by David Dun
"That too. Here's a log, let's go."
She helped him lift a gnarled, eight-foot limb as thick as a man's thigh.
They carried it to where the nearest barrier log narrowed to its smallest diameter and leaned it up against it.
"You climb, and I'll push."
"I think I can manage," she said.
Maria was still in her business suit and climbing in the long skirt would be difficult. As if reading his mind, she hoisted the skirt up her thighs, revealing the knit portion of her panty hose. To hold the skirt in place, she refastened her belt. Her thighs were hard and well-shaped.
He made it a point to study the barricade, trying to estimate its age. Foliage growing around the log indicated that it must have been on the ground for some months, or even longer.
She began climbing up the branch, using smaller branches as handholds. In a minute she was atop the log. Dan followed easily, though he had physically lost something since Tess's death and his own sporadic exercise schedule. To enable Maria to scale the second log, Dan interlaced his fingers so she could step in his hands. Putting her palms atop the log, she hoisted herself up in one smooth motion. It was impressive.
"You adroitly avoided my question about Alaska by bringing up my somewhat checkered reputation."
"I didn't think you'd notice. It's ten feet to the ground and they've stacked about a billion branches like the worst windfall you've ever seen. Let's concentrate on getting through here."
Dan reached up and grabbed a big knot where a branch had broken off. His foot slipped and he struggled just slightly to climb the second log. When he got to his knees, he saw the situation was bleak. Branches were piled perhaps eight feet high, some large, some small, but nothing that they could walk on for any great distance. Sinking into the loosely piled branches could result in an injury or at the very least a quagmire that would be nearly impossible to get through. Beyond the piled branches the forest was once again thick with head-high ferns.
"I have an idea,'' Maria said as she began walking down the log toward a small grove of hemlock growing at the barrier. "We can jump to the first of those trees, climb a little higher, then get in the next tree by pulling its branches close enough to jump to its trunk. Do that a couple of times and we should be beyond the man-made windfall."
"A couple of squirrels," he said. "Only one of those squirrels weighs about two hundred twenty-five pounds."
She went first, literally leaping into the six-inch diameter tree and moving nimbly through the thick branches to the relative security of the trunk.
"We did this when I was a kid," he said. "It was more fun back then."
A branch snapped and she moved a few inches down to the next, swung around the tree, and climbed to a point where the tree was very flexible. Using her weight, she leaned the small hemlock into the next one over, grabbed its branches, and easily stepped across the chasm.
He pondered the gulf to the first tree and the flimsy branches that he would be grabbing.
Either he jumped or she went on without him. He reached out, grabbed a branch, and tried pulling the tree to him, but at this height it was too stout to move. He took a deep breath and jumped, grabbing the branches. With his weight, the branches did nothing to slow his fall toward the tree, then were slicked off by his feet for a good three feet down the tree. Reverberations ran up the trunk as he slammed into it. His body quivered with the pain of the trunk hitting his testicles, but not a sound escaped his lips.
"Are you all right?"
"Maybe a little more soprano than I used to be," he said in a forced but natural voice.
"Might help with cowboy-brain syndrome," she said.
David Dun
At The Edge
Ignoring the pain, he climbed high and grabbed the branches of the second tree pulling it toward him. This time the trunk was much closer and he easily took hold of it.
In only a few minutes they were beyond the windfall and on the ground. Again walking in undisturbed old-growth forest was easy, although they occasionally had to detour around a fallen tree. But unlike the ones in the barrier, these had toppled naturally in a haphazard fashion over many years' time. The resins in the redwood preserved even those that had fallen hundreds of years before.
Dan nodded at the receiver. "We still have a signal, but on the wrong channel."
After a few hundred feet of meandering into the forest, Dan looked up to see something astounding: In the middle of this wild place, as if they had grown there, stood back-to-back chain-link fences running parallel and about twenty feet apart with razor wire atop both. Between the two fences the brush had been cleared and had yet to start to grow again. The place was apparently brand-new or well maintained.
