Tempt Me If You Can

by Janet Chapman

  He relentlessly pulled her down the road, scanning the forest as he walked. Suddenly he stopped and hunched down by a puddle, trying to read the tracks. “They’ve left already,” he said, standing and dragging her into the forest.

  Taking advantage of the fact that Wayne was paying attention to his surroundings, Emma tripped him when he ducked under a branch, jerked free of his grip, then ran back through the path they’d made.

  Emma heard snapping branches behind her as he scrambled to his feet in pursuit. Her bound hands made it nearly impossible to balance herself as she pushed through the snagging bushes and stumbled over roots. Wayne tackled her just as she made it to the road. He landed heavily on top of her, driving her into the ground, and Emma cried out in pain. Wayne grabbed her hair, growling with frustration.

  “Why are you doing this!” she cried.

  He got to his feet and pulled her up by the hair again. Emma kicked him, and he smacked her side with the butt of his rifle, making her draw back against the pain.

  Still without speaking, he took her deeper into the forest again, shoving her ahead of him, using his rifle to prod her in the back whenever she stumbled.

  It seemed forever before he jerked her to a stop. Emma looked around and realized that they were standing at the exact same spot she and Mikey had found. Only now the earth was well trodden, the leaves and pine needles scuffed in places. Wayne also looked around, and realized his secret place had been invaded.

  He shoved her hard, and Emma fell back with a scream.

  “This is your fault,” he growled. “I had the environmentalists stirred up enough to pass the no-clear-cutting legislation.” He waved the gun barrel at the forest. “This would have remained untouched. Everything would have stayed safe.” He pointed the gun back at her. “Your snooping ruined everything.”

  Emma scooted back out of his reach. What he was saying didn’t make sense. Wayne would want the clear-cutting legislation to be defeated, not passed. His livelihood depended on cutting down trees. “You’ve been the one fueling this war all along? Why?”

  He hunched down in front of her, sitting on his heels and balancing against his rifle. “This section was marked for clear-cutting next summer, which means there would have been men and large machinery all over these woods. I couldn’t have that.”

  “Because it would have ruined your drug-running operation? You could just find another drop point.”

  He looked startled, then suddenly barked in laughter. “Drug running! Is that what you think?”

  Confused, Emma nodded.

  He laughed again. “You’re dumber than your slut of a sister, you know that? I’m not running drugs.”

  Emma didn’t like the sound of his laughter. Wayne wasn’t just trying to cover his tracks; he truly was insane.

  “Then what’s this all about?”

  He jumped to his feet, lifting his hat off, then resettling it into place. He repeated the ritual several times, and began pacing in front of her, a sweating ball of nervous energy, his eyes pinpoints of madness. He pulled the handgun from his belt, still holding his rifle in his other fist.

  “Kelly wouldn’t stop probing, either, until she found out my secret.” He stopped and pointed the handgun at her. “When I tried to explain it had been an accident, she still didn’t believe me. She went ballistic and said she was going to tell Ramsey.”

  Emma felt the blood drain from her face. “What did you try to explain to her?”

  He stopped pacing and stared at her with a surprised expression on his face. “That I killed Charlie.”

  Emma stiffened in shock. “Wha … ?” Her mind reeled as images of her father’s body suddenly surfaced; beaten and battered by the force of the water carrying him down the valley below the dam. And more images: of Kelly’s melancholy and the months of pregnancy that followed, of Wayne’s public decree that the environmentalists were responsible, and that Benjamin Sinclair had led the terrorist act.

  “You blew up the dam?” Emma stared back at him as her anger began to surface. “But why? Why did you kill my father? “

  He started pacing again. “I blew the dam to make it look like Charlie got caught in the flood, but he was already dead. He blamed me for getting Kelly pregnant.” Wayne stopped pacing again, the handgun hanging in his hand. “When I told him his slut of a daughter had slept with Sinclair and that it was his kid, Charlie exploded. We fought. It was an accident, I tell you! So I blew up the dam to cover my tracks.”

