The trees are closer together here. A mix of pines, birch and pin oaks. I look down at my feet and figure that if there was a spot where Huntley would have to ditch his snowshoes, it would be here. The trees are too close together and there’s no way he can maneuver his way around them in the awkward snowshoes. Though it’s gradual, I can tell that I’m moving on an upward incline. I’m breathing so hard I can feel the air rattling through my chest and I’m sweating beneath my down jacket. My feet are warm but heavy with the weight of my boots. I have to stop, though I don’t think I’ve even gone a half mile yet.
I bend forward, my hands on my knees, try to catch my breath while searching the woods for Huntley. In my periphery I catch movement. About fifty yards below me, it’s him. I don’t think he sees me. He is bent over and struggling to release his feet from the snowshoes.
I make a split-second decision. I know there is absolutely no way that I’m going to make it a half a mile farther to the old access road and then even beyond that to the highway. Already my lungs are screaming and my muscles are protesting. Instead of heading more deeply into the woods I’m going to head back in the direction of the house. To do this I know I can’t take the exact path from which I came, I’d run directly into him. I continue upward for another fifteen yards until I can’t see him anymore. I make a quick left and move deliberately, picking my way across fallen logs and rugged shelflike slabs of limestone. I use this time to catch my breath, bring my heart rate back down. I know that I’m going to have to use every ounce of strength that I have once he realizes I’ve turned back.
I start to jog again. I have to get home. If he catches me I’ll never see Nora or Jake again. I’ll never see Stitch. I pick up my pace, trying to ignore my fatigue when the blow comes from behind. I’m knocked off my feet and onto my stomach.
I try to squirm away but he is too strong. My mouth and nose fill with snow. I manage to reach an arm up behind me and clutch his wrist. I dig my nails into his skin, trying to embed as much of his DNA under my nails. He yanks his arm away, allowing me a split second to scramble out from beneath him and stagger to my feet. I reach into the pocket of my jacket trying to find the flashlight but it must have fallen out when he tackled me. But the ballpoint pen is still there. The only weapon I have. I wield it like a dagger and face Huntley.
“Why?” I ask him, hot tears warming my cheeks. “At least tell me why.”
24
Huntley quickly gets to his feet. We are both breathing heavily and begin to circle one another warily. I’m struggling to fill my lungs with the air that Huntley knocked from me, and he rubs his wrist where I gouged him with my nails. In his hand he holds the stun gun. Oh, God, he’s going to send fifty thousand volts of electricity through my body and then kill me. I wonder if this is how he immobilized Gwen before he strangled her to death.
With one hand, he pulls the stocking cap from his head, stuffs it in his pocket and unwraps the scarf from around his neck. Is this what he’s going to strangle me with? I don’t know what I expect to see when I can clearly see his face. I thought he was a good man. A man willing to take a chance on letting me work in his clinic, a man who would do anything to save his patients.
“Why?” I ask again, hoping to keep him talking and lower his guard. “I don’t understand.”
I try to follow what he’s saying, but I can’t. It doesn’t matter, I’m just stalling for time. “Why Gwen?” I ask and take a tentative step backward. Through the trees a ghostly crouched figure comes into view and my heart leaps hopefully. Stitch. He creeps slowly toward us, as if stalking his prey. He’s still a bit unsteady on his feet but he’s alive and he’s here.
I continue to inch backward. I won’t be able to outrun Huntley, but if I can get a few good punches in and with Stitch here, I might be able to slow him down enough so that we can get away.
“You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to save people,” I say to him.
Huntley’s eyes fill with something like regret but I know he isn’t thinking about the men and women he poisoned with unnecessary or excessive chemotherapy and radiation treatments. He doesn’t feel remorse for killing Gwen. He just feels bad because of the inconvenience of it all. He’s upset because he was caught.
Stitch continues to move toward us, waiting for me to give him the command.
“I won’t say anything. No one else knows,” I try to reason with him. “We’ll just go back.” I tuck the pen back into my pocket, hoping it will lower his guard. “I’ll keep your secret.” I take a tentative step toward him and reach my hand out to him. Our fingers touch. He grabs my wrist with one hand, yanking me toward him and tries to press the stun gun against my chest. I’m ready for him.
“Stellen,” I shout. Bite. Stitch propels himself toward us and I step toward Huntley and lift my elbow, forcing him to release my wrist, then thrust the heel of my hand into his face. Blood explodes from his nose in a crimson arc, splattering my face and the snow between us, he drops the stun gun and staggers backward. Then Stitch is upon him.
