wing overhead. Two glowing eyes appeared between the rotted seats.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE COUGAR JUMPED FORWARD INTO THE REMAINS OF the cockpit. He spun and faced me, just beyond the pitiful wire seat barrier. He hissed.

  I could barely breathe. I shrank away as far as I could, pressing against the back of the cabin. “Go away.” The words came out as a whisper.

  The cat wrapped his claws around the metal framework separating us and pulled. The rusting plane rocked and squealed. The wire bent.

  “Get out of here!” My voice was louder, but high-pitched.

  The cougar leaned in and grabbed the wire seat with his teeth. His hot breath smelled of rancid meat and coppery blood.

  My stomach clenched. I will not go through cancer, divorce, and losing my job only to be dinner for an overgrown cat.

  I grabbed the only things I had to throw—my prosthetic breasts, Ginger and Mary Ann. Ginger whacked the wire by the cat’s mouth. The cougar let go of the wire and reared back. Mary Ann followed, thwacking the wire with a satisfying thump.

  In the dying light from the fire, the cat blinked at me.

  “Go on, get! Go away!” I kicked the wire.

  The cougar stuck his foot through the narrow opening between the seats, claws extended. I found Mary Ann and threw the breast form at the paw. The cat snagged the prosthetic and pulled it through the opening.

  “Take that, you miserable creature.” I kicked the wire again.

  The cougar jumped from the front of the plane.

  I couldn’t stop shaking. The small amount of light from the dying campfire was fading. The clouds would keep out any moonlight. I didn’t want to fight a mountain lion in the pitch dark.

  The cat returned, attacking the wire seats with teeth and claws.

  I screamed, kicked at his face, then threw the remaining prosthetic at the small opening. He grabbed it, narrowly missing my wrist with a sharp claw, and jumped away.

  Rustling, growling, thrashing came from beside the plane.

  Clutching my legs tighter, I prayed for mercy.

  The soft flickering changed to a glow, the glow faded to nothing.

  Darkness enveloped me.

  The rain continued to steadily thunder on the cabin roof as I grew even colder. Oversized drops gathered and dribbled through the rusted holes above me. The sound drowned out any noise the cougar might make. Had he gone?

  I was afraid to close my eyes. If I fell asleep and leaned against the wire front seats, the cat could reach me.

  What if no one came in the morning?

  Someone will come. I’ll make sure of it. Beth’s calm voice spoke in my mind.

  My throat closed up and eyes brimmed with unshed tears. When was the last time I’d told Beth how grateful I was for her friendship? She thinks she hangs around me for excitement. The truth is, I hang around her for her wisdom and friendship.

  I tried again to hear the cougar. The rain responded by pounding harder on the metal roof.

  Dan Kus’s words echoed in my head. The Nimi’ipuu had a practice that when a young person reached a certain age, he was sent out into the mountains alone to find his Wy ya kin—his animal or bird spirit. That spirit would speak to him and give him help throughout his lifetime.

  “Cougar, don’t you know the legend?” I spoke out loud. “You’re supposed to help me, not attack me as an hors d’oeuvre. I’m freezing, wet, smelly, and squashed into the rotting end of a crashed airplane.”

  I listened again. “I will say you have patience, waiting for your prey—”

  Waiting. Prey. I’d asked Beth how Jacob would recognize me after all these years. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t even be sure I’d have kept my name.

  “It would be nearly impossible for him to find me.” I tried to keep my teeth from chattering. “But not impossible for me to find him. What if he re-created the crime that Holly said occurred—the murder of my parents and my disappearance? Maybe in the same towns or cities where I lived.”

  A trap, Beth murmured in my brain. Like a South American margay, a jungle cat that lures monkeys down from the trees by making a sound like a hurt baby monkey.

  “One problem, though.” A particularly large dollop of rain hit my neck and ran down my spine. I curled up tighter to retain my body’s heat. “He’d have to be assuming I would notice the murders.”

  Not so much bait for the trap, but more like a line of breadcrumbs.

  “Or even several different kinds of bait. The murders would be one, and the letters to the editor would be another. That’s how I located Holly in the first place. Subtle, using the name I knew her by, and giving the location by using the letters of the state mental hospital. He must have figured I’d wonder if she was really dead after all.”

  Brilliant, Beth muttered.

