by Linda Ladd
Down on her knees she rummaged around among the shoes thrown into the bottom of the closet until she found a soiled but sturdy-looking pair of white sneakers. They fit her relatively well, too, especially when she tugged on a pair of John's thick white athletic socks. She crouched by the window as she tied the laces, her eyes glued to the path leading up from the riverbank. There's no way they could find her here, no way, she told herself again, no earthly reason they'd choose this particular bend in the river to strike out through the woods in search of her. She was safe unless, and until, they found where she'd hidden the boat. Even then she would be forewarned by the buzz of their outboard.
Checking Joey, she found the baby sound asleep, poor angel. As unfair as it all was, he was going to learn how to rough it the next few days. As she made her way to the kitchen, she wondered again who the men were. There could be no explanation except that they were after Michael for some reason. It occurred to her, with a ray of hope, that if they already had him, they wouldn't pursue her. Oh, God, even if Michael was in their hands, even if they'd already killed him, she was a witness, had seen the Russian guy real well, had seen the ruthless look of anticipation in his eyes. He wanted to kill her, had been looking forward to it. Shaking again, she hurried to the kitchen window and peered through the blinds at the trail through the cedars. No one in sight. No sound of a boat.
In front of her, the old pump was bolted to the sink, and she primed it from the gallon milk jug of water Betty always left for that purpose, then worked the handle vigorously until the first sputter of water emerged, brackish and brown with lime deposits. It gushed clear within seconds, and she leaned down and splashed some up over her face. It felt good, braced her, and she filled the glass and gulped it down quickly, not realizing until that moment how unbelievably thirsty she was. She took a bright yellow-checked dishtowel from the wall hanger and rubbed her face dry. She listened for the sound of a boat again, her eyes locked on the place where the woods ended below the cabin's rocky front yard. She couldn't let up on her vigil, not for a minute.
Now she had to find enough supplies to last them through the night, through several days if she could find a way to carry them. She went to the freestanding white metal cabinet and pulled open the doors, well aware that the Picketts had come down in late March and replenished their stock of canned goods and nonperishables. Thank God they liked milk in their coffee, she thought, grabbing up the small tins of Pet Milk in one arm. It wasn't Joey's formula but, mixed with water, she could probably coax him to drink it. There were six cans of the stuff, and she set them down on the brown-and-white-speckled counter.
She had to have diapers. There were two clean ones in the quilted sling, but she'd probably have to use one of them when he woke up. The Picketts sure weren't going to store any Luvs or Huggies in their kitchen. Her eyes swept the kitchen, a throwback to a thirties diner with its yellow gingham curtains and an old metal breadbox with a hinged door adorned with a faded picture of a puffy-topped loaf of bread. A two-tier yellow utility cart was pushed into one corner, and Kate was relieved when she saw the five large rolls of paper towels wedged into the bottom shelf. Bounty, the quicker picker-upper. What better brand to use for diapers? She searched the junk drawer beside the sink for masking tape to hold the paper towels around Joey, and also fished out a can opener for the condensed milk and a red rubber band she could use as a ponytail holder.
Peering anxiously down the trail from the kitchen window, she pulled up her hair as well as she could and secured it in place. After checking to make sure Joey was all right and stooping to listen at the bedroom window, she stood up, poking around in the closet for a bag. She finally fished out an old tan knapsack, one made of sturdy-enough canvas to do the trick. She could strap it on her back where it wouldn't interfere with Joey's sling across her chest.
In the kitchen cabinets she found a flashlight and some new batteries, both in plastic Ziploc bags. As she searched through Betty's cabinets she found Ziplocs the woman's favorite way to store things. There was a pocket-size portable radio atop the bread box, and she flipped it on to make sure it worked, then off again when she heard a crackle of static. She might be able to pick up a station once she was on the move, Poplar Bluff, maybe, when she was outside and higher up on the ridge that rose behind the cabin. She stuck it and a box of waterproof matches she'd found on the stove inside another Ziploc, then checked the window, growing more confident as the minutes passed. She filled up an old Boy Scout canteen, then tied it and a couple of warm, rolled-up patchwork quilts to the bottom of the knapsack.
