In Her Shadow

by August McLaughlin

  “Hey, look what I found. Amazing what light will do.” She lifts a can of chili from the counter. “This was in the back of the cabinet. And we’re in luck. It hasn’t expired. We can eat it before we leave. For strength,” she adds quietly.

  “Jill...” Claire chooses her words carefully, sensing that swaying Jill won’t be easy. “It’s so much warmer in here. I’m wondering if I should head back...alone and return with help—”

  “I won’t let you leave me!” Jill snaps, spinning toward her—her eyes wide, panicked. “If you got lost, which is easy out here... Anything could happen.”

  Claire looks at Jill. Parts of her have never grown up. Just now she glimpsed the terrified child.

  “We’ll go together on two conditions,” Claire says. “You stay wrapped in the blanket and eat at least half of the chili. Think you can do that?”

  Jill glances at the chili can like a tall hurdle she’s determined to face. “Deal.”

  Claire does her best to wash the knives in melted snow, pushing thoughts of Malcolm’s blood away. Pretend it’s ketchup. At least it has iron... She shivers and scrubs harder.

  They open the chili can and eat it cold, using their fingers as utensils, then wash it down with more water. They finish the can, minus two small scoops—one for each hungry hound.

  “Thank you,” Claire says, clutching Jill’s hand. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

  They configure a plan. If the weather takes a turn for the worst, they’ll head for a smaller cabin. It’s not directly in the path to Malcolm’s house, but it would provide warmth and shelter. As they bundle Jill up in the blanket, they hear sounds from outside—footsteps and rustling in the trees. The hounds jump to their feet, ready for action. They emit a low growl. Jill jerks their collars, alerting quiet.

  Someone to help us? Claire thinks.

  Jill raises a finger on her lips: shhh.

  She tiptoes to the window and peers out. She turns toward Claire, the color draining from her face.

  A bear. It’s eating Malcolm’s body.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Jill tries to remember what Uncle Bob told her years ago about bears. It’s been so long... She can only hope her instincts recall better than her brain does. Stay calm and quiet. Don’t move. Then if you can, scare it away. She can almost feel Claire’s heart thudding wildly; or perhaps it’s her own.

  Sounds of gnawing fill their ears as the enormous animal tears at the frozen flesh outside the cabin.

  Jill clutches Claire’s hand. He doesn’t want us, just...that.

  The hounds sniff at the air. One growls. With another yank to the collar, Jill quiets it—no.

  After standing statue-still for what feels like hours, the sounds lessen. Then a loud roar thunders, shaking the twins like an earthquake. They work to keep their labored breathing quiet.

  Footsteps sound. Please go away...

  More footsteps. Closer? The sound of sniffing follows—so loud, the bear must be close to the cabin. The women’s eyes draw to the bottom of the door. He’s not only close, but right outside. It grumbles once, then again, louder, starts scratching the door. If it scratches harder, it might break down the door.

  Black bears rarely attack people. At least that’s what Malcolm and Uncle Bob said. So why is he after us? Jill glances at the chili can on the small counter area by the door. That’s why... She takes a deep breath.

  What are you doing? Claire mouths, grasping Jill’s left arm as she reaches for the can with her right.

  “He’s hungry,” Jill whispers.

  Jill carries it to the opposite wall and opens the window. She tosses the can as far as she’s able out the window then watches. The bear rises up on its hind legs, its head rolling in the direction the can flew. It roars then drops to all fours and races off to retrieve it.

  They now have distance, but not enough; the can landed less than twenty feet away.

  The dogs bark in response to the roar and scents. Good, Jill thinks. Now to make more noise. “Ahhh!” she yells, kicking the walls and stamping her feet on the floor. Claire follows suit, stomping, yelling and clanging the knife against the metal of the lantern.

  “Look!” She pulls Claire toward the window. The bear is running off through the trees.

  “Thank God,” Claire says. “Will it come back?”

  “I doubt it. Bears don’t usually hurt people. He was just hungry.”