  A scream like a woman getting murdered made every hair on my head stand on end. The fuselage rocked, metal clanged. The cougar had returned.

  I screamed back and grabbed for the seat, unable to see anything in the inky night. The wire twisted and pulled under my fingers. A sharp crack told me the wood holding the seats together had splintered. Still holding the wire, I groped around me, grasping for something, anything, to throw. My hand encountered rotting leather seat material with attached springs.

  A sharp, searing pain ripped through my upper arm. The cat’s claws were making headway.

  My fingers were burning with the pain of holding the seat. I reached behind me with my other hand, wrenching my shoulder, and fumbled between the bucket seats. Feeling only soft, squishy moss, I grabbed a handful and threw it.

  The cougar didn’t slow.

  I stuffed my hand behind the seat and found something metal. Flinging it, I heard it clang against the wire.

  The tugging stopped for a moment.

  Frantically clutching in the same area, I grasped more objects and thrust them forward.

  The cat hissed.

  I bit my tongue.

  Reaching behind me now, my fingers caught a round stick. With a jerk, I freed it and stabbed at the cougar.

  A yelp told me I’d hit my mark. I jabbed again. The stick broke, leaving a small piece in my hand. The cat snarled and spit. The cabin squealed and flexed as the feline jumped off the fuselage. The rain beat on the metal roof, making it impossible to hear any other noise. Please let him be gone. The rain slowed slightly, and I tried to quiet the sound of my ragged breathing. I waited.

  The cougar was gone.

  My fingers ached from clutching the stick. With an effort, I relaxed my hand. Rain turned to sleet, then a late spring snow. I was going to die of hypothermia. My hands and feet burned. I shook uncontrollably. Reaching between the seats where I’d found the stick and things to throw, I carefully felt around. Please, Lord, don’t let this be a spider’s hangout. This time I found a scrap of material and pulled it out. A clasp and metal edges showed it had once been a purse. Mom’s purse. The material was a cotton duck, like the fabric found in beach bags. Most of it had rotted away. Opening the purse, I felt papers and a chain.

  Paper. That was important. My shivering slowed. Yes. Paper. I had . . . one match. If I burned the paper, I could be warm.

  Fumbling, I pulled the matchbook from my pocket. I was so sleepy. Crumpling one sheet of paper, I set it by my feet. I struck the match on the striking surface. Missed. Tried again. And again. It flared to life. I dropped it.

  I moaned. Please, God . . .

  A tiny light flickered at my feet. I crumpled another s
crap of paper and added it to the small flame. Then another.

  The remains of a lace hankie from the purse joined the paper, then the purse itself. The fire warmed the small area around me. The tree branch was dry on the underside and I gouged some bark, adding the pieces slowly.

  The snow stopped, leaving a white frosting on the fuselage.

  Two remaining pieces of paper and I’d be out of fuel for the fire.

  I fed one scrap of paper to the dimming fire. The flames wrapped around the edges and burned inward until one word remained. Water.

  Water. I was thirsty. And hungry. The fire gobbled up the last piece of paper.

  I held up the broken stick I’d used to drive away the cougar and paused. It was blue. A blue stick. My mind was filled with cotton and it took time to work out what it was—part of a fiberglass fishing rod. I wasn’t going fishing. Or was I?

  Using the fishing rod, I stabbed at the tree limb, harvesting more bark. The effort exhausted me.

  I must have dozed off. I thought I’d just closed my eyes, but when I opened them, I could see the tiny cabin in the faint light of dawn.

  A spider dangled inches from my face.

  I shot backward the tiny distance I had, screaming. The movement sent the spider swaying at the end of its web. Kicking clumsily, I managed to squish it against the rusted wall.

  My frantic movements warmed me slightly. I slapped around my head, just in case a spider had landed on me overnight.

  On the floor, next to the ashes of my tiny fire, rested some items. After a few moments I worked out what I was looking at—a tube of lipstick, a chain, and a broken compact. I picked them up with numb fingers. They weren’t mine. They had to belong to . . . my mom. Pulling the cap off, I twisted up the light peach lipstick. It was flattened, dried out, and covered with dirt. This means something. I forced myself to concentrate. The cap had been on the tube . . . Raising my head, I stared at the large branch resting across the front of the plane, now scratched and gouged on the underside. Anyone sitting in those two seats would have died instantly. But someone in the back?