Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  “No, no, you don’t understand, I fell.” She tried to stand as she spoke but kept falling back. “I’m hurt.”

  The man saw the bottle where she’d set it on the ground. “You drank my beer.” He dropped the plastic bag he carried and started for her.

  Singer’s left foot folded. She toppled to the ground, clutching the branch she was using as a crutch. She swung the limb in front of her, then jabbed it at the man like a spear. “Stay back.”

  His arms flapped about his head and he screamed obscenities, dancing above her.

  Singer stabbed again. “Stay away from me.”

  He dodged to the side, trying to come at her from behind, but Singer pivoted with him. “Don’t touch me!” She fell sideways. Scrambling backwards on her behind, the crutch held out in front of her, she shouted, “I’ll pay for your damn beer. Don’t touch me.”

  “You’ll pay all right, bitch, coming in here and taking my stuff.” He circled like an animal moving in for the kill. “Always taking my stuff.”

  “I don’t want your junk.” Singer thrust at him, pushing with her right foot, circling on her behind in a crazy square dance for supremacy. “I fell down the damn mountain.”

  She jabbed and he circled.

  “Can’t you see I’m hurt?”

  “You’re trying to take over my place.”

  “No. I needed something to drink.”

  “Coming in here and snooping, what you think, you crazy old bitch, think you can just move in?” He danced around her, hands and arms beating like the wings of a crazed rooster.

  Her crutch followed his movements. “I’ll go away. Just leave me alone.”

  He kicked out at her. “Women . . . always trying to take over. I don’t want you no more,” he shouted, raising his arms to the sky. “No more, no women.”

  Singer swung her stick at him. “I’m going. Just let me go. You lay a hand on me, I’ll have the cops on you.” Her words fell over themselves. “You want the Mounties down here? They’ll move you out fast.”

  Suddenly he stopped and dropped his hands. He tilted his head to the side, listening to something Singer couldn’t hear. He moved away, mumbling to himself, repeating bitch over and over, but the worst of his anger had faded. He seemed to forget Singer while he argued with someone who wasn’t there.

  Singer eased away.

  He cocked his head to the side, still muttering to himself, and then he sloped off to his shelter. At the door, he turned and yelled, “And don’t come back. I don’t want you no more!” Then he stepped inside and let the blanket fall over the entrance.

  Singer used the branch to get to her feet and studied the bank the man had climbed down. She’d have to pass in front of his tent to get to it. He might think she was coming after him. Besides, it was too steep for her to climb in her condition. Better to ford the stream and climb the bank farther along, where the grade was less vertical.

  The bottom of the stream was covered with rounded, slippery stones. They rolled under her feet, sending her this way and that on uncertain ankles. Singer needed both hands to manipulate the crutch. The remains of her skirt dragged in the water and wrapped around her legs, hobbling her.

  Slowly and carefully, she made her way across the riverbed, checking over her shoulder often to see if the crazy man had suddenly decided to chase her. She could see the first signs of the road and she watched it, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

  Her bedraggled orange skirt was wet to the knees, and the cold seeped into her very core. Shivering, she stumbled out of the water and onto the bank. At least the frigid mountain stream had washed the blood from her feet and anesthetized some of her injuries.

  Water ran from her skirt. She was beyond fear now, in a place of numbness where only the next step mattered. She mustn’t sit down. Staying on her feet and creeping onward inch by painful inch was all she was capable off. She staggered forward, no longer bothering to check if she was going to be attacked from the road or from behind, just dragging one throbbing foot ahead and then the other.

  She stopped. The road curved a mere twenty feet above her, but large boulders barred her path. How could she manage them, and what if someone was parked at the top waiting for her?

  A fresh wind blew, chilling her even more. If she waited on the beach until nightfall she would die of exposure, and she couldn’t go back. There was no other way to go but up, no choice but to make for the road.

  “Screw it.”

  She sank to her knees. Laying on her right hip, she threw the crutch ahead of her and, using her elbow for leverage and grabbing tufts of grass, agony with hands still seeping blood, she dragged herself upward.

  She heard a car passing as she pulled herself up the hill. A local would know this beach, would know that if she was still alive sooner or later she would have to come back up this trail. It no longer mattered.

  She stopped thinking about what was waiting for her at the crest and concentrated on moving inch by tortured inch. The world shrunk to the width of her body. Nothing outside of the earth directly in front of her held any meaning.

  Twelve feet up, faint with pain and exhaustion, she slumped on the grass and waited for the waves of agony to pass. She could smell the dried grasses, hear the crinkle of fractured blades beneath her. The earth seemed to welcome her but she didn’t rest long.

  She crawled upward until she joined the footpath at a clearing by the side of the road, a pull-off where cars could park while people made their way to the beach. At the edge of the road, the reality of her situation came back and she was terrified a blow would fall on her head.

  But no black SUV sat there; no one stood ready to knock her down. Singer struggled to her feet, leaning on her crutch with relief. Now she just had to wait for the next car to come along. Surely not even the most security-phobic person, someone who would never normally dream of picking up a hitchhiker, would leave a wounded woman standing by the side of the road.

