Drawn

by James Hankins

  “I don’t anymore, but I used to. And I probably shouldn’t say how.”

  “Oh?”

  Boone looked a little uncomfortable and said, “It’s something like patient-confidentiality reasons.”

  “I understand. Small world, though, huh?” Nathan said.

  Boone nodded. “Ah, what the hell. Simon Wood. He was from Boston. Lost a leg in Afghanistan. I guess he’d been a big athlete and losing a leg was hard on him…well, it’s hard on anyone, but he took it as hard as anyone could, I think. Had trouble adjusting to life without it. Anyway, he came to see me…I counsel people with disabilities…and we met for a few months until one day he told me he didn’t need to come anymore. Said I’d helped him all he needed.” He paused, thinking. “Small world, as you say.”

  Nathan was looking at the picture again, though at his son, not Simon Wood. “This is the last picture taken of Jeremy over there.”

  Nathan fell silent a moment as he looked at his son’s smiling face, and Boone let him. Boone seemed to be a perceptive man. Maybe that came with losing one’s sight.

  “Five months after this was taken,” Nathan said, “some of their platoon was ambushed. Jeremy was with them. Lucky for them.”

  “Was Jeremy…wounded?”

  Nathan nodded. “A little, but he fought back, and almost single-handedly saved the lives of nineteen men.”

  “Wow. That’s a real hero, Nathan. You must be very proud of him. And…he came home okay?”

  “He did.”

  Boone nodded. “You’re lucky.”

  Nathan looked over at the younger man. “Sounds like you speak from experience. That come from the people you counsel, or did you serve?” That might explain the scars.

  “From my clients. No, I didn’t serve, but I know a lot of people who did, ones who came home but weren’t quite as lucky as your son.”

  Nathan nodded. “And you help people like that.”

  “I try.”

  “Sounds like admirable work, Boone.”

  Boone shrugged. “It’s all I can do, really.”

  “Well, you might be selling yourself short, but that’s none of my business.”

  They fell again into that easy silence and Nathan started to get drowsy. Burt’s sleeping pills were still trying to tug Nathan’s eyelids down and Nathan wanted to let them. Jeremy’s dream messages had drawn him to the lake house but he didn’t know what Jeremy wanted him to do next. If he was going to figure that out, he had to dream, and to dream, he had to sleep. He stood.

  “Listen, Boone, I’m pretty beat from the drive. Think I’m gonna turn in. The first bedroom on the right has a twin bed, though it looks like it might be kinda small for you. Not sure you’d be all that comfortable.”

  “I’ll be fine right here on the couch, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure, I’ll get you some sheets and a blanket and we’ll make it into a bed.”

  “Don’t worry about sheets. A blanket and pillow is all I’ll need.”

  “Okeydoke.”

  Nathan took a blanket and spare pillow from the linen closet in the hall and brought them back to Boone.

  “All set then?” he asked.

  “Sure. Good night, Nathan. And thanks for all this.”

  “Good night.”

  Nathan went back down the hall to his bedroom. He sat on the bed. He’d never slept in this bed alone. In fact, Maggie was the last person to make the bed. Nathan couldn’t bring himself to disturb the bedcovers that his wife had so carefully tucked and smoothed four years ago, so he lay on top of them, folded his hands across his chest, and closed his eyes.

  “Good night, Maggie,” he whispered, as he had every night since he’d married that skinny girl forty-six years ago.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  LARRY TROTTED THROUGH the forest in a red rage. With every breath he sprayed bloody spittle from the rip in his cheek, which flapped in the cold night air. There wasn’t much he could do about that now, at least not until he’d caught and killed the living hell out of the goddamn kid and that bitch, whoever she was. The pain in his face had been blinding at first, so blinding he almost hadn’t noticed the throbbing pain in his neck and in his shoulder where the woman had hit him with the tire iron. But the blood pumped through him as he ran and he now felt every blow he’d taken, and each drove him deeper into his fury.

