Branches slap me in the face as I tear through the trees. My backpack bumps against me with every swerve and hop. I skid to a halt at the fork in the path, not sure which trail to choose. Adrenaline bursts through my veins as another puff of dust explodes at my feet. Trees slap me in the face, stinging my cheeks, and the trail spits mud at my pants. I veer east and weave through the trees. As my feet beat hard down the broken path, my mind blocks out any thoughts.
I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
White dots spiral across my eyes as my body begs for air. I slip behind a tree to catch my breath. Behind me, deep voices echo, but only muffled words reach my ears. I can’t tell what they’re saying or from which direction they’re coming.
At the thought of being captured, fear coils around my chest like a boa constrictor. My head pounds with pain as my brain threatens to escape. My eyes dart across the monotonous woods, searching for a way out. The voices float all around me but I can’t see them so I still have some time before they close in.
I have to be smart about this. I need a plan or I have no chance.
Think. Think.
I listen for the slightest sound, search for the tiniest movement.
Nothing.
As a wildlife enforcement officer, Dad believed the woods would talk to me if I could be still enough to listen. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the space around me.
Listening. Waiting. Afraid to breathe.
A light breeze slithers through the ghostly forest. The leaves rustle and the trees hiss as if whispering secrets to each other. The forest appears to exhale then hold its breath. Everything goes as quiet as a graveyard at midnight. Nothing scurries, burrows, or twitters. The trees stop swaying and freeze, as if they’re hiding too. And then I hear it: the distant snap of a random twig. The hair on my neck bristles.
They’re still after me.
In the silence, Dad’s voice reminds me what to do. Our tracks are the earth’s reaction to us and give proof of you. If you don’t want to be found, erase any evidence that you exist.
Suddenly, a strange calmness pumps through me. I lick my finger to test the wind’s direction so I can stay upwind. Then I quickly pinpoint my coordinates and map out a different route to Luci. I can do this. I just need to be smart about it and quiet.
Once I’m ready, I tiptoe out of my hiding place and backtrack a few feet down the trail. Sticking to the side, I cover any evidence of my existence. As soon as I reach the cliff edge, I secure my backpack and rub the bottom of my boots off on a dry rock to clean them before scaling the mountainside. The knifelike edges rub the lacerations already on my hands, but I fight through the pain. To achieve smooth climbing, I only move one body part at a time. Foot, hand, body. At the top, I propel myself over the ledge.
For miles, I evade the men and inch toward Luci. Everything aches. My heart and body weigh down as if big blocks of ice have been tied to my shoes. Only one thing keeps me going.
If I want to find Dad, I have to get back to Carl. Alive.
I round a bend in the path and bend over to catch a quick breath.
Out of nowhere, something hard slams against the side of my head.
My vision blurs. I have no idea which way is up, but my body leans to one side. Suddenly, I’m trapped in an invisible hourglass, and someone’s flipped me upside down. Eventually, my face and body slam into the dirt. I glance up through the thick fog rolling across my brain and make out the shape of a man.
Chief Reed stands over me with a large gun in his hand.
“Hello, Grace. Can’t say I’m happy to see you here.”
When I attempt to push myself up, he stomps on my back with a boot, flattening my chest against the rocky dirt. Moaning, I roll onto my side. My whole body throbs as every muscle seems to punch the inside of my body. I touch an oozing gash on my forehead and wince at the sting.
I begin to pray. God, please help me.
Fighting against the urge to pass out, I rise up on my hands. Chief Reed kicks me hard in the ribs. I crumble into a heap and spit. Red-speckled saliva sprinkles the dusty ground. A wave of agony travels through my limbs and hammers into my brain. I peer up through the overwhelming pain, billowing dirt, and bright sun.
His blurry shadow looms over me and yells something I can’t understand. I focus in on his face, but large, white dots of light keep the picture dull and fuzzy. As a last attempt, I try a defensive ground-kick by driving the bottom of my heel into his kneecap.
I miss.
He reaches down and decks me in the face, sending me spiraling into space. A disgusting growl gurgles in my throat. In that second, I suck up any pride and throw in another prayer, wondering if God gets mad if you ask for the same thing twice.
Dad’s face flashes in my mind, and a second wind kicks in. I fumble for Tommy’s knife still strapped to my leg. My fingers wrap around the cold, ivory handle and pull out the steel blade. Somehow, I scramble into a seated position and face my attacker.
At the very least, I’ll die fighting.
The shadows of the trees hide Chief Reed’s tan, angular face as a few strips of light highlight his cold eyes like a white mask. He sneers as he points a gun in my face. I fixate on the barrel and brace myself, half expecting to hear the shot that will end my life. Still clinging to the knife, I drop to my knees with my hands above my head in surrender. Chief Reed walks behind me and presses the cold steel against the back of my head. The feeling of death runs down my spine.
I glance up at the trees for guidance and spot a spiderweb hanging between two limbs. It catches a random sunray and shines. My body relaxes, thankful this is the last thing I’ll see before I die.
