A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  "No doubt," he agreed. "Do you know which ones are harmless and where to find them?"

  "No. You wouldn't happen to, would you?"

  "I'm a lawyer, not a naturalist. The fact is, we're a pair of babes in the woods, so to speak, and if we're going to survive long, we'd better get out of here."

  "I'll vote for that."

  He stared at the ridge behind them. "If I climb up there, I can probably get a good look at the lay of the land, see what's around us."

  She agreed. "I think I'd better get back to the rock. I don't like leaving Danny alone. If he wakes, he won't know where we are."

  "Can you make it back?"

  "The water's done wonders for my feet."

  "If you're sure. I was going to give you my socks. I doubt my shoes would fit, but the socks should help. You keep the rifle, too, since you seem to know how to use it. It'll do more good in your hands than mine. I don't know how long this will take, but it could be a while. Wait for me at the rock."

  He unlaced his shoes, pulled off his socks and handed them to her.

  "If Danny wakes, I'll bring him down here to get a drink."

  "All right, but be careful. Hammond was probably just waiting for daylight to come looking for us again."

  "I'll be careful."

  Peter set off up the ridge. She stared after him. The land rose more steeply above, and they were a good way from the top. It might take several hours to get up there and down again.

  She headed back to the rock, where she found Danny still asleep. The sun began to climb in the sky, and Cathy guessed it was between eight and eight-thirty. She sat in the grass near the rock, rifle in hand, and looked out over the hillside. From here, at least, she could see anyone moving in the countryside directly below.

  Gazing across the valley, she had a wonderful view of other ridges looming blue-gray on the horizon, with stretches of tree-covered, rolling hills between. It was a pretty vista, but her mind wasn't on it. It wasn't on their escape the night before or the dangers that might be ahead of them either. Even the clamoring discomforts of her body couldn't distract her attention from the other agony she faced.

  She'd already acknowledged the depth of her attachment to Peter, but she'd thought herself in love before. The emotion she'd felt then was a pale imitation of this. She wanted the man, wanted him with a strength and violence she'd not felt for anyone before. Not just physically, though that desire was blindingly strong at times, but his company, his conversation, his humor… even his moodiness and occasional cutting anger.

  But what could she do about it? The problem was her own. He didn't want her love, and would probably be upset to discover it existed. And, in fairness, he'd never done anything to foster it. She'd forced her company and her friendship on him. He'd eventually returned her friendship and acknowledged the sexual attraction between them. He'd taken what she'd offered, but had made no pretense about it and allowed her the choice. If she wanted more, it wasn't because he'd hinted more was available. He'd made it very clear where he stood, and she'd known it all along. The burden was hers.

  In her anger and hurt, she'd told him yesterday—was it just yesterday?—she'd get out of his life when this was over. She didn't want to do that, and didn't think he really wanted it, either, but it might be the wisest thing for both of them. It was a difficult decision and likely to prove painful either way. She put her head down on her knees and gave in to the pressure of tears. There was a sort of release in letting them flow.

  How long she sat that way she didn't know, but a sudden sound brought her out of it. She whirled, forgetting the tears running down her face and raised the gun in readiness. Danny had gotten up and come down the slope behind her; he stood just a few feet away. Either he'd moved remarkably quietly or she'd been so absorbed in her own thoughts she hadn't heard him. Cathy exhaled a sigh of relief and lowered the gun. "Good morning. How are you?"

  He nodded but didn't answer. His expression changed from the blank of recent awakening to a worried frown as he noticed the tears running down her face. He walked up beside her, limping, and sat nearby. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." She wiped the tears away with her hand.

  He watched her quietly. "Where's Mr. Lowell?"

  "He went back up the ridge to get a look at the countryside. It may be a while before he gets back."

  Danny nodded, stood stiffly, and walked off behind a stand of trees. He returned in a few minutes.

  "There's a stream not far from here. You can get a drink and a wash if you want," Cathy offered when he got back.