  After the woman had blinded him with pepper spray and the kid had surprised him and ripped his cheek open, and after that goddamn whore had hit him two more times with that goddamn tire iron, they’d taken off into the woods. By the time Larry had gotten to his feet again, they were gone. He’d grabbed his pistol, a .45-caliber Les Baer Prowler, from under the driver’s seat and started after them. He’d seen the direction they were heading. And the woman was limping. Larry, on the other hand, was in great physical condition. If the woman was smarter, she’d have done a Tonya Harding on his knee with the tire iron. That would have given them a chance. But she’d taken her shots at his head, missed scoring a knockout, and they’d pay for her mistake. He’d catch them before they could escape or find help. Even now he thought he could hear them crashing through the undergrowth up ahead.

  Though he was moving quickly, every step he took sent a shock wave of pain lancing through his face and neck and shoulder. His face was the worst, though. He reached up and felt the lower flap of the rip flopping as he ran. It was bleeding like mad, so much that blood kept filling his mouth and he had to blow out a tiny geyser now and then like a whale clearing its blowhole. He tried to spit but his lips wouldn’t work like he wanted them to, so he just blew the blood out. A couple of times he gagged on it when it backed up in his throat. Damn, he was pissed.

  The kid and the woman were easy enough to follow, even through the dark trees. There were enough leaves on the ground to make a quiet escape very difficult for them. Larry just hoped with all his black heart that he could somehow, find some way to bring them home alive. He had no doubt that he’d catch them, but he wanted them alive, if at all possible. If he could bring them back to the room in his basement, still breathing, he’d do things that, in the past, had nearly made him queasy himself when he first thought of them. Now, he wanted to try each and every one. He would hurt them in ways the devil himself never imagined. He’d use them in ways a body wasn’t meant to be used. And he would do both, to both of them, for days on end before he killed them.

  “WAIT,” ALICE CALLED in a voice she hoped was loud enough for the boy to hear but not for Audi Guy, who she had no doubt was following them. She limped as fast as she could and she thought she was moving well enough, but her ankle was barking at her badly.

  “Kid, where are you?”

  As she shambled along, she cursed the leaves crackling noisily under her feet. She also cursed herself for leaving her cell phone behind in her purse, which was sitting on the front seat of Daniel’s BMW. Perhaps she would have reached a place where reception was possible, where she could have called the police. But she couldn’t have known she’d be running through the woods, away from her car and phone.

  “Kid?”

  “Over here.”

  She followed the voice.

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  The boy was crouching behind a tree, breathing hard. Alice limped over to him.

  “That backpack looks heavy. Leave it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “He’s following us, you know. He has no choice.”

  “I know,” the boy panted.

  “If he finds us, he’ll kill us.”

  “I know.”

  “So dump the backpack.”

  “I can’t.”

  Alice shook her head. “Come on then. We have to keep moving.”

  Neither of them was in any shape to run anymore. Alice could only limp, and the boy, weighed down by his backpack, was tired. If they didn’t reach a house soon, where they could call the police, or come to a road, where they could flag down a passing car—if any
car passed by at this hour out here in the sticks—then the man chasing them would catch them soon.

  As they ran, Alice said between breaths, “Why don’t you…let me take that…bag for a little while?”

  The boy merely shook his head.

  He doesn’t trust me enough. Hell, after what he’s probably been through, I wouldn’t blame him if he never trusted anyone again.

  “What’s…your name?”

  “Miguel,” he said, panting.

  “Alice.”

  The boy nodded.

  He may not have trusted her with his backpack, but he was staying with her now, which was good. Though she didn’t know the boy, she felt responsible for his welfare—at least until she could turn him over to the authorities. She was the adult. It was her job now, like it or not, to get them both to safety.

  “Where are…we going?” he asked.

  The ground was sloping slightly downhill, which told Alice that they were heading toward the lake, though they weren’t heading straight down but rather were cutting diagonally across the gentle slope.

