by Gary Braver
“Hard to say. But even the IFW agents don’t go in there, and they carry more guns than the state police.”
“IFW?”
“Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. They make sure wildlife is healthy, nobody poaches.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Problem is some folks up here aren’t like you Massachusetts people. They don’t have regular paying jobs and civ’lized lifestyles. Live in the woods, live off the land, don’t come out but once a year, if that. Eat what they kill. They jack a moose, the IFW looks the other way.” He pulled out a rag and began to wipe his hands. Then his nose.
“I still don’t see what the problem is.”
“Well, some would say they be a little light on top—maybe too much isolation, maybe too much livin’ in the wild. Whatever, we leave them alone, they leave us alone.”
“You’re saying there are dangerous people up there?”
“I’m saying drop your bags somewhere else.”
Sarah stepped out of the store with a small guidebook and some sheets with motels and B and Bs. She thanked the man and slipped back into the passenger seat.
The woman came out after her. “Here’s the rest of your change, ma’am.” And she handed Sarah some coins.
The woman was large and had her hair pulled back in a long ponytail. She had a wide mannish face and was wearing a bright pink sweatshirt that said, “Maineiac Momma.” When Sarah said to keep the change, the woman said, “Thanks, but we don’t take charity.” She moved beside the pump man and watched them leave.
Zack waved and buckled his seat belt while the two watched them without expression, looking like an overweight version of American Gothic. Just as Zack was about to pull away, the man made a gun with his fingers and aimed southward down 202. Sarah didn’t see him, and Zack turned the car northward. In the rearview mirror, the man stood there with his wife and watched them drive away, shaking his head.
When they were about a quarter mile up the road, Sarah handed Zack a tuna sandwich that had melted through the bread. “It’s all they had,” she said. “Guess there was a run on the good stuff.”
“Yeah, a foodie’s mecca.”
Zack put the sandwich in the hold between them. He had no appetite. He took a sip of the iced tea and drove on, feeling the rightness of his direction in spite of the guy back there making like one of the villagers in Dracula. Surprised he didn’t offer me a crucifix, he thought with grim bemusement.
“Your recall’s amazing,” Sarah said, biting into her sandwich. “I asked the lady, and she said Magog Woods is about fifteen miles up the road.”
Not recall.
“You must have been up here a few more times than you remember.”
Ever rational to the end, Zack thought. “Maybe so,” he said to humor her. “Soon as we hit that center, it all came back.”
“Still, you have a great memory.”
“Or maybe I had no reason to remember, and now I do.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Not important.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn to him. “What’s not important?”
“Nothing.” Purple shadows of the setting sun made a pall over the road ahead.
“Zack, I don’t like this.”
“You don’t like what?”
“Being up here. The way you’re behaving. The way you’re talking. I’m getting creeped out.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“I want to go back, okay?”
No! She’s trying to lead you astray. Deflect you from your mission. “Look, it’s only another ten miles or so. If we don’t find it, we’ll go back. I promise.”
“You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”
“If you want, I can drop you back at the store and go myself.”
“Be serious.”
“Then trust me.”
“If you don’t find whatever it is, we turn back. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
But in the back of his mind, there was a flicker of guilt.
84
About a dozen miles beyond the gas station, Zack slowed the car. The thick wall of trees on either side made of the road an unbroken, darkening corridor. Since their stop, he had counted only one other vehicle on the road, coming from the opposite direction.
“Is this it?” Sarah asked, the fear audible in her voice.
He didn’t answer, but his chest was pounding so hard that his breath came short. After half a minute more, he pulled over. In the heavy scrub was an opening to an unmarked dirt road, nearly indistinguishable but for the narrow cut through towering pines, oaks, and dense brush. Zack pulled the car into the lane. No other cars were on the road, which faded into gloom in either direction.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re here.”
Zack turned on the headlights. The rutted dirt lane was one car wide, with weeds growing down the center line, some spilling into the tire troughs. It hadn’t been used much and brooded ahead of them as it disappeared into the depths. Zack checked that the doors were locked. “I just want to go in a little way, then we’ll come right out.”
“I don’t like this.”
“We’ll be fine.” His brain was humming like a hive of hornets. He inched his way down the lane as brush scratched against the car, and the overhang of trees made a tunnel of the path, closing down on them as they moved deeper. Something really weird was about to happen.
“Zack, please turn back. I want to get out of here.”
“Okay. We’ll find a clearing to turn around.”
“Just back out.”
But he paid her no attention and rolled a few more yards ahead until it was clear that they had reached the end, the headlights falling on a wall of trees with no opening wide enough to accommodate a car. “See?”
“See what? There’s no room to turn around.”
He had no idea how far they had come—maybe a hundred yards. But she was right. He had only two or three feet on either side of the car to turn around. And no easy way to back out with only the backup lights.