  “And then you blamed Ben.”

  His eyes ignited with hatred. “The bastard should be rotting in jail.”

  “Kelly didn’t run away, did she, Wayne?” Emma said, as things slowly began to fall into place.

  “You’ll find out soon enough, Emma Jean. Assuming there really is an afterlife.” He pulled back the hammer on the revolver and aimed it at her.

  Emma picked up a handful of dirt and threw it at him just as a blur of brown fur suddenly raced in from the left, landing on Wayne with an ungodly snarl of outrage. Wayne screamed in surprise. Beaker grabbed his arm with deadly precision, and the two of them tumbled away.

  Emma didn’t wait to see who won. She jumped up and ran up the mountain, since he had the truck keys in his pocket. She had also noticed the two-way radio had no microphone; Wayne must have hidden it before he’d ambushed her.

  Her only hope lay in the forest.

  Emma flinched at the explosion of gunshot behind her but didn’t look back. She couldn’t let Beaker down by getting caught again. She heard no yelp of pain, only Wayne cursing and the breaking of twigs as Beaker ran away in the opposite direction.

  Could a dog be that smart? Could he actually be trying to divide Wayne’s attention?

  Emma dashed up the mountain. Wayne couldn’t effectively pursue her while staying on guard against Beaker, so her odds of surviving had improved immensely. But the going was difficult, and her bound hands made progress slow. Winded, Emma finally stopped behind a tree to work at the ropes with her teeth.

  Wayne was a good woodsman, and the knots were stubborn. She heard a noise coming up the mountain, and leaned over to see Wayne picking his way toward her. He spent just as much time looking behind himself, and Emma smiled. Beaker had escaped and Wayne was worried. She definitely had a chance.

  She began moving again, this time in a more deliberate direction. There was a large, deep chasm between here and the beaver pond where they’d parked the plane almost two weeks ago. If she could get across it and then destroy her route, Wayne would have to walk two miles out of his way to get to her.

  With every step she took, Emma knew she was putting more distance between herself and Wayne. She was in excellent shape despite her wounded shoulder; a lifetime of hiking had made her legs strong and her mind sharp.

  Wayne was also at home in the woods, but even while he was hunting her, he was also being hunted by Beaker. And the man was demented; she’d seen it in his eyes when he’d pointed the gun at her and pulled back the hammer. Wayne Poulin had slipped over the edge of reality, which meant his perception would be skewed.

  She made steady progress, and soon heard the roaring of water cascading over boulders in its rapid decent down the mountain. With an urgency born of desperation, she walked along the eastern edge of the gorge, looking for a fallen log she could use to get across.

  The only one she found was wedged high up on a precipice, which meant she had to get her hands free. Emma found a jagged rock and began rubbing the rope against it, all the while scanning the forest behind her, knowing she’d never hear Wayne approach over the roar of the falls.

  Her hands were a bloody mess by the time the ropes finally gave way, and Emma scrambled up the giant boulders to the fallen tree.

  It was a long way down the churning icy water, and the log looked skinny and unstable. Emma carefully stepped onto the log.

  The sound of gunfire stopped Ben in midstride, and its direction had him running back. Those hadn’t been hunting shots: they’d been
too sharp to be from a shotgun and too muffled to come from a high-powered rifle. Which left only a handgun.

  And people didn’t usually hunt with handguns unless the target was human.

  Ben came to a sliding stop when he finally spotted the prey in the distance, and his heart stopped. Emma was on a log spanning the gorge, trying to walk over the roaring brook.

  He broke into a sweat. There was no way she could make it. The log was too unstable, too high, and too rotted. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her to see what she was fleeing from; nor could he holler for her to go back, as she’d never hear him.

  Then he heard the crack of another shot, this one sharp, telling him it came from a high-powered rifle. He saw the bullet slam into the log just beneath Emma’s feet.

  He also heard Emma’s scream of surprise, and helplessly watched her fall.