  “See?” Claire says. “I knew there was a good reason to feel anxious about food...”

  They lock eyes, smile, then share their first mild laugh.

  They finish the water, pour the remaining propane in the lantern and bundle back up. Turning their eyes from the pile of blood, flesh bits and bone that once was Malcolm, they start their journey.

  Chapter Seventy

  Claire and Jill tread over the snow and through the trees, walking at a brisk but cautious pace. Unlike their first voyage, they don’t fear Malcolm’s approach. Conserving their strength and energy have become top priorities.

  Flashes from high school history class surface in Claire’s mind—the black and white film about Nanook of the North. They must look like arctic explorers, bundled up and trudging through the snowy forest with a mini dog pack. The thought makes her miss Zola. Good thing she left her at Grandma’s place and not alone at her apartment. Does the spaniel sense that something’s wrong now?

  She recalls Zola’s response to Malcolm—alert and growling. Next time I’ll listen.

  Not long after their departure the wind picks up, making forward steps more difficult. The grey clouds Claire spotted earlier seem larger, darker...closer. When they reach a small clearing, a harsh breeze brings icy particles to their faces. Snow is coming.

  Jill pauses and leans against a tree, seeming winded.

  “How are you holding up?” Claire asks.

  “Not b-bad.”

  Observing her shivers, Claire questions her honesty.

  Jill points to the left. “If we head that way, we’ll get to the house. But...it’s a long way, especially against the wind.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “We can go straight. The s-smaller cabin isn’t too far ahead. We can rest there, if we need to.” She looks up at the sky. “If it snows hard, we’ll want a pit stop. D-don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Sound good to me,” Claire says. She notices the bluish pallor of Jill’s lips. “Do you still have the scissors?”

  “Your back pocket.” Claire retrieves them and cuts two scarves out of the blanket material. They secure the strips around each of their faces and forge on. Already, this journey seems longer than the trip to the cabin.

  The wind escalates further, as does the chill. The bits of ice turn from drifting to readily falling snow then quickly to freezing drizzle. Claire wraps an arm around Jill as they continue, both for support and added warmth. She’s considering asking Jill the proverbial childhood “Are we there yet?” question when their resting point appears.

  Smaller than the first cabin, this one looks more like a shed or oversized outhouse. And the door is bolted shut.

  They try to open or break the lock with the knife and scissors, to no avail. The window too is secure. “Should I break the glass?” Claire asks, unsure if she’s capable.

  Before she can try, Jill takes the scissors and forces it against the window. It doesn’t break, but she’s cracked it. A few more hits with the metal and the glass shatters.

  Claire reaches in carefully and sets the lantern down, illuminating the interior. She then hoists Jill up, allowing her to step inside. The frame is only slightly larger than Jill’s body. A rare time her tininess proves helpful. “Watch out for broken glass.”

  Once in, Jill unlocks the front door. Claire and the hounds enter.

  They clear the glass away and cover the gaping window with a tarp they find inside, securing it by wedging part of the tarp in the closed door, another on a nail planted in the wall. “It’s something,” Jill says, then sit
s down on the floor.

  They recreate their earlier position, nestled under the blanket, one dog on either side. Claire holds the lantern between them. It radiates some heat, but not enough.

  “I don’t care if a blizzard comes,” Jill says. “We can get through anything.”

  Claire relishes the new sense of peace in her sister’s eyes, but her frailty concerns her. She notices Jill’s staggered breaths—worse than before. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, just...c-cold.”

  Claire moves behind her and rubs her forearms.She’s so tiny, she thinks, once again taken aback by the skeletal limbs. They aren’t just frail, but trembling—hard.

  She wraps Jill in her arms and draws the blankets closer, thinking about what she knows of hypothermia. Before today, it has merely been a headline, something that happens to a stranger, or to a friend of a friend. Today it risks being more than that. And what if Malcolm was right about Jill’s kidneys? What if they’ve worsened? Every way Claire looks at the situation seems a recipe for disaster.