  He agreed and the two of them made the trip to the stream again. The leg was bothering him, probably other things did, too, but he walked steadily and didn't ask for help. She didn't offer, just stayed near and a little ahead of him. Peter's socks did provide some protection for her damaged feet.

  By the side of the stream, he took off the windbreaker, which he really didn't need anymore. The day was warming rapidly. He drank from his cupped hands, then splashed water over his face and arms. Cathy turned away and walked along the side of the stream, picking her way carefully to avoid sharp rocks and sticks. Behind she heard more splashing, then his sudden call, "Miss Bennett!"

  She turned back. He stood by the side of the stream, the tee shirt held in his left hand. Cathy saw there were more cuts and burns across his chest, but her attention was caught by the look in his eyes. Danny watched her with a horrified concern that was the first truly adult expression she'd seen on his face.

  "You don't have any shoes on. I didn't notice last night, but I remember Mr. Lowell said something about it. Are you hurt? Is that why you were crying?"

  His concern surprised and moved her. She walked back, trying not to limp. "No. My feet are sore, I won't deny it, but not badly hurt. It was something else, something more personal."

  "Oh. I'm... I'm sorry."

  She watched him, saw the expression lingering in his dark eyes and understood he wanted to offer comfort, but he didn't know how and was afraid of offending her. She smiled. "Are you finished washing?"

  He looked at the forgotten shirt, said "yes," and put it back on. Cathy wished she had something to put on the burns. They had to be painful, especially the ones rubbed by his shirt. But there wasn't anything she could do. She debated about trying to wash and re-bandage his leg, but it had stopped bleeding and was probably better left alone until they could get proper medical attention.

  "Let's go back," she suggested, "Peter expects to meet us by the rock."

  Danny nodded and waited for her awkwardly. She took his arm and let him help support her weight. As thin as he was, he was surprisingly strong.

  "Miss Bennett, could I ask—"

  "I wish you'd quit calling me that. It makes me feel old. Can you call me Cathy?"

  "I guess so. Cathy, could I ask you something?"

  "Ask."

  "About last night. Was that true about where Bobby's proof was hidden?"

  She studied him for a minute. The answer mattered to him. Danny still didn't know whether or not his trust had been misplaced.

  "It was a pack of lies," she said, and watched the relief wash over his face. "But don't make too much of it. I couldn't have told him anything if I'd wanted to. I don't know where it is."

  -31-

  Tuesday

  The shutters rose in Danny's face, and Cathy knew he was trying to keep her from seeing the disappointment and fear. She started to say something reassuring and stopped. He'd surely see through her effort and probably resent it.

  So, instead of useless platitudes, she offered distraction and, she hoped, something more: friendship and a commitment of sorts. He might not understand it and wouldn't trust it if he did, but she was content that some sense of the offer be felt.

  As they sat near the rock in the advancing morning, she talked about herself: her childhood, her family, her brothers, summer vacations, school, anything she could recall that might make an interesting story. And Danny listened, quiet an
d solemn for the most part, with occasional amusement. Once or twice, he asked questions.

  And, eventually he began to talk about himself a bit in return; nothing deep, but memories he could share without causing much pain. Bobby figured in some of those stories, the rest of his family was referred to obliquely. Cathy, adept at reading between the lines, learned more than he probably realized.

  They were still talking when they heard a clattering of footsteps over loose stones. She grabbed the rifle as they hid in the shelter of the rock. She held the gun ready to forestall any assault, but it was Peter who appeared around the side of the hill. He looked up and saw them as they emerged from behind the rock.

  Peter and Danny eyed each other dubiously, but when Peter asked him how he felt, she walked away to give them privacy. She hung back while they talked, but after a minute Peter signaled her to join them.

  "There's a road that runs beside the ridge on the other side. I'd guess it's about three miles from here. I glanced at a map of the area before we came, and, if I remember rightly, that should be the Blue Ridge Parkway. The rest of the good news is there's a lower area between the peak of this ridge and the next, so we don't have to climb over the top. It's a little longer to go around, but not as steep."

