“I’ll be there.” Opening my purse, I took out my checkbook and wrote the requested amount. I tried not to think about my income now that I didn’t have a job. I’d just have to jump off that bridge when I came to it.
After Phil left, Beth crossed her arms and glared at me. “So, you’re still planning on going to the crash site even though someone has tried to kill you at least twice.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll be leaving here before two tomorrow morning. And I’m heading to a place you can’t even get to except on foot or by helicopter.” I slumped in my chair. “Beth, try to understand. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t know anything about them. With Holly’s mind gone, this is the only link I have to them.”
Beth uncrossed her arms. “Okay. I guess. You’ll be driving my car, so I’m stuck here. What did you want me to do?”
“If Jacob is the killer, and if he’s the one trying to kill me—”
“Two insurmountable ‘ifs’ in my book.”
I ignored her interruption. “I left when Jacob was only four. I want you to figure out how he recognized me in order to make me his target.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
SLEEPING ONLY SPORADICALLY, I SPENT THE FEW HOURS in bed flipping the pillow to the cool side and checking the clock. I got up before the alarm sounded at one thirty. Beth had packed virtually my entire wardrobe, minus my rain jacket. I layered a sweater over a long-sleeved shirt, then a T-shirt with Don’t Drink and Draw on the front. I grabbed my purse and police raincoat, then quietly slipped out.
Winston was in Beth’s room for the night, but I could hear him panting on the other side of her door as I tiptoed across the game room.
Even though the probability of a sniper waiting for me at two in the morning was slim, I still raced to the car. I didn’t relax until I’d reached the edge of Lewiston, where I stopped for coffee at a twenty-four-hour convenience store.
I didn’t need the coffee to stay awake. My brain bounced around like a ping-pong ball. Is Beatrice still alive? Why didn’t Seth defend me against my boss? What will I do for a job? How can I convince a judge not to take away custody of my daughter? What do I hope to learn from visiting the crash site? Should I try calling Blake? Where is Jacob?
Traffic was almost nonexistent. I made it to Lowell on time and pulled up next to a pickup hauling a two-horse trailer. Grabbing my wallet and cell phone, I locked Beth’s car. Phil started the truck as I got in, and I barely snapped my seat belt before he started moving. The road paralleled the Selway River, which I’d looked up the night before. During the season, rafters considered the river to be one of the toughest whitewater challenges in the West. Designated a National Wild and Scenic River, the forest service only allowed one permit a day for rafters. In the predawn blackness, I could only catch brief glimpses of the rapids. After a few miles, we crossed a bridge and headed into the mountains on a gravel road.
“You believe your parents died in this plane crash?” Phil asked.
“How did you know that?”
“Dan Kus told me.”
“I wonder who else he told.”
Phil glanced at me. “Is this some kind of secret? I left a copy of our itinerary with my company as well as the forest service. They post hikers, hunters, and campers on a big map in the office. Anyone who asks or drops by can find out where I am.”
“Um, can you call and tell them not to reveal your location?”
“No cell service. Why the hush-hush?”
Go ahead and tell him. Oh, by the way, someone is trying to kill me. He’s already killed one person and put stitches in another. “Um . . . I was just wondering, that’s all.”
Phil once again concentrated on driving, his expression clearly showing he didn’t believe me. The darkness around us gradually lightened to where I could see the steep mountains parading off into the distance. We finally turned onto a small, overgrown road on the right and parked. “This is as far as we can drive.” He opened the door, letting in cool air, the smell of pine needles, and a faint whiff of skunk. I climbed out my side and helped him unload the mounts. Two rangy horses, one a bay with a white rump and spots, the other a red roan, were already saddled and both had well-stocked day packs in the saddlebags. They wore halters, their bridles attached to the saddle.
“An Appaloosa?” I patted the bay.
“Nez Perce horse. Both of them are. The tribe used some of Chief Joseph’s original stock and bred with a rare breed from Turkmenistan called Akhal-Teke. Are you interested in horses?”
