Moonbow

by Sheila Hollinghead

  Well, no matter. She just wouldn't look. If they found her, at least she wanted to be clean. She had to chance that no one was near enough to the house to hear her. If they were, they would have heard her fall from the attic, right?

  She turned on the water and stepped into the shower, holding onto a rail built into the wall.

  Seeing the blood wash down the drain and feeling the prickles of fear running along her spine, the music of Psycho played in her head, and she couldn't silence it. She quickly finished and limped back to the hallway closet by holding onto the wall. She found a pair of scrubs and dressed.

  Despair washed over her. How could she ever get out now that she could barely walk? She'd worry about that after she took care of her injuries. She made it back to the bathroom, bandaged up her forehead and hands the best she could, and returned to the hallway. She straightened the ladder and painfully climbed. She had to retrieve her bags, no matter how difficult.

  When she made it to the top, she stopped to rest, letting her legs dangle through the opening. The files she had dumped on the floor were scattered around her. She looked at them idly, wondering what the files were doing in the attic. She glanced down at one next to her, and her breath caught in her throat. It was labeled Marko Ostheim, her grandfather's name. She quickly searched the other files. Several more were labeled Ostheim but she did not recognize the first names.

  Why? Why would Die Auserwählten have files on her family? She didn't have time to find out now. She found her bags, jammed the files into one to read later, and dropped the three bags onto the floor below. She climbed down the ladder and stared at what she would need to carry, knowing it would be even more difficult now with her bumped-up knees. She knelt on a sore knee, grimacing, and unzipped the archery bag. A bow and six arrows were inside. Would it be worth it to carry it with her? She had no weapons—nothing but the small knives.

  She nodded. It really wasn't that heavy, and it might come in handy. She stood, hoisted the backpack to her shoulders, and looped the handles of the archery bag high on one arm. She picked up the other bag and carried it to the kitchen, again using the walls for support. She searched for more food supplies and found a few more things to add to her meager store.

  She also found a bottle of Tylenol, shook out a couple, and swallowed them, before adding the bottle to her bag. There was no more bottled water, so she took her empty bottles and filled them at the sink.

  What else would she need? She went to her old bathroom and added toothpaste, and toothbrush to her bag. She was ready. It was now or never.

  She crept to the front of the house. Was the alarm still set? She saw no way of turning an alarm off. It must be controlled from outside of the house. If she opened it and the alarm blared, anyone in the vicinity would hear it. Could she cut the wires? No, not without opening the door. She took a deep breath.

  Only one way to find out if the alarm was still activated. She braced herself and cautiously opened the front door.

  RAYDEN WAS SEVERAL streets away from the abandoned truck and slowed to a walk. His heart pounded in his ears. Sirens sounded in the distance. He was sure the truck would soon be found.

  The cookie-cutter houses in the residential neighborhood were jammed close together each with small yards, most neglected with more weeds than cultivated plants.

  He passed a man washing a car in a driveway at one of the better kept homes. Rayden walked past two more houses before he decided to backtrack. He steadied his breathing before approaching the balding man.

  “Excuse me. My truck broke down.”

  The heavy set man with a protruding belly looked up but continued spraying his car with a hose. “Don’t you have a cell phone?” His eyes narrowed as he frowned at Rayden.

  “Left it at home. If it’s not too much trouble, could you take me to a garage?” At least it would get him farther away from the cops. That is if the garage were a distance away.

  The man studied Rayden, his eyes under his bushy brows appraising him. “I can take you to a repair shop for twenty bucks.” He locked his gaze with Rayden’s.

  Rayden dropped his eyes, simply nodded, and opened his backpack, extracting a twenty dollar bill. He handed it to the man who took it, stuffed it in his pocket, and nodded toward the car.

  “Get in. But don’t get any dirt on the carpet. I just vacuumed it. And your dog stays on the floorboard.”

  "No problem. Thanks."

