“So, he’s still in the forest,” I say.
“Exactly. We thought?—”
“I’m on it.”
I end the call, pocket my phone, and grab the tire lever leaning against the wall.
At the door, I hesitate, glancing at the gun cabinet. Rifle? Shotgun? Both?
No, too much risk. One bad shot and I hit her.
I leave them where they are.
The tire lever will have to do.
The forest feels… different. Quiet. Still. Almost oppressive. The sunshine of the past few days after that storm has finally given way to dark clouds, and the air feels cold and clammy, like I’m walking in mist. It’s darker too, the evening just beginning to close in, and due to the cloud cover, it’s darkening earlier than usual.
Good. I know these trails better than anyone else, so I have the advantage. Let it get as dark as it likes.
The fence is new and difficult to climb along the west perimeter, and our tracks in and out are to the road are to the south. He won’t try either of those, he’d be too exposed. Hmm… that leaves north or east. North is very steep, heading up into the mountains. North would be tough, especially carrying an unconscious body. East then.
I sniff the air, a faint easterly wind. Good, that means noises will be coming from the east, so assuming he’s somewhere ahead of me, making his way east, I’ll hear him before he hears me, all things being equal. Assuming I’ve guessed his direction correctly, of course.
There are two main trails heading east, and either is as likely as the other. It doesn’t really matter, though—they both come out at Devil’s Pond, about three miles away, where they merge into a single track that runs across our border onto the Monroe property. From there, it’s only a short distance to the highway, where no doubt they’ll have a vehicle waiting.
Ihaveto stop them before they get off our land.
The more northerly trail is in better condition—straighter, flatter—so that’s the one he’ll take. Fine. I’ll take the other. It’s more winding, with a couple of steep sections, but over that distance, and without the weight he’s carrying, I think I can beat him to the pond—if I move fast enough.
I turn onto the track and pick up my speed as best I can. It’s narrow and overgrown, rocky in places. Bushes claw at me, fallen trunks force me to climb or detour.
I grit my teeth and settle into a rhythm—jog the flatter stretches, climb where I have to, push through the thicker undergrowth—always angling east.
Somewhere to my north, he’s doing the same.
How fit is he? How well does he know these trails? I don’t know.
Then a worse thought hits me.
What if he hears me? What if he panics? What if he decides to cut his losses?—
I shut it down, but it’s already there.
What if he kills her?
Right there, so she can’t identify him. She might have seen him before he knocked her out. She might have come around since.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I need to be fast and quiet. He can’t know he’s being followed. I don’t want him spooked—not while Sierra’s life is in his hands.
But when I get hold of him…
Despite the cool evening air, sweat runs into my eyes. I wipe it away and keep moving, pushing as hard as I can, every step measured, every sound controlled.
Suddenly, I hear movement in the bushes behind me. Twigs snapping. Foliage shifting. Breathing.
I spin, the tire lever raised in my right hand—and as I do, my left ankle catches on a tree root.