The click of the safety being released echoes in my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating a big boom. A round of shots rings out, sending a slew of birds cackling off into the trees. I wait for the pain to set in. For my heart to slow. When nothing happens, I get frustrated. Why does death have to take so long?
Then I hear a thump behind me and glance over my shoulder to find Chief Reed sprawled out on the ground. A few holes decorate his back. It takes a second for me to realize our roles have been reversed.
I’m alive, and he’s dead.
I hear my name called. My eyes finally focus as Mo stomps over to me and grabs my elbow. “Get up!”
A sliver of gratitude and relief mingle with hate and confusion. I jerk my arm away. “Don’t you dare touch me!” My attempt to stand fails as a surge of pain rips through my torso sending me back down to the ground. Mo lowers his gun and tries to help me up.
I pull away and growl at him. “Leave me alone!”
Mo moves past me and checks the pulse of the guy he shot. He shakes his head and kicks a large rock, sending it running down the path. “Damn it!”
Obviously, Chief Reed’s dead. “What? You’re surprised? You shot him.” My voice squeaks. “What did you think would happen? He’d skip off into the wildflowers?” I’m shaking as I grab a tall stick and push up, using it to support my weight.
Mo squats and supports his elbows on his knees. He remains in that position for a few minutes. “I never wanted to kill anyone.” His voice is low and raw.
I glare at him. So much hate and confusion and darkness course through my veins. Waves of adrenaline dilute my fear. “Oh, really? Well, that’s what happens when you run around with crazy killers, Mo.” I limp away on my makeshift crutch, refusing to succumb to the ribbons of agony weaving through my insides. I squeeze back tears. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
“Come this way.” Mo jogs up and grips my arm.
I attempt to elbow him in the ribs. “Get away from me! I don’t have to do anything you say.”
“You do if you don’t want to die.” Mo tosses the gun strap over his shoulder and scoops me up in his arms. Against my will. I holler in pain as he explains in a very matter-of-fact voice. “Those men’ll be here soon, and I’m not leaving you.”
I pound on his chest with my fists. “T
hose men that YOU ARE WORKING FOR!” Winded, I stop fighting.
Mo flinches as if a gnat has irritated his skin. “The only person you’re hurting right now is you.”
I stare him in the eye. That’s the moment my guard comes crashing down. I can literally feel my heart shatter into a gazillion pieces.
His eyes soften as he walks with me in his arms. “I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”
Unable to fight anymore, I go limp and look away. “No, you just want to do all the damage yourself.”
Before he can answer, voices ride the breeze.
Mo hisses. “They’re coming.”
As Mo barrels through the forest holding me, the trees move by so fast they lose any definition. Is this really happening to me? Or am I just watching it happen to someone else? I rest my head on Mo’s shoulder and watch the world blur by. Everything hurts, yet somehow my body is numb. Soon, it feels as if I’ve left Mo’s arms and am floating up with him.
I hear Mo yell in my face. “Grace! Stay with me!”
The blazing ball of sun that hangs above the leaves summons me.
I focus in on its bright, radiant light.
The only beacon in my night, guiding me home.
Survival Skill #43
When choosing shelter, be sure it is dry, offers concealment, and has an escape route.
Slits of light break through the darkness engulfing me, as if mini-blinds are opening. I’m surrounded by a dingy gray color and total silence. Am I dead? My brain muddles through some random scenes as I piece together events. The fuzzy world fades in and out. A peach with black fuzz moves into my frame of sight.
A hand touches my forehead.
A voice speaks to me. “Try to relax, blossom.”
Facial features slowly come into focus. I manage to whisper, “Mo?” Saying his name alerts my brain, and my memory comes flooding back. A streak of anger zips through my body. I ball up my fist and punch him square in the chin.
Mo stumbles back, stunned. “Bloody hell! What was that for?”
“That was for me.” I sit up and take stock of my situation. I’m in a cave somewhere with a total traitor. Mo’s face is scruffy, and his face filthy. I try to hit him again. This time, he grabs my wrists and holds them tightly in front of me.
The anger boiling inside me gives way to my broken heart. I feel like a broken china dish someone has tried to glue back together. Appearing fixed, whole, but with a hairline crack, a weakness, preventing me from being truly whole again.
I lower my head and whisper, “I hate you.”
Mo releases my hands and rubs his jaw. “That makes two of us.”
“Leave me alone.” As I scoot across the sandy floor to get away from him, pain pulses through me, as if a burning knife is slicing open my gut. I lean my head against the stone wall and breathe.
Mo inches closer but doesn’t touch me. “You have to relax.”
“Fuck … you.” Then for some strange reason, I smile. For years, Wyn’s tried to trick me into blurting out those two little words, but I could only muster a fudge you or an F you. Now I realize Wyn was right. Two words can make me feel better.
Mo ignores my verbal breakthrough and holds out his hand. “Take these.”
I smack his arm away, sending two white pills sailing through the cramped space. My voice comes out sharp. “No.”
He picks them up and offers them again. “They’ll make you feel better.”