  “Not sure…” she said, “but there must be…a house this way…we can…call the cops.”

  She knew that vacation houses lined the lake, and though in some areas they were more tightly packed than others, she knew they would eventually reach one if they kept going. She wasn’t sure if it would be occupied this time of year, but hopefully it would at least have phone service. Part of her hoped that the house they eventually came to would indeed be unoccupied, because she hated the thought of leading a raging maniac to the doorstep of some unsuspecting family on vacation.

  “I need…to stop…” Miguel said.

  Alice worried that stopping might be a horrible idea, that Audi Guy was right behind them in the darkness, but Miguel was wheezing now and, if she was honest with herself, her ankle was screaming bloody murder.

  The boy slowed to a stop behind a tree and dropped to his knees. Alice limped to a halt beside him. She looked for house lights through the trees but saw none. She strained to listen to the night forest, but it was hard to hear anything over their panting. Her lungs burned. She was a runner, damn it, three miles through Central Park three times a week. She shouldn’t have been so winded. But she was laboring harder than usual because of her ankle.

  Suddenly, she heard it. Footsteps behind them, not nearly far enough back. She looked at Miguel, whose eyes were wide and white with fear. Without a word, they began to run again. Whenever they finally reached the lake, they’d run along the shoreline until they came to a house. And if they came to a boat first, they’d steal it if they could and motor away across the water, away from that monster behind them.

  Miguel was jogging as best he could. Alice limped along as fast as—

  She stepped on a rock, rolled her injured ankle, and tumbled to the ground. Through some miracle she’d been able to stifle her scream but she was in agony. Miguel, who was ahead of her, hurried back.

  “Miss…Alice, you have to get up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “He’s coming.”

  “I know. Run.”

  And he did. He ran away. Alice rolled onto her stomach and began to crawl, though she wasn’t sure where she was crawling to. She heard Audi Guy’s heavy footsteps getting closer. She heard his grunting breaths, though that might have been her imagination.

  At least Miguel might get away.

  A moment later, the boy was at her side.

  “Get up,” he whispered.

  “I can’t.”

  She looked up at him. He was looking around, scanning the area.

  “There.”

  He literally dragged her several feet across the forest floor and rolled her roughly into a depression in the ground.

  “Stay there and don’t even breathe,” he whispered. He dragged a rotted log over her little furrow. “Your shirt is too bright.” He scraped together an armful of leaves and sticks and dropped them over her. He looked down at her for a moment, appraising his work. Then his head snapped up, as he must have heard something. He bolted away.

  Alice waited. Her heartbeat was surely pounding loud enough for him to hear, drawing him to her hiding place like a homing beacon. And if her heart wasn’t loud enough to give her away, surely her freight-train breathing was. She tried to calm herself, to slow her breaths. She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see the wet glint in them. She prayed that Miguel had covered her well enough, that the night was dark enough down among the trees, that the boy had gotten far enough away that if Audi Guy found her, at least she would be his only victim.

  Footsteps thundered closer. A branch snapped with a sound like a pistol shot. It must have been Alice’s imagination, but it felt as though the very ground was shaking under his feet.

  Alice squeezed her eyes tighter and held her breath.

  Footsteps slowed near her…then, seemingly, right above her. She heard the big man suck in angry, ragged breaths. The sound was so very close. Alice slitted her eyes open. He was just a few feet away, almost right beside her, walking toward her hiding spot. He was swiveling his head back and forth, surveying the forest. The trees were thick enough to keep the forest floor in darkness, but still she could see that half of his face was bloody, the blood looking black in the night. He was stepping still closer, eyes searching, searching…

  Alice’s heart knocked. She had to take a breath but she did so as silently as possible. As the man passed, he snapped his head to the side as though he heard a sound to his right. When he did, blood flew from his cheek and spattered Alice’s own cheek. She fought her revulsion, fought every instinct to scrub the blood from her face.

