“And where is your mother?”
She nods back the way we came.
Charlie shakes his head. “No, she wasn’t. We were there. We saw no one else.”
“Sometimes she goes out.”
“To do what?”
“Hunt?”
“And what about your father?”
She gives him a questioning gaze.
Charlie tries again. “Do you have a father?”
The question troubles her, like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle, until she eventually says, “No. He left.”
“Did you know him?”
She shakes her head.
“So he left a long time ago?”
“Yes, before I came.”
“Then where did your sister come from?”
“From the earth.”
What?
Charlie tries another tactic. “Tasha, babies come from men and women being together. If your father is gone, then how did Scarlet get here?”
“Mother brought her to me.”
Maybe she is another stolen child. How many children has Tasha’s mother taken?
“When?” Charlie asks.
“Long ago—”
“A month? Two months? A year?”
Time doesn’t seem to make sense to Tasha and she falls silent. We trod silently along the path, the soft earth cushioning our footfalls in the stillness of the forest, and its then it occurs to me how quiet Scarlet’s been.
I walk beside them. “Tasha, can I see your sister?”
“No, she’s sleeping.”
“I know, but can you show her to me?”
“I don’t know…”
But I can be persistent too. “Is she cute? Does she look like you?” I catch Charlie’s quizzical look, but I ignore him and focus on Tasha.
“Mother says so.”
“Do you think so?”
She smiles coyly.
“I’d love to see how cute she is. We promise to be quiet and not wake her,” I add.
Her face softens. “Okay, but only for a moment.” She shifts Scarlet in her arms and unwraps the grimy white blanket that covers the baby. I feel the blood drain from my face.
In Tasha’s arms is the stuffed corpse of a rabbit.
“This is your sister, Tasha?” I look over at Charlie, who’s doing his best not to lose his shit.
A troubled frown crosses her face. “Yes, why? Is she not cute?”
The animal’s eyes and mouth have been sewn shut, tufts of grass poke out from loose threads where its body has been stitched together. Its fur is ratty either from age or from being cuddled too much.
“No, she’s lovely, Tasha.” I swallow hard, trying my best not to upset her while I eyeball Charlie before he says something dumb. “And your Mother brought her to you, you said? From the earth?”
“Yes.”
We’re way out of our element here. Tasha is a psychologically and emotionally distressed woman we thought we could bring back into the real world. I’m no longer certain that’s the right choice. This isn’t just some lost kid but someone who’s been messed up by someone else, and I’m suddenly really worried that our actions are going to cause even more damage.
Tasha cuddles her rabbit sister close, rocking it a little.
I turn to Charlie and pull him a few feet away. “We can’t do this.”
“What? Take her back to civilization? It’s a little late to change our minds.”
“But she’s broken. Like, really messed up.”
“Yeah, and we can’t just abandon her because of it. It isn’t her fault. It’s her ‘mother’s.’ She stole Tasha from her parents, no matter how messed up they were, and did this. We have to see this through.” He turns to her. “Tasha, can you tell me where your mother is?”
“I told you. Hunting.”
“Where does she hunt? Where does she go?”
“Charlie, what are you doing? We can’t go after her! It won’t solve anything.”
“Shepherd, she can’t get away with this. We need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He turns back to Tasha. “When she hunts, where does she go?”
“I don’t know—”
“You must have some idea.”
“You can’t—”
“Why not? What does she hunt?”
“She knows—”
“Knows what?” He’s in her face and I can see she’s ready to run.
“Tasha, what is she hunting?” I ask.
She lifts her finger and points at us. “You.”
I take a step back, heartbeat racing. “What do you mean?”
“She’s been tracking you. Learning you.”
Her words suddenly register.
“You said she knows. What does she know?” My chest is tight, my voice strained.
Tasha’s petrified and she clutches the bundled rabbit tightly for security. “She’s been watching you.”
My mind’s racing. “When we came to the woods?”
She nods.
“Every time we’ve been on the beach?”
She nods.
“When we were lost? You said that was you? What did you mean?”
She wrings the blanket in her hands.
“Which part was you?”
“You were cold…”
“The plastic? That was you?”
She nods.
“And the canoe?”
She nods again.
“But the deer?”
Her eyes narrow, straining from the question, but she shakes her head no.
“That was her?” I ask. “She was there?”
“Always.”
She was hunting us, tracking us! “Tasha, did she follow us everywhere?”
I stare into her frightened eyes and she doesn’t even have to answer.
“You need to take us back to the boat!” I yell, breaking into a sprint. I turn back and Tasha and Charlie haven’t moved. “We have to go. Now!”
This jolts them and Tasha hurries toward me. I race back to her, urging her to move faster and Charlie rushes to catch up.
“Shepherd, what’s going on?”