“Right about now I don’t think I can afford one.”
“I hear ya. You can ride the roan.” He tightened the cinches on both horses as I bridled them, then he tugged a day bag and rifle out of his truck. A scabbard was already secured on the saddle and he slid the rifle into place, tied on the day bag, and mounted.
I dropped my cell and wallet into the saddlebag and got up on my horse, then turned to follow him up the logging road. The first downed pine blocking the trail confirmed why we were on horseback and not driving.
The terrain grew steeper, trees and underbrush denser, and the temperature warmer as the sun climbed in the sky, although patches of snow still appeared on the shady side of some hills. I slipped off the rain jacket and sweater and tied them to the saddle. My thighs and rear informed me I was in for major saddle-soreness as soon as I dismounted.
“Do you bring people up here to hunt?” I asked over the squeaking of leather and clopping of hooves.
“Yep. Bear, deer, elk, moose, bighorns, mountain goats, you name it, somebody wants to shoot it.”
Following a game trail, we startled a small herd of deer that huffed their displeasure. Overhead, a massive golden eagle rode an updraft in lazy circles, looking for a meal. A soft breeze fluffed my hair. Spring rains blessed the scenery with every shade of green. “What kind of wildflower is that English red ochre one?”
“English what?”
“English red ochre. Sort of a garnet with maybe ultramarine . . .”
He stared at me.
“Never mind.”
Phil finally pulled up his mount and checked a compass. “We’re almost at the spot where we’ll be leaving the horses. See that big ponderosa at the top of the hill across there?” He pointed. “We’ll climb up to that. The crash site is about five miles due west at the end of an open slope.”
We dropped down a steep slope, the horses scrambling to keep their footing, and ended in a narrow draw with a small stream running through it. He dismounted and let his horse drink from the stream.
Sliding off, I handed him the reins and moved slightly upstream to cool and wash my dusty face. I bent down.
Something burned across my shoulder.
Before I could move, Phil landed on top of me, knocking me to the ground. Inches from my nose, an arrow stuck in the earth.
Adrenaline surged through my body.
The horses snorted, whinnied in pain, then bolted, their metal shoes clattering on the rocks as they tore down the stream bed.
“Phil?” I whispered.
The man didn’t answer. Or breathe.
In the silence broken only by the gurgling stream came a thurrrrrp, then a thump. An arrow skidded through my shirt, scraped my ribs, and embedded into the ground. It had to have gone completely through Phil.
Whoever was shooting at us had the total advantage. Whoever? Don’t kid yourself. Jacob may have thought he had killed me with one or both arrows. He was probably watching me through field glasses, waiting for movement.
The second I tried to shift Phil off my back, Jacob would launch a storm of arrows. And that wasn’t the only problem. The last arrow pinned me to the ground. I had no cover other than Phil’s body, no place to hide. And having a large, dead body on top of me sent my creep-meter off the charts.
Play dead.
What if he keeps shooting? Or walks over and cuts my throat? He’d murdered two people with an ax. He’d want to get up close and personal.
Don’t m
ove.
What choice did I have? The arrows were upright. He was above me, shooting down.
A rock dug into my hip. My left hand, still showing scars from my last encounter with a rock slide in Kentucky, trailed in the icy stream. Mosquitoes found my other hand and invited the neighborhood in for a meal. Phil’s blood grew cold on my back. His weight made breathing difficult.
How long before Jacob left? Or moved closer?
My nose itched. Flies discovered Phil’s body. Their buzzing grew louder as more flies joined them. They’d be laying eggs. Maggots. Bugs.
I clenched my jaw to keep from screaming.
Concentrate on something besides your misery. How did he find us?
That was easy. Dan pointed out the location of the plane in front of Thomas. He’d marked it on the map in the visitor center. And the forest service probably had a Post-it note with my name on it. He could have come out here last evening and simply waited for us to show up. I listened for approaching footsteps.
