In the Woods (3 page)

Blue. Not flowers. A solid patch like fabric, the color of his shirt.

He stared at it for a few seconds, curious. Nothing in nature would be that color and size. Wary, clutching his rifle, he moved closer, watching the blue patch. As he got closer, it became more defined. It wasn't entirely blue; it was plaid, much like the blue and gray plaid of his own shirt. Something cold rippled up his spine, but he kept going, keeping his eyes focused on the plaid fabric until he got close enough to see, among clumps of Devil's tails and Japanese stiltgrass, the arms and hands of the man who was wearing it.

Oh Christ. Half the shirt was drenched with blood.

Phil stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The man must have been shot. Oh God, there'd been a terrible accident. Phil ran to the guy; maybe he was still alive. He could do CPR, stop the bleeding. He looked around – maybe someone was close enough to go for help. Sure enough, up ahead in the early-morning light, half-hidden by the trees, he saw a figure, holding a rifle.

‘Help!' Phil shouted. ‘There's been an accident. A man's been shot – help!'

The person stepped out, faced him, raised the rifle and took aim.

For a moment, Phil didn't understand. By the time he did, it was too late to run, let alone to use his rifle.

The stream was icy cold. Harper didn't mind. She spread a towel over a flat rock, sat down and sponged off. The chill of the water stirred her. She watched it rush over pebbles, run over her feet as if in a hurry. The surface rippled in the early light, reflecting silver, blue and gold. Harper dipped her sponge into the water, washed her face, her neck. She thought of Chloe, wondered if she were awake yet. As she washed her feet, she hesitated. Something moved in the trees, and she sensed that she was being watched. But that was unlikely. She and Hank had camped off by themselves, away from the campgrounds. No one was around. Maybe it was a hunter.

Harper squinted into the woods, saw only trees, tangles of vines and weeds, speckles of colored leaves. A bird flittered off a limb. A squirrel leapt off a trunk. But no hunter. Nobody was lurking in the woods, watching her. Harper dipped her sponge in the stream again, soaked it.

The water was clear, but Hank had warned that it wasn't clean. He'd brought bottled water because he thought the streams were probably polluted. Something to do with fracking, not that Harper completely understood what that was. All she knew was that it involved cracking rocks deep under the earth's surface to get fossil fuels. And that it was controversial. Those opposed to it blamed fracking for everything from pollution to fires to explosions to earthquakes. Apparently, fracking had been done upstream and a pipeline had been built through the forest. While they were here, Hank was going to take samples of soil and water for testing. Doing his geology thing. He couldn't help it.

Rinsing off, Harper looked up the slope to their campsite. Hank was mixing up batter from powdered milk, flour, eggs and bottled water. Engrossed. Completely at home. No, at home he had less energy. It was barely seven, and already he'd taken samples of their campsite soil, the stream and the mud under and around it. He'd washed yesterday's clothes, cleaned up in the stream, planned their morning hike along the bog. Now he was cooking. Hank was a dynamo, healthy again, tireless, the way he'd been before his accident. He'd started up the propane stove. Who would have imagined that he'd recover so completely? She saw him again, falling off the roof, sliding. Landing on his head. She saw him unconscious in the hospital, tubes emanating from every part of his body. Monitors beeping, screens showing his heart rate, his oxygen levels … No. That was over. She didn't need to revisit it.

Harper closed her eyes, erasing the memory. Hank was fine. She dribbled cold water down her back, watching him lean over their little propane stove. The cloth of his sweatshirt stretched across his shoulders.

Hank looked up. Had he felt her watching him? ‘Come and get it!'

Harper dried her feet, put on her socks and boots, and joined him. They ate pancakes in the crisp air to the music of birds. Hank talked about where they'd hike, the samples he wanted to take. What he expected to find. He went on talking. Harper still couldn't get used to his conversation. For more than two years, he hadn't been able to articulate complete sentences or clearly express his thoughts. Now, he wouldn't quiet down. Harper tried but couldn't feign interest in chemistry and mineral deposits and so on. Her mind wandered to Chloe. Was she eating breakfast now? Asking where mommy was? Had she used the potty? Lord, she missed her. But Chloe was fine. She needed to experience a few days without her mom. And her mom needed to experience a few without Chloe.