“She knows where we live, Charlie!”
chapter 110
By the time we get to the hill with the deer trail, my lungs are exploding, but I can’t stop. Charlie runs beside me and the two of us urge Tasha on. When we reach the top, I see the distance to the fire tower and my heart drops. I calculate the run back to the boat in my head, knowing it took us at least an hour to get to this point on our way in. Even if we took no breaks and ran all the way, we’d only cut it down by about fifteen or twenty minutes and still have the boat ride back. But it’s our best shot.
I drag out my cell phone, but of course I can’t find a signal. I jam it back into my pocket and follow the path that leads back toward the lake, Charlie behind me.
Tasha yells, “No, this way!” She’s indicating the deer trail she showed us earlier. “Man is bad.”
“Tasha… my family.” I’m desperate, the most desperate I’ve ever felt.
“Man is bad,” she says with total certainty before dashing down the hill. I follow, not waiting for Charlie. I can only hope that he’s behind me.
It’s a tough trail, definitely not as well-worn as the one from the beach where we left the canoe. It’s hillier, with toppled trees and long trenches, but Tasha navigates us along a path that moves between the obstacles. We have to zig-zag several times but continue to progress forward.
It bothers me that Tasha and her mother have journeyed into our world so much that they have a separate trail. They’ve known about us for ages, but we’ve barely been aware of them. The thought brings me back to Tasha’s mysterious mother. That young couple looked to be only in thei
r twenties or maybe thirties in the picture, not much older than Tasha is now. They must be sixty or seventy today. Could her mother really be so agile as to track and hunt prey at her age? Sure, living out in the woods seems to have benefited Tasha physically, but the challenges that come with it and the limits of the human body—I just wonder how an older woman could’ve lasted so long.
And what possessed her to take Tasha—no, Joanna—from her family? Did she think the girl would be better off? Did it start as an act of kindness after she got lost? Or was it something deeper, more maternal? Barry said that the couple had wanted children. If her husband had died before they’d had one of their own, maybe she’d coped by stealing someone else’s.
And if she knows we’ve been making plans to take her child away, what sort of retribution does she intend for us?
chapter 111
When we leave the trees behind, we are on the long dirt road that goes toward Dyson’s Point. We race along the rough gravel and by the time we pass the store, the sun has set and the building is dark and closed. We are on our own.
As we approach our cabin, I see a second vehicle in the driveway. There’s no way it can be Tasha’s “mother’s,” but I point at it to confirm anyway. She shakes her head and I’m certain she thinks I’m a mental case for even asking if they have a car.
“Shit, what’s she doing here?” Charlie mumbles and I wonder who he’s talking about, but as we get closer, I know exactly who he means.
Face down on the ground, lying in a puddle of her own blood, is Gekas.
I drop to my knees. The upper half of her denim jacket is shredded, and jagged bits of material from her white shirt, matted and red, poke through. Her eyes are closed.
“Detective Gekas?”
“Anthony?” she whispers, and I know it’s really bad.
“Right here, Detective.” There’s a thin, bloody puncture below one shoulder blade, which I’m guessing is a knife wound.
“She’s inside…” Gekas turns her head to look for me, but even blinking seems to hurt her. “She came at me from behind…” She’s struggles to raise her good arm and grabs my hand. “Call 911. Don’t go in there. Promise.”
I squeeze her hand. “Promise.”
I glance at Charlie. “Wait here with Tasha and Gekas. I’m going to get a signal down by the lake.”
“Okay.” He stares at the cabin.
I grab him, drawing his attention to me. “Charlie, you need to keep your promise, okay? Keep them safe.”
He nods.
I race down the path by the house, keeping low and out of sight. As I rush past the firepit, I consider that Gekas’s thinking could be muddled—Tasha’s mother could be anywhere—but I don’t have time to worry about that now.
I dial the number and by the time I get to the water, the phone is ringing.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Anthony Shepherd. We’re at our cabin at Dyson’s Point, near the lakefront at the end of the road. A police officer has been stabbed and there’s a woman inside our cabin who may be hurting my family.” My stomach tightens at the thought, but I continue, “Can you please send someone as soon as possible? Our cabin is red and there’s a sign with our name, ‘Shepherd,’ at the end of the driveway.”
“All right,” the dispatcher replies, “please stay on the line while I get more details.
I nod to myself, staring up at the cabin, its tall, bright windows light up the night, but it’s no longer a welcoming sight—there’s no movement within.
Except Charlie is sneaking around the cabin.
I race back up the hill but can’t see him anywhere, so I go back to Gekas, only to find her alone. There’s no sign of Tasha.
Dammit, Charlie. Where the hell have you gone?
Gekas is out cold. I kneel and listen; there’s a low, soft wheezing, so I know she’s alive. But I don’t know for how long, and I can only hope the cops and paramedics show up soon.
I briefly wonder where Tasha has gone, but what really worries me is Charlie. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but he’s a wildcard who makes rash decisions that I’m not always sure are the wisest. I don’t know what Tasha’s mother is like, but I’ve seen what she’s capable of and I’m really worried for my family. It doesn’t take me long to break my promise to the detective.