  A short time later, Jill stops trembling. Claire can’t recall whether that is a good thing. Something tells her it isn’t. They have to get to a warmer place and medical care—soon. She pulls her closer, holding her with all of her might. Fear for Jill’s well-being has replaced her previous dread of Malcolm in equal, if not greater measure.

  “Tell me...about our g-mother,” Jill says. “Is she... She’ll died...”

  Slurred words. Confusion. She no longer doubts whether Jill has hypothermia but how badly and how to stop it.

  Think, Claire prompts herself. It has been years she learned the proper protocol. Keep her warm and awake. Sleep would bring her heart rate lower, increasing her risk of... No. She refuses to let anything worse happen.

  What else can she do? She can’t leave Jill alone in this state, even if she could find her way back to Malcolm’s house. But if that becomes the only alternative...

  She looks down to see her own hands trembling. In the light of the lantern she observes their color: blue. Shit!

  “Don’t worry...about m-me,” Jill says, “Or...anything. Okay? Tell me about m-mother.”

  She’s been following their conversation—a good sign, Claire hopes. “She was beautiful. Inside and out. And smart, funny... She had the best laugh.”

  She pauses, observing Jill’s shallower breathing. Keep her talking. “What were you told about her?”

  No response.

  “Jill?”

  “I’m so...tired...” Jill says.

  “No. Don’t you dare fall asleep! Come on. Let’s stand up for a minute.” She prepares to hoist Jill up, but her own body feels limp, unresponsive.

  “I can’t...believe he’s...gone. And you’re...here. You’re really...” She smiles up at Claire then slumps down, eyes closed.

  “Jill!” Claire shakes her gently. “Jill, wake up. Wake up!”

  Jill mutters something.

  Thank God! Claire thinks. “Jill?” Please say something. “Are you all right?”

  She moans, sounding agitated. “Get...off!” She pulls away from Claire. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “It’s all right, Jill. I won’t hurt you. It’s me, Claire. Your sister.” She makes sure she speaks in a soothing tone.

  Jill’s mumbling quiets then stops. Her eyelids flicker. She looks at Claire. “Si-sister?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where— Is he here?” Her eyes dart around, distressed.

  “Malcolm is gone, Jill. You’re safe now.” Claire hopes.

  Jill’s body relaxes. She closes her eyes. Claire draws the blanket tighter around her. How long will this go on? How long could it? She notices then that her body temperature has warmed. Or is her hypothermia worse? Please, God, if you’re up there...

  “I see her.”

  Her attention snaps back to Jill. “What did you say?”

  “Mother... Do you see her? So beautiful.” With eyes closed, Jill smiles. “She says it’s okay. I’m coming, Mother. I’m...”

  “No. Jill? Jill!” Tears pour down Claire’s cheeks. Her sister seems either unconscious or asleep. Don’t you dare go where Mom did.

  The dogs huddle closer as Claire continues to nudge Jill awake, her efforts growing continually more fruitless. One of the hounds nuzzles then licks Jill’s face. The last time Claire saw the hounds lick someone he was... No!

  “Jill, come on. Wake up.” She shakes her gently. “Come on!”

  Claire can’t take this anymore. She must do something.

  Bundling Jill tighter in the blanket, she stands then walks to the door. One of the hounds trails her outside. She belts into the air, fueled up with anger, pain and desperation.

  “HEEEEELP! HEEEEELP!!! SOMEONE PLEASE! HEEEEELP!”

  She must have stated a command because the dog races off into the woods. Be careful out there, she thinks then watches the animal disappear in the trees. She returns inside to a motionless Jill, unsure whether her dizziness stems from screaming in the cold or her sister’s state.

  “Damn it! I can’t lose you.” She drops her head onto her sister’s blanket-topped lap and sobs, fighting the belief that she will.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Hank snaps from hazy semi-consciousness to awake at the sound of voices from upstairs. Still lying on a bed and hooked to IVs, his abdomen throbs. He listens. If it’s Malcolm, he may have Claire with him. It’s faint but he’s certain—he hears a woman’s voice.

