Chapter 60
Rebecca!
I come fully awake, not at first sure that I was asleep, expecting that Sharon is standing across the water calling my name. She is not there. I am utterly alone, still slouched down in the low-slung camp chair. As far as I know Edik is still out with the kittens hunting for their dinner since the fawn didn’t provide all that much and since I’ve made it clear that the sheriff and his men are not on the menu. Besides, Edik wouldn’t call me Rebecca either. The call of my name didn’t come from anywhere around me; it came from within.
Be careful of the other!
Damn it! What other?
And I don’t call myself Rebecca, so why would one of my many personalities do so? Only my father calls me Rebecca . . . or my mother.
I come out of my chair like a jack-in-the-box.
“Mom!”
But of course my mother is not here, yet I have a feeling that I have recently talked to her. A dream? I don’t think I was dreaming, or if I was I don’t get the sense that my conversation with her was in it. What I am sensing has to have been from years ago, a childhood memory. Even with that in mind I turn a slow 360 degrees . . . and then again. There is no ghost or spirit with the resemblance of my mother floating about whispering my name. I am alone in the dark, cold, lake-filled cavern—my mother’s tomb—with a phrase repeating in my head like a song one can’t get rid of. It is simple as that, a memory from years ago or a song phrase, and the more I try to cast it out, the worse it gets.
Be careful of the other.
There could at least be a melody with it, or the sense of a guitar or piano . . . something . . . anything but seven, flat syllables.
Be careful of the other.
Say it two and half times and I’d have a haiku. I imagine standing before a small crowd at a coffee shop poetry reading. Be careful of the other, be careful of the other, be careful.
Makes just as much sense.
I don’t want to be alone anymore. I wish Sharon would return with news that Matt is strong enough to ride Edik across the river. Where is she? It’s been several hours. I pull out the sat-phone and turn it on.
It’s almost 2 a.m! I slept that long? Sharon must have come and gone, deciding to let me sleep, or she was not able to wake me across the roaring river. They are probably all asleep themselves now, cozy around the hot spring pool in the warm chamber. I look down at the blanket and chair and wish I was over there with them.
Where is Edik? He and the kittens would be company. It is odd that I thought of all the cats by their names, but the kittens are only the kittens. It is time that I give them names. I consider that as I head down to the camp.
The fire is out. I’m thinking of that last can of soup, but I’m not feeling like going through the fire starting procedure again. I’ll save it until daylight. Maybe the rescuers will show with food. I continue on by, stepping out of the dark cavern into the starlit night. It is not as cold as I expected that it would be. With sunrise the snow might start melting.
Edik! I wait for a response to my mental call, but receive none. Hansel and Gretel. That’s what I’ll call the kittens. So what if the sex doesn’t fit. They’re just names.
But are they? Why did those two names suddenly come to me? What relation would my subconscious mind put to the Brothers Grimm fairy tale? There is no evil stepmother, no mean child-eating witch, and no trail of breadcrumbs.
Stop it Reba. They are just names.
From where I stand I can see the dark form of Sheriff Dan’s body in the snow. Not far away is Sarge where he fell screaming before Vadik put him out of his misery. I turn around and can see Lester’s body. Nearby is Yulya, a massive mound compared to Lester. Farther on, through the trees where I can’t see, I know is Chubby. I turn and look to where Vadik lies. I try to think of how many others have died, humans and cats, last summer and now, but can’t seem to come up with the count. There are too many. It is all so crazy, so horribly crazy.
Edik! I call again. After several minutes of silence I walk out into the meadow, to the helicopter, high-stepping through the snow.
Stop! Listen!
More words in my head. For lack of anything better to do, I squat where I stand under the tip of a helicopter blade and listen. I don’t know what I would have expected to hear, but motorcycle engines wasn’t it, or more precisely in this mountain winter wilderness, snowmobiles. It or they are barely audible, disappearing for a few seconds and then returning a bit louder. For two minutes I remain squatted with my butt in the snow, breathing easy and judging the direction and the time before they arrive, whoever they are . . . a rescue team called in by my father, or a death squad called in by the sheriff before he forced me to kill him.