"How did they do this out here?" Maria asked.
"There isn't a road except the one we came in on."
"They did put in a so-called wildlife road allegedly for research purposes," she said. "Maybe we're near that. Let's follow the fence."
They had gone no more than fifty feet when a barking dog moved quickly toward them.
"Oh shit," Dan said, hearing a second dog only a little farther off. "Man's best friend."
The first dog, a black-and-tan German shepherd with bared canines, came around a redwood tree in the area between the fences. He wore a large leather collar with a thickened section of black plastic.
"No doubt about what he'd like to do," Maria said.
The needle on Dan's receiver followed the dog's movements.
''The signal is coming from the collar," Dan said. ''Looks similar to the transmitter that was in the briefcase. But it's not the same."
Dan approached the fence, igniting a frenzy: The dog lunged at the fence, growling and barking.
"Let's get back," she said. "The racket's liable to bring somebody."
"OK, OK, just a second. Jeez, that's what I get for changing the channel."
"Come on." She was dragging him back.
Dan followed her with some reluctance, noting that the guard dogs quieted as soon as they disappeared into the woods. "They're trained to be quiet unless they spot an intruder. My dog would bark for an hour."
"Let's just stay away from the fence."
"What if we climb a tree and try to see what's inside the enclosure?"
"Most of the trees have no branches for the first fifty or a hundred feet up," Maria replied.
"We'll find some little ones like the hemlock we climbed through."
What they found after a fairly extensive search was a big madrona with a fork near the ground. Its dense leaves formed a green barrier obstructing their line of sight, making it necessary to peer through what holes they could find.
It grew nearly one hundred feet from the fence with sufficient intervening brush and trees, so they were invisible to the dogs. From the perpetual whining it was obvious the dogs were aware of their presence and had kept pace with them as they made their way through the forest. When they reached the higher branches, they could see nothing but the tops of the chain-link fences meeting at a ninety-degree angle, indicating they were at a corner.
From nowhere there was a whirring sound. A black-and-brown bat flew overhead; they both followed it with their eyes. Just as it was disappearing from sight, headed toward the compound, there was a gun blast. The creature crumpled. Staring at each other in disbelief, they realized that the shooter was within fifty yards.
"What the hell?" Dan whispered. "Do bats come out in the daytime?"
"Rarely," Maria whispered back. "Unless they're mad with rabies. Maybe we need to get more in the middle of the fence to see beyond it."
"I think we better head out."
"How can you say that?"
"We're not going to find the money out here. If it's in there, we can't get to it. We could look for the helicopter better from the air."
"They're shooting bats, for God's sake! Now that we're here, aren't you the least bit curious?"
"I'm here for the money. For bats I've got Nation
al Geographic."
She put her hand to his ear and spoke through it. ''You're impossible. Just when we find something-you want to go back. Look at this, it's totally bizarre."
"Somebody has a shotgun. That's not so unusual."
"A little heat and you melt," she whispered.
"All right. Climb a little higher up into those skinny branches off to the right," Dan whispered.
He watched her as she placed her scuffed black leather shoes tentatively on branches no bigger than his thumb. Now a good ten feet above him, she stretched her neck, attempting a better view of something.
"Oh my God." She sucked in her breath.
"What is it?"
She stretched even farther. Dan heard a strange thump, then watched helplessly as Maria fell. Dropping, she hit a heavier branch near Dan with a sickening thud. He grabbed for her, catching an arm. Still, she was slipping. With his free hand he groped for better purchase on the branch, while with his other he hung on to her, allowing himself to fall rather than to lose her. As they went down, he grabbed branches and they raked his free hand with white-hot pain. Repeatedly he slowed their fall. There was the sound of breaking tree limbs, a horrible pain shot through his ribs, and then the ground rushed up at them.
6
" I still can't believe you did that. I could have ditched them."
"I told you to drive around the city," Corey said. "If you'd done what I asked, this never would have happened."
She shed her trench coat and walked into the family room as Denny closed the garage door a little too hard.
"This place'll be crawling with cops. We don't have a helicopter like your buddies. I'm not going down for this. You did the shooting, not me. They could be dead for all we know."
"Relax," she said. "Go watch your TV."
He cursed as he climbed the stairs to his room. Corey sat back in the easy chair, staring at the ceiling's beautiful polished box beams: gleaming, satin smooth. With its redbrick fireplace, leather furniture, and plaid carpeting, the room had an earthy, masculine feel. On the walls hung wooden Indian masks, grotesque screaming objects, ghouls from some bad dream, the tools of terror of a medicine man.
A bullwhip sat coiled in the glass display box built into the coffee table. It had been her father's and now it belonged to his demon, her name for the memory of him that lingered on, tormenting her, a phantom so elusive she had grown weary of the chase.
She craved a joint but knew she shouldn't. It would dull what was to come. Instead, she lay back and let the image of Maximillian Schneider invade her mind.
It began in her bedroom, tucked inside a palatial Georgian mansion, on her Queen Victoria canopy bed. It started with a laugh, Corey's long, rolling laugh — her dead mother's laugh. Her timing couldn't have been worse. Her father, drunk as usual, had been pacing by her room, back and forth — pausing only to stand silently outside, then to resume his pacing.
He stormed into her room, white-faced with rage, as if she 'd been laughing at him. He yanked her from the bed and pummeled her like a butcher pounding meat. With each punch, her insides felt as if they were coming up her throat. Then he began tearing off her nightclothes.
"Get up," he growled when she lay naked, immobilized with pain, panting and moaning on the cold, tiled floor.
Ten minutes later, she was on her belly; her lips had been painted a sloppy, horrific red by his shaky hand. Her arms, tied with white silk scarves to the bedposts, ached. The strap bit into her bare flesh, searing, penetrating, the white-hot leather whistling at her again and again.
This was much worse than anything he'd ever done to her before. Without warning, he stopped. She turned, looking over her shoulder. He was gulping air, sweat pouring down in little rivulets over the white fat-puffed skin. He hefted the strap for another swing. She vomited, causing his hesitation — and probably her own salvation. With all her strength she pulled at the scarves. The right-hand bedpost snapped off. She hurled it to the side, hitting his soft body.
He made a sound that was pure rage. She rolled to the far side of the bed, trailing the scarf from her right hand, her left still tied. Her fingers worked at the knot as she watched him fingering a huge red welt on his neck.
"Stay put." His voice sounded choked, hoarse.
She ignored him, her fingers working fast. In seconds she was free. She ran around the bed, snatching up her robe. He moved to cut her off but slipped, unsteady on his feet. One hand touched the floor. It was enough of a fall that she was able to slip by him. For once the booze was her ally. Spooked, she ran. Her father lunged into the coffee table with his knees. He rose, bellowing his rage.
She sprinted down the stairs to the massive front door, twisted the dead bolt open, flew off the porch, and dashed into the night.
The world was a blur. Ahead the forest opened its arms to her, ready to take her to its bosom. If she could make it to one of the small breaks in the mountainous green wall fencing the lawn, she could make it to her hiding place — disappearing like a gopher down its hole. He had never set foot in her safe harbor.
In seconds she had found her haven. Engulfed in the heady scents of jasmine, earth, and mint, she stilled her breathing to listen. Outside the cave, the sounds of crickets, frogs, and owls reassured her that she was not alone. The forest, she thought. Mother Earth. My protector. She just carries on, taking care of all her living creatures and growing things. Pure and beautiful, never painful: Mother, indeed.
In the morning she awoke in her bed. She had sneaked back inside, once certain her father had sobered. Strange engine sounds came from the backyard. The window rattled in tune to the throaty bark of a chain saw. She ran downstairs and out into the sunshine.
"Get out of my sight," her father commanded when she begged him to stop the bulldozers and saws. He had found his ultimate revenge: Before her eyes, he was destroying her forest. As she watched, the machines ripped and tore, dragging and cutting until her only refuge was no more.
She needed to kill him — a man for a forest — but he never gave her a chance; he killed her forest, and then he killed her plans for sweet revenge. Later that day, right after tying her spread-eagled between the bedposts, directly following the most gruesome acts she'd ever endured, he called Uncle Jack into the room. Uncle Jack, the one she loved, the only one in the family who had ever shown her kindness, was staring at her with mortified eyes. Then her father shot him dead. Slowly Maximillian turned the gun on himself, shoving it deep down his throat before pulling the trigger.
After that day, anguish never left her. But it was not yet the howling, crushing pain that kills people from the inside, making them shrivel up and literally die, or stare silent, vacant stares out the window for years on end.
That kind of anguish she had known only when, weeks later, she overheard Aunt Jessica tell a friend that Maximillian Schneider had not been her father. Her real father was her beloved uncle Jack Schneider; Corey had been the product of an affair between her mother and Jack. And in an instant, she saw Jack's many kindnesses for what they had been: hollow acts of repentance for his guilt. His concern now felt no better than mockery: far too little and far too late.
It was then, in the grip of soul-crushing pain, that Corey first considered her calling. At first she only felt it, but didn't understand it. In something of a confused state, after the death of both men, and fighting with her aunts and the trustees, she joined the marines and then the military police. Stationed as an officer in administration at a military prison, she found a legally sanctioned outlet for her anger and relief from her aunts. On her twenty-fifth birthday her trust was dissolved; her aunts were no longer in control of her money. She resigned her commission and moved to California.
She had the money to step full measure into her real mission, to define it as a duty, for with the wealth of both men, enough to last her several lifetimes and then some, she could do whatever she chose.
Corey rose and called up the stairs for Denny. It was a few minutes before he came do
wn and sat in the family room.
"You don't like those masks, do you?" She sat on the leather couch opposite him.
Denny didn't answer for a moment. "No."
"Why not?"
Denny just shrugged. "Don't know if I need a reason. Just don't like the look."
"You know, in merry old England they used to flog people. Flay them alive, actually, little metal hooks on a whip tearing off their skin in strips until they didn't have much left. To keep them alive as long as possible, they'd hang them upside down so their heart and vitals would get the last of the blood. How'd you like to do that, to get revenge on your biggest enemy?"
"I don't have any enemies that big."
"You're indifferent, right?"
Corey imagined exactly how she would do this. He was making it easy. She was rolling it around like a ball on a table, weighing it.
"Did you know that statistically, serial killers are almost never women?" she asked. "When the cops look for one, they always start with a man. Always. That's because women are watchers, mostly. What would you do to your worst enemy? Somebody that really hurt you."
"I'd shit in his Porsche and shove it over a cliff."
"With him in it?"
"Mm, no."
"Think you could get excited about taking a shower with me?"
"Together?" asked Denny with undisguised amazement.
Corey stood and was already peeling off her clothes in the middle of the family room. "We'll celebrate doing the job. Then we can turn on the cop channel and see if they reported anything."
Denny was smiling now.
"We'll do it until you can't do it anymore, and then we'll wait and do it again," she said.
Fleeting glimpses of her body were all Corey had given him until now. She was amused at the way his eyes darted to her breasts. He made no move to get undressed, out of touch with everything except what he saw.
When she was naked, she stood before him, one hand on her hip.
"Are you just going to look?"
Corey lathered her hands slowly and deliberately with a giant bar of yellow soap. "Stand under the shower. It'll relax you." It was a large stall tiled in blue and turquoise to the ceiling, with two showerheads, but only one of them turned on. Her friends, some pot growers with taste, said the decor was very "boy."