  He started running parallel to the gorge, moving with the current and watching for Emma to reemerge. Shedding his rifle and gear, Ben swiftly climbed down the boulders. He saw Emma coming toward him, fighting to stay atop the froth as she slammed into rocks and debris. He lay on a boulder on his belly and extended both arms, bracing himself for leverage.

  He caught her by her shirtsleeve and pulled, then wrapped his hand around her arm. She nearly hauled him in, the current was so swift. He was afraid he was pulling her shoulder from its socket but refused to let go, even when she slammed up against the rock he was on.

  He heard the air rush out of her lungs as she screamed in pain, and he reached down with his other hand and grabbed her belt. Adjusting his position for maximum purchase, he pulled her out of the icy water with one swift motion.

  She came up swinging, clipping him on the side of his head with her free hand. The attack was so unexpected, Ben tumbled off the boulder, pulling Emma into his arms to save her from another battering. They landed against a large rock, Emma on top. She reared back to take another swipe at him, but stopped midswing, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “Ben!” she yelped, grabbing his jacket. “What are you doing here!” Not letting him answer, she tugged at his jacket and scrambled to get up. “We’ve got to get out of here. Wayne’s trying to kill me.”

  She started up out of the gorge, but stopped when she realized he wasn’t following. “Come on—he’s carrying a small arsenal!”

  With barely controlled rage, Ben picked up his pack and rifle, grabbed her hand, and started walking along the gorge upstream. Emma ran to catch up.

  “Oh, the log. Good thinking. We’ve got to toss it in the water so he can’t follow,” she panted.

  The sweat was cooling on his forehead, reminding Ben that the temperature was in the low forties. Emma had to be freezing. When they reached the spot below the log, Ben settled her into a safe crevice. She finally seemed to be coming down from her adrenaline high. Her face was a mask of pain, and her shivering was so bad he could hear her teeth chattering over the noise of the waterfall.

  He eased her down between two boulders and set the pack in front of her. Her eyes widened when he repositioned his rifle onto his shoulder by the sling, but that

  was all the reaction he got. Her strength was gone, sapped by the cold water. Bruises were already turning purple

  on her forehead, and a cut was oozing blood from her hair.

  Ben still couldn’t speak, his voice caught in his throat at the sight of her. Reining in his emotions, he leaped over the rocks toward the log bridge, keeping as low as possible. Once on top, he pulled his rifle up and scanned the forest on the other side of the gorge.

  Poulin was probably downstream, looking for evidence that Emma hadn’t survived her fall. He didn’t know Ben was here, and that was a mighty big advantage. Wayne wasn’t expecting his prey to shoot back.

  Ben began to push the log down into the falls, but suddenly stopped to study it. With a little work he could booby-trap the bridge, and hope Poulin did try to use it to cross the gorge.

  He used his knife to hack a wedge in the bottom of the rotting tree, which he propped up with a small stone. He tested the log for stability, satisfied Poulin would be too intent on finding Emma to notice his handiwork. Then he spent several minutes scanning the forest downstream again.

  He caught a glimpse of something moving up the gorge and sighted in on Wayne, his finger on the trigger. But he wasn’t able to get a clear shot. Wayne was jumping from rock to rock, darting in and out of sight. Ben decided not to wait any longer. Wayne was still on the other side of the gorge, and Ben didn’t want to give away his presence.

  He climbed down and returned to Emma. She was still sitting where he’d left her, her arms wrapped around herself, no longer shivering. As gently as he could, he pulled her wet sweater off and replaced it with his parka, then grabbed her face between his hands and made her look at him.

  “Emma, listen to me. We’ve got to keep going. Can you walk?”

  She nodded, cupping his hands with her own. Ben kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl. Any suggestions as to which way?”

  “N-north. We’re going to have to go north b-before we can head east.”

  Ben looked north, and realized it was all uphill.

  “Is there anyplace we can hide, Emma? We’ve got to stop long enough to get you warm.”