Hank was still talking, saying something about people complaining about foul-tasting water. She needed to pay closer attention.

Except whatever Hank was talking about wasn't all that appealing. She understood the importance of leakage and wastewater and natural gas, but honestly, pipeline safeguards didn't stir her blood. She drifted, watching Hank's mouth move, not listening to what he was saying. Realizing how much he loved his work. How Hank had it all – a loving family, a challenging career. Health. His life was full.

Harper chewed a mouthful of pancake, swallowed. Nodded at Hank as if she understood. And realized that Chloe's life was also full. Chloe had preschool, swim class, gymnastics, library, music group, play dates. Harper swallowed coffee, burned her tongue. Damn.

‘You all right?'

‘Fine.'

‘You looked like you were choking.'

‘No. I'm fine.'

He looked doubtful, eyed her as he swirled syrup onto the last bite of his pancakes. Harper's tongue felt on fire, but she smiled to reassure Hank. She even took another sip of coffee, careful this time to cool it first. She went through the motions of being happy and relaxed, for Hank's sake. What would be the point of letting him know how lost she felt? He couldn't fix her situation, couldn't make a life for her. Couldn't stop her from becoming clingy or needy or from sinking into self-pity. No, finding a way to fill her life was her responsibility, hers alone.

Hank had stopped talking a while ago. They sat in silence.

‘Delicious.' Harper got up, kissed him. She picked up the pan, took the plates and a dish towel, headed for the stream.

‘Hold on, Harper. I'll do it.' Hank came up behind her. He had their mugs.

‘But you cooked.'

Hank stood close, nuzzled her. ‘I want to. I feel great, being out here again. It's like coming back to life. I'll clean up and hang the supplies. Why don't you just relax?'

‘Relax?'

‘I'll be fast.'

Harper watched him scamper down the slope to the stream. Why didn't he want her to help? Was he so self-sufficient that she seemed in the way? Did he think she'd slow him down or do things wrong? Not long ago, Hank had depended on her for everything – even for speaking. But now, she stood alone, feeling useless. Not needed.

Stop it, she told herself. Cool down. She was being oversensitive. She should let Hank do his manly Hank-in-the-wilderness things. She went back to their tent, then wandered onto a path just beyond it. She wouldn't go far. Just take a couple of minutes to be alone. Maybe she'd figure out her future. Harper stepped over fallen red and yellow leaves, thistles, creeping vines. Her boots crunched, birds and crickets chattered, and Harper strained to imagine a career, a daily routine involving meetings, a wardrobe, an office, a purpose. No use. She couldn't see herself there. So what did that mean? Would she be a stay-at-home mom, volunteering at bake sales for the PTA, playing tennis? No, not tennis. Not with her leg. Maybe she'd be like her mother and stay home and drink. Harper saw her childhood self, coming home from school, finding her mother passed out on a sofa. Never mind. Don't go there.
You are not your mother
.

The light ahead was brighter. The trees seemed to stop. What was up there? A clearing? Maybe a park facility? She kept walking, curious, looking ahead. The field was maybe an acre. Golden, swaying to a breeze, dotted with blues and purples, whites and yellows. Harper's foot snapped a stick, startling her. It was time to head back.

She turned, looked over her shoulder at the field again. And noticed a patch of blue about ten feet away, to her left.

The boy lay sprawled flat in the middle of the square. He had no face.

Harper told herself to leave him. To keep moving. The boy was beyond help. Smoke clouded around her, gunfire burst rapidly somewhere nearby. Dusty heat seared her lungs, smelled of burning rubber, burning flesh. Men were screaming. She crouched and dashed for cover, clutching her weapon. Where was her patrol? She couldn't see through the smoky haze. Where were they?

‘Sergeant?' she called. ‘Phyllis? Cooper?'

No one answered.

‘Marvin?'

Shit. Where was her damned patrol? She held her rifle up and ready, aimed it toward the square. Her head felt jangled. Christ, what had happened? The boy. He'd been crossing the square, walking toward the checkpoint. And now he was dead. Something had happened. An explosion? An ambush? She'd missed it. How had she missed it?