Sarah seethed to herself while he worked the shift from drive to reverse, advancing a foot or so each time. The sides were scraped, and he’d have a handsome bill to cover the scratches. But after several minutes, he had the car pointed the way they had come down. Sweat poured down his face and back.
“What’s that?” gasped Sarah.
He turned toward her, thinking she had spotted something in the woods. But she was staring straight ahead.
Through the windshield he could see nothing but the dirt road and wall of trees. Then he flicked on the high beams. Something flashed back at him, and his guts knotted. Maybe thirty yards ahead, filling the width of the road, was a black van.
“Who is that?” Sarah whispered.
“I don’t know.”
The van’s lights were off, and in the high beams Zack could see no one behind the windshield.
“We’re trapped.”
Whoever had followed them did so in scant light, because Zack had come down this road with one eye ahead and the other in the rearview mirror. Without lights, the driver had to have followed them in near total darkness. And given the time it took Zack to turn the car around, whoever it was either knew the way or could see in the dark.
If the van was empty, the driver could be anywhere watching them.
“We’re sitting ducks,” she said.
Zack undid his seat belt.
“No, don’t get out.”
“Just getting something in the back.”
“No.” She was beginning to panic and grabbed his arm. “Don’t get out, please.”
“Then come with me.” He got out, and she climbed over the center and got out beside him. He led her to the hatch, where he grabbed his backpack and pulled out two flashlights. He didn’t turn them on but handed one to Sarah. He slipped on his backpack, pulled up the carpet, and raised the false floor over the spare tire. In
the repair pouch was a foot-long crowbar. It would have to do. He closed the hatch, gripping the black torch in one hand, the iron in the other. In a flash, his saw himself smashing Mitchell Gretch’s skull.
Sarah pulled him around the side to get back. “Let’s get inside.”
The woods were dark and full-throated with the chittering of bugs. What there was of sky had turned opaque, with a few stars blazing through the thick canopy. “What for?”
“Maybe we can push it off the road.”
“Too many trees.” They grew right up to the road, with no opening to shove the van.
Sarah was trembling. “What are we going to do?”
Zack had no idea who drove the van, no psychic familiarity. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t afraid. He opened the driver’s door. “Okay, get in. Lock the doors and start the car.”
“What?”
“Just do as I say. Please.”
“No, Zack. Don’t.”
He nudged her inside, closed her door, and moved up the dirt path in the Murano’s high beams, gripping the crowbar in his right hand, the torch in his left. As he approached the van, he saw no one in the front seats but couldn’t see into the rear. He sprayed the surrounding trees with the torch but saw nobody.
He reached the van, an old beaten-up VW with no front license plate and a two-year-old Maine inspection sticker. The engine was warm. He held his breath and gripped the crowbar. Then he pressed the torch against the windshield. The van was empty. The doors were locked. No key in the ignition. Nothing in the front seat. In the rear he could make out some nondescript boxes and plastic jugs on their sides. Some piles of clothes or rags, he couldn’t tell which. But his heart made a little surge when his light fell on a gun rack mounted on the ceiling behind the driver. It was empty.
He flashed around, knowing he was being watched. As he started toward the van’s rear to look for markings, Sarah screamed.
He tore back to the Murano, barely registering his feet contacting the ground. He could see no one at the vehicle, just the whited face of Sarah inside. When he reached the driver’s door, she unlocked it.
“Someone’s out there,” she said, barely able to catch her breath. “I saw him.”
“Where?”
“My window.”
“Did you see his face?”
She shook her head. “Just a flash.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. It was too fast.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. Just a dark shape.”
“He say anything?”
“No. What are we going to do?”
The engine was purring, and in the headlights they could just make out the van up ahead. “Probably locals out to spook Massachusetts folks.”
“The gas station guys?”
“Yeah. Backwoods version of Friday night fun.”
“It’s moving,” she said.
Zack flicked the lights. The van was moving, but not toward them. It was backing up. In a moment it receded without lights into the black as the trees closed around it like a drawn curtain.
“Get going,” she said.
Instead, he turned off the headlights. The woods were a solid black. No receding light from the van. No distant lights from the road. Nothing but uncompromising black. He turned off the car’s engine.
“What’re you doing?” she squealed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“They’re gone.” He opened his door.
“Zach, get back in and take me home.”
“That’s not what we came for.” He snatched the keys and got out.
“Goddamn it, get in.”
As she continued protesting, he said nothing and sauntered to the end of the lane where he had turned the car around.
Above, the stars still winked through the treetops. But he could see a thin layer of cloud begin to haze the light. He could also feel a drop in temperature as the wind picked up, laced with the scent of rain.
Sarah got out of the car and slammed the door. “What the hell are you doing?” she said, coming up to him.
“We’re not finished.” He felt the crowbar pulse in his grip.
Suddenly the woods filled with a hideous otherworldly cry that raised a yelp from Sarah and nearly stopped Zack’s heart.
“What’s that?” she cried.
“Only a loon.” Someplace else, another answered in the same hysterical warble.
She grabbed the front of his shirt. “I want to get out of here. Now!”
“Then go.” He dangled the car keys in front of her. “Take the car and leave. You’re free, the road’s clear. I’m not turning back.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Tell me, Sarah, what exactly do you believe in, huh? Is everything serotonin and God lobes?”
“What?”
“Isn’t it possible that there are things unseen in this world?”
“Zack, please…”
“I’m asking you a real question. Isn’t it possible you could be wrong? You want hard evidence? Well, you’re looking at it: me.”
“But…”
“But what? I’m delusional? Psychotic? Crazy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He put the keys in her hand. “Go home, Sarah. Go back to clean, well-lighted Cambridge.” Then he turned and walked away, his head filling with the musky, piney odor from the trees and decaying leaf mash. And something else.
Man sweat.
And something else.
Wood smoke.
Zack froze in place and turned his head as if it were an antenna looking for a signal.
They were surrounded by a continuous wall of trees making a chiaroscuro thicket around them against fading starlight. He slipped the crowbar into his belt and moved into the tiny clearing where he had turned the car.
“I’m not leaving,” Sarah said.
He said nothing but stopped in his tracks. Then, inexplicably, something in the depth of his brain made a click. He turned to his left and stared at the black ground.
“I can’t see a thing,” she muttered.
He aimed the light at a spot on the ground. “This way.”
85
“How will we find our way back?” she whispered.
“No problem.”
“What do you mean, ‘no problem’? And where’s your compass?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Where?”
But he didn’t answer. Instead he turned off his torch and led them on while she kept hers trained on the path in front of her. Through the canopy, the fading starlight made a vague diorama of branches and tree trunks. Ground visibility was minimal. Yet Zack moved through the thicket of brush and trees as if radar directed. And Sarah plodded behind him, saying nothing.
As they moved deeper, he felt the temperature drop even more. In spite of their movement, a chill cut through his jacket and sweatshirt. It occurred to him that if they got lost, no one would find their remains for years. If ever. The woods were crawling with night creatures—coyotes, bears, bobcats—that would strip them to bone in no time. And anything left over would be consumed by bugs and worms. Death and total recycling.
And he could hear them—the chittering and trilling and chirping, an occasional grunt or wheezing breath. In the distance, the hysterical yodels of loons. And in the even greater distance, coyotes yowling at the heavens.
God, give a sign.
When Sarah tugged at his shirt to ask where they were going, to beg to go back, he simply said, “Trust me.”
The path was narrow and covered with tender shoots like the hope pushing up in him. Silently he led Sarah through the growth. At one point, she let out a cry when some ground-nesting birds were startled up from nowhere, the flurry of their wings reflecting in their flashlights like banshees.
But something else was out there. Something alive and aware. He could feel its presence even if he couldn’t hear it. Every so often, he would stop and listen.
The woods were electric with the scrapings of a million metallic cricket legs, charging the air with a fierce expectancy. Unfortunately, the air was also alive with stinging flies that got in their eyes and ears and turned the Maine woods into a buzzing hell. And they had no repellent. But the wind had picked up and blew them away.
A sign? Maybe the wind, he thought.
Against Sarah’s protests, they moved deeper. “Sarah, we’re fine.”
“I’m not fine, goddamn it.”
But he disregarded her and moved through the brush like a bloodhound. He wished he could explain. He wished he could find the words. But this was beyond language. And she was too much the rationalist, living within the confines of Cartesian logic and Newtonian physics. The way he used to be. But something had happened—something not dreamt of in her philosophy. For the last several hours—or weeks, come to think of it—things had come together with a sublime inevitability, like the working out of prophecy, that was culminating in these woods where the trees rose like cathedral spires.
Suddenly Zack stopped in his tracks.
“What?” Sarah gasped.
“Listen.”
Everything around them had become utterly silent—as if someone had turned off the audio. No chittering of crickets; no rustling or chirps of night critters; no squawking flutter of startled birds; no coyotes yowling. Not even the hush of the wind in the treetops. It was as if the forest were holding its breath.
“What’s happening?” Terror was strangling her voice.
“Nothing.” Zack looked behind them. Even if he wanted to go back, they could never make it, not in this muzzy dark. Besides, the trampled brush behind them was already snapping back into place. And a cold drizzle began to fall.
“We’re lost,” Sarah whispered. “We’re fucking lost, and you don’t have a compass. You lied.” She was crying.
Sudden doubt clenched his heart. What if he was wrong? What if he had talked himself into believing? What if the instinct pulling him along was a figment of a brain rotted on tetrodotoxin? What if she was right, that it was all in the head—that nothing lay beyond all this? No transcendent mind. No higher awareness. Just the cosmic joke of hope.
“Zack!”