  They climbed in the car, and the man backed out of the driveway. Rayden stared out the window and took slow deep breaths. When he realized the man kept glancing at him, he forced himself to relax his tense muscles.

  “I really appreciate your help,” Rayden said.

  The man nodded but didn’t speak. After a couple of miles, he pulled up to a car repair shop. Rayden got out and snapped his fingers in a command to Prometheus.

  Once he had gathered his backpack, Rayden bent to peer at the man in the car. “Thanks again.”

  The man didn’t answer, so Rayden closed the door and strode away.

  The car, however, did not move. Rayden glanced over his shoulder and saw that the man watched him.

  Rayden sighed. He had no choice but to enter the shop.

  * * *

  Gisa

  The door creaked open. No alarm blared, and Gisa breathed a sigh of relief.

  Her gaze swept the yard. No cars. The dirt driveway, lined with gravel, wound through trees.

  Gisa hovered in the doorway, listening, watching. She could do this. She left the safety of the house and walked as quickly as she could to the nearest tree. She stood with her back pressed to the bark. All was quiet.

  Suddenly a contraction hit her, so severe that she gasped. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She breathed through it and waited a few minutes, bent forward, still panting. Was she going into labor? Panic threatened to engulf her. She swallowed it back. But minutes ticked by, and she didn't have another one. No, she wasn't going into labor. It was almost a command to herself. How could she escape while having a baby? No, she would be okay. She had to be.

  She cautiously made her way to the next tree, looking back over her shoulder, but saw no signs of life except for a few birds and a squirrel. She moved forward, the fall leaves crunching. Acorns made it painful to walk with her bare feet. Too bad Ralph and Tom's clothes had been removed, along with their shoes. Sure, the shoes would have been big, but they would have offered some protection. Besides the pain of her feet, her knees still ached, even after taking the Tylenol.

  But she had no choice but to move forward. She plunged deeper into the woods and exhilaration helped her forget her pains. She was out—out of the house where she had been imprisoned for so many months. She stayed hidden in the trees but followed the curve of the driveway, little more than ruts in the dirt. She walked for a mile, her gaze sweeping around her, but she saw no one, heard nothing—only birds and squirrels rustling in the tops of the trees. Surely the driveway would end at a road. Yet it was another quarter mile, at least, before she saw it.

  At the sight of the road, her heart dropped. A gate topped with barbed wire, chained and padlocked, blocked her way.

  The gate was connected to a chain-link fence that was at least twice her height. However, there was no barbed wire across the top. She moved closer to the fence, her muscles tense, expecting to see someone at any moment. Yet all remained quiet. Could she climb that high with the cuts on her hands, her knees barely working? There had to be another way out.

  The fence was well constructed and looked brand new, no sagging, no weak spots, and no way through. She walked along it, picking up a stick to test the strength. It was solid, but she kept moving along it, dragging the stick so that it clinked, clinked, clinked along the enclosure. How far did it extend? Would it have any more gates, a smaller one perhaps, that she could get through? Could she dig under it?

  Had she escaped the imprisonment of the house to only find herself a prisoner outside? Did God bring her here to taunt her? Why woul
d she believe in such a God, one that had allowed her to fall and damage her knees, to make things even more difficult? Or, had that simply been her own clumsiness? Her own choices?

  She didn't know. But right now, with this fence holding her in, she needed to look for shelter. Should she go back to the house, hole up there, wait until someone found her? No, not yet. She would figure out something, somehow, someway. She sank to the ground to rest her weary legs.

  RAYDEN LOOPED THE leash around a post, told the dog to stay, and pushed open the door. A young blonde woman sat behind a counter, her eyes on a computer screen.

  “May I help you?” As she turned, her eyes widened as they focused on Rayden. A smile curved on her lips as she tilted her head. He ignored her flirtatious glance.

  “Ma’am, may I use your phone?” His fingers drummed the counter and then slowed. He drew the wavy Y and encircled it over and over, waiting for her to answer.