Footsteps. Coming closer. Harper hunkered down, ready to fire. ‘Stop,' she warned. ‘Don't come closer.'

But the figure came closer, repeating foreign sounds. Or wait – maybe not foreign. ‘Harper. It's okay. It's okay.'

What? He knew her name. He kept talking, repeating himself. And his voice – wait. Hank? Hank was here? At the checkpoint?

Harper bit her lip, hard. In moments, the smoke vanished, replaced by trees. The gunfire and screams quieted, stifled by Hank's voice. Her rifle became a broken branch. The flashback of flames and destruction faded into autumn leaves and her husband's embrace.

And the boy with no face had a face again. It was older, though. And he was still dead.

Their cell phones didn't work. They'd known that, but they tried anyway, got no signal. Hank shoved his back into his vest pocket.

‘You all right?'

All the way back to their campsite, he'd kept asking her that. She'd kept answering that she was fine. ‘It was just a mental lapse, Hank. It passed fast.'

He didn't say anything, just watched her. His gaze had a wary edge as if he didn't believe her.

‘I haven't had a flashback in over a year. It was just the shock.'

The shock of finding a dead man in the woods where they'd come for serenity and togetherness.

‘Harper. You were shouting. Holding a stick like a—'

‘I thought it was a rifle—'

‘You thought it was a rifle.' It sounded crazy when he said it.

Damn. Hank thought she was crazy. He'd never seen her in the full throes of a flashback before. So now what? Was he shocked? Repulsed? ‘Yes, that's what I thought. But only for a moment. The flashback is over, Hank. Can we move on? We have to get somebody out here.'

Hank eyed her as he walked closer, put his hands on her waist, sat her down on a log. Sat beside her. ‘Two things before we do anything, Harper.'

‘Shoot.' She still felt wobbly, talked tough to cover it.

‘First, you are never going to wander off alone like that again. You always tell me where you are out here; we never lose sight of each other. If for some reason you absolutely have to separate from me, you take a real, actual weapon with you. Sticks won't help you fight off a bear. Agreed?'

She nodded. ‘And second?'

‘Second is harder. Because if you have a real actual weapon, how do I know you won't have a flashback and start shooting randomly? How do I know when some sound or sight – like that hunter's shot you heard this morning – how do I know that won't set you spinning off into some alternative reality?'

Harper blinked as if he'd slapped her. Hank had known about her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But until now, she'd never known that it bothered him. Did her condition mean he couldn't trust her? Apparently, he thought she might flip and start full-out combat at any moment. How could he think that, after all they'd been through – those terrorists, the sociopath fraternity brothers, and before that, the gang of artifact smugglers. After his accident, she'd saved Hank from a crazed medical researcher. She'd sat by his bed for weeks, holding his unconscious hand, talking to him. Every time they'd faced a crisis, she'd come through. But now, Hank had seen her have one lousy flashback and … what? He'd lost all faith in her?

Harper wanted to scream. She wanted to sob. Instead, she stood tall and met his eyes, Army strong. ‘You're asking how you'll know what I'll do under stress. The answer is simple. You won't.'

He turned away, let out a breath. ‘So.' He faced her again. ‘When you have a flashback, what happens to you? What did you think was going on back there?'

‘It doesn't matter what I thought. Each time is different. I relive various moments. Or combinations of moments, but that's—'

‘You've never talked to me about this.'

‘I don't want to honor it by discussing it. I won't let PTSD rule my life. Besides, this isn't the time.' She started to get up; he put a hand on her arm, stopped her.

‘Hank, we have to go get the police. That guy is dead.' She began again to stand. Hank tightened his grip on her arm. ‘He'll stay dead until we finish here.'

Harper's eyebrows raised. She wasn't yet accustomed to Hank physically taking charge. Or telling her what to do. It was a role reversal, and she wasn't real happy about it. ‘Okay. Leslie has shown me ways to fend flashbacks off or at least minimize them. And the techniques have helped. Like I said, it's been over a year since the last—'

‘What ways?'

Harper sighed, rolling her eyes. ‘Hank, do we really have to go through all this? Now? Why are you being so – so controlling?'