She tried to gauge the time. At least an hour had passed since she'd embarked on her narrow escape up the river. Maybe closer to two hours. She couldn't linger much longer, not if she wanted to be on the safe side. Putting the canvas bag on the counter, she pulled open the top and piled in the Pet Milk and a thick roll of the paper towels, the tape, can opener, a couple of cans of Vienna sausages she found, some crackers, and a package of dried apple rings. Not exactly gourmet meals, but it'd keep both of them alive until she got them to Van Buren.
The pack was fairly heavy but she was strong enough to carry it. She was glad now that she'd kept up her daily work-outs despite her bum leg. She would do whatever it took, and she'd never been afraid of the woods. Pop had taught her to stalk deer, to recognize signs that would bring her out to civilization if she ever became lost. She'd make it to Van Buren and when she did, she'd make sure the filthy animals who'd shot Michael ended up behind bars where they belonged.
Kate drew up and stood very still, her hands still on the knapsack, as something suddenly occurred to her. There was someone who lived up in this area of the Current. She'd forgotten all about it until now, but she'd heard her grandfather mention him a couple of times. Pop hadn't told her much, just said he'd seen the kid again, or something to that effect. When she'd asked questions, Pop had seemed a little secretive and uncomfortable with the conversation. She racked her brain, trying desperately to remember. He said the guy was a little strange and lived off the land, had some problems to work out. John, his name had been John. If he was a friend of Pop, he'd help her. Her heart raced for an instant, spirits buoyed at the thought of finding an ally. Maybe she could search for him, beg him to take her down to Van Buren. That hope flagged almost at once when she realized that she didn't have a clue where to look for him. He could live miles farther up the river for all she knew, or even have left the area for good years ago. She wouldn't know him if she saw him anyway.
Before she left the kitchen she paused in front of the stove, then picked up John's razor-sharp filet knife in its leather scabbard. Wishing he'd left one of his guns behind, too, she strapped it to her belt, then picked up the heavy knapsack and headed to the bedroom. All was clear, so she carefully felt Joey's diapers again and found them wet this time. She changed him with a fresh Luvs, handling him very gently, wanting him to sleep as long as he could. He only fussed a little as she retied the drawstring at the bottom of his gown.
She froze at the sudden cry of a startled bluejay just outside the window. Her breath caught and she ran to look. A man was climbing the trail, swiftly, almost running up the steep pitch of the hill, and she recognized him at once as Michael by the black-and-white-striped sweatshirt he wore. Thank God, he'd gotten away, too!
He was heading for the back porch, and she raced to meet him, jerking open the door, very relieved he was all right, but angry, too, that he'd dragged them into such a dangerous mess.
“Michael! What's going on? Those men are trying to kill us!"
“Shhh, be quiet, Kate,” he told her, pushing her aside and shutting the door behind him. He twisted the lock and peeked out through the closed miniblind. “Listen to me, Kate, just listen. They're down at the river and they'll be up here any minute so we've got to move fast."
Kate stared at him in unbridled horror. “Down at the river? Did you bring them here? My God, Michael, did you lead them to us?"
“I had to, Kate, God,
I'm sorry about all this, but they were going to kill me. They had a gun at my head, I didn't have a choice. You've got to get away, do you understand, Kate? You've got to take Joey and make a run for it."
“But who are they? What do they want? I don't understand any of this!"
Michael grabbed her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh, his eyes frantic. His face was swollen and beginning to bruise. “Dammit, Kate, listen to me. They're going to kill us. We've got to run, get out of here while we still can. It's our only chance. It's a miracle Kavunov let me come up here by myself."
“Kavunov? Who's he? What did you do to him?"
“For God's sake, Kate, we don't have time to stand around arguing like this. They want Joey back, that's what they want. He came off the black market, cost me two hundred grand, and I never paid it. I thought I'd have it by now but things didn't work out like I expected. I'm telling you they aren't playing games with us, Kate, you've got to take Joey and find someplace to hide. I'll go out the front and try to lead them away from you. It's our only chance. They'll kill us both if we don't."
Kate stared at him, trying to absorb what he was telling her until Michael grabbed her again and shook her furiously, panic rising in his eyes. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth.