But I thought they couldn’t get in here, couldn’t get any closer than a mile away. Of course not if it is an ATV that cannot cross the creek. But what if there is enough ice cover for snowmobiles?
What do I do? I need to hide until I know if it is friend or foe, and not in the cavern where I could get trapped again. Guessing from the sound that they’d come from the west or north, I take off south across the meadow, into the trees.
Edik! I call after I slide to a stop behind two trees that have grown out of one trunk. I peer back through the V at lights bouncing shadows into the meadow. I still get no response from Edik. Where have they gone? The roar of the engines—I’m trying to convince myself there are only two—is loud now, carrying easily through the still night air, echoing off the mountainside, making it seem like there are more coming from different directions. After a time I wonder if there really are others, an entire squad of deputies arriving too late to save their boss, but who will nonetheless become intent upon seeking revenge for his death and track me down like an animal. No matter where I run I won’t be able to keep from leaving a trail in the snow, like the bread crumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.
I call for Edik again, but there is still no sign of him, or if there is I can’t hear him over the reverberating 2-stroke engines seemingly all around me. He has probably become scared of the machines and has taken the kittens to safety, higher into the mountains. I certainly can’t fault him for that.
Suddenly one snowmobile bursts from the forest, driven by a huge form clad in serious cold weather gear. He passes the helicopter and slides to a stop near the cavern entrance just as a second snowmobile appears. It comes to a stop next to the first and two equally dressed men get off. The machines drop to idle and I cannot hear any more coming. There are only these three against one of me, and no sabre-toothed cats to back me up. My only weapon is a flare gun, which will do me good only if I can get within twenty feet of them. If I put one down then it would be two against me with an empty gun.
All three start into the cavern and then the first stops the others and says something to them. I can hear nothing over the idling machines. He opens something on his snowmobile and comes out with what turns out to be a flashlight. Guided by the lights of the snowmobiles and his flashlight, he disappears into the trees that hide the cavern entrance. The other two watch after him.
For a time nothing happens, then the shorter of the two turns as though saying something to the taller one, and then points to where I know Sheriff Dan lies, and not far away, Sarge with an everlasting ulcer. The taller one turns to his machine and comes up with another flashlight, and then the two of them push through the snow to investigate. When they see the dead sheriff the shorter one backs away and then stumbles off, only to almost fall on top off Sarge. From the action of pulling off hood and goggles and then the heaving of the body, I can only assume that he is vomiting. Rather weak stomach for a villain.
When he is done the taller one goes over and puts his arm around him and then after a time guides him back to the snowmobiles. That’s rather odd. Guys don’t do that unless they’re gay . . . or unless they’re girls.
My heart jumps a couple of beats as the smaller one steps into the light of the snowmobiles and turns her unmasked, white face toward
me.
“Christi!” I jump from behind the split tree and start racing across the open field of snow.
Rebecca! Be careful of the other.
“What other?” I scream to the stars as I skid to a stop halfway across the meadow. “What other?”
Be careful of the other.
“Shit to hell! What other?”
Only the idling engines, and Aunt Suzie and Christi yelling to me, asking what is wrong, follows my last question. I don’t know what is wrong, but wrong is definitely the case. All six of my senses have jumped to high alert. What other?
I’m not questioning the warning anymore because one of my senses knows there is a threat nearby; it just doesn’t know what, where, or who the threat is. I look down and see that the flare gun is in my hand. I don’t remember pulling it out.
There is another and if he kills your sister, you’ll have her blood on your hands.
That’s a memory, but a memory of what? Who said that to me? Whoever it was is scaring the hell out of me right now.
. . . you chose to give up.
I chose to give what up?
I left you so that you may live.
What?
How can I have blood on my hands? I’m dead.
I’m dead?
Once again you have been saved. Go save your sister.
