Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  He clutches a projecting rock and pulls himself upward. He kicks hard, alligator-style, and hauls his way up. Stones loosen and tumble down in a clattering mass. Loam, moss, and pebbles rain down on him—into his hair, eyes, and mouth. He spits, sputters, and shakes his head, grappling his way up the wall. His arms quiver; a burning ache penetrates his biceps and sears its way through his shoulders and back as he inches his way up toward the crest. Finally, his hand slaps over the top; his fingers curl around an exposed root.

  Hoisting himself to the brim, he drags himself over, rolls onto his back, and lies there, staring up at the star-strewn sky. His body quakes; he’s muscle-weak—depleted, feels wasted. His arms quiver, his chest heaves, and a burn comes from deep in his lungs. It’s air hunger. He needs oxygen; he needs fuel to burn. He gulps frantically.

  Jesus, I can’t keep going like this.

  He lies there spent, drained. He stares at the sky. There are billions of stars—a cloudy ocean of them—and they’ll exist forever, no matter what happens on this night.

  Still on his back, Adrian waits. It occurs to him that the shotgun and flashlight will make it hard for Wilson to scale the embankment. He won’t have free hands for the climb, assuming he realizes Adrian scaled the wall.

  Don’t kid yourself. He’ll know. Rocks and dirt are scattered everywhere. It’s a trail as clear as daylight.

  A light shimmers through the woods below.

  An icy shiver crawls through Adrian. He’s got to get up and keep moving. He stumbles to his feet and crashes through the woods. He’s moving in a shuffle, an erratic shambling on unsteady legs, but he’s moving.

  Just keep going. Move your ass … and live.

  The trail is a dreamscape of gray timber—ash trees, huge oaks, and scrub pines—bathed in a pale light. The path twists through saplings and brush and leads steadily uphill. Tree trunks loom over him, crouching eerily beside the path.

  He’s in a thicket now; it’s nearly impenetrable. Twigs snap; stones crunch. He trips over a rock, sprawls forward, and scuffs his palms. Burns like hell. Burrs cling to his hair and prick his scalp—needle-sharp, penetrating. He rips out a clump; a patch of hair comes with it. Pain sears through his flesh. His hands are flayed, bloodied.

  He crawls and shimmies ahead desperately on hands and knees. Thorns and bristles puncture him. A barberry bush rakes his face. He’s amid dense undergrowth with needle-sharp projections. He lies still, panting, and then closes his eyes.

  Twigs snap nearby. Another sound is followed by a shrill chirring. Adrian’s heart jumps as he leaps to his feet, whirls, and sees two eyes glowing at ground level. It’s a raccoon. The beast crashes through the brush and scuttles into the darkness.

  On leaden legs, Adrian tramps through shadows in a gray glow. He forges ahead, through a thick tangle of sinewy vines where the trail comes to an abrupt end. He’s out of the woods.

  Adrian steps into the open and looks ahead to a vast series of fields and hills. He’ll be in open country and easy to see in the moonlight.

  He’ll be a clear target—and the bastard has a shotgun.

  Twenty-two

  It’s the first slope of Ambler Hills, bathed in murky moonlight—an enormous undulating expanse of hills where dairy farms once dotted the land. Now it lies unused; it’s fallow pastureland—been this way for years. The fields are crisscrossed by man-made stone walls a few feet high. Over time, the hillsides have been overgrown with thistle, brambles, and thick field grasses. There are no trees or swales; Adrian knows he’ll be a clear target on open range.

  But he knows he has no choice if he’s ever going to reach civilization. Gotta take the chance; gotta go this route. He guesses he’s been running for ten minutes, maybe more, but he can’t really tell. He breaks into a slow trot, jogging uphill through yellow, knee-high field grass. He churns his way upward, thrashing through the weeds and clogged growth of vegetation.

  Adrian’s cheeks burn. He swipes at them. In the moonlight, he sees a dark bloodstain on his hand. Thorns, bristles, and branches did it, lashed and cut him. This night’s insane, but if he’s going to live, he’s gotta keep going.

  Fighting gravity, he churns uphill. He’s underestimated the incline’s steepness and the toll it would take on him.

  Keep going … Just keep moving. There’s no time to think or worry … Just run.