I tell the dispatcher to send help quickly and drop the phone beside Gekas. I run back down to the firepit and pull the axe out of the stump. I’m hoping there’s no need to use it, but if I’m going to face off against this woman, I need a weapon.
I move stealthily around the side of the cabin and peer inside the dark window of Mom and Dad’s bedroom. The next window over is the bathroom and its light is on, but the window is mostly frosted, except for a tiny crack that I can just peer through. Lying on the floor down the hallway is Ollie. He’s on his side, not moving. My stomach clenches and I want to scream, but I hold it in. I force myself to look past him and into the living room, but I can’t see anyone else. If it weren’t for my pup curled lifelessly in front of me, I’d think no one else was in the cabin—and I’d really like to believe it—but I know it’s not true.
I push myself to leave and go around the corner, hurrying past the entry. With Gekas lying cut and bleeding, and Ollie wounded or worse, I realize that I don’t know what I’m getting into. Better to avoid a direct assault. I need a plan. And where is Charlie?!
I look through the kitchen window. Cowering in the living room beside the fireplace is my family. They’re tied together with rope and their feet are bound. Heather is crying, Mom is trying to comfort her, and Dad—shit, Dad has a bloody towel wrapped around his arm. There’s no sign of the woman, but I’m guessing by the direction they’re looking, she might be by the staircase.
I consider moving along the porch, but the big windows are open. She might see me and my family could be hurt more… it’s too great a risk. I could climb the stonework of the entrance to my bedroom but being exposed by the porch light doesn’t seem safe either. I move, low and swift, to the oak trees at the back of the property that separate it from the street.
Long ago, Heather and I used to climb them, hanging upside down from the branches and dreaming of sneaking in and out of the upper storey windows like ninjas. The distance was always too great a leap, so we never had the guts to pull it off, but with my family in danger, it’s time to take the chance.
Axe held tight in one hand, I shimmy my way to the first bough and pull myself up. From there, I’m able to climb limb to limb until I get to a branch that stretches out to Heather’s bedroom window. I scramble along it, holding on for as long as I can, until the branches curve away and I have to balance without support.
The window is still too far away! But, thank God, it is open a crack and I’m able to pry it nearly all the way open with the head of the axe. I don’t waste time and poke the axe through the screen, tearing it off—I’ve just got to hope the woman doesn’t hear me. I reach out a foot—thank goodness for my growth spurt—and plant it on the window sill, struggling to keep from falling. I push off with the other foot and grab at the sill, but the axe slips out of my hand and tumbles to the ground. There’s no time to think—I don’t want to follow the axe down—and I reach out again, trying to take hold of the window frame. My whole body swings forward and I hit the house with a muffled thud. Digging my shoes into the wood siding, I pull myself up and climb inside.
chapter 112
I’m soaked in sweat and my arm hurts. I’m lying in the dark beside Heather’s bed, hoping that no one heard me climb in. Seconds pass that feel like minutes—I wish I hadn’t lost the axe—but no one comes to investigate.
Quieting my breath, I move to the door and pull it open a crack. A woman is talking, but I can’t tell if it’s Mom or Heather or someone else. Until I move to the staircase, no one will be able to see me from below. My vantag
e point allows me to see reflections in the front window—I can see the blurry image of my family, not Tasha’s “mother”—although she has to be down there somewhere.
Damn! I wish I knew where Charlie went.
My room is across the hall. I rush inside silently, pulling the door nearly shut behind me.
“Charlie,” I whisper, hoping for best, but only getting silence in response. I don’t dare turn on a light; instead, I pull out my phone, using the glow of the screen to search for a weapon. Unfortunately, I don’t even have a jackknife in here and Charlie held onto his backpack full of tricks, so I’m out of luck. All I’ve got to work with are clothes, dirty towels, and books. If I were Jason Bourne, I could make a weapon out of any of this stuff—but I have none of these skills whatsoever.
Then I remember that I do have a walking stick that Dad gave me on one of our beach hikes years ago. I open the closet door as quietly as I can, reaching to the back to pull it out. It’s about five feet long and both ends are angled, shaped by a beaver that chewed through a young sapling. It’s got good weight, and although it’s a little long for a proper swing, I think it might offer some protection—as long as this woman doesn’t have anything worse than a knife.
I have to know more about what I’m dealing with. Leaving the walking stick behind, I go back to my bedroom door and drop to my belly. Using all my concentration on not being seen or heard, I commando crawl to the edge of the balcony that looks over the living room and peer through the railing.
A woman paces at the bottom of the stairs—exactly where I thought she might be—but she’s nowhere near the age I expected. She’s young, about the age of my sister, Jodi, which makes no sense when I think of Tasha. If either of them is even close to the age they seem to be, this woman would’ve had to have had her when she was ten years old. Impossible. Whatever’s going on, this is definitely not Tasha’s real mother.
What worries me more is the knife she’s carrying: a curved, thick and stubby hunting knife with a serrated edge along its spine. I’ve seen what she can do with it—and have no doubt that if I try anything, she’ll get to my family before I can stop her.
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