I turn and run. Wispy clouds have rolled in, covering the moon in a gauzy film, now, making it difficult to see the ground in front of me. I stumble over fallen limbs concealed by snow and I look over my shoulder to see Huntley kick Stitch in the chest, stunning him and causing him to retreat back into the woods. My blow to his face and Stitch’s attack slowed him down but didn’t stop him. He’s searching in the snow for the stun gun but quickly gives up and heads my way.
I force myself to pick up my pace but my sore muscles protest. I try to keep the images of those I love in front me, incentive to get home: my dad and brother, Nora, Stitch. Jake.
I don’t want to lose precious time or energy checking to see how close Huntley is to me but I do anyway. He is gaining on me, so close that even in the dimming light of the moon I can see his bloodstained, rage-filled face. I’m going to die tonight, I think, but I won’t go quietly. Stitch is nowhere to be seen.
I am so close to the house. But something isn’t quite right. Though it’s gradual, I can tell the path I’ve chosen is winding upward. I’ve miscalculated. The only way home is downward. We’ve reached a precipice—the top of a crumbling bluff. To my right is a steep, rocky switchback portion of the trail that winds like a corkscrew and ends in a bed of jagged limestone and the river. Evan’s house is a mere quarter mile from there. To my left is a steep, but more manageable incline that will take me back to the spot where I broke Huntley’s nose but much farther from help. I go right.
I’ve hiked this switchback, named Nohkometha—the Sauk word for grandmother—several times but never in winter and never alone. The limestone face is ridden with deep grooves and sits at a brutal angle that doesn’t allow for much error. I don’t have time to think about the consequences of climbing down; I know what will happen if I stay put. Huntley is stronger than I am but I’m lither.
The ledge I have to walk on is narrow and uneven. I put one foot in front of the other as if walking a tightrope, knowing that one misstep will send me falling six feet down to the next rocky shelf.
I’ve got a head start on Huntley, but I take little comfort in this. He’s above me on the winding trail and at some point he will be directly above me by a mere two yards. Using the limestone face to help keep my balance I make slow but steady progress downward. I have to pause in my trek. It’s the only way I can get my bearings as to where Huntley is. I don’t want to stop moving but I also don’t dare take my eyes from my feet, and even though my boots have decent treads that help me navigate the snow-covered ledge they are cumbersome and bulky.
I can’t hear his approach but if I can catch a glimpse of him I’ll feel a lot better. Even a falling rock or a shower of snow from the trail above will give me an idea of the amount of distance between the two of us. I see no sign of Huntley above me but when I look over my shoulder I see him round the curve in the trail. He’s ga
ining on me.
I have to think fast. I can try and pick up my pace, I can stop and face him head-on to see who can manage to stay on the trail. Our own sick version of King of the Mountain, or I can get creative.
Spindly but resilient trees sprout from the rocky soil of the bluff and I consider grabbing on to one rooted to the trail below and sliding down its trunk. It’s tempting but a sure way for me to break my neck. Instead, I keep moving down the circuitous trail until I arrive at a portion of the trail that is slick with ice. I can’t move forward and I can’t go back. Below me about six feet is another section of the path that looks passable. I just have to get down there. I turn so that I’m facing the bluff and carefully lower myself to my knees. Clutching on to protruding rocks and exposed tree roots, I begin to inch backward.
I step, grab, step, grab, clinging to the footholds and crevices with all my might. Slow and steady, I tell myself. If I get careless I will fall. Huntley isn’t far behind.
Above me, his left leg swings out, and for a moment I think he’s going to stumble and fall and I flatten myself against the rocks so that he won’t take me down with him. He steadies himself and keeps coming. I’ve gained a little ground but once again he’s upon me and thrusts his foot in a downward motion. He hasn’t lost his footing. He’s trying to knock me off the bluff.
He strikes out again, clipping the top of my head and knocking me off balance. My hands slip and I begin to slide, the rough limestone sloughing away the skin on my face and where my pants and sweatshirt have crept up. I scrabble at the wall, desperately trying to grab on to something to stop my descent. With one hand I manage to grab a snow-dusted shrub that juts from between the cracks. The branches are dead and brittle and snap almost immediately in my hand but slow my momentum enough that I’m able to find my footing.
My mouth has filled with warm, coppery blood from where I’ve bitten my tongue. I gag and spit and the snow next to me blooms red. I look up. My slide has actually lengthened the gap between us. I’m about twenty feet from the ground—still too far to jump. I try to steady my breathing and not panic. I’m so close. “Step, grab, step, grab,” I whisper to myself over and over until I only have about fifteen feet to go.
Almost there.