  "Sounds too good to be true. What's the bad news?" Cathy asked.

  "Would you pick up a bunch of hitchhikers who look like we do?" he asked.

  She tried to look at her companions through the eyes of a stranger. Neither was an inspiring sight. Peter's face was scratched, blood-smeared and dirty, his hair uncombed, his clothes torn. Danny looked even worse: skin stretched too tightly over angular bones, eyes deeply shadowed, his face marked by bruises and partly hidden by several days' growth of scruffy, dark beard.

  She wouldn't win any prizes for grooming herself. At the moment, she was grateful no mirror was handy—she couldn't remember whether she'd left her pocketbook in the cabin or the car.

  "No," she admitted, scanning her disreputable-looking companions once again. "Still, it's our best bet. Peter, I've been thinking. What will Hammond do now? He's not the sort to give up. He knows we'll try to get to a road, he's probably cruising the area looking for us."

  "I keep asking myself what I'd do in his place," he said. He looked back at the peak he'd climbed, then along the ridge to where other crests were visible farther away. "I think he'd do something similar to what I just did. The next couple of peaks are higher than this one. If he climbed one of them, I suspect he'd get a good view of most of the area, including all the roads. With a good pair of field glasses—and what do you want to bet Hammond has a pair?—he could watch the entire area. He'd see where we emerged from the woods and come after us."

  The day was warm, becoming hot, but Cathy felt a sudden chill and shivered in the sunshine. "Is there any alternative to the road?"

  "No," he responded. "With no food and no way to get any, time isn't on our side. We've got to risk the road. I suggest, though, that we stay under cover as much as possible, so, if Hammond is watching, he won't see us until we're forced into the open. Then we pray we can flag someone down quickly."

  The position of the sun indicated it was just before noon when they started to the parkway. They stopped at the stream first and drank deeply, knowing there was no guarantee there'd be more water until they returned to civilization. They had no way to carry it with them.

  Peter led and tried to keep them in tree-shaded or rock-sheltered paths. Even so, it was hot and getting hotter. Cathy had now missed two meals and was having to force an increasingly lethargic body to keep moving. At least, in the light, they could see the obstacles in their path, so they avoided thorn bushes, and she could spot sharp objects before she put her feet on them.

  As the day wore on and they made slow progress, she worried more about Danny. If she was feeling the effects of two missed meals, he was on his fourth day with practically nothing to eat and little sleep. Last night, he'd run on adrenalin and the food she'd gotten into him. Today, she suspected he was moving on raw will power. He had plenty of that, but, sooner or later, his battered body was going to refuse the will driving it.

  By mid-afternoon, they were over halfway by Peter's estimate, and came, serendipitously, on another small stream. They stopped to drink and pour water over their sweat-sticky bodies. When Peter suggested a rest in the shade of the trees, nobody objected. Danny dropped to a patch of soft grass and fell asleep within seconds. Cathy watched him and fretted. His limp was noticeably worse, and, for the last half hour, he'd been swaying with exhaustion but doggedly refusing offers of support.

  She sighed and settled with her back against the trunk of a large old oak. Peter walked a little way up the hill to check their direction and position. When he returned a few minutes later, he sank next to her.

  "How much farther?" she asked.

  "A little over a mile, I think. Maybe half an hour or so over this kind of terrain. Are your feet giving out?"

  "They're okay."

  "You're worried about Danny?"

  She nodded. "He's not going to make it, and he won't accept help until it's too late."

  "Then, for the good of us all, he takes help whether he wants it or not." He saw her frown. "I know; I don't want to squash him either. Can we convince him his pride may stand in the way of our survival?"

  "I don't know. We can try." She rubbed her eyes, feeling her lids sink of their own accord. She let her head droop back against the tree and shut her eyes. She felt her hand clasped and didn't need to look to know who held it. She returned the pressure before letting herself relax into the warmth of the day and the pleasure of shade, grass, and being off her feet.