My shoulder and side burned where the arrows had scraped a furrow of skin.
Make a plan. I can’t just lie here until someone finds me.
The day pack with supplies along with Phil’s rifle were long gone with the horses. I hadn’t paid enough attention to our route to find my way to Phil’s truck. What had Seth told me? The Nez Perce–Clearwater National Forest was over four million acres with almost half of that wilderness. That’s a lot of land to get lost in.
Sweat added more wetness down my back, mixing with Phil’s blood. I did know the direction of the plane-crash site. If Phil still had his compass on him, I could go there. That would be where search and rescue would look first.
Just one minor problem with that plan. No one would even start searching until I was overdue to return. Meaning tomorrow. At the earliest.
One thing was for sure, I couldn’t remain under a dead body. I had to move. And pray the shooter had already gone. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled my frozen hand from the stream.
No sounds of running feet or thump of an arrow.
Opening and closing my numb fingers hurt like the dickens, but it helped warm them. Once I had enough feeling, I reached down my side until I encountered the shaft of the arrow, sticky with drying blood. I tried to pull it out of the ground.
The arrow didn’t budge.
I shifted sideways as far as I could, disturbing a cloud of flies, then pulled, hoping my shirt would rip.
No such luck. I really wish I had a solution that didn’t require me to undress.
Unbuttoning my shirt, I scooted over farther, then tugged at my T-shirt. The material was thin and old and tore relatively easily. I left my long-sleeved shirt under Phil’s body. I kept low, crawling to a small patch of snowberry bushes. With only a torn T-shirt, I felt naked and exposed.
No one moved on the hillside above the draw.
Taking a deep breath, I crept over to Phil’s body. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. Swiftly I checked his pockets. The compass and truck keys were in one, a pack of cigarettes and paper matches in another. Thank you, Lord.
A T-shirt was scant protection for a wilderness overnight. I wiped my hands on my pants, took a grip on the arrow holding my shirt, and gave a tug. It didn’t move. I rocked it back and forth, trying not to look at Phil’s body as I did so. The arrow came out of the ground enough that I could retrieve my shirt, now soaked in blood.
I couldn’t put it on. Not yet. Not fresh.
Overhead, a hawk screamed. Branches in the distance snapped, then I heard a moan and a clacking sound. Squinting, I made out a mama black bear clicking her teeth at two cubs up a tree. They seemed to be ignoring me.
Before I could relax and take a breath, something moved above me to the right. I ducked behind a bush, then peeked through the branches.
Halfway up the hillside, a cougar stared down at me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MY HEART HAMMERED IN MY CHEST. MY MOUTH DRIED. Run? Freeze?
The big cat twitched its tail.
Would the cat target live food? Obviously the bloodbath lured him here. I dropped my soaked shirt, stood up from behind the bush, then stepped away from the body.
The cougar watched intently.
Another step, then another. My dandy pink camo rifle would be nice right now. My foot caught a rock, almost tripping me. Don’t go down. He’ll think you’re injured. I didn’t want to turn my back to the cougar, but I’d reached the hillside. I couldn’t climb it backward.
Half turning, I climbed out of the gully sideways, checking each step before committing to it, then shooting my gaze to the cat. Sweat soaked my T-shirt and dripped off the end of my nose. The cougar moved just as I’d reached the halfway point toward the tree Phil had pointed to.
I kept climbing. No longer seeing the cougar, I stopped my crab-like crawl and charged up the hill. Was he staying with Phil’s body or coming after me? Stopping to catch my breath, I listened for his approach. The only sounds were the shhhhhh of wind through the trees, birds chirping, and my gasping for breath.
Reaching the top of the hill, I looked around for the big ponderosa. All the trees looked big. Phil had pointed one out as the start for the trek to the crash site. What if I started too far one way or the other?