If I had time to enjoy the view I probably would be able to see Evan’s house from here. A shadow passes over me and hope rises in my chest. Huntley has fallen. Hopefully, in a way that has broken his neck. I look over my shoulder. He’s lying on the ground in a crumpled heap. “Be dead, please be dead,” I say. The muscles in my arms are shaking violently and I know I can’t hold on much longer. Step, grab, step, grab. I glance down again, hoping that Huntley will stay down but to my horror he’s already staggering to his feet. He leaped so he could be at the bottom waiting for me or he fell and it’s to his advantage.
He didn’t land unscathed, though. His face is a pale mask of pain and he’s favoring his right ankle. I’m still ten feet from the ground, too high for him to reach me. He’s hurt and I don’t think he could climb up after me if I tried to hike back up. I cry out in frustration. There’s no way I can gather the strength to climb back to the top of the bluff.
My hands are raw and bleeding and my muscles are tight and sore. I look back over my shoulder. Huntley is saying something to me—his mouth contorted with anger. I have to do something. I can’t stand here forever. My feet securely stationed on a ledge, I release one hand, reach into the pocket of my jacket, and by some miracle find the ballpoint pen is still there. With shaky fingers, I place it between my teeth and then hold on again. I take three measured breaths and think of all those I love. I’m not ready to die.
I release one hand and slowly, very carefully, I begin to turn. Inch by inch, I rotate, sliding my feet until only my heels rest on the narrow ledge and my palms press uselessly against the face of the bluff. I have nothing to hold on to now.
Below, Huntley watches me, trying to figure out my next move. I remove the pen from between my lips and squeeze it into the scraped and bloodied palm of my hand. I leap then, pushing off the ledge with my feet. I belly flop right on top of him and as our bodies collide I feel his breath, warm and wet against my neck being forced from his lungs.
And then, pen in hand, I begin to stab at his face, aiming for his eyes but landing on his forehead, his cheeks. Blood, sticky and wet, coats my hand and the pen slides from my grasp. But the damage has been done. I push myself off him and almost get away when he snags my calf. I fall back to the ground and with my free leg kick out, making contact with his already broken nose. His grasp relaxes and I manage to crawl a few feet until I’m just inches away from the river. The newly fallen snow covers the water in a pristine, downy quilt.
I try to push myself up, my hands leaving bloody prints in the snow, but find that my limbs aren’t cooperating. I can’t give up now, I tell myself. Nora needs me. Stitch needs me. Jake needs me.
I feel a painful tug on my hair and am pulled forward a few inches. Again, another jerk and I howl in pain as Huntley drags me by a chunk of my hair into the river. We immediately crash through the thin layer of ice, and the frigid water penetrates my system like a million bee stings.
Above me. Huntley thrusts my head beneath the surface and I clutch at his wrists, trying to loosen his grip. The water isn’t deep here and I twist and writhe, trying to gain my footing on the rocky river bottom. My lungs are screaming for air and I know that I will quickly lose consciousness. I force myself to relax. I let my hands drop away from Huntley’s wrists and I stop struggling. Above me, Huntley stands, his hands firmly holding my head beneath the water. My body has gone completely numb from the cold and lack of oxygen—a not so unpleasant feeling. He finally releases his grip and with every last ounce of strength I have, I wrap my arms around his knees and push, knocking him off balance.
I burst from beneath the water and flail, blindly searching for the riverbank. My hands strike solid ground and I struggle to pull myself up onto shore, my sodden clothing heavy and cumbersome. Dr. Huntley is right behind me. He grips my ankles, pulling me backward toward the water. I grab onto a fallen tree branch when I see him, his gray eyes stare out at me from behind a copse of snow-covered broom sedge.
Stitch.
I blink, thinking I must be imagining things. But when I open my eyes again, he’s still there.
“Ke mne,” I try to say, not sure if the word has made it out from my swollen, bloody mouth. Come.
Again, Huntley tries to pull me backward, and I try to grab tufts of dead grass, exposed tree roots, anything to keep him from yanking me back into the frigid water.
Suddenly, Huntley drops my legs but I can’t move. Small pinpricks of light dance behind my eyes and the earth beneath my body tilts. I’m going to pass out or maybe even die. Stitch comes to my side. Hackles raised, tail high and bristled, ears forward. The last sliver of moon glints off the whites of his eyes and bared teeth. His entire demeanor has changed. My normally silly and gentle dog is now a snarling, vicious creature I barely recognize.
Huntley drops down next to me, lowers his face so that I can see him. His once handsome face is mangled. His nose has swollen to twice its size and there are deep gouges in his skin from where I stabbed him with the pen.
“Call him off, Amelia,” he says, casting furtive glances at Stitