by Brian Hodge
But as she watched, trying to get Barkley's attention, Gail became aware of motion in the depths of the woods. At first, she attributed it to the shadows, cast by the lights through the trees; but the longer she looked, the more it looked like there were small crouching figures, moving around in the woods.
"Dammit, Barkley! Come here right now!" Gail shouted through the opened window. A sudden dash of fear swept through her when she thought that maybe there was a whole pack of animals out there, and what if they were something worse than fishers?
What if it was a pack of wolves or bears or something?
But wolves howl, she told herself. And even if it was fishers, wouldn't they make some kind of noises? As far as she could tell, the only one making noise out there was Barkley.
Straightening up, Gail glanced at the wall phone. Bill had told her to call—any time—if she needed him, and right now she thought she would like nothing better than to have someone else here with her. She was halfway across the floor to the phone when a sudden, pained yelp from Barkley filled the night. After a split second, the sound cut off sharply, and the night dropped into total silence as if it had been sliced.
"Oh, Jesus," she muttered as, fingers shaking, she hurriedly dialed Bill's number. "Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ!"
On the third ring, Bill answered the phone. Forcing herself to stay as calm as possible, she explained that someone—maybe a prowler—was in her backyard, and she wanted him to come over and have a look. As she spoke, though, all she could think about was the sudden silence in the backyard. Barkley had been cut off in mid-yelp, and that could only mean one thing.
"Please hurry," she said shakily to Bill, and then she hung up.
While she waited for Bill to arrive, she slammed the door shut and locked it. Then she went to the front door and made sure that was locked as well. She hurried through the house, turning on all the lights as she went. She had just finished when the headlights of Bill's car bobbed into sight at the end of the driveway. She ran to the door and let him in.
"Jeeze, you look white as a sheet," Bill said as he wrapped his arms around her and held her. She felt small and trembled like a bird in his embrace.
"Out back—" Gail said, gasping for breath. Now that Bill was here, it was okay to let her tears flow. Both cheeks glistened as she looked up at him. "Barkley went out back and...and something happened to him."
"What do you mean?" Bill asked, concerned.
"He ran out, and he was barking and going crazy, and then—then he just stopped barking."
"I'm sure everything's okay," Bill said, leaning away from her and running his hands up and down the full length of her arms.
After giving her a bracing hug, they separated. Gail rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, then went into the kitchen and pulled open the top drawer.
"Here—you'll want this," she said, handing a flashlight to Bill. "I wish you had a gun."
"I don't need a gun. Look, you just wait here." He took the light and snapped it on. The bright beam shot across the room. "I'll be right back."
"I'll come with you," she said simply, and Bill nodded, sensing there was no way he was going to talk her out of it.
Side by side, with the wide oval of light dancing in front of them, they went outside and around the back of the house. The night was perfectly silent except for distant, soothing night sounds. The wind stirred the leaves with a soft, leathery hiss, and everything would have been perfect for a long, romantic walk... except for what they were looking for.
One thing they noticed behind the house concerned Bill. The shingles below the kitchen window were all scratched up and, in places, deeply gouged. The window ledge looked as though something had been clawing at it with a knife or something. Chips of paint and wood littered the ground.
"Could an animal have done this?" Gail asked.
"I don't know," Bill said. When he draped his arm around Gail's shoulder, he could feel her shaking.
They turned and looked at the trees bordering the lawn. Everything was cast with a dull gray glow made only deeper by the silence surrounding them.
"What's that? Over there." Gail tugged on Bill's arm and pointed toward the road. On the edge of the grass, they could see a motionless, black lump. Bill swung the flashlight around to it. When the light hit it, both of them gasped with shock and horror.
"Oh, Jesus! Oh, shit!" Gail yelled as she ran over to where Barkley lay. Even before she got there she knew he was dead. His body was twisted around so his hind legs pointed in one direction, and his front legs pointed in another. His ribcage was torn open, exposing cracked bone and shredded lungs. Darker organs had spilled onto the ground.
Bill followed her over, unable to look away even though the sight nauseated him. What fixated him were the dog's eyes. Both had popped out of their sockets, and they reflected back the light with a bright silvery gleam.
"Why don't you go inside," Bill said softly. "I'll take care of him." He fought to keep his voice steady, but he couldn't help but remember that not far from here just five years ago, he had found his wife similarly mutilated. His mind filled with the dull ache of memory.
Gail looked at him with angry pain in her eyes. "What in heaven's name could have done this?" she asked as tears streaked down her cheeks.
"I don't know. Please. Go on inside," he said gently. "I'll get a shovel and bury him."
Slowly, Gail stood up. After one last glance at Barkley, she started back to the house. Halfway there, she stopped and looked back at Bill.
"I'll tell you one thing," she said. There was iron in her tone, so Bill knew she meant it. "I'm going to buy a rifle, and if I ever see anything out here after dark, I'm going to shoot the miserable fucking thing."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Run Away"
1
Even through his jacket, which he wore to cut the early morning chill, the straps of his backpack were already starting to hurt Kip's shoulders. He made his way briskly across the field behind his house, bee-lining it for the woods. He was hoping—praying—that his father or brother hadn't heard him leave. He had tried to be silent, but at five o'clock in the morning, even pulling up the zipper of his pants had sounded like a string of firecrackers in his ears.
It didn't take long for the dew-laden grass to soak his pant legs halfway up to his knees. Both feet felt like they were weighed down by lead, and his sneakers made soft, squishing sounds. The sun was creeping up over the horizon and starting to burn off the dew, turning it into a heavy haze, so he hoped he'd dry out soon.
Gonna be a hot one, Kip thought.
He stared at the heavy gray-green vegetation ahead, knowing it would be cooler in the woods.
As he trudged on, the backpack banged against the small of his back. At his side, strapped to his belt, he felt the solid security of his brother's hunting knife. His right hand caressed the leather grip of the hilt, and the liberation he felt almost made him want to shout for joy.
But not yet...not yet, he thought as he paused at the margin of the woods. He'd wait until he was deep in the forest before he'd celebrate his escape.
He had planned this all out, so he knew where he was heading. The first and most obvious option was to camp at the Indian Caves. That would probably do for a day or two at the most. As soon as his father realized he was missing—and he wondered how long that would take—his dad or anyone in town would probably think to check there first. Every kid who ever ran away from home in Thornton seemed to think no one would ever think of checking the Indian Caves. He wasn't going to make that mistake. Maybe he'd spend just one night at the caves. Then it was off to the woods.
He had packed a copy of the Appalachian Mountain Club's White Mountain Trail Guide, and he was determined to strike out for New Hampshire as soon as possible. The state line was about a fifteen-minute drive from Thornton, but because Kip hadn't done much hiking, not on his own, anyway, he had no idea how long hiking anywhere would take. He was determined not to become too concerned about i
t. He was free, and he wasn't going to let time constraints or anything else ruin his escape.
The rising sun angled across the field as Kip stood there, looking back at his house. His trail across the field was a wavering line of flattened grass that was darker than the rest. Hopefully the sun would evaporate the dew and erase his tracks.
From where he stood, he could just barely see his bedroom window. It looked like a piece of flat, black marble, reflecting the morning. A shiver ran up his back when he remembered the fresh claw marks he had seen gouged into the sill. Those, too, he was more than happy to leave behind. With one last look at the house, he heaved a deep sigh, turned, and strode purposefully into the woods where the sun had not yet driven out the chill and damp.
As soon as he entered the shadows, he felt an eerie change as though he had suddenly transported into an entirely different world. Sounds and smells were completely different from those of the field. Here, the dank, earthy aroma of rotting leaves and wood, of fresh growing things, and of water sliding over mossy stones filled his senses. The birdsong, which so often sounded distant and muffled when he heard it from his bedroom window, were raucous in the woods, and the ground gave underfoot not with the swishing of long-bladed grass, but with a soft, squishing sound as if he were walking on a living body.
Kip tried to push aside any apprehension as he struck deeper into the woods. As much as he tried to convince himself these were the same-old-ordinary woods where he and his friends used to play, he couldn't cast off the feeling that now—maybe because of what he was doing—these woods were... different. It wasn't the rush of getting away from Marty; it wasn't the idea of actually making his father worry... maybe even notice him; it was like that feeling he had tried so hard to describe to Dr. Fielding, the terror he'd felt that day his mother died was closer, now, clearer. It wasn't really a sense of panic because you needed something to be panicked about. It was more like a curtain had dropped in front of him... or like there was a darkness gnawing his insides. The closest Kip could come to describing it was like being r-e-a-l-l-y hungry, only the hunger was in his brain.
But that wasn't quite it, either.
Whatever it was, he was feeling it now.
Once he was well out of sight of the house, he stopped and slung his backpack off his shoulders. Groaning, he reached up and tried to massage the ache away. All around him, the woods were making the slow transition from dawn to daytime activity. The restless chatter of birds mingled with the sounds of buzzing insects and rustling, green growing things. Squirrels and chipmunks chattered overhead. Only beneath the thickest brush did the deep shadows of night remain, silent and cool and frightening.
Kip hadn't taken time to eat breakfast; he hadn't wanted to chance waking up anyone, so he sat down now, leaning his back against a sprawling beech tree, and took a Granola Bar from his pack. Closing his eyes with satisfaction, he gave the cereal bar a thoughtful chew. His canteen sloshed when he tipped it up to sip the orange juice he'd brought along, but he went easy on it because he knew, once it was gone, he'd have to resort to mixing Tang with stream water.
The sun gradually rose higher, its long golden bars diffusing as the morning mist evaporated. Kip kept trying to imagine what was happening back at the house. He glanced at his watch. It was just after six o'clock, and he wondered if his father or Marty was awake yet. But it was the weekend, so both of them were still probably piling up the Zs.
Give them another hour or so, he thought, and they might start panicking or at least wondering where he was.
He finished off the Granola Bar, smacking his lips as he sucked the last traces of chocolate from his fingers, then crumpled up the wrapper and stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack. He planned on being careful not to litter while he was in the woods, figuring he'd burn his trash tonight in his campfire.
With a little something to stop the gnawing in his stomach, he stood up. The thought of putting the backpack on again didn't appeal to him, but he had a lot of ground to cover, and he wanted to have his campsite at the Indian Caves set up well before noon so he'd have plenty of time to read and explore the woods. He shrugged off his jacket, stuffing it into another one of the side pockets before hoisting on the backpack again.
As he started walking, he whistled a tune, trying to add a bounce to his step. Confusing and conflicting thoughts dogged him, though, and he kept imagining what it was like back at the house. He was surprised at how fondly he remembered the early morning silence when he would wake up before anyone else and come downstairs to sit at the kitchen table or sometimes in the living room, and just listen. The clock tick-tocking on the mantel; the creaks and snaps the house made; the heavy snoring issuing from his father's bedroom. He had always felt a sense of security in the pre-dawn grayness of the sleeping house, and he found himself wondering when—and why—it seemed like it just wasn't there anymore.
Five years ago, he thought bitterly. It's been gone ever since mom died.
That feeling of security was gone, and he knew it would never come back, no matter when he went back home... if he ever did.
He planned on returning... eventually. Like most kids who run away, he didn't have much of an idea about what he would actually do day by day. He'd brought paperback editions of The Two Towers and Return of the King, but once he finished those... well, then maybe he would head back home. He just wanted to see how things turned out.
The heat of the day gradually seeped into even the deepest corners of the woods. A blue jay split the woods with its shrill cry as it darted from tree to tree. Through the leaves, the sky was a deep, rich blue that was so bright it hurt his eyes to look at it very long. Luck was with him—it was going to be a beautiful day.
He knew at least ten different ways to get to the Indian Caves, but this morning he decided to take the quickest path, which wasn't necessarily the shortest route. The most direct path ran straight through some pretty soggy ground. When Kip and his friends played guns out here, they called it "The Bog." In fact, it was just a sluggish, backed-up stream. Still—even though his pants were already soaked below the knees—he didn't want to slog through the muck and brambles, so he veered off to the left so he could stick to the higher ground where the going would be faster.
"Ohh you take the high road, 'n I'll take the low road," he began to sing aloud as he increased his pace, swinging his arms as he walked. His canteen sloshed at his side, and even his backpack seemed to ride a little easier. He thought he might be getting his second wind as he tilted his head back and gave full voice to his song. His voice rang through the woods as a rush of pure joy swept him up. It was the kind of joy only a twelve-year-old boy who's running away from home can feel.
He didn't know more than the first line or two of the song, but rather than fall silent, he kept repeating that until his throat began to feel scratchy. Then he licked his lips and did a few more rounds of shrill whistling.
As he walked and whistled, he considered what few plans he did have. Of course, he wasn't foolish enough to camp right inside the caves. Almost anyone from town might show up, and he didn't want to get nabbed on his first day. No, he knew the area around the caves well enough. He planned to camp on the low hill near the caves where the underbrush was thick enough to hide his tent site.
He acknowledged that he was heading to the caves first because they were familiar. If he found out on the first night that he didn't like running away, if he couldn't hack it, he wouldn't be too far away from home to admit defeat and go back.
He had camped out quite a bit, but he had never slept in the woods alone. He and his buddies had always pitched their tents in one or the other's backyard. In the morning, there still was Rice Krispies, cold milk, bacon, and orange juice for breakfast, and they always had access to a warm, well-lit bathroom with toilet paper. At Patrick's house, there was the backyard floodlight, so if the ghost stories got too scary, they had the reassurance of that bright wash of light across the well-trimmed lawn.
Alone out
here in the woods, even less than a mile or so from home, there was no telling how he'd feel. If his imagination got revved up, he couldn't use the excuse that he had to go to the bathroom to go back inside a brightly lit home. His goal was the White Mountains. Real wilderness. And his flashlight and campfire would be pitiful little sparks out here in the vast, dark woods.
There were animals out here, too... animals a little more threatening than the random raccoon or skunk in a backyard. He believed most of the wild animals would probably leave him alone if he left them alone unless they smelled food. But he knew enough to store his food high in the branches so if it did attract an animal, they wouldn't be attracted to his tent.
Maybe the worst thing was that he was alone.
He had debated telling one of his friends about his plans—probably Aaron. All of them would have understood why he was running away, and he was sure any of them—especially Aaron—would have offered to come with him and make it a party, if nothing else. But that was exactly why, in the end, he decided to go it alone. This wasn't a party. He had some very personal reasons for doing this, and if "the guys" came along, that might cheapen it somehow. Above all else, he needed some time to be alone to think.
Now with his second wind propelling his feet, he started to think it might be a good idea to really get on the trail. Screw the Indian Caves. It was time to strike out on his own, accept the challenge of the wilderness and see how he measured up. It was still early. He wasn't particularly well rested because he'd spent much of the night tossing and turning in bed, fretting as the time to leave approached, but the sun wouldn't set for more than twelve hours.
How far can I get in that time? he wondered.
He thought he could easily make it to the New Hampshire border. Maybe all the way to Ossipee. If he dared to hitchhike on Route 16, he might even make it all the way to Chocorua. Then he'd be in the White Mountain National Forest. The thought of spending his first night, rather than his third or fourth, on the Piper Trail filled him with excitement.