  His pace slows, but he slogs forward. His legs get heavier, more leaden.

  Staggering and gasping, Adrian closes in on a stone wall. It’s a low outcropping, and he drops onto the stones, rolls over them, and tumbles to the other side, feeling spent. It’s been years since he played baseball, ran laps around the field, did crunches, or lifted weights. His body’s gone to hell.

  He’s gagging, legs quivering, muscles burning, vision fading. A spasm begins in his right leg, an incipient cramp that’ll cripple him. If it happens, it’ll all be over.

  Wait … wait … muscle fatigue passes … You need time.

  Lying there, looking up at the night sky, Adrian feels the violent drubbing of his heart and a crushing sensation in his chest. For a moment, he thinks he might be having a heart attack—just like Dad did all those years ago. That night in the Chinese restaurant flashes before his eyes.

  But Adrian waits, knowing his heart rate will slow; he’s certain his breathing will get less ragged with time. Time … need more time, maybe a minute or two. Slowly—forever, it seems—the burn in his legs subsides; the cramping sensation eases too, and his breathing’s less coarse, not as labored. Oxygen will get to his muscles—burn off the lactic acid—and fresh blood will pump its way to his heart, lungs, and brain. He’ll think clearly and devise a plan.

  What fucking plan? Just run for your life. Keep going. That’s all you can do.

  Adrian struggles to his knees; he leans on the wall and peers at the woodland below. It’s a black shadowline in the night, a distant mass at the edge of the downward slope. He sees only a dark heap of forest—a dense backdrop. He knows he’s come a long way since the brook—through forest and tangled brush, up this endless incline. Every step’s been uphill.

  The embankment at the brook was treacherous. He wonders again if Wilson can scale it carrying both the shotgun and flashlight. Should he wait longer to see if he follows? It could be a mistake, but it might be worth the chance.

  A breeze whispers across the field and washes over him, tussling his hair and cooling his damp scalp. The draft is redolent of willow, weeds, and wet earth. He inhales goldenrod, moss, and desiccated clover. He smells the night, wishing he could vanish into its dark mystery. A billowed cloud scuttles by, obscures the moon, and throws the field into a clutch of darkness. It passes; pale light returns.

  In the distance, a siren wails. It reminds Adrian of a coyote’s howl. The cops are nearing the cottage, a smoldering heap by now, he’s certain. And he’s here, on this hill, waiting to see if Wilson comes for him. The thought occurs to Adrian that maybe he’ll survive this night, that he might outlast Conrad Wilson.

  He squints toward the tree line, across the pallid wash of moonlight. He has some protection: semidarkness, a stone wall, and night shadows—all on a moonlit incline in the Connecticut foothills.

  A light flickers through the woods.

  It’s Wilson. He’s coming.

  Adrian’s skin crawls. A sick feeling rises from the pit of his stomach, and he feels like retching. His heart begins thumping, and its rampant beating pulses in his throat.

  He’s coming … How can he track me at night? This guy’s some kind of animal.

  The light advances and glimmers like some ghostly radiance.

  A perilous realization seizes Adrian: there’s something strange about this man; he’s primitive, animal-like. He just keeps coming. A chill seeps through Adrian’s blood and spreads to his flesh, invading him. He feels like prey.

  The light stops, scans the field, and moves up the slope, right to the wall. It fixes on him, shining in his eyes. Adrian squints and fractures th
e beam into a white starburst.

  Adrian suddenly realizes that in his uphill trek, he left a wake of trampled vegetation—an obvious path leading right to the wall.

  The light begins moving up the slope and bobs up and down in cadence with Wilson’s stride. He’s advancing steadily toward him. No pause; Wilson just keeps coming.

  Adrian pivots and dashes in a rushing crouch. The afterimage of the light speckles his retina. That slow burn begins in his lungs and spreads through his chest like a hot blade piercing his heart. He churns up the slope on legs going dead. Every cell in his body screams for oxygen, but he can’t stop. He shimmies over another low wall and tumbles heavily to the ground. Jesus, it’s so tempting to give up, to just lie here and gulp air, let it nourish him, and give him strength.

  But he gets to his feet and trudges uphill.

  In the distance, a siren pops and then keens through the night. It sounds closer than before.