  She woke when someone shook her shoulder gently, yet insistently. Peter knelt beside her. "Time to get going."

  She dragged her weary bones back into an upright position and walked off the kinks in her back while Peter repeated the procedure with Danny. The boy woke slowly and with difficulty. It finally took both of them to haul him to his feet. He shook off their assistance and tried to walk on his own, but, after a few steps, he stumbled and fell to his knees. When they got back under him and lifted him again, he made no further objection.

  With Cathy and Peter having to support much of Danny's weight, it took over an hour to make the last part of the trip. The day was steamy and hot; sweat rolled down her body in large beads and collected where her arm lay around Danny's waist and his arm across her shoulders. It plastered her hair to her head and dripped uncomfortably into her eyes. Only semi-conscious now, Danny continued to struggle, putting one foot in front of the other, so they didn't have to drag him.

  It seemed like an eternity before they came to a place where the trees thinned. Ahead of them, Cathy saw the Parkway. A stream of cars and campers rolled along the asphalt. A grass verge about thirty feet wide separated the edge of the trees from the pavement, but further up the road, it narrowed to a few feet. They moved through the trees, staying near the edge as it angled in toward the road until they came to the narrowest part of the shoulder.

  Peter left Cathy and Danny concealed by the bushes while he attempted to flag down a passing motorist. Her heart crawled into her throat as she watched him, standing tall and strong but appallingly vulnerable on that open road, fearing every minute that a shot from above would cut him down or a Bronco would approach with a killer at the wheel. Fifteen, twenty minutes passed and neither happened, but no one stopped to help them, either.

  Peter's shoulders began to sag, even though he looked back between cars and gave her an encouraging smile. A camper approached and he again tried to flag it, only to watch it race by. But, this time, the camper slowed a short distance ahead and pulled to the side of the road. Peter ran to it and spoke with the person on the passenger side.

  She couldn't hear what was said, but a few minutes later, he came back to them. "A pair of angels has arrived," he explained. He shook Danny and drew him up. The younger man roused once more and did his best to cooperate. Cath
y supported one side with Peter on the other, and they hustled him to the camper, where a middle-aged woman jumped out of the passenger door and held it for them. Her eyes widened at the sight of the rifle Cathy held, but she didn't say anything.

  A long step up to the van door and then two shorter steps created a problem. Danny couldn't lift his injured leg high enough to make the first step, and it refused to support his weight while he raised the other. Finally, Peter got into the van and, hooking his arms under the boy's shoulders, lifted him into the back of the camper while Cathy and the other lady raised his legs.

  Cathy jumped in behind him, and the older woman pulled the door to as she got in and sat back in the passenger seat. She was in her early fifties with uncompromisingly gray hair, nicely styled, a face that was used to laughing, and bifocal glasses on a chain around her neck. The driver was slightly older, also gray-haired, though he tended more to silver, with a firm but friendly face.

  "Better take off, it's a fair bet we'll be followed," Peter told the driver. To Cathy, he explained, "I've told our friends a bit about our situation. They're going to try and get us to the police station in Skyeville. I hope Tom is already there."

  "If he made it, they've probably sent search parties by now," Cathy pointed out.

  "Likely, but we'd better not count on it. I didn't see any sign this morning." Peter turned to the front of the van. "We haven't introduced ourselves." He gave their names to the two who sat in the front seats.

  The lady faced them around the back of her seat. "I'm Emily Martin and this is my husband, Fred." Fred nodded without taking his eyes off the road.

  "We're grateful for your help, Mrs. Martin," Cathy said.

  "Well, we don't usually pick up hitchhikers, but Mr. Lowell looked like a nice young man in a bit of trouble."

  "That last bit is the truth," Peter agreed. "I hope we haven't gotten you into trouble, too."

  "Well, I hope not, but do you think you could tell us what's going on? Are you some kind of spies, like on the television?" Mrs. Martin asked.