In the Woods (20 page)

Harper tried not to listen. She packed up the supplies Hank had laid out, filled a bag with everything the creature hadn't destroyed. Hank had already bagged up the rest.

‘And now those boys and you all say you saw a monster last night? Obviously, I don't believe that. But the fact that all three of you had the same dream or hallucination or whatever you want to call it—'

Harper stiffened. She was sick of having her perceptions challenged. But she didn't say anything, wasn't going to engage with Angela.

‘—it tells you that this place is evil. You can feel it, can't you? It's in the air, all creepy and damp. Like the dark water and chill of the bog. You can actually see it if you look around you.'

Harper didn't want to, but she couldn't help it. She gazed into the woods. The sunbeams seemed exaggerated, off balance. The colors of the leaves were too bright, the shadows of the trees too harsh.

‘I don't see anything,' she said. ‘You're just tired. You've been through a lot.' Wow. She was doing to Angela what Hank had done to her – dismissing her impressions.

‘Hah. You wish you didn't see it, but you do. It's not just me being tired and imagining things. You see it, too. I can tell you know what I'm talking about. This place is tainted, Harper. Or possessed. The air is filled with evil. It didn't used to be this way when Stan and I came up here. Then, it was fresh. Clean. It was our retreat from life. But something's happened. It feels like the forest is alive. Like it's watching us. I can feel it – like there are eyes in the trees.'

‘Okay, enough,' Harper snapped. ‘One minute you're saying there's no such thing as the Bog Man, then the next you're saying that trees are watching us? Please, Angela. Stop. You're only scaring yourself.' She'd been up all night, thinking about the creature, the explosions and the murders. She didn't need Angela telling her ghost stories. She went to the tent, took out the rods. Collapsed it.

‘I'm not making this up, Harper. I swear Phil came back last night. I saw him. And I heard his voice, talking to me in the dark.'

Harper didn't say anything, didn't want to listen. Wasn't interested in what Phil had said. Was sure Angela would tell her anyway.

‘He said he didn't understand what had happened, but he knew something was wrong with him. He didn't feel good. He asked me to help him.'

Harper began folding the fabric. She wanted Angela to shut the hell up. She didn't need to hear about a talking murder victim, had her own head full of restless ghosts to manage. Trying to ignore Angela, she focused on going home. On playing with Chloe. Or on riding her Ninja through the hills of Ithaca. But Angela's voice pierced its way into her thoughts.

‘It was like he didn't get it that he was dead. I told him, I said, “You're dead, Phil.” He couldn't comprehend it. I had to go through it all, explaining that Stan shot him.'

‘You can't be sure it was Stan.'

‘Oh, yes I am. It wasn't some local survivalist or a random hunter. It was Stan. I promise, Stan would do anything to mess me up. He saw Phil out there near the clearing and took his shot.' She was adamant. ‘Hey, Harper. Can you get me more coffee?'

Harper got Angela's cup, refilled it with hot water, stirred in some instant.

Angela sipped, commented that it was bitter. ‘No offense, but your husband makes it better. But I need something to warm me.' She looked over her shoulder. ‘I can't stop shivering.'

Harper left the tent half folded, unfastened a sleeping bag and wrapped it around Angela's shoulders. The woman was annoying, but she'd just lost her husband and was injured, possibly in shock.

‘Hank will be back soon with help,' she assured her. ‘They'll get you to a hospital. You're going to be fine.'

‘Will you sit with me?'

Of course she would. Harper went to the stove to fix herself a cup of instant, reached for the pot of hot water. When it exploded inches from her hand, she didn't think. She reacted in combat mode, hitting the ground and rolling away, seeking cover, looking around for the Winchester. Angela was screaming, but Harper couldn't help her yet, had to assess the situation. What had made the pot explode? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the stove had malfunctioned, startling them. But damn, where was the rifle? She lay flat beside a log, peering out over the top. Saw nobody, but found the Winchester beside the tent, ten feet away. Crawling toward it, she glanced at the stove. Saw the pot on the ground, dented. Shimmied ahead, belly to the ground, listening to Angela moan that she'd been right, that the woods were possessed by evil spirits. Harper kept moving; the Winchester was almost within reach.

