They were in the living room. The six o’clock news was on. In the center of the screen was an aerial shot of the portion of Monson that was burning.
“I don’t see any signs of the fire department,” Barbara said.
“Out there, it’s strictly volunteer. It might take a while.”
“A fire that size should attract the help of a few towns.”
“It probably will. But it’s so rural out there, even the surrounding towns that have fire departments are volunteer. What they need to do is get Bangor and Brewer out there before it really gets out of hand.”
“I hate fires,” Barbara said. “Especially forest fires. I always worry for the animals.”
“So do I.”
“There’s just a breeze here in Bangor, but there, it looks as if they’re having gusts of wind, which will only make the fire worse. And it’s dark now, which will make it harder to fight when the fire departments arrive.” She shook her head. “What a shame. Monson is a ghost town. How did a fire like that begin?”
Patty shrugged. “The only thing I can think of is that it’s hunting season. Somebody either took a shot and it created a spark, or they were smoking and didn’t put out their cigarette properly.”
“Don’t get me started on hunting season,” Barbara said. “I have no issue with hunting deer or moose or whatever if a family needs the meat to get through the winter. That just makes sense to me. So does thinning the herd, which is another service hunters offer. But sport hunting just so you can mount a dead head on a wall? That repels me. Who wants a glassy-eyed head mounted on their wall? Or a big fish stuffed to gills? I don’t get it.”
Patty smiled, but didn’t respond. The newscast cut to another story and she sat in something of a fog as she recalled her day. The emergency room visit. The judgmental look she caught from one of the nurses on duty while her vagina was swabbed. Taking her story downtown with James, where they continued their conversation with one of his detective friends. The humiliation of having to tell some stoney-faced detective that she left her friend behind to go home with a stranger who ultimately raped her―and then posted photos of her on a website, which she also shared with him.
At least his face is out there, she thought. At least they got the drawing right.
Earlier, when she first turned on the news, his face and the act he “presumably” committed were the lead story. People who were at The Grind the night before were asked to call the Bangor Police Department if they had any leads on who the man was, what he drove, and if he left with anybody.
So far, her name was kept out of it, but eventually it would break, and then people would know what she’d done. They’d say she deserved what she got, they’d say she was a horrible friend to Cheryl Dunning, and the fire that had smoldered for years about her personal life, skewed and ruined by her ex-boyfriend’s lies and malice, would burst into flames again, making the fire burning in Monson look small in comparison.
But could she blame them? She played straight into their hands. She became the person everyone thought she was.
What was I thinking?
If she thought before that living in a small town was dangerous, once news hit that it was she who was raped, she knew she’d find out just how dangerous it really was.
Her colleagues at the bank would be relentless in how they treated her, which in Maine meant stone-cold looks and long stretches of silence with plenty of back-stabbing occurring out of earshot. They would ridicule her in such a way that it might undermine her performance and cost her her job. There’d be no sympathy for what she’d been through. She knew that. She knew that they’d only want to get rid of her. At last, this was their opportunity. They would seize upon it.
So, maybe it was time to move. Start over somewhere else. She was still young. She could remain in Maine, which she loved, but just go to Portland, where there were plenty of jobs. It wasn’t a bad idea.
But staying here was.
The front door opened and Patty looked up with Barbara as James Coleman entered the foyer. He was wearing a black top coat and gloves, which Barbara took from him when she stood up to greet him.
“Have you heard anything?” she asked.
Patty reached for the remote and turned the television on mute.
“Would you mind a coffee, Barbara?”
“Let me get you one. It won’t take long with that new coffee maker I bought.”
He thanked her and took the chair to Patty’s left. Fatigue was all over his face. He looked troubled. “How are you?” he asked her.
“Worried.”
“And physically?”
“I’ll be fine. Have you learned anything?”
“I have, but we’ll wait for Barbara.”
When Barbara entered from the kitchen, she gave her husband a cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa beside Patty while he sipped.
“Detectives found blood on the pavement outside The Grind. A good deal of it. Cheryl’s parents were notified and the good news is that somewhere in their records, they had their daughter’s blood type, which is O positive. The bad news is that happens to be the most common blood type. Still, since Cheryl is nowhere to be found, it’s reasonable to believe that that blood is her blood. There is evidence that a body was dragged several yards, probably to a vehicle. A trail of smeared blood proves that fact. Whoever was driving made the mistake of leaving a bit of rubber in their wake when they tore out of the place. The detectives were able to get a read on the make of the tires, which suggest they belong to a Ford F-150 XTL. The detectives will be here soon to collect samples of Cheryl’s hair from her pillow case and maybe from a brush or a comb in her bathroom. The DNA test will take between five to ten days to complete and thus to confirm that the blood belongs to Cheryl.”
