I stumbled out of the way, fearing the janitor turning and spotting me. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t even glance from side to side in a paranoid way, as I imagined a criminal would. He marched on, carrying that black plastic bag slung Santa-like over his shoulder, and never looked back. He finally stopped at a beat up red pickup truck. I watched through two windows of a Ford a few rows away.
If the bag truly contained garbage, I would have expected the guy to sling it into the bed of the truck. Instead, he held onto it possessively as he heaved himself into the driver’s seat. At this point, I was convinced I’d found my man. Now I had to make sure not to lose him.
Ducking, I wove a frantic path to my car, hoping I’d be able to catch up to the rusty truck before it left the lot. I had no breath to spare, but my mind managed a hasty prayer as I entered my car. Please, God, let him lead me to Max. Snapping my seatbelt together, my stomach fluttered as I wondered just how fast I might end up going.
Come on, come on, I prodded silently as a young couple, arms linked, took their time strolling past the rear of my car. A second after they cleared me, I zipped out of my spot, shifted to drive, and moved forward as fast as I dared.
Catching sight of the pickup turning left out of the lot, I made the same turn a few moments later, onto a sloped road that curved just enough to keep me worried that I was losing the man. Dirty fumes twirled from his exhaust pipe. I pressed my booted foot hard on the accelerator, making my car slip and slide and zigzag forward.
Not taking my eyes from the snow-fringed road, I snaked my hand into my pocket and seized my phone. I tried Donnelly’s number, but now when I needed him to, he didn’t pick up. I left a brief message, barely pausing for breath as I spoke. “It’s me, Charlene. I’m on County Road C right now, trailing an old red pickup, heading north. I think the driver’s the kidnapper. I followed him from the ski lodge, he’s dressed like a janitor, and I’m almost certain he has the ransom. I hope you get this soon. Send cops, please!”
The truck was getting too far ahead of me.
“Donnelly,” I muttered, and dialed 911. I sped up, hoping to read the truck’s license plate.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“I think I’m trailing the guy who kidnapped my brother.”
The dispatcher began asking detailed questions. She wanted the truck’s license number, but I could see now that it had no license, at least not on the rear of the truck.
The driver never used indicators when turning, so my turns were abrupt. I wished I could clamp both hands on the wheel.
“What road are you on now?” the dispatcher asked.
“Um.” I scanned the roadside for a sign. “I don’t know anymore. County Road C when we started, but that was a little while ago. We took some turns . . .” Flustered, I let my voice trail off. I’d been so focused on following the truck, that I’d forgotten to watch signs.
“Let me get this straight,” the dispatcher said slowly, as if I had all the time in the world. “You haven’t been kidnapped. You chose to follow this man. You don’t know whether he is a kidnapper or not, you’re guessing; and you don’t know where you are, but you want me to send help?”
“That’s right, more or less.” Upset at the lack of urgency in her voice, I added, “I have very good reason to believe this guy’s the one responsible for kidnapping my brother.” I switched to defending myself. “How could I let him get away? Of course I followed him.”
“Well, if I don’t know where to,” began the dispatcher, and then all I heard was dead air.
“Hello? Can’t you trace this call?”
“. . . do what we can . . .”
“You’re breaking up,” I cried, then realized as I swung around a bend, it was, of course, me who was breaking up, losing service on these twisting, remote roads.
Remote. I swallowed. Isolated. Alone with a potential kidnapper. I clenched my teeth and forced a prayer through them.
My eyes flitted to my gas gauge. I had about a quarter tank left. What if I broke down in the middle of nowhere? How far was this kidnapper planning to go? What if he drove all night? At some point, he was going to wise up to me. I could turn around. No one could say I didn’t try. My foot pressed on the gas. Trying is not going to comfort me if Max ends up dead.
Again, I thumbed Donnelly’s number. My phone flashed “no service” and I was tempted to chuck it out the window.
The pines grew tall and tight on each side of the narrow road, so that the sun might as well not have existed. The green branches twisted together, gleefully choking all light. Then the branches began turning ghostly white under falling snow, and I switched on my windshield wipers.
