Cover Your Tracks

by Daco Auffenorde

  Now wary, the other three coyotes backed off but didn’t leave.

  Nick lifted his head. His wounds were far more severe than she’d imagined. There were bites all over his face and neck. Blood poured out of his left eye. No doubt, the coyote had blinded him in that eye, perhaps permanently. His shirt was stained crimson at the abdomen. His pants were ripped. His previously injured leg was exposed, and she saw the truth. The wound was festering from an ugly infection. How he’d managed to forage for food and gather wood over the last day or two, to hide the malady from her trained eye, was mystifying.

  “Margo,” he rasped.

  The baby continued to cry.

  She raised the shovel again, poised to strike him, the most dangerous predator of all in this forest.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said, slurring his words. “I wouldn’t have left you if I thought you could.” He groaned in pain. “Please.”

  At last, true emotion radiated from his eyes. That emotion was fear.

  “Shut the hell up, Nick, and give me my baby.”

  “Please. You don’t understand. Please.”

  She took a step forward, ready to swing the shovel. His eyes widened. Now he understood a truth about her. She would strike him if she had to—perhaps even if she didn’t have to.

  With great effort, he opened his coat, revealing the elk fur and the bare arm of Margo’s baby. He struggled to unhook the sling from around his neck, and when it came free, he held the sling out. He was so weak that the baby’s weight was too heavy for him, and he dropped the bundle in the snow.

  She crouched down and snatched the infant.

  Just as she was lifting little Michael off the ground, Nick lunged at her. His fist struck the side of her head, and she dropped the bundle. A haze obscured her field of vision, and pinpoints of light flashed against her retinas.

  Focus, Margo. Focus. Read and react.

  She reached out into the beyond, grasping for consciousness. But she was slipping into an abyss. A weight rolled over her. Paws. Panting sounds. A feral, canine stench.

  From someplace near yet so far away, her baby wailed. An electrical awakening jolted her. She opened her eyes. She was lying in the snow. Three coyotes circled her warily, hungrily. She glanced around. The shovel was gone. So were Nick and the baby.

  As she rolled up onto all fours, she shouted in a harsh voice that was unfamiliar, a voice that was more animal than human, “Get away from me!”

  To her shock, the animals slowly retreated.

  She could no longer hear the baby’s cry. But his tiny voice was imprinted in her mind. No way would she let that fucking lunatic steal her child. She looked at the coyotes. All three were thin and tall, with thick fur matted from the damp snow. Just wild dogs, she told herself. Dogs are genetically drawn to humans. She needed to stand, to rise above them in height, to threaten them so they would back off.

  She reached inside her pocket and retrieved a piece of the placenta. She waved it in front of the animals now huddled together in a small pack. The coyotes sniffed. She flung the flesh as far as she could. The three animals raced to it and fought among themselves.

  She stood, stumbling as she struggled to find her balance. Which way did Nick go?

  She scanned the ground. A trail of blood led downhill, away from the trail. She needed a weapon. She felt inside her pockets, but the bones were gone. When she reached the trees, she pulled on a branch but couldn’t break it free.

  Without a weapon, she feared that she couldn’t overpower Nick, even in his greatly weakened condition. She surveyed the landscape again, searching. Beyond the deer trail she’d followed to get to this place, the hillside dropped off sharply—just like the drop-off she’d encountered when she ventured down the mountain alone a couple of days earlier and stepped through the ice over the frozen stream.

  The memory of her baby’s cry, his little breaths, his infant sounds, propelled her forward. She hurried back to the deer trail and scurried down the slope. Where there was a stream, there were rocks. From her earlier trek, she had learned to recognize the contours of a frozen stream. Boulders protruded from this rocky basin over which water, not frozen, flowed. She reached the bank and collected an arsenal of rocks.

  As she stumbled forward, the yips of coyotes reached her ears. They hadn’t retreated after all, only left her—the strong—to pursue the wounded and weak—Nick and the baby. Hungry predators pursue the frail.

  Energized with adrenaline, she made it back up the incline, sometimes scrambling on all fours. She returned to the clearing where she first found Nick and the baby and continued along the bloody trail. No sign of Nick or the animals.

  Terror tugged at her core.

  The snow intensified, falling hard now. The snow was always fucking falling. Now it covered most of Nick’s bloody trail. But vestiges of his footprints remained visible. She moved along, and with each step her anger mounted.

  Thunder rumbled. The sky darkened to a black-gray. The snow fell even harder, pelting her body like bullets. She tightened the hood of her coat to cover her face. She stepped into a shallow sinkhole, but righted herself. She wouldn’t stop.