But she didn't get there. In the same moment, two things happened: Angela stopped shouting, and strong hands took hold of Harper's ankles, hoisting her into the air.

There were four of them. All men, all dressed in flannel shirts, down vests, caps and jeans. And three of them pointed rifles at Harper as she hung upside down.

‘Put me down,' she commanded, trying to sound powerful.

The guy holding her was laughing. ‘Look. She squirms like a trout,' he said.

Angela was wailing.

‘Anybody else here?' One of the men walked toward the stream, searching, aiming his rifle into the trees.

‘Don't see anyone.'

‘Where are the others?' The question came from Harper's ankles.

‘Put me down,' she demanded. Blood was rushing to her head. She swung her arms, pounding her fists against his legs. He jiggled her.

‘Tell me where your friends are.'

‘What friends?'

He started twirling, letting Harper fly around him like a tetherball on a string. She sped, the ground racing under her – blurred fallen leaves, the edge of their tarp. The other men's shoes. The man holding her was laughing.

‘Ax, enough. Put her down,' someone said.

‘Hell, no. This is fun.' He whooped.

‘I said, enough.'

When he set her down, the world kept spinning. Harper seethed, trying to get her balance back. Trying to locate the Winchester. Had they found it? Could she get to it? Who were these men? She needed to take them down.

‘What do you want?' Angela's voice had risen an octave. ‘We're just weekenders. We haven't done anything. Don't hurt us …' She was yammering.

‘Shut up. You're worse than my old lady.' One of the men aimed a rifle at her face.

‘I'll ask you again.' The one they'd called Ax stooped beside Harper. ‘Where are your friends?'

‘What friends?' Harper glowered.

‘Her husband's gone to get help,' Angela blurted. ‘I think I broke my ankle. Getting out of my tent.' She went on, telling them about hearing the explosion, running in the dark.

Harper's vision was stabilizing. One by one, she checked the men out. The oldest was maybe fifty. Kind of stout. She could take him, no problem. But Ax and the two others were built like lumberjacks. Fit, big, muscled. Ruddy. No way she could neutralize all of them.

Ax stood. ‘When did your husband leave?'

Harper didn't answer, but Angela couldn't stop talking. ‘About a half hour ago.'

‘Where'd he go? The ranger's station?'

Angela nodded. ‘Please. Don't hurt us. I just lost my husband.' She went on, explaining about Phil.

The men paid no attention. One of them waved his rifle at Hank's soil and water samples. ‘What are those?'

‘Nothing,' Harper said.

‘Really. They look like scientific samples to me. What do you think, Moose?'

‘That's what I think. What do you think, Ax?'

‘They are samples,' Harper said. ‘My husband's a geology professor. He takes samples wherever we go.'

‘Did you hear that, Hiram? Her husband's a geology professor. He tests soil and water wherever they go.'

‘Course he does,' the fourth guy said. ‘And I just rode in on the hay wagon.'

‘Oh God,' Angela whimpered.

The men huddled for a moment. Then the older man approached Harper. ‘I'll ask you again: Where are the others?'

‘She told you where my husband is. There are no others.'

‘Look, we aren't messing around. We know you met here this morning with at least two men besides your husband—'

‘Oh!' Angela cried out. ‘He means those guys with the campfire.'

Harper winced at Angela, signaling her to be quiet. Not to give out information without knowing how it would be used.

‘What campfire?' Ax crouched close to Harper, crowding her. He smelled like dogs and burning leaves.

‘I don't know …' she began.

‘They said their campfire got out of control. That's how they got burned,' Angela volunteered.

Harper turned, shot her a fierce look. Angela didn't seem to notice.

‘They were burned?' One of the men turned to the older guy. ‘Hiram, you roger that?'

‘I do, Moose,' Ax said. ‘Campfire's bogus. Those are the bomb guys.'

Hiram nodded. ‘Unless they were just a couple of campers, unlucky enough to be too close to the site.'

‘Bullshit.' The guy called Moose spat on the ground.

‘So where are they?' Ax put his face up against Harper's. His breath was like stale tobacco.

‘No idea,' Harper said. ‘I don't even know their names.'