  A vehicle was coming. She could hear it clearly, the engine growing louder as it approached. With a smile, she eagerly raised her hand to wave it down. A black SUV swung around the corner and headed straight towards her.

  Thirty

  She scuttled away, her brain working frantically. When they’re beside you, go back down the road . . . away. Not down the path . . . no help there. Up. Close to the edge. If they try to run you down maybe they’ll go over, and if they go past you they’ll have to turn around . . . come at you on foot . . . hit them with the crutch.

  Behind her, the engine stopped, then she heard the slam of a heavy door. She didn’t pause. Her mind still raced through options even as her footsteps faltered and her chest heaved. Despite the panic and fear driving her forward, a two-year-old could catch her.

  She heard running feet. “Singer, wait.”

  It wasn’t the voice she’d expected.

  Fight, she must fight. She turned, raised the branch, and swung at Lauren.

  Lauren jumped back and screamed, “Are you crazy?”

  Another swipe with the branch was her answer.

  Lauren sidestepped the weak attack. “You mad old—” The sight of Singer froze the words in Lauren’s throat.

  Singer’s mud-encrusted skirt hung in ribbons from the tie at her waist. Her blouse was shredded and every exposed piece of skin was covered in blood.

  “My god,” Lauren said. “What happened to you?”

  “As if you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know. What happened?”

  “You tried to drive me off the mountain.”

  “What?” Lauren looked around in confusion, hunting for an explanation.

  Singer gestured towards Lauren’s Yukon. “A black thing just like that tried to force me off the road.” She read the doubt in Lauren’s eyes. “You tried to drive me over the edge.”

  Astonishment swept Lauren’s face.


  Singer pointed. “It had a big medallion on the grill, just like that.”

  “Well mine isn’t the only Yukon on the island,” Lauren said. “John has a matching one in the garage. Anyone might have gone in and taken it. The garage door isn’t locked and the keys are always in our vehicles. John never drove it, so it’s the spare vehicle for everyone on the mountain.”

  Singer let her aching arm fall. A new reality settled in her head. Johnny’s killer was now after her.

  Lauren came warily towards Singer, hesitating before she said, “Lean on me.” Her voice was gentle. “Let’s get you home.”

  Home! A magical word. Tears pricked Singer’s eyes and she nodded. She let Lauren help her into the Yukon like a child. It almost didn’t matter anymore if she was being led to her death or to safety.

  Lauren closed the door quietly behind her.

  “How did you get so beat up?” Lauren asked, as the Yukon pulled back onto the road.

  Singer took a deep breath, sighed out the air, and told Lauren the story in a halting and barely audible voice.

  “Jesus,” Lauren said and then added, “How would anyone know where to find you?”

  “You saw me downtown.”

  “But I didn’t try to kill you.”

  “I was outside Ruston’s law office. He might have seen me down there and passed it on to anyone. They were waiting for me. Or maybe they found me by accident.” Singer checked out the backseat. “Where’s Janna?”

  Lauren’s lips turned down. “I picked her up at the ferry and then dropped her at Chris’s. She isn’t going to stay with me, just wants to talk to Chris and the RCMP and get the hell out of here. She’ll be at the hotel tonight. She won’t come up to the house, doesn’t want to have dinner with me, and basically no longer wants to know me.”

  “But she still called you to pick her up at the ferry. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Strange? How do you mean?”

  Before Singer could answer, they went around a curve and saw the yellow beast.

  “Boy, you really don’t drive too well, do you?” Lauren said.

  If she meant it to be a joke, Singer’s sense of humor was long gone. Her reply came out in an angry hiss. “Pull over.”

  Lauren cautiously did as she was told, barely creeping onto the gravel shoulder and putting on the hazard lights.

  Singer fumbled to get out but couldn’t manage the door handle with her damaged hands.

  “Leave it,” Lauren said, grazing Singer’s arm with her fingertips. “You couldn’t get it back on the road even if you were fit to drive. We’ll have to get it towed again. It’s a danger there.”

  “It isn’t locked. I want to get my guitar and my knapsack.” Singer gave a defeated sigh. “I can’t do it. I’m done. Will you get them for me?”

  “Sure.” Lauren unsnapped her belt and jumped from the Yukon.

  Singer reached out and locked the door behind her.

  Lauren opened Beastie’s driver’s side door and swung up onto the seat. She saw the guitar and the knapsack on the passenger seat. She picked them up and glanced into the back. That morning the van had been untidy, now it was trashed. Shoeboxes full of papers had been upended, and now the papers littered the bed, the floor, and the counter in a mad flurry of destruction.

  What had they been searching for?

  Lauren started to pull the key from the ignition and then decided the damage was already done. Besides, Hank would need the key. Best leave it where it was.

  Lauren jumped from the cab and went around to the front of the van, pushing into the brambles. She gasped and stumbled back from the edge. She hadn’t realized just how close to the lip of the abyss the yellow van hovered. Cautiously she stretched forward and then pulled quickly back again, scrambling for the safety of the pavement.

  The brief glance had been enough. The evidence of Singer’s fall was all too clear. How had she survived? Lauren looked back to the Yukon. Singer raised her hand.

  Singer turned her pale face to watch Lauren put the guitar and the bag safely on the back seat. “Thanks, Lauren,” Singer said.

  Lauren looked up and said, “You look close to fainting.” She slammed the side door and then got in behind the wheel. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

  Singer grimaced. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “No insurance.”

  “Why, haven’t you got a health card?”

  “Lost it.”

  Lauren was willing to bet that Singer had never had such an item. “I’ll pay, or rather I’ll put it on John’s Amex.”

  Singer shook her head. Her jaw was set and her teeth were clenched.

  “What, you want to pass on a chance to stick it to John?”

  “A little hydrogen peroxide is all I need.”

  “All right. I don’t understand, but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.” Lauren climbed into the SUV. “When we get home, I’ll call Hank to bring your van up to the house.” She checked the side mirror and pulled back onto the road. “Having the bushes there fooled me. I didn’t realize how close the van was to the edge or I’d never have gotten into it. I’ll make sure he checks it out first.”

  Singer put her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes, her whole body trembling.

  Lauren said, “Maybe we should go to the hospital. I think you’re going into shock.”

  Silently, Singer raised her hand and pointed ahead.

  As they climbed the switchbacks, circling back on themselves, Lauren became more and more uncertain that they were doing the right thing. “If someone is trying to kill you, they might be waiting at the top of the mountain for us.”

  Singer’s eyes shot open. They shared a worried glance, as the vehicle slowed.

  “Shit,” Singer said.

  “The first sign of anything and I’m out of there. Not even going to stop until I’m sure no one is waiting.”

  “That would be best,” Singer agreed. “But how can you be sure no one is in the house?”

  Lauren had no answer to that.

  At the house they drove slowly around the circle, stopping with the nose of the Yukon pointing out the drive but where they could still see the French doors to John’s office. Lauren didn’t even shift into park.

  She leaned forward and searched the windows on both floors. “What do you think?”

  Thirty-one

  “Don’t know,” Singer answered without taking her eyes off the house. She was exhausted and all she wanted was to lie down.

  Lauren drove slowly around the circle again, stopping in front of the double front doors this time. The heavily carved wood displayed horrific images of strange beasts. The women studied the house in silence until Singer asked, “What are our choices?”

  “I could go in and pick up Missy, and then we could head back down to the hotel for the night.”

  “That’s stupid. If we go in for the dog and someone is waiting, the worst has already happened.”

  “I’m not leaving Missy alone overnight.”

  “All right then,” Singer said, “let’s go in.”

  Lauren put out a hand to restrain Singer. “Maybe you should wait here while I go in. No one’s trying to kill me.”

  Singer thought about it for a moment. “No, I’m going with you. I’ll be safe as long as you’re with me.”

  “How do you know?”

  Singer leaned her head against the window. “I don’t. I just want it to be true.”

  Lauren came around to open the door and help Singer to the ground, supporting her with an arm under her shoulder. All the time they were doing this they watched the house.

  At the flagstone step, they stopped, and Singer whispered, “If anything happens, anything bad, run like hell and don’t look back.”

  L
auren nodded.

  “Don’t wait for me,” Singer ordered. “Just get the hell out of here. Do you understand?”

  Lauren nodded again. “I understand and you don’t have to tell me twice. Anyone comes out that door . . . happy landing, ’cause I’m dropping you and bolting.”

  Lauren turned the key and reached for the doorknob. She took a deep breath and let it out and then pushed the front door open with the tips of her fingers.

  Bouncing and yapping, Missy rushed through the opening to greet Lauren before turning her attention to Singer.

  “Get it away from me,” Singer screamed. “Get away.” The thought of little claws scraping over her cuts had her shuffling backwards.

  Lauren let go of Singer and swept the dog up into her arms. “No, Missy.” Lauren pushed the door wide and stepped cautiously into the foyer. “It seems okay,” she said. She opened the door to the sitting room and shut Missy inside.

  She stepped back outside to where Singer sagged against the doorframe. Lauren put Singer’s left arm over her own shoulder and wrapped her right arm around Singer’s waist, holding her up, and half carried Singer into the house. Singer moaned in pain.

  “Let’s get you to your room, then we’ll get you in the shower.” Lauren ignored the tears washing Singer’s face. “You can stay there while I get tweezers and extra towels. We have to clean up these cuts.”

  “Nail cutters . . .” Singer puffed out the words. “Every nail . . . broken.”

  “Sure.”

  When they were in the bathroom, Lauren asked, “Do you need help getting undressed?”

  Singer could only nod.

  Singer stood under the shower for a long time, and then she began to sob. She’d been so determined when she headed for the island, so sure of herself and her need for revenge.

  The door to the bathroom opened. She held her breath.

  “It’s me. Extra towels,” Lauren called. Singer breathed again.

  Lauren dried Singer off and poured antiseptic over the cuts, letting the liquid pour down onto the towels on the floor. “Now let’s get you into bed.”