  The man paused above her, looking off to his right, listening.

  Alice closed her eyes again and waited for him to either move along or look down and find her literally at his feet. If she were a snake, she could have bitten him. If he found her, she would bite him, as hard as she could and not let go until he’d killed her. Which he would. She had no doubt about that. She hoped again that Miguel had made it to safety.

  SITTING IN THE lower branches of a tree just twenty yards away, Miguel watched Larry slow to a stop beside Alice’s hiding place. Miguel acted quickly. He plucked a pinecone—he’d never seen a real one before, but he thought that was what it was called—and tossed it as far as he could, away from the direction that he and Alice had been running. When it landed, Larry looked that way. A moment later, Miguel tugged another pinecone from a branch and threw it in a slightly different direction, hoping to create the illusion that they were moving that way. Then he held his breath.

  Larry looked around, then started trotting toward where Miguel had thrown the pinecones. When his footsteps pounded away, Miguel grabbed his backpack from the branch he’d hung it on, dropped it to the ground, and followed it down. It had been the first time he’d ever climbed a tree.

  He hurried over to Alice.

  “It’s me,” he whispered as he shoved the rotten log aside.

  Alice sat up, brushing the debris from her shirt.

  “You should be half a mile away by now,” she whispered.

  “And you shouldn’t have come back for me at his house,” he said.

  She nodded. He helped her to her feet. She winced and he knew her ankle was killing her, but she said nothing.

  “You’re bleeding,” Miguel said, pointing at her face.

  Alice quickly wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “It’s…his blood. It dripped on me.”

  Miguel nodded. “Let’s go,” he said. “Quietly as we can for now, I think. Not sure how far away he is yet.”

  They moved through the night forest as quickly as they could, pushing through underbrush at times, ducking under branches, heading for the lake. Suddenly, Miguel felt a stabbing pain in his side. He cried out and fell, the weight of his backpack dragging him onto his back. A moment later, Alice was kneeling beside him.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “A broken branch, I think.”r />
  “Your shirt’s torn. There’s blood.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, sitting up. “We have to keep going.”

  “Just let me look.”

  She lifted his shirt. He looked down and saw a bloody tear in his skin about two inches long.

  “It doesn’t look too deep,” Alice said. “I bet it hurts, though.”

  “Not much,” Miguel lied. “Please, we have to keep going.” He rose to his feet. Beside him, Alice did the same. He heard her wince as she put weight on her injured ankle. Soon they were hurrying through the woods again.

  “That was quick thinking back there,” Alice said.

  “When I ran right into a broken branch?” As he trotted along, he felt the wound in his side getting slicker and slicker with blood. It hurt.

  Alice grunted appreciatively at his joke. Miguel thought that she would have actually laughed had she not been exhausted, in pain, and running for her life. “Finding me a place to hide, I meant, distracting that guy.”

  “Larry.”

  “Larry?”

  “That’s his name.”

  “Oh. That was you, right? You threw something?”

  “Pinecones.”

  “Very clever, Miguel.”

  He smiled despite their circumstances. Then he stopped smiling.

  “He’s very bad,” he said.

  “Larry? I could tell that about him.”

  “I would rather die than let him catch me.”

  “Well, let’s make sure he doesn’t catch you then. Or me either.”

  She smiled, but Miguel thought it looked fake. He appreciated her trying. It was hard to smile when someone was chasing you and you knew that when he caught you, he was going to do horrible things to you before he killed you.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  BOONE LAY ON Nathan’s couch, his hands behind his back, his eyes open. On the edge of his vision, the candle flickered on the coffee table. Wind whispered through the trees just outside the big picture window right above him. It was peaceful. Boone wasn’t used to falling to sleep to the sound of wind rustling leaves. He usually heard honks and voices and an occasional car alarm as he waited for sleep to take him. A night bird of some kind cried out, four staccato sounds, “haw haw, haw haw.” Boone smiled. This nature thing was a nice change. He could get used to it.