  The cops are coming. I dialed 911. Isn’t it true that when you dial 911 on a cell phone, the connection gets locked and the phone turns into a GPS? Yes, the cops know where I am.

  Adrian’s thighs burn; they begin trembling. His pace slows to a shambling walk. He staggers sideways, then slips over another wall and glances back.

  A cloud scuds across the sky and obliterates the moon. The hills darken in a somber shroud. A wind kicks up; the swishing of the grasses grows louder. It’s black but for the light below—coming uphill. Wilson’s advancing.

  Adrian stands, then bends over, sets his hands on his knees, and sucks air desperately.

  Gotta wait for the moon to come back …

  The light keeps coming. He’ll soon be in shotgun range.

  Adrian’s breath comes in wheezing, guttural bursts.

  The cloud courses across the sky and obliterates the moonlight.

  With each passing second, the light, bobbing up and down, comes closer.

  Suddenly, Adrian’s right hamstring muscle cramps; a wrenching pain sears through the back of his thigh and the spasm drops him to one knee. The pain is blinding. This could be it, he thinks. He stretches the leg, rubs his thigh, massages the muscle, and feels the cramp ease.

  The cloud streams away and bathes the field in watery light. Adrian gets up, limps uphill, then moves faster, trotting over the next hill. He comes to another wall, slips over it, and realizes he’s on a rocky promontory.

  He’s on Bald Hill, a rock-strewn hillock where the early settlers buried their kin. How strange this is, how otherworldly: he’s being chased by a madman to the entrance to Bald Hill Cemetery.

  It’s me and Wilson among the dead.

  Twenty-three

  Adrian stumbles past half-toppled tombstones in the old section of the cemetery.

  Staggering along a stone wall, he coughs, begins retching, and feels he’ll vomit, so he stops, leans on the wall, hangs his head, and feels ready to collapse. Time passes—a few seconds, maybe more—and the nausea fades. He grabs a hand-sized oval-shaped stone from atop the wall, then scrambles behind a grave marker, crouches, and waits with his breath rattling in his chest.

  A few moments later, the light appears at the cemetery entrance.

  Another siren wails—sounds closer. But Adrian can’t tell where it is. It could take some time for the cops to get here.

  Wilson’s flashlight’s at the edge of the cemetery; it scans left, then right. Adrian huddles behind the stone as the light moves over it and goes back and forth. Wilson moves forward—slowly—and stops and shines the flashlight down one aisle of tombstones and then another. He moves cautiously to the next row.

  He knows I’m here. He’ll comb through the place methodically—one row after another. I’m dead meat.

  A tickle begins at the back of Adrian’s throat; he fights it, knowing it’s an incipient cough. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds his breath, then swallows though there’s no saliva. The tickle nags from deep behind his uvula. He licks his lips for moisture, but they’re dry.

  The tickle intensifies. He swallows—again and again—trying to stifle the cough. His eyes feel like they’re swelling in their sockets. Adrian’s chest heaves less violently; the flame in his legs subsides. The throat tickle ebbs, bit by bit, very slowly.

  In a few minutes, the flashlight will come to Adrian’s row. He knows he must move to better cover. It’s risky; a snapping twig or crunching pebble could give him away. Then he’s a dead man. But he’ll be exposed if he stays behind this tombstone. He has no choice.

  Still hunched, he looks behind him and sees a ten-foot-high tapered obelisk. Crouching, Adrian moves away from the light until he reaches the monolith, then ducks behind it. It’s about four feet wide at the base and will give cover, so long as Adrian keeps to the far side of Wilson. Adrian realizes suddenly that his cell phone might go off; it would be the police calling. Then it’s over. He reaches into his pocket, grabs the cell and, from behind the obelisk, hurls it into the night. It clatters against a distant headstone. The light beam flashes toward it, hovers, and then resumes its search.

  Adrian angles himself at the obelisk’s far side as Wilson moves closer.

  The light beam scans row after row, coming closer.

  Adrian moves laterally as the shaft illuminates each row of gravestones.

  The light comes closer.

  Adrian holds his breath.

  Wilson treads between tombstones, shifting the beam left, then right, then straight ahead. He’ll come to the obelisk, and then he’ll be inches away from Adrian.

  Adrian’s body goes taut and then quivers in anticipation. He clutches the rock.