  Soon the snow obscured the trail of footprints and blood. She wanted to scream but resisted.

  Where was Nick?

  She studied the ground and visualized the circular map, assessing this location. She’d gotten off the path she’d been following. The only option was to keep moving down. That was the only direction Nick could go in his condition.

  The wind howled, but she wasn’t afraid. Mother Nature was her protector, her baby’s protector. Suddenly, the wind again carried to her another sound, a wonderful sound—her baby’s cries.

  She rounded the bend. Nick Eliot moved ever so slowly. With each step he looked as if he might fall. If only he would. He used the shovel as a crutch. His other arm hung at his side.

  Where was the baby?

  She hurried after Nick, staying hidden just inside the woods. She had no plan, but she was driven by rage. He started moving faster. Why? Had he sensed her presence? He was a soldier after all, trained to avoid hidden enemies.

  She stealthily moved closer, within twenty feet, then ten. So close she could hear him pant. His breathing was labored. How could he possibly remain upright with all his severe injuries?

  Where was Baby Michael?

  Not with Nick. Now was her chance.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Reaching inside her pockets, she gripped a rock in each hand. Then all at once, she bolted out of the woods, charged the enemy from behind, and with all her remaining strength struck Nick in the head, over and over again. He staggered forward, dropping the shovel. She continued pummeling him on the head and the face and the neck, and especially on his damaged eye.

  He wobbled and stumbled around to face her, a look of hatred and rage on his face. He came at her far more aggressively than she’d expected. She tried to hit him again with a rock, but it was too late. He knocked the rocks out of her hands. Before she could get away, he was on top of her, his hands reaching for her neck.

  She thrashed, trying to avoid his grip. Her thick coat was her savior, forming a kind of barrier.

  She pulled at his arms, but he was too strong. She flailed her legs to try to kick him, but it was no use.

  Then her hand struck a rock—not one of her weapons but one that had lodged in beneath the snow. She grasped the rock, and with all her might, kneed the infected wound in Nick’s leg. He groaned in pain and anger and relaxed his grip on her neck—just long enough.

  She lifted the rock and struck Nick’s injured eye again, cracking the orbital bone.

  He shrieked in agony.

  A predator who sensed his weakness, she kicked his wounded leg again. When his body began to crumple, she shoved him away using the snow’s softness to roll out from underneath him.

  She scrambled to her feet and kicked his leg again. And again. And again. When he seemed subdued, she picked up the shovel.

  He
tried to lunge at her, but he was too weak. He whimpered and curled into the fetal position.

  Margo looked around. No sign of the furry bundle swaddling Michael.

  “Where’s my baby, Nick?”

  “I … I …”

  She kicked him more, unable to control her rage, which only grew when she recalled how he’d slapped her when she was most vulnerable.

  “Answer me!” she said.

  He groaned.

  “Where did you put him?”

  No response.

  She raised the shovel. “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to hit you until you can’t move and skin you alive. Do you understand me?”

  His uninjured eye shifted to the left. She followed the path, and there it was, fifty feet away. The furry bundle lay just off the trail. A tiny arm was outstretched from the bundle and lying still on the snow. How could she have missed it?

  Her heart dropped ten stories. She raced back toward the bundle. When she reached it, the baby was still.

  She screamed.

  Suddenly, the baby fussed, and his tiny arms flailed and reached out for her. Momma was there. She fell to her knees and scooped him up. He was alive and seemingly well.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, sweet Michael,” she whispered. “Mommy is here.” She placed the baby inside her coat, stood, and started back down the deer trail, which would lead to the main trail and back to civilization. She gave Nick a wide berth as she circled around him. The man would be dangerous until the last glimmer of life left his body. When she was ten feet past him, there was a crunching of snow and a groan. Electrical currents of fear shot through her body. Was the madman up and on his feet again? She turned back to see him lift his head and try to prop his weight up on his elbow.

  “Let me explain,” he said.

  She wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far away from this place and this maniac as possible. But something inside her made her stop and listen. “Explain? There’s no explanation for what you did.”

  “I’m the baby’s father.”

  “Go to hell, Nick.”

  “Let me explain, Margo. Please.”

  His wounds were fatal. Not her concern. He would only try to kill her again if she came close.

  “In Afghanistan, I was exposed to chemicals,” he said, struggling to get the words out. “A man died. The army made a mistake.” He panted hard, trying to speak. “They donated my sperm. You got it. A mistake. The boy is mine. I swear.”

  She gripped the shovel even tighter. She did believe what he was saying, had since he’d told her in the watch tower. So what? Because she was perimenopausal and her clock was ticking, she’d gone to a fertility doctor, and she was artificially inseminated.