I turn my head away and purse my lips in defiance. “I don’t feel anything anyway. Besides, it’s probably poison.”
He smirks a little. “No. I couldn’t find any of that out here.”
“Why should I do anything you ask?”
His eyes try to bear into my soul, but I turn my face toward the wall. It’s like he’s Medusa and can only have power over me if I look him straight in the eye.
“You’ve got to trust me.” The cute English accent that once made him sexy, now makes me sick. I can’t even hear his voice anymore without thinking of him in his psycho mask with those crazy men.
“HA! That’s the line of the year. Look, I don’t need your stupid aspirin or whatever it is you’re trying to shove down my throat. And I certainly don’t need you.” I push back even further. Bolts of fire shoot through my stomach, and I double over in pain. “Ow.”
Mo points to the pills in his open palm. “You sure?”
I snatch them from his hand, knowing I want the pain to die down more than I need to make a point. He holds up a canteen of water, but I slap it away and chew the acidic medicine raw. Even when some of the powdery stuff glues to my throat, I still refuse his water. After several minutes, the pain lessons a tad.
“Where are we?” I croak.
“Don’t worry about it.”
I frown. “Is that why you didn’t tell me who you were? Because you didn’t want me to worry about it. Gee, you’re so thoughtful, Mo. What a great guy. What a bloody good catch you are.”
This time, Mo doesn’t smile. He remains serious. More serious than I’ve ever seen him. His muscles are tense. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“Was there a better way for me to find out?” He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “You’re a liar and a murderer.”
Mo doesn’t flinch. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I cross my arms in front of me. “You never gave me a chance to. You just lied. About everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that!” I yell. “It doesn’t mean anything! You owe me more than that. You owe me some kind of rational explanation. You owe me the truth.”
“I didn’t choose this path. I want to be a geologist, for God’s sake.”
I push him hard, and he falls back on his butt. “You don’t believe in God. What you believe in is something crazy and absurd. You believe in killing animals, threatening people, and blood money.” I stop talking and catch my breath.
“That’s not true,” Mo says quietly.
Something shifts inside. Any feeling I have drains. I’m using logic with someone who’s completely illogical and irrational. Probably crazy too. My words come out flat and unemotional. “Then tell me. What is true … Mo? Or should I say, Morris.”
He gets up and paces. “How do you…?”
“I found an article online about you and your father. It was in my dad’s case file.” I stop suddenly, tired of talking, and stare at the guy in front of me. The guy I started to love. The guy who’s not the same person I kissed a couple days ago. Mo stares out the entrance. His confident posture refuels my rage and I egg him on, wanting so much to hurt him the way he’s wounded me. “Your dad would be disgusted with you right now.”
Mo glares at me. His piercing brown eyes reveal a hint of hurt. “You don’t know anything about me or my dad. Just because you read some article, you think you know everything now?” His eyes flip from anger into sadness before I can even blink.
I soften my tone, hoping to extract some information. “Then tell me … what’s going on?”
He sighs. “Last year, I was in the woods with my dad when he was shot.”
“Did you kill him?”
Mo spins around and slams his head on the low-rocky ceiling. “Ow! No!” He touches the small cut above his brow and winces. “How could you even say that?”
I keep my eyes on him, refusing to let him off the hook until he tells me more. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Mo.”
His body loses its posture and his shoulders curl forward in defeat. “My father was murdered. By these guys. In cold blood.”
“The article said it was an accident.”
Mo kneels down. “Grace, the article was wrong.”
Survival Skill #44
When in a survival situation, sometimes it’s better to listen.
Mo sits down across from me on a rotted log. “My dad was a special agent with the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. He was investigating a major poaching ring that was
sweeping across Tennessee. He was tracking these guys. They found out and killed him.”
I eye him suspiciously. “How do you know this?”
Mo’s eyes flash something I can’t decipher. “My dad told me everything before he died. Told me where his files were. All his notes on the case.”
I think about what he’s saying, trying to make some sense out of it. The image of him trying to revive his father sticks in my brain. He looks sincere, but how do I know he’s not snowing me all over again? “This sounds crazy. Why would he tell you that?”
“My dad said some of the locals were corrupt. Before he died, he told me to take all the information we’d gathered to the head of his squad. His leader would know what to do.”
“Who was that?”
He pauses for a minute and sucks in enough air to state his answer. “I didn’t know at the time, but now I know it was your dad.”
His answer slices through me. I shake his words out of my head. “No, that’s impossible. My dad wasn’t a special agent. He was a game warden.” Actually, this crazy scheme is probably something Dad would get involved in, especially if it meant protecting or saving bears.
Mo remains still, no movement, and answers very simply. “Obviously not.”
“What did you do with the files?” I rub my temples, desperate to relieve the pressure that’s built up inside.
Mo fiddles with his shirt. “I took my dad’s case file and started hanging out at the local gun show in my town, chatting it up with a few guys in the group. By the time I’d gotten in with them and we relocated here, your dad had already been taken. So I hid them.”
“How do I know you are not lying to me again?”
He strokes my fingers with his warm hands. “Because you know me.”
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