  Her gaze slowly left Rayden, as if reluctantly, to land on the phone. “Don’t see why not. Just a second. I think one of the mechanics is on the line.”

  Rayden glanced out the window. The suspicious man had finally driven away. He slowly blew out a breath, his fingers stilling.

  “Everything okay?” the woman asked.

  “Fine as frog hair split three ways.”

  The woman laughed, but Rayden suddenly felt too tired to smile.

  "That's pretty fine." Her eyes brightened as she pushed the phone to him.

  He shook his head. “Thanks. But I think I see my ride outside.”

  "Well, if you ever need anything..." Here the woman raised one eyebrow, suggestively. "Please don't hesitate to ask." The woman tilted her head again and smiled a goodbye, her finger playing with the telephone cord.

  Rayden nodded without smiling. He went out, untied Prometheus, and walked across the parking lot, his eyes searching for the man's car or for any sign of the police. He saw nothing. He felt as if eyes watched him; his skin prickled. He kicked at the leaves in his path, sending acorns scattering. What was he going to do now?

  He raked his fingers through his hair. His feet slowed to a stop. He searched his backpack, pulled out a cap, and jammed it on his head. He knew the bumper cam had caught him on tape. It would just be a matter of time before he was identified.

  Just a few minutes ago, he had it made, with money in his pocket and a truck, traveling incognito. Now, he was back on foot, still a couple of hundred miles away from his destination. He resisted the urge to slam his fist into one of the leaning utility poles. God hamstringing him again. He clenched his jaw to keep from cursing.

  Somehow he needed to change his appearance, blend in, escape the scrutiny of the police, while he made his way north. He spotted a barber shop and considered it for a moment. His hair now touched his shoulders. Maybe it wouldn't help much, but it couldn't hurt. He headed to the barber shop, tied up the dog outside, and went in. One of the chairs was empty. The woman barber stood behind it, her arms on the back. She straightened and smiled.

  “Would you like a haircut?” she asked. For someone who cut hair, her own was very plain. She had her dull brown hair pulled straight back. However, her face was heavily made up with penciled-in eyebrows.

  He nodded and sat down in the chair. She draped the cape around him.

  “How would you like it cut?” She swiveled the seat so that he faced the mirror.

  “I want it shaved.”

  “Shaved?” The woman’s voice sounded surprised.

  “Shaved,” he repeated.

  Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?” She placed a hand on his head and caught his gaze in the mirror.

  He grinned at her. “Hair grows back.”

  “Not if you’re like Frank there.” She pointed her thumb at the male barber, and they both laughed. Rayden managed a chuckle. She picked up clippers and turned it on. Rayden watched in the mirror as his hair fell around him.

  Rayden scarcely recognized himself when she was finished. And that was the point. He hoped no one else would either. Prometheus wagged his tail as he came out of the barbershop. He stood beside Prometheus, his hand absently stroking the dog's head.

  Maybe he could catch a bus. But should he chance it? Would the police be monitoring the bus stations? And he had the dog with him, making it more difficult. It would be best to stay on foot—perhaps he could hitchhike. Right now he would be wise to get off the streets.

  He headed north into a more rundown part of Grace, Tennessee. He had walked a couple of blocks when he came to an intersection. On one corner was a barbeque stand, on another, a gas station with barred doors, on the third, a dollar store, and on the last corner, a motel. A couple were making out near its entrance, the man's hands beneath the girl's shirt. He averted his gaze. Beer cans were scattered among the overgrown bushes.

  He crossed the street to the motel. He knelt and patted Prometheus. Maybe he should get rid of the dog. They would be looking for a man and dog. But as the dog nudged his hand, he realized he couldn't do that.

  "Okay, boy. I'll see if they allow pets. Maybe this will be the last time I have to tie you up today."

  * * *

  Gisa

  Gisa had fallen asleep. When she awoke, night had gathered. Sitting up, she brushed the leaves out from under her, found a more comfortable position, and fell back asleep.