  “You stole him,” Nick said.

  “How can you be sure it was your sperm, Nick?”

  He laughed, but it sounded more like a groan. “The army. How do you think I found you?”

  “Even if it’s true, I didn’t steal from you.”

  Another pained laugh.

  “You followed me onto the train. Did you plan to kill me all along? Was the avalanche just a stroke of luck?”

  “I never intended to kill you. I wanted to get to know you, to work something out. He … I tried to save everyone in our car … I saved you—the baby. That’s what I wanted. But when you went down the hill by yourself, you defied him, risked the baby’s life. He convinced me you weren’t fit. To eliminate you.”

  She knew better than to engage Nick and his insanity, but she couldn’t help herself. This would be the last opportunity to learn anything more about this man. “Who did I defy? Who convinced you, Nick?”

  “I’m a soldier, but he’s the killer. He told me to take what was mine. To protect the baby. He told me to take you up the hill, to wait until you gave birth, and then …” Nick hacked and blood spewed from his mouth.

  The man was clearly demented, and now he was probably delirious as well. Time to leave.

  “Please, Margo.”

  What did he want from her? Forgiveness? Understanding? Treatment? Another chance? What did it matter? Yet, she felt more than a twinge of sadness for him. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Nick. You should’ve come to me, not stalked me like I was some animal. Talked. Don’t you understand? I would’ve wanted the baby to have his biological father in his life. Under the right circumstances. I know what it’s like to lose …” She shook her head. Enough. She didn’t owe anybody an explanation.

  “A combat soldier, too long.” He gurgled, coughing up blood, the fluid adding to the crimson stains already spattering the snow. “You’re a doctor,” he said. “Help me.”

  “I can’t save you, Nick. Not both you and the child.” She only hoped she could get to safety soon.

  Nick held up a hand. “Please, Margo. Think of what I did for you.”

  “You left me for dead twice, and you tried to strangle me. So you could steal my baby.”

  “Our baby. He’s ours. I got on that train to meet you, to get to know you” As improbable as it seemed, he crawled forward.

  “No, Nick. He’s mine. I carried him for nine months.” She turned to leave. It was cruel to allow this to continue. Also dangerous.

  “Don’t leave me,” Nick pleaded. “You have to help me.”

  She kept walking.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” he said.

  She stopped and looked back. “I know exactly what you are.”

  “Please, Dr. Fletcher.”

  “Would you have us all die out here, Nick? That’s not going to happen. Take solace in this: the baby is going to live. By saving me from the avalanche, you saved the baby.” She turned and walked on.

  “I didn’t try to kill you, Margo! That wasn’t me.”

  She kept going.

  “Tell her!” Nick shouted.

  She hesitated slightly at these words but continued her march forward.

  “Make her understand!” Nick groaned.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. Nick was looking at her with pleading eyes, his arms outstretched.

  There was a clap of lightning and a loud blast of thunder.

  “Tell her!” Nick shrieked. “It wasn’t me. It was you, JJ.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Margo continued down the mountain. She comforted the baby as she descended. When she emerged from the cover of the forest and saw the train shed in the distance, her heart and soul resounded with joy—workers were clearing the tracks. She hurried to them, and after their initial disbelief wore off, they summoned help.

  In no time, a helicopter landed on-site, and her baby, Michael Pratt Fletcher, and she were escorted to the nearest hospital, where she recounted her story and told the authorities where to find Nick’s body.

  “All’s well,” the pediatric nurse said, handing Margo the baby. “We’re calling it a Christmas miracle.” Then, because the law needed to be served, she handed Margo the birth certificate to sign.

  She held the baby to her breast, and he latched on. She took joy in listening to him coo and suckle. She stroked his soft skin, breathed in his sweet smell, and began singing her own version of an old lullaby.

  Over the mountain, over the sea,

  Back to my home where I long to be,

  Oh, light of my life, he shines on me …

  When the baby fell asleep, she reached for the birth certificate. In the box that asked for the father’s name, she wrote unknown. That was the first false entry she’d ever made in an official record—she knew very well who the father was. The biographical information of the sperm donor had not included the name of the father, only his basic facts: donor’s heritage, blood type, hair color, height, complexion, hair texture, eye color, and weight. She didn’t need to know more. Along with Nick’s rantings, those facts were enough.

  When the baby and she were released from the hospital, the police kindly escorted them to the nearest airport. It was time to start life afresh. The Christmas holiday was about birth, and she’
d received a gift—her child.

  She hadn’t called her family. Would she go back to Chicago or on to Spokane? A part of her just wanted to walk away, but she felt the inward pull urging her to come home.