‘Yes, you do,' Angela said. ‘Remember? They got their names wrong the first time? But then they said their names were Bob and Dixon. They were going to get their stuff and leave.'

Ax smiled. Looked like a snake. He backed away from Harper, standing. ‘So what do you want to do?' he asked the others.

‘We're wasting time,' Moose said. ‘We should move.'

‘I agree,' Hiram said. ‘We should get back.'

Harper turned her head slowly, looking for the Winchester. Edged toward it.

‘Fine.' Ax stood. ‘We can talk more later.'

Moose was the largest. He grunted as he picked Angela up and, ignoring her protests, flung her over his shoulder like a sack of barley. He was off balance. She slipped off; her head slammed onto a boulder with a thunk. Angela made no sound, though, not even a yelp.

‘Angela?' Harper started to go to her, but Ax shook his head no.

‘Don't even move,' he said.

‘Bitch is fucking heavy,' Moose complained, hefting her up again.

‘Angela, are you all right?' Harper called again.

Angela said nothing. Her arms dangled and her body swayed limply as Moose carried her into the woods. Harper watched, inching closer to her rifle, moving her hand slowly, holding her body perfectly still until her fingers made contact with metal. She pulled at it, dragging it closer.

A shot rang out, and Ax stood above her. ‘What are you, crazy? You want to get killed? Look around you. There's four of us, and my breakfast was bigger than you are.' He kicked the Winchester away. ‘Get up. Let's go.'

‘What do you want? Money? I don't have any cash, but my—'

‘We don't want your frickin' money. Move.'

Fear rippled along Harper's neck, down her back. If they didn't want money, what did they want? If they were just locals, members of the Hunt Club, why would they kidnap them? She kept her head down, looked from side to side, considered bolting into the woods, running a zigzag to avoid their shots.

Two rifles were aimed at her – Ax's and the fourth man's. Harper simmered, assessing her chances. Between the two of them, one would probably shoot her before she could make it to the trees. Maybe she could kick one of their rifles away, simultaneously diving for the other. But then what? They'd recover and outnumber her, outweighing her by a good three hundred pounds. Even if she darted away, they'd likely get the best of her. And before they did, Hiram might shoot her. So she didn't run, didn't kick or dive at anyone. Nostrils flaring, she met the eyes of each gunman before she stood. Then, at gunpoint, she let them lead her away.

Bob let go of Pete's arm and stared at their empty tarp. ‘Fucking shit,' he said.

Pete rushed ahead, picking up their blanket, shaking it out. ‘Where's our stuff?' He turned in a circle, examining the ground.

‘Fucking shit,' Bob said again.

Pete blinked rapidly, stared into the trees. ‘It's all gone.'

‘Shit.' Bob limped over to Pete. His burns hurt, but he was getting used to the pain. ‘Everything? They took everything?'

Pete shook the blanket again. ‘This is it.'

‘So wait. We have to think. What did they get? What was in the backpacks? Two detonators, blasting caps, wiring—'

‘The weed,' Pete wailed. ‘Fuckers took our weed.' He tossed the blanket on the ground.

‘Forget your frickin' weed, asshole,' Bob snapped. ‘Think. Is there any way they can figure out whose stuff it was?'

‘Why? Wait – you think it was the cops? You think they'll look for like DNA and stuff? You think they're coming after us?'

Bob turned away, stared at his burned hands, then at air. This was bad. If the cops or the ATF had their stuff, then they were screwed. They'd left their fingerprints all over everything – the caps, the walkie-talkies. Everything. Hell, they'd planned to blow all of it up, so fingerprints wouldn't have mattered. And he'd had that DUI. It was supposed to have been expunged. So his fingerprints wouldn't still be in the police files, would they? But oh God, what about the walkie-talkies? Could they figure out where they'd bought them? Had they left anything else? Damn – the ham sandwiches from the snack bar. That waitress would remember them, would identify Pete as the guy who ordered them to go.

They were so fucked. Especially when the cops saw their burns.

Unless it wasn't the cops who'd taken their stuff. Maybe it was hunters. Or hikers. Or that creepy monster.

Somewhere close, a shot rang out. Bob wheeled around, looked at Pete, who was gaping at him, doing that blinking thing again.