  “Hello?” he calls out. “Claire? I’m down here!” Every word adds pain to his injury. He touches his injury, noting swelling.

  “We’ve got someone! Downstairs.” A man’s voice.

  He hears jostling with the locked door, then a loud bang as someone busts the lock and kicks the door open. The pounding of heavy steps fills him with relief. Three police officers, two men and one woman, appear. They enter the basement with their arms extended, pointing guns, panning from side to side.

  “I’ve been shot,” Hank says.

  The cops investigate the area, guns still pointed. “Is he here?” one asks.

  “No. He left a while ago. Have you found Claire?” He senses from their faces that they haven’t. Or they don’t want to tell him the truth.

  A cop talks into his radio. “Are we clear upstairs? We need backup... Gunshot wound, one man down.”

  The female officer slides her gun into her holster and approaches Hank. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Hank Matheson.”

  “Other than the gunshot wound, are you okay? Hurt otherwise?”

  “No, but trust me. One bullet hole hurts plenty.” He can only hope it hasn’t caused more damage inside. Trying to ignore thoughts of internal bleeding, he focuses on the medic’s questions.

  She scans the IV drip and bandages. “The perpetrator do all this?”

  “No. He shot me, but I did the rest. I’m a med student.” He details what happened, confirming what he stated in his email to the police department after he’d emailed Claire. He starts with Claire’s phone message and ends with the blow to his abdomen.

  God, he hates that man... If he could, he would bolt outside right now, hunt him down himself.

  “Elle Taylor...” the cop says. “She phoned in a tip in earlier and your email matched. Nice teamwork. Good thing, too... Internet reports usually take more time.”

  “What about Claire? Have you found her?” he asks again and tries to lift his head, but feels too woozy.

  “Not yet, but we’re searching. No sign of her since you arrived?”

  “There’s blood outside...and the blood on the floor’s not all mine. Her purse is in Malcolm’s car, in the garage. Find her, please.”

  Another cop runs down the stairs. “Perp’s fled, looks like on foot.”

  As the officers converse nearby, Hank picks up bits and pieces, fighting exhaustion and pain, but more so terror.

  An armed and dangerous man... On the run... girlfriend... Claire...

  Tw
o paramedics rush down the stairs with a backboard. They carry Hank up the stairs and load him onto a stretcher. Policemen are dispersed around the main floor. Tape surrounds the blood- and glass-filled kitchen—a crime scene.

  The paramedics transport him outside where an ambulance awaits. As they carry the stretcher through the patio door and into the yard, the sound of a dog barking fills the air. It’s loud, unrelenting. Craning his neck, Hank turns to see a large dog bounding toward the house. It stops in front of a police grouping, barking louder, repeatedly.

  One cop says, “Isn’t he one of Bob Chappa’s hounds? Either way, this guy wants to show us something.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Claire feels herself drifting off when she notices a whistling sound. She lifts her head, startled.Malcolm? It can’t be. He’s...dead—isn’t he?

  Her thoughts have grown murky, and the line between real and imagined is thin. She recalls the scissors, the knife, the blood; she couldn’t have imagined all of that.

  She glances down at Jill, whose head now rests on her shoulder. Her breathing is shallow, but continues. She kisses the top of her head. Please...keep breathing.

  Even the dog is sleeping, huddled up against Jill’s opposite side. With exhausting pulling on her, Claire longs to join them. Soon, she won’t have a choice. When her eyelids drop, she snaps them up like window shades—not if she can help it.

  More whistling breaks the silence. Then words: “No...place like home....”

  Claire straightens. A familiar voice. “Mom?”

  Shit. As much as she longs for her mother, she knows that actually hearing her would mean she’s delusional. Sick. Losing control. She listens.

  “No place...”

  This time it sounds like Jill. “Good, Jill! That’s right... There’s no place like home.” The Wizard of Oz, Claire thinks. Though touched by another parallel, her own voice sounds foreign—exhausted and weak. Her throat feels raw. But Jill is alive and breathing. And talking, at least somewhat.