  “Th-there’s the headwaters of Medicine Creek. And some caves just above it, on the other side of this mountain.”

  Which meant they would still have to travel uphill. She didn’t appear able to walk down the mountain, much less up it.

  He wanted to hold her until she was warm. “Come on, honey. We’ve got to move,” he said, gently lifting her up.

  He positioned his pack on his back, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and wrapped one arm around her waist for support. They began the arduous journey, and Ben was damn proud of the effort she made to keep up.

  It wasn’t long, however, before her stumbling became impossible to deal with. He reached inside his parka and found her skin was dry but cold, unable to produce enough body heat to keep her core temperature up. Whatever energy she could muster was being used to keep her moving.

  “How much farther?” he asked, stopping to let her catch her breath.

  She looked around, trying to read the forest. “Another half mile, I think,” she said, her breathing labored and her words barely audible.

  Ben looked over their back trail before he reached down, placed his shoulder into her stomach, and lifted her over his back in a fireman’s carry. “If we’re going to make it, I’ll have to carry you.”

  When he guessed he’d traveled far enough, he set Emma on her feet and held her steady. “Where?” he asked.

  “There,” she said, taking a stumbling step. “Maybe a hundred yards up there.”

  Great. More uphill. He guided her progress with a hand on her waist as she led him to a blind cliff with fallen rocks at its base.

  “There’s an opening to the left of those trees,” she said weakly.

  Ben scooped her up in his arms and picked his way through the jumble of weather-worn talus. He heard the trickle of water before he saw it. Steam emanated from a crack in the cliff as water gurgled directly out of the mountain and flowed toward the valley below. The first thing he noticed as he approached was the heat; the second thing was the smell of rotten eggs.

  Sulphur? That meant the cave would be uninhabitable.

  Ben set Emma in a concealed spot before he took off his pack and leaned his rifle against a rock next to her. Then he carefully tested the temperature of the water.

  The spring wasn’t hot, but warm enough to produce steam in this cold weather. He moved to the entrance of the cave and peered inside, sniffing the air, faintly smelling sulphur. He decided to move Emma just inside the mouth of the cave so there would be plenty of fresh air.

  He made his way back down to where he’d left her, only to find her staring at his pack. “Ben? Your backpack is making funny noises.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Oh, shit! The bird!” Ben
grabbed the canvas bag and unzipped it, peeling back the top flap. He pulled out the small dented cage and peered inside.

  The pigeon peered back at him.

  “Homer!” Emma cried, her voice weak but with welcome animation. She looked at Ben. “How come you have him?”

  “Mike sent him with me this morning. I put him in my pack to protect him from the cold.” He set the cage inside the entrance. “Let’s get you out of those clothes,” he said when he returned, and lifted her to her feet. “The entrance is just big enough to get through. I brought some dry clothes with me. We’ll get you into them, then I want you to sit near the mouth of the cave.”

  “But it opens up into a small room,” she said, hobbling over the rocks beside him, leaning against him when she nearly fell.

  “There’s been a lot of seismic activity. I don’t know if it’s stable or gaseous.”

  She stopped and glared at him weakly.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You put Homer in the cave.”

  “Damn right I did. He’s our canary. If he croaks, we’re outta there.”

  She gasped, and Ben carried her the rest of the way. As soon as they were completely inside the cave, which indeed opened up into a small chamber, he felt the warmth. It was no sweat lodge, but it was just what Emma needed. As he undressed her, she sat like a child.

  He was starting to get really scared. This wasn’t at all like Emma. She was a proactive person, not passive. And she still wasn’t shivering.

  Ben dumped the contents of the pack onto the cave floor and rummaged through its contents until he found a sweatshirt. He pulled it over her head, silently thanking Mike for helping him pack that morning.

  Ben had been appalled at the things the boy had insisted he take: a complete change of clothes, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, a pot, rifle shells, four different maps, and the GPS. The pack also contained a survival kit that held matches, fishing line, safety pins, aluminum foil, a candle, a mirror, and duct tape.