My sister? I look over at her standing next to Suzie, both of them with their mouths agape trying to figure out what I’m doing. I wish I knew. And then, suddenly, I know my wish will come true. Tightness begins in my stomach, and then climbs up to my chest. I close my eyes and welcome the vision that I know will show me what is about to happen, Christi’s violent death I am sure, maybe Aunt Suzie’s as well. It is like stomach acid rising into my esophagus, burning the images into my brain. And then the movie begins.
The form of a man appears, a semiautomatic weapon in his hands pointed at me. It is the sentry, the one I called Buddy who I left deep inside the mountain without a flashlight. I had forgotten him. He pulls the trigger and the bullets rip into me, but worse yet many pass through or past me and into my sister and aunt. A direct line . . . three mowed down in the blink of an eye. And I know somewhere in my gut that my father will die, too. How apropos that we all die, the entire family, right here where my mother lies.
. . . if he kills your sister, you’ll have her blood on your hands.
How can I have blood on my hands? I’m dead.
Once again you have been saved . . .
I remember. I already died once and the kitten brought me back to life, or at least that’s the way it seemed, and I saw my mother.
I talked to my mother! I want to sit and think about it, remember all of it, but I know that I don’t have time, that I am here right now to stop Christi’s death, to stop all our deaths. But where is he?
I think of the vision and realize that to shoot all three of us at one time he would have to be standing right where I was, looking out through the V in the trees. I swing my head and eyes back from where I came. At first there is only the split tree and the darkness beyond, and then suddenly the face appears, the crazed face of the man I left alive inside the mountain. He does not grin or say crazy things like Chubby did. Instead he steps around the tree and lowers his weapon on me. It is in the second before he pulls his trigger that I pull mine. Unlike with Sarge who was less than five feet from me, Buddy is a fair distance away, so my flare shot goes wide, striking the split tree and exploding like a fireworks display. Buddy dives to his left away from the burning particles.
“Hide!” I yell to Christi and Aunt Suzie as I throw down the empty flare gun and race to my left to get them out of the line of Buddy’s bullets. When he comes up he is going to be looking for me and he is going to be pulling his trigger. I’m moving for everything I’ve got, trying to get into the trees before he recovers. For some reason he is slow—maybe one of the pieces of the flare got him—or I am faster. Just as I see him rise, and the automatic weapon come to bear upon me, I dive behind a hump of snow that I hope is a fallen tree and not a wimpy bush. My luck is with me. Bullets rip around me, dozens, hundreds, I don’t know. My thought now is if I can keep drawing his fire, he’ll run out of ammunition.
Then what? Me against him and he probably has a knife, or maybe even a handgun. In any case, when the bullets stop, I raise my head and look. He is coming toward me. I drop as he fires again. The report is shorter this time; he is trying to save his ammunition. If I don’t do something he will just walk up and kill me where I lie, and then he will turn on my family. I have to draw him into the trees.
I have about ten feet to the tree line; he has about forty feet to me. No time to think about it. I rise to my hands and knees and crawl toward the trees, hoping that in the dark, and the deep snow, that he won’t notice my escape. There is way too much moonlight and shining stars, making me feel like a running scared rabbit in the bright of day.
The gun goes off and I drop to my belly. Suddenly it feels like someone has stabbed me in the ass. I’m wishing beyond hope that it is only a pulled muscle, but the pain turns to blood red in my head and I know that I have been shot. I bite my tongue to hold back the scream, and do everything I can to keep from ripping off my clothes and sitting in the snow to stop the burning. So this is how it ends. Shot in the ass first to be sure I feel plenty of pain and then while I wither in my agony he easily walks up and shoots me in the head. But maybe I have saved my sister. This time I will not die with her blood on my hands.
The entire scene with my mom, in the white light after I died at Chubby’s hands, comes to me now. Why didn’t I remember earlier when I could have been prepared, maybe prevented my own death. But of course, I was meant to die. I was returned to life just for this one mission. Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?