The flakes fell like frozen feathers through the yellow glow of my headlights. I shivered, though my heater blew full blast. It was just me and the truck driving on a gray tattered ribbon of road in a world becoming increasingly obscured by snow. Why aren’t there any other cars? My anxiety increased. This guy’s going to realize I’m following him, if he hasn’t already. I eased my foot off the gas and slowed down.
The truck’s taillights glowed red, then disappeared around a bend. By the time I rounded the same bend, I didn’t see the truck on the stretch of road ahead. Fearing I’d lost him, I increased my speed.
My eyes were so focused on the road in front of me, that by the time I saw the truck behind me, it was too late. The hunk of metal bore down on me like a motorized monster. My stomach dropped to my feet and I floored the pedal. Somehow I picked up my phone and punched the buttons. Still no service.
Flicking my eyes to the rearview mirror, I gasped as the truck rammed me. My head slammed back against the headrest. The phone flew from my hand. The car spun and my heart lurched. Too late, my hands fought the wheel in an attempt to correct my sliding tires.
I didn’t have time to scream or even breathe before the car thudded to a halt. Whipped by the impact, my neck radiated pain. Belatedly, my heart picked up a panicky rhythm. All I saw out the windshield was a white wall of snow, and despite my fuzzy brain, I realized I’d been forced off the road into an embankment. He did that on purpose. I’ve got to get out of here.
My seatbelt held me tight inside the tilted car. I fumbled with my clumsy gloved hands to unbuckle the belt. Immediately, I fell forward. I twisted my body in the cumbersome bulk of my coat and opened the door. I squished through at an awkward angle, and the rhythmic purr of the wipers reminded me I’d left the car running. Backing up, I saw its nose was buried obstinately in a drift, like an animal in hibernation. The snow that fell in the glow of my taillights seemed tinted with blood. My ears pricked at the sound of another door being opened—the door of the truck behind me.
He’s coming after me. Alarm shot through my body and I hurtled into the woods. My heavy boots, the thick snow, and the snaring, snagging underbrush caused me to stumble.
The voice that bellowed after me told me I was not overreacting. “Get back here, girl! It’ll only be worse if you run.”
I ran faster, and promptly tripped. My mind processed the fact that my little scissors had fallen from my pocket into the snow.
Amidst wicked laughter that was coming much too close, I scrambled to my feet and kept running. The scissors were too small and blunt to be an effective weapon, anyway, even if I did have the courage to use them.
If only it wasn’t wintertime. I wouldn’t be weighed down by bulky clothing. And the thick lush green foliage of summer would have gone a long way in helping conceal me. Maybe I could have even climbed up a tree and hidden high among the leafy branches. As it was, the stark contrast of naked brown tree trunks against white snow left too much visibility. There were not enough evergreens in this forest, though along the road there had seemed to be so many. At least I was wearing my muted blue coat and not a bright red or yellow one that screamed, “Here I am!”
“I’ll catch you eventually, girl,” my pursuer yelled. The tree branches chattered as if from fear. “You can’t outrun me, because even
if I can’t see you, I can follow your footprints.”
I choked on a curse and turned it into a prayer for more snow. Snow thick and heavy, snow to hide me like a curtain, snow to fill up my footprints fast as I make them. Snow, I continued, my mind chilling on this one concept, snow so pure and white and good, snow so soft and clean and gentle, my mind chanted inanely. Maybe I was going crazy with fear.
Branches scratched my face, but my skin was so numb with cold I barely felt it. My chest heaved with each breath, and my lungs alternately burned and froze. I was tiring much too quickly. My occasional fitness runs had never prepared me for the intensity of running for my life through a woods of obstacles, inches of snow hindering my feet like wet cement. My boots felt heavier each time I lifted them, but I didn’t dare slow or turn around. I had no destination to run to. Just away. Away from the fear of the unknown, of what my pursuer would do if he caught me.