I spun in a dizzying circle, looking for the big tree. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Stop it. The world kept twirling. I sat. If you panic, you’ll be lost. I stopped looking up and just looked around. A tall tree would need a big trunk. Find the biggest trunk. Standing, I walked twenty paces north, turned, twenty paces east, twenty paces south. I spotted the tree. I wanted to hug it, but that could lead to becoming a vegan. Using the compass, I put my back to the trunk and faced due west. Straight ahead was a rocky cliff with a streak of cobalt green. I headed toward it.
The cliffs were on the other side of a steep, narrow valley. I slid part of the way down on my bottom, grabbing branches to slow my progress. My unprotected arms soon were covered with welts and mosquito bites, and a persistent horsefly buzzed around my head. I finally broke off a branch from a pine tree and swatted at it until I whacked it into fly purgatory.
From the bottom of the ravine, a game trail offered a route up the cliff. I followed it, praying the game that used the trail were just amazingly surefooted mountain goats or bighorn sheep.
I finished the last part of the trail on hands and knees, grabbing shrubs to pull myself up. I paused at the top to check my progress. A tawny gold movement on the opposite hillside caught my attention.
The cougar.
My stomach contracted and blood rushed from my face.
The big cat passed in and out of sight, stalking my trail.
Checking my compass, I set off at a trot. I had to make it to the crash site before the cougar caught up with me. I could build a fire and wait for rescue.
I reached a ridge, trees pressing in on all sides. Not able to see beyond a few feet, I kept the compass in front of me. The sun dappled the pine needle ground from directly overhead. If it was noon, I had about seven and a half hours before sunset. But I would need to gather firewood and get a fire going to keep that cougar at bay. Assuming he didn’t catch up with me first.
Pushing on, I increased my speed, chipmunks chattering their displeasure as I passed.
The ridge ended, trees thinned, and I could see the mountains cascading in the distance. Ahead, across a rugged valley, was the small clearing Phil had mentioned, with a spot of burnt sienna at the far side.
A lump rose unexpectedly in my throat. This was the last place my mom and dad had been alive.
I swallowed hard a few times, then took a reading with the compass. The sun was getting lower in the sky, and I had a lot of ground to cover. I headed downhill at a trot.
Bad idea.
The trot became a headlong run, my arms windmilling to keep me upright. My feet caught on a downed tree limb. I pitched forward, smashed against the ground, and tumbled like a rag doll in a dryer. A pine tree st
opped my forward momentum.
I lay on my back and stared at the sky, sure I’d broken some bones. A small avalanche of rocks and dirt pelted me. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
My voice worked. I wiggled my toes, then raised my hands so I could see them and moved my fingers. So far, all systems checked out.
Maybe I could just lie here and wait for help.
Cougar.
Maybe not. I slowly got to my feet, holding on to the tree. The world spun a bit, everything hurt, and I was going to have some dandy bruises, but thank the Lord, nothing was broken.
Pushing on, I tried not to think of that cool stream where I’d last had a chance to drink some water. Don’t forget, lying beside that stream is Phil’s body.
As usual, Gwen, you made a bad decision to head into the wilderness to pursue some crazy idea.
Ugh. Robert.
“Finding out my history isn’t crazy.”
What difference does it make?
“Maybe no difference to you, but—” I slid a few steps and caught a branch to slow my progress. “But it does to me. For ten years I lived with Holly’s lies. I left a child with his abusive mother.”
You’re going to have to forgive yourself for leaving Jacob, Beth whispered in my mind. You were little more than a child yourself. And who you are, what you are, what you believe about life, death, love, loss is all genuine and real. You became the person you are for a reason. That reason hasn’t changed.
“You’re siding with Robert.”
No. I am throwing a bucket of cold ice over your pity party. Find out what you need to and move on. Like seasons of the year, you’re having your winter, but spring follows.
“ Yeah. Well,” I muttered. “Spring brings allergies. And mud.”
Beth didn’t answer, but I could almost feel the bucket of ice on my head.
A tiny stream burbled through the rocks at the bottom of the mountain.
Portrait of Vengeance Page 17