He turned to Patty. “In the short run, what you did today will be more valuable in helping to find her. The composite of the man who raped you already is responsible for generating several phone calls to the police from those who were at The Grind when you and Cheryl were there. Some remember his face. One said they saw him taking photographs with his phone, but didn’t think much of it because people generally take photographs of their friends while they’re out. Or so I was told. The person didn’t recall who the man was photographing, but the detectives now know from security footage that the man you described in detail was indeed the man taking photographs of you. The footage is grainy because the bar was dim and the equipment is old, but it’s clear that you and Cheryl were being targeted.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. Have you or Cheryl dated anyone recently? Is this someone from either of your recent pasts?”
She shook her head. “In spite of what I did last night, I haven’t been with a man, including a simple date, in over a year. I think it’s been at least two years for Cheryl. We tell each other everything. I’d know if she was seeing someone or had dated someone.”
“What I know is that we have momentum,” Coleman said. “We have a make on a possible vehicle, which the police are seeking. We also have a partial print of a boot in the blood, which was large enough to suggest that it belongs to a man. All witnesses who came forward confirmed your composite of the man, which they agreed was accurate. Not one person said they’d change anything, so good job on that.”
He took another sip of his coffee and stopped when he caught a glimpse of the television across from him. On it, a forest was being ravaged by flames.
“Where is that?” he asked.
“Monson,” Patty said. “It’s burning.”
CHAPTER TH
IRTY-FOUR
The beast rose into the night and Kenneth Berkowitz took flight.
With his goggles in place and Ted’s Glock in his hand, he ran back through the woods, rushing out the same way he and Ted came in.
A scream burned to be released from deep within his throat, but he wouldn’t allow it out. He kept his eyes lowered to the forest floor because if he looked up at the Satanic hellfir
e that was spreading its arms far and wide over and through the forest, he’d be blinded by it.
He knew better than to ask God for help, so he didn’t. This was a test. His lot was to bear whatever inflictions God gave him and to see them through. He didn’t understand why this was happening, but it wasn’t up to him to understand. It just was. He knew that God had complete faith in him and he also knew that he would get through this alive because of Him. The beast was nothing to him. His faith in God would crush it.
He was, after all, the Chosen One.
The wind grew warmer as he ran down the path. The light was becoming so bright, he removed the goggles and found that he could see fine without them. He swung around a corner and the fire now was just off to his left. It thrashed through the trees. It shook the birds from their nests and sent them screeching into the sky. It was igniting quickly―too quickly. If Kenneth didn’t reach the end of the path soon, the fire would swallow the exit and he’d need to find another place from which to escape.
He dug in and ran harder, and as he did, it occurred to him that this might not be a Satanic hellfire, but one sent from God Himself. His mind went to Isaiah: “For, behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.” Also from Isaiah: “For by fire and by his sword will the Lord plead with all flesh: and the slain of the Lord shall be many.”
It was enough to cause Kenneth to stop. Was this God’s wrath against him? Why would it be? Everything he did, every choice he made, was designed to serve the Lord. So, this couldn’t be about him.
“But it is.”
He knew the voice belonged to Maria Fuentes before he turned and saw her standing behind him. Now, she was fully naked and her body, though still, appeared to be moving given the shadows cast upon it by the fire. Her face was in full orange bloom. She brushed her naked breasts against his arm and he immediately reached out to push her away.
Only his hand went through her, just as she said it would earlier.
She laughed and came around to face him. “All of this is for you, Kenneth. It’s all for you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. But here’s a tip. You’re a killer, Kenneth. A serial killer. There’s been something off about you since you were a boy. And now your mind is really gone. You’re fucked up.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, make me.”
He knew he couldn’t for a specific reason. “Why can’t I touch you?”
“Because you’ve already had your hands around my neck. You and your dead friend, that is.” She cocked her head to the side. “Sorry about Teddy, Kenneth. That must suck. Watching your good friend get blown to shit right in front of you like that?” She clucked her tongue. “Pity. We were all watching, you know? All of us girls were having a grand time when Teddy took that bullet in the face. And I have to say, you lucked out with the hunter in the shelter. Good for you for shooting him in the gut. You got lucky with that shot. He kicked around a bit, but he’s dead. And now you don’t have to worry about him, which bought you some time.” She waved her hand behind her, where the fire was closing in. “Not that time is going to help you now. You’re screwed. That fire is going to eat you alive. And me and the girls? We’re going to watch it happen and cheer it on when it does.”
“The hell you are.”
Behind them came the distant sounds of something running through the woods, smashing through them. He and Maria turned and watched a family of six deer burst through the woods and dart past them, led by a buck with a massive rack on its head.
“They’ll be safe,” Maria said. “God won’t hurt them. See how they’re going off the path? Back into the woods? They’re doing it because the path is dead. Your way out is dead. The fire has eaten it up just like you wanted to eat your friend Ted back there....”
He looked at her, wondering how she could have known he had that impulse.
“You think I don’t know you? What’s happening to you? How sick you’ve become? Well, I do. When you took Ted’s Glock from him, you hesitated while leaning over his face. I saw it. And I felt your urge. It pulsed through me. I know what you wanted to do. You wanted to bury your face into his and eat what was left of him, didn’t you? Just like you wanted to eat that fat hunter you two killed earlier. Probably even his friends if you had the chance.”