At one point, I thought I heard him yelling again, but if so, it came from a distance. A sliver of relief pierced my frigid thoughts. For the first time, I risked a backward glance. The man was nowhere in sight. By now the snow was falling faster, and concern at the thought of him being able to follow my footprints, faded.
I assessed my situation, wishing I had some point of reference. I was thoroughly lost in a strange woods, with no idea how big it was, or any sense of direction, not with the sun smothered by clouds. I wondered how long the man would continue hunting me. I was acutely aware that he could appear at any time. Maybe he was hiding behind a fat tree trunk. My eyes searched the bare deciduous trees interspersing the snow-clad pines and dry frilly ferns. All I heard now was the happy twittering of winter birds.
If only I had my phone. I pictured it lying uselessly on the floor of my car, were it had probably landed after being jarred from my hand. It wasn’t working anyway, I told myself, though this was no consolation. What a mess I’d gotten myself into. Grandfather had been right to send Rob to watch out for me, after all. I would gladly swallow my pride to have him and his confidence with me now.
I smacked my hands together. In all fairness, I couldn’t blame Grandfather for this one. No one could have foreseen that Miss Responsible would get herself into this grave situation.
Snow continued sifting down. I clasped my cold fingers together. You should have worn mittens, I rebuked myself. Mittens keep you warmer than gloves.
I let out a frustrated laugh, but stopped when I heard the echo, so hollow and unnatural, flung back at me as if even the woods didn’t want it. The kidnapper would want it, I reminded myself, and I bit my lip.
I spun in a circle, but every view promised the same endless stretch of trees and snow. I sighed, mentally flipped a coin, and began walking—doing precisely the opposite of what I’d been taught from kindergarten to do if you get lost, which is to stay in one place till you’re found.
“Problem is,” I mumbled, “that doesn’t do any good when no one’s looking for you.” No one, that is, but a freaky kidnapper.
Chapter Eight
With no destination in sight, I continued plodding through the snow, each lift of my boot an enormous effort. My feet sweltered in their wool socks while my nose prickled in the cold.
My thoughts turned to the basic instinct of self-preservation. Even Max was momentarily forgotten. I needed to find help for myself before I could resume my search for him. If I could find the road, maybe I could flag down a car. The more chilled I became, even hitching a ride with a stranger sounded inviting, especially in a heated vehicle. I trudged on, thinking that if I kept walking, maybe I would come across a house; but realistically, I couldn’t imagine anyone living in this creepy woods.
My mind tortured me by recalling the way Max and I, as little kids, used to play Hansel and Gretel in the forests up north with our dad. On those rare vacations, scary thrills had been welcome. Security lay in knowing the game could be ended at any time, and that my family was near.
Unlike now. Quirky thoughts about breadcrumbs and gingerbread houses failed to amuse me. I felt like I was walking through an enchanted forest in which the trees formed a deadly maze. I may wander in here forever. At that moment, I determined that no matter how tired I became, I would not lie down to rest. Because I might never get back up. I tried not to think about nightfall, which would be coming soon.
I could have looked at my watch to find out how soon, but unburying it from my fat coat sleeve would require energy, and I had none to spare. All energy went into keeping my legs stumbling forward. I lost my footing countless times, collapsing in the snow like a wobbly newborn fawn.
Get up, I ordered myself, Get up. As I heaved myself to a standing position for what felt like the fiftieth time, I caught sight of movement beyond the trees several yards away. Was it animal or human? A chill managed to quiver up what I’d assumed was my already frozen spine. Sucking in breath, which shot like ice water through my teeth, I pressed my body up against a tree trunk and watched the figure come closer.
It was a person, but I knew right away from the man’s build, that he was not my pursuer. If this man was muscular, it didn’t show through his thick flannel coat. He held a five-gallon bucket and a fishing rod in one hand, the bucket bouncing against his leg as he strode through the woods. Instead of continuing in my direction, he swerved to the left and began climbing a slight hill.
Nothing about him seemed threatening, and I didn’t have many options, so I called out. The weak voice that came from my throat sounded pitiful. I scrambled forward.
“Hello!” I called again as I struggled up the slope after him. “Wait, please,” I panted.