“C'mon, Kate, move! You've got to get Joey out of here before they get impatient and come up here after me. It's the only chance we've got! They're bad news, Kate. Killers, for Christ's sake! We're both dead if they catch us. Go on, do it, get Joey.” Michael opened the door and headed out, flinging back over his shoulder, “Quick, take him out the other way. I'll try to lead them downstream!"
“Wait, Michael, wait!” Kate cried, but he was already gone. She could hear the hollow sounds of his feet clomping across the back porch. She had to get away, too, before they came. She slammed the door, throwing the lock and heading to the bedroom for Joey. Her heart pounded with renewed danger, and trembling all over, she grabbed Joey off the bed, putting him into the sling as a shout sounded outside on the trail. She bent and looked out, just as three men in dark clothes appeared at the bottom of the clearing.
“Reed's running! Get him, Misha!"
The voice floated clearly to her in perfect English, and she didn't wait to watch but clutched Joey against her, grabbed the knapsack, and fled for the other side of the house. She ran for the door off the front screened porch that opened into the edge of the woods. She jerked it open and burst outside, crossed the side sundeck and dropped down into the tangled bushes below. Heart in her throat, she kept low, Joey pressed against her breast, the mind-numbing terror back, threatening to overwhelm her as wild shouts broke into the quiet morning air, followed by the loud crack of a single gunshot.
Five
PANTING HARD, heart thudding, Kate dropped to her knees halfway up the steep ridge rising behind the Picketts’ cabin. Her lungs burned like acid, and she grimaced, holding the knee she'd cracked in her frantic scramble to get away. Joey was furious and fussing, and she tried to soothe him in a raspy, scary voice that wasn't her own.
Sucking in deep breaths, she fumbled with his pacifier, hands shaky and uncooperative, but Joey latched onto it eagerly and she rocked back and forth, holding him in the sling and trying to calm down. She kept herself hidden behind a thick mulberry bush, struggling to get her arms through the straps of the heavy knapsack and balance it between her shoulder blades. She could hear the men yelling down below, their movements in the yard filtered through the fluttering green leaves of saplings and undergrowth covering the steep slope.
Kate's breath caught as a man brutally kicked open the back door and charged inside. Then she froze to stone as a terrible bloodcurdling scream echoed distantly from the path Michael had taken. Oh, God, no, they'd caught him. Instincts told her to take off again, hide, get Joey away, but she couldn't make herself move when she caught sight of the blond man with the ponytail dragging her husband across the backyard. She stifled a sob with her palm as the Russian dropped Michael at the bottom of the steps and began to stomp his chest. Oh, God, how could this be happening? How could they have gotten involved with these awful people?
The woods grew still, so quiet she was afraid to run now for fear they'd hear the rustling bushes as she crept through them. A bluejay shrieked nearby, making her jump, but her eyes were riveted starkly on the scene below as a third man walked across the back porch and descended the steps. He was of medium build, fairly tall, and moved gracefully with a slow, erect stride, the man with the goatee, she realized, as he turned where she could see him better. Something about his bearing told her that it was he who called the shots. Kate's black silk pajamas were clutched in his fist.
Another man trailed him outside, smaller and quicker moving, and the three killers stood in a circle around her husband's prone body. The bearded guy hunkered down beside Michael's head, and though Kate couldn't hear what was said, she could tell Michael was pleading for his life. He kept shaking his head, trying to get up, only to be shoved back down when suddenly without a moment's warning, the blond man bent down and put a gun to Michael's temple. A shot rang out, jerking Michael's head to the side.
Kate sat paralyzed with horror for an instant, then was overwhelmed by pure and utter panic. She tore mindlessly up the hill, no longer thinking about the noise she was making, no longer thinking about anything but getting away from the men who'd just murdered her husband in cold blood. Wild-eyed, desperate, blinded by tears, heedless of Joey's frightened screams, she crested the hill and took off headlong down the other side, knowing they would follow, that she had nowhere to hide, had to get away, lose herself in the undergrowth before they got her.