Mom! Talk to me! I know you’re here. You’re the one who has been giving me warnings of the other, so I know you’re listening. Is it over? Am I meant to die for sure now? Damn this hurts! What happens with Buddy after he kills me? Does he still go after Christi and Suzie, and then Dad?
Mom! Damn it! Tell me!
“Mom!”
“Calling for your mommy. Now that’s cute.”
I turn my head to find a pair of legs six feet from me. I follow them up to Buddy’s crazed face, and the weapon pointed at my face. Lost in the dark caverns of the mountain did not do his mentality any good.
“I don’t think your dead mother is going to do you any good.” With those words he pulls the trigger. There is a click and then nothing. He looks down at the weapon as though it has run out of ammunition on purpose, just to give him heartburn. He throws it away and says, “That’s okay,” and reaches under his coat, behind his back. He comes out with a handgun. “This will do.”
I don’t know what it is, but it looks awfully big. I’m sure I’ll be just as dead.
He points it at me and pulls the trigger again. Not even a click this time. “Shit!” He looks at it and must realize the safety is on. He flips it off and points it at me one more time.
All this time while he has been fooling with empty guns and safeties, I could have been up and running, though I don’t know how far I could have gotten with a bullet in my ass. Oh, well. Hindsight is 20-20 you know.
“Three times a charm,” he says just as a bat-like stick slams him alongside the head, sending him flopping into a snow-covered bush. Stepping forward into his place is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. My dad.
He drops down next to me, and despite the pain, I rise up to my knees and throw my arms around him. “Are you all right?” he asks.
All I can do is cry. My dad has come, and he’ll fix everything.
A good minute passes before I can swallow enough of my tears to make my words clear. I start to tell him that I’ve been shot in the butt because this is my dad and I shouldn’t use bad language in front of him. But after what I’ve been through these last few days, some lenience should be allowed. “I’ve been shot in the ass.”
“How bad? Can you walk?”
In the movies when someone is shot in the ass, it’s funny, and they seem to get along just fine. This is not funny and Dad is not laughing, but walking is completely out of the question. “No. I don’t think so.”
Suddenly I’m off the ground and in my dad’s arms. There is a flair of pain, which I hide, but it is much better than trying to walk on my own, for sure. I put my arms around his neck and bury my face in his fur-lined parka. Even through the thick material I can smell him, my father, the smell I’ve known all my life. There is also the smell of fear, the fear he felt when he thought Buddy was going to kill me, the fear that drove him like a wild animal across the snow-covered field to rescue me at the last possible second. Oh, God, I’ve never loved him any more than I do right now.
“I’m sorry.” The words just suddenly pop out of my mouth. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“Hush.” We exit from the trees into the meadow.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The two words just keep spilling out and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to stop them. “I’m sorry!”
“Shhhh. Shhhh. It’s okay. We’ll get you out of here.”
“But Matt . . .” My sentence is stopped short by another attack upon my center; the tightness in my stomach that runs up to my chest and burns almost as bad as the bullet in my ass. I’m about to see another death. Does this never end?
“Where is he?” Dad asks.
“Stop! Stop!” I demand. “Put me down! Something else is about to happen.”
He immediately understands and drops my legs, but, thank God, doesn’t totally let loose of me or I would have collapsed. A red flash of pain passes across my eyes for a few seconds, blotting everything from my mind. I settle my weight onto my right leg and onto Dad’s arm and the pain subsides enough that my senses, and vision, return. The vision is Buddy staggering from the trees and then pointing his gun and shooting. I see myself screaming from where I am lying in the snow, though I cannot hear it, and Dad falling next to me, and blood gushing from his head. “No!” I try to break free of his helping grasp, try to get myself between him and where the gun-toting madman will appear. There is no way my leg will hold me up and as I break away and turn to face the way we came, I immediately collapse, face first into the snow. I see more red and try to scream for Dad to get down, but over the pain I don’t think my words are understood.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 120