He was just turning around when I slipped and fell, planting my face in the snow. I barely felt the cold on my senseless skin, but I lifted my head and brushed the clinging crystals away. Through icy lashes, I saw the fisherman approaching. My foggy mind told me that the young man had a kind face. A very good-looking kind face.
“Are you okay?” He peered down at me, blinking like he didn’t quite believe what he saw. His forehead wrinkled beneath his black stocking hat, which failed to conceal all his brown hair. He offered me his gloved hand. Taking it, I hauled myself to my feet and looked up at him, into eyes that matched the deep brown of his hair. “Are you okay?” he repeated.
“I’m cold. Tired. But fine,” I managed between chattering teeth. And why do I suddenly feel like I’m blushing?
“You look terrible.”
You don’t. I blinked. I’m losing my common sense. So what if he’s incredibly handsome? That’s really low on my list of importance right now. But I couldn’t stop staring.
His dark eyebrows drew together in concern. “Your face is white and your lips are purple. You must’ve been wandering out here awhile. You by yourself?”
I let out a weak breath. “I wasn’t originally by myself, though that would have been preferable. Some maniac—” I stopped, afraid he’d think I was delusional. I couldn’t afford to scare him away. “I really just need to warm up and call for some help. Do you know how to get out of these woods?”
“Sure. I’ve got a cabin not too far from here. That’s where I’m headed. But first—” he squinted at me—“did I hear you right? Something about a maniac?”
I shook my head, causing snow to sprinkle from my hat. “Forget it. It was nothing.” My gut told me it was best not to confide in a stranger, no matter how good-looking. If past experience proved anything, he wouldn’t believe me anyway. Besides, there was nothing that could be done about the situation until I contacted Donnelly. Even then, I knew not to expect much.
The fisherman shrugged, then lifted the bucket and pole. “I was out on the lake doing some ice fishing. Didn’t catch anything worth keeping, though. Come on, I’ll help you to the cabin and start a fire so you can warm up.”
“That sounds great. Thank you.” We walked slowly, and though he offered me his arm, I declined. He had the bucket and pole to carry, and if I focused, I could muster enough energy to walk without stumbling.<
br />
While I hardly felt up to it, I made small talk. Mainly asking questions, I learned the name of the closest town was Cedar Hills, a place I’d never heard of before. I also learned that the fisherman’s name was Clay Morrow, he was twenty-one, and he lived in a college dorm two hours away, but he liked to come here to fish when he got the chance. I preferred discussing him rather than me, as I didn’t want to go into all the crazy details of my current situation. He didn’t prod. In fact, he didn’t say much of anything besides answering my questions.
We arrived at the small log cabin, and I was disappointed. We were still in what I considered the middle of the woods, with trees surrounding the cabin on every side. A snow blanketed drive sloped down to a rustic road, however, and that was promising. Beside the cabin sat a small blue Geo, and I assumed it was Clay’s. Ugly rust bubbles had erupted through the paint on the lower part of the car.
From here the cabin appeared dark, even with bright white flakes clinging to the logs. Hundreds of concentric knots in the wood peered like dark eyes beneath brows of snow, scrutinizing me. The roof was rimmed with a fringe of ice daggers.
I followed Clay up three rickety steps onto the small wooden porch, where he deposited his fishing pole and bucket and then scooped up an armload of firewood from a nearby stack. Shreds of bark peppered the snow. He hugged the wood under one arm while unlocking the door. I watched him enter the dimness, wondering why I suddenly felt so wary of following. But he stood waiting patiently with his arms laden with logs, and I needed shelter and warmth, so I stepped inside.
He closed the squeaky door behind me, then dropped the logs near a dented wood-burning stove, its crooked black pipe stretching to the ceiling. Chunks of snow dropped from my boots onto a thin brown mat. I felt no warmer than I had outside.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink?” he asked as he knelt and opened the door to the stove and arranged some sticks. “We don’t have anything fancy, but we do keep the place stocked with canned food. We’ve got running water, too.”
Frozen Footprints Page 8