Clutching Joey's sling with both arms, she stumbled on loose shale and half fell, half slid on her back down into a clump of thorny brambles, sharp needles jabbing into her cheek and ripping her sweatshirt. She tried to protect Joey, barely cognizant of the pain. Hysteria threatened when she turned back and saw a pursuer high atop the hill just above her.
Jumping to her feet she took off at a run toward the river. She veered off onto a game trail that wound its way through thick tree trunks, ducking under low-hanging branches, trying to avoid the vines tangled everywhere. She thrashed down into a ravine choked with sumac, hoping the leafy tunnel would hide her flight. She ran hunched over low, fighting her way through spider webs and ducking her head to avoid the stinging whiplash of branches until she emerged breathlessly into a sandy creekbed.
Splashing through ankle-deep water, she sprinted harder, aware most creeks drained into the Current. Constantly checking over her shoulder, she was gulping down air so hard and fast that her throat burned and pain jabbed her lungs. Her foot slid off a wet rock and she went sprawling, landing hard on her right hip and striking her head on the rocky ground when she tried to protect Joey. A slash of pain imploded inside her temple, and she felt warm blood running down her cheek.
Dizzily she forced herself to her feet again, light-headed, weak in the knees, limping, her bad knee ready to collapse. Joey was wailing uncertainly, as if confounded over her wild behavior, but she couldn't worry about that. Oh, God, they were going to kill her, execute her, shoot her in the head the way they did Michael! She had to get away, hide somewhere, she had to! A moment later she burst out of the brushy creek about thirty yards up from a small gravel island in the middle of Current River. She knew the course of the stream well enough to realize exactly where she was and the depth of the water, and she headed straight for the island, slogging as fast as she could through the knee-deep, swirling currents, her goal the thick willows covering the sandbar.
She could feel sweat rolling down her face, stinging her eyes, or maybe it was blood from the gash on her head, and she sobbed with sheer relief when she finally sloshed into the shallows at the sandbar. If she could hide among the waving willow fronds, stay out of sight, she could crawl to the other side and strike out for the opposite bank of the river.
Dragging herself into the lush, deep shelter of the
willow trees, she collapsed on her back in the cool shady haven, her labored lungs wheezing for air. Joey bawled at the top of his lungs but the rushing torrents drowned him out. Seconds later, she watched helplessly as the blond youth burst out of the creekbed in her wake, gun in hand, peering up and down the riverbank in search of her. She ground her teeth together and squirmed frantically through the wind-tossed willows toward the bottom end of the island. The river ran deeper in that area, with treacherous currents boiling around submerged rocks and snags, but the killers wouldn't be able to see her if she forded stream there.
The third killer had come into view now but none of them had seen her. She caught sight of the man with the beard, directing them downstream with a pointed forefinger. His two minions took off at a run along the rocks and driftwood lining the shoreline, and Kate held her breath, terrified he'd turn toward the island and realize where she'd escaped, but he didn't, oh, thank God, he didn't. He drew a pistol from underneath his jacket and moved upriver alone, scanning the woods as he walked.
Thank you, God, thank you, God, she muttered over and over, forcing herself to go on, out of the safety of the willows into the swiftest part of the current. This was the worst place she could attempt a ford, much too dangerous with a baby in her arms. But the willows blocked her from view here, and she'd be as good as dead if they saw her. She waded into the river until she was waist deep, hoping it didn't get much deeper, holding Joey up as high as she could. The frigid river was a welcome shock to her hot, sweaty body, and she fought onward, trying to keep her footing, but Joey was squirming restlessly in her hands, the roar of the water drowning out his cries.
She proceeded slowly and cautiously until she was chest deep in the river, but there the swifter current took hold of her, causing her to lose her footing and step off balance. The velocity of the water hit her like a hard shove in the back, and she went under, the backpack taking her down like an anchor. She floundered desperately to regain her footing as they were swept downstream a few yards, frantically trying to keep Joey's head out of the water. Lunging with all the strength she had left, she caught onto a log jutting out from the bank and braced her feet against the current. They'd only gone under for a few seconds, and Joey was screaming and red in the face as Kate pulled herself into the shallows and crawled through cold, slimy black mud into the refuge of a stinking, stagnant canebrake. Shivering and shaky from the dunking, she strained to see if the killers had spotted them.