  When she awoke again, sunlight streamed through the branches above her. She arose, her mouth gritty, and rummaged in the backpack for a bottle of water. The metallic gleam of the fence shown in the early morning light, taunting her. She contemplated it. She was almost nine months pregnant and barefoot—the thought made her chuckle—and banged up from her fall. Was she crazy to even attempt it? But what was the alternative? Eventually, wouldn't someone return here and find her? She had to get out.

  She pulled out one of the maternity scrubs and the duct tape. Maybe she could do something to protect her feet and hands.

  The material ripped easily, and she tore it into strips and wound them around her toes, securing them with tape.

  It was a little harder to get her fingers wrapped, but she managed.

  She should have thrown her bags over the fence first, before wrapping her hands. Now it was too late. Clumsily, she picked up her backpack.

  It took a couple of tries, but she finally managed to fling it over, followed by the other two bags. When they were safely on the other side, she grasped the fence and began to climb, feeling uneasy, as if eyes watched her. Her large belly kept her from leaning close to the fence and resting as she wished to. She kept pulling herself up, her muscles burning with each tug. Sweat ran down her face, running under her bandaged head, increasing the pain. Her hands began bleeding again.

  She made it to the top and allowed herself a small cry of victory before descending. At the bottom, she collapsed, lying flat on her back. The baby kicked vigorously as if urging her up. The tape was shredded and bloody. She ripped it and the cloth from her hands and feet. She looked at the thick trees in front of her. Soon, she'd make it back to the gate and find the road. But right now, she needed to rest from her climb. She plunged into the woods, looking for a place to hide.

  RAYDEN WALKED UP to the check-in counter and propped his backpack against it. A young man, who looked as if he were still in his teens, sat behind it, popping his chewing gum and reading a comic book.

  “I would like a room, please,” Rayden said.

  The boy barely glanced up. “How many hours?”

  “How many hours? You mean days, don’t you?”

  “No, we rent by the hour.”

  “Um...” It was now four o’clock. If he left at six in the morning, that would be fourteen hours. “Fourteen hours.”

  “Five dollars an hour. That’ll be sixty dollars.”

  “Five times fourteen is seventy. Seventy dollars.”

  “What?” The boy had actually put his comic book down and was looking up at him.

  “Fourteen times five is seventy. Seventy dollars.”r />
  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  "Do you allow pets?"

  "Sure." The boy waved a hand with dirty nails. "No problem."

  Rayden grimaced and paid him, counting the money into the boy's hand. The boy handed him a key in a cracked leather key holder embossed with Room 43. Not a card like most motels used but a key. Rayden glanced at the trash littering the floor. Figured.

  “That way.” The boy jerked a thumb toward a hallway.

  Rayden went out to get Prometheus, and then they went back in and found the room. He had to jiggle the key in the lock to get the door open.

  Prometheus jumped promptly on the bed, and Rayden shrugged. He didn't see a difference it would make. His room smelled faintly of urine. The bedspread was stained with something Rayden preferred not to know the origin of. He pushed the covers aside, allowing Prometheus to tamp them down to his liking. He unrolled his sleeping bag on the mattress.

  He dug peanut butter and crackers out of his backpack, but the smell of the room nauseated him. After giving Prometheus his share, he took his food outside to the back of the motel. A soft drink dispenser stood in an alcove, and he bought a Coke.

  There weren’t any chairs or tables, so he sat down, cross-legged, on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall. He ate his crackers and peanut butter, washing it down with the drink.

  There were a few parking spaces and then a narrow gassy area bordered by a sagging chain-link fence. In one corner of the parking lot was a dumpster. His eyes kept a continuous search while he ate, but he saw no one.

  He went back to his room to be greeted by an enthusiastic dog.

  "I wouldn't leave you here, boy." He patted the dog's sides, crawled into the sleeping bag, ignoring the sounds coming through the thin walls, and slept.

  He awoke groggy to a knocking on the door. Prometheus was sitting up, alert, but not growling.