  The light shaft shines on the ground, forming a white oval.

  A sudden wind kicks up and gusts through the graves in an eerie whine. Adrian can no longer hear Wilson. But he can see the light beam on the ground.

  Adrian’s pulse thunders in his ears. His face feels hot, flushed. He’s coiled in readiness, quivering.

  The beam hovers on the ground. Its shape changes from a circle to an oval. The cone of light elongates and moves closer.

  Wilson is beside the obelisk.

  The shotgun barrel appears, waist high. It stops, hangs in midair, and slants downward.

  Adrian waits, pressed to the monument’s granite, inches from the gun’s muzzle. His entire body shudders.

  Wilson must be straining to hear him. But the wind gusts in shrill eddies through the graveyard. Adrian is poised, ready, rock in hand.

  The shotgun barrel hovers so close he can touch it. It hangs there, a lethal-looking blue-black tube.

  With a burst, Adrian’s legs uncoil; he swings, and the stone slams into Wilson’s head. There’s a deafening blast as an orange tongue of flame leaps from the gun.

  Adrian grabs the barrel. The percussion shock shakes him as he yanks the muzzle upward. Blood pours from Wilson’s scalp, over his ear, forming a wide runnel. Adrian realizes the rock only grazed Wilson’s head. It’s a scalp wound.

  Adrian’s right hand locks on the barrel; his left clutches the stock. He yanks the shotgun and pulls with all the force he can muster. Wilson has the trigger housing and clasps the barrel; he pulls. The weapon is between them, angled to the side.

  Adrian pushes, then pulls, trying to twist the gun away. Wilson swerves and yanks with such power that Adrian’s feet leave the ground. He’s launched into the air, hurled aside like a hand puppet. He lands on his feet, still clutching the shotgun. He knows he can’t let go. But his grip feels slippery—from blood, sweat, and the rawness of his hands—and he knows he can’t hold on for long. But he holds, pushes, pulls, and turns, and both men grunt as the struggle goes on.

  Suddenly, Wilson propels Adrian backward. He’s rammed against the obelisk. A cracking shock shoots through Adrian’s back and head as he slams against the stone. A starburst of white lights explodes in his eyes, but he holds on. Wilson forces the barrel upward to Adrian’s throat; Adrian’s skull is pressed to the granite while the steel tube presses his
windpipe. Adrian sees the feral look in Wilson’s eyes and the spittle on his lips. He smells Wilson’s sour breath, sees a stream of blood on his face, hears his guttural grunts, and feels his power.

  Adrian gurgles and chokes. He can’t get air, so he twists his head to the side, keeping his windpipe open. He tries to shove the gun back and let in precious air, but the barrel is wedged deeply into his neck, squeezing the carotid artery and cutting off the blood supply. Adrian feels dizzy. The night starts going hazy and white, and he knows he’s fading.

  Adrian’s vision dims. He’s weakening, going down. His eyes bulge in their sockets. His head swims. He feels a frantic surge, knowing he can’t last much longer. As if by instinct, Adrian snaps his right knee up—into Wilson’s groin. Wilson grunts as breath bursts from his lungs.

  Adrian pushes and drives Wilson back. They grapple for control—pulling, pushing, twisting—left, then right, up and down. Adrian is thrust sideways—all two hundred pounds of him—like an empty sack.

  A half step back—Adrian jerks, pushes, and twists the gun. His arms cramp; a spasm clutches his shoulders. He realizes he’s no match for Wilson. The muzzle moves toward him—nears Adrian’s ear. He tugs the barrel. In a desperate move, he tries to flip Wilson over his hip, but Wilson yanks back. They stumble to the right, and Adrian’s grip weakens. Wilson will soon have the shotgun.

  Suddenly, Wilson’s feet fly up—damp moss on stone. He arches through the air, and his head slams into a gravestone; Adrian hears a sickening thud. Wilson bounces and lies still, inert, his head angled to the side.

  Weapon in hand, Adrian—with a swift plunge—slams the gun butt into Wilson’s face. The impact sends a thump through Adrian’s arms. He hears bones shatter—a sharp, snapping crack, almost like cellophane crumpling—and blood sprays everywhere. Adrian raises the weapon, ready to smash again. He feels a primal surge of power and realizes a beast within him has roared to life.