“Ted killed them.”
“Whatever, big boy.” She winked at him. “And I mean that. I know you’re big, at least down there. I remember that. That’s the one thing God gave you that’s actually worth something, because the rest of you sure as hell isn’t.”
“I wish I could kill you again.”
“I wish you could fuck me again. But neither of our wishes will come true. Isn’t that sad? It’s about as sad as the fire that’s going to burn you alive. Look at me, Kenneth. Is that a tear? Right here? Left eye? I think it is....”
The wind changed direction and with its shift, the smoke carried their way. Kenneth took off his jacket, then his flannel shirt, which he tied around his nose and mouth before putting his jacket back on. The smoke rolled over them and burned his eyes, making it difficult for him to see.
He needed to get out of here.
The path that led to the road was consumed with flames. He’d need to run into the woods and move alongside the path if he was going to find the road and the truck.
He brushed past Maria Fuentes and started to flee, but not before he heard her say, “Our girl Cheryl will have her freedom, Kenneth. She’s nearly there now. But you? You’re going to roast in these woods. And then you’re going to roast in hell.”
CHAPTER THIR
TY-FIVE
Cheryl Dunning ran with the animals, she ran alone when she lost sight of them, and then she ran with them again when their lives crossed and in some cases collided.
As the fire raged around them and threatened to press in and surround them, the only focus for all was escape. It didn’t matter that she was human. Trumping everything was the fire, which leaned and swayed and caught and spread and blew its hot, smoky wind dangerously upon them. It demanded respect, and it got it. Cheryl and the animals had the same goal and that goal, as ridiculous as it now seemed to her to achieve, was to survive.
She ran with deer and with raccoons, she ran with fox and fleetingly with a bear, she saw a moose hurrying off in the distance, but even though all were moving in the same direction, she wasn’t sure if any of them would find a way out in time. If the fire didn’t kill them, the smoke would. She was certain of that. And she was frightened of it because the smoke was starting to tunnel down.
She swiped away branches, nearly slipped because of her damned boots and wondered why at this point she had yet to hear the wail of sirens. How much longer would the police and fire departments be? If she could just hear them, she’d have a clear idea of where the road was and in which direction she needed to run in order to find her way out.
Behind her, she heard the flapping of wings and turned just as a gray owl soared over her head and flew forward in an effort to escape. Because of the fire overhead, it couldn’t risk the chance of taking to the sky, so it shrewdly flew low, following the other animals in their rush to freedom. She followed it, stumbled over the thick roots of pine trees, and kept her T-shirt close to her mouth so she could breathe. Her eyes were red and raw, singed by the fire and the smoke.
I’m not going to make it. I’m not. It all ends here. And for what?
She thought of her father and grandfather, whom she would miss. She thought of her mother, long since dead, whom she would see again. She thought of Patty, how she had left her alone last night and all that had happened as a result of it. And then she thought of what this particular death would be like. In spite of the searing heat, she felt a chill at the thought of it.
In this case, with this fire, this smoke, she felt it would hurt terribly―more than having her throat cut, wh
ich she didn’t remember because Mark Rand had knocked her unconscious. The pain came afterward, when she woke up, the six-inch wound in her neck sealed shut with stitches.
The fire was different. The fire wouldn’t offer a swift death. It would lick around her body, blister her skin, taste her bones and muscles, and then it would consume her. She knew that and she was scared to death of it. In spite of herself, she began to cry as she continued to run forward, the branches now snapping against her face because she couldn’t see well enough to push them aside. Her fear of the unknown sank in deep and took hold.
She wiped her eyes and in the next moment, everything changed.
When she saw him, he also saw her.
She stopped running, swiped her eyes again, and was stunned to find that someone else was out here. Someone else was trying to make their way out. It was difficult to see clearly through the smoke, but he looked vaguely familiar. Someone she knew from Bangor? A fellow hunter?
Couldn’t be. He wasn’t wearing hunting gear.
She could see well enough now to know that this wasn’t the man who brought her here, only to be run off by a moose. She thanked God for that. This was somebody else.
She was about to call out to him for help when he raised his hand at her. In it, she saw a gun.
Before Cheryl Dunning could process any of it, he fired it at her. And then he fired again and again while all around them, wild animals, startled by the sounds of the shots, leaped higher off the forest floor. Terrified and confused, they ran toward him and away from him and finally into him, knocking him to the ground all while a portion of Monson burned.
CHAPTER THI
RTY-SIX
The shots startled her, a bullet chewed through her, but when she looked down to see where she was hit, it was only a knick. Left arm, close to the shoulder, blood flowing, but not severely.
Lucky.
But still terrified. She looked ahead and watched one of the running bucks slam its rump against the man in its effort to escape. It knocked him so hard to the ground, she saw his feet kick up as he rolled over, where above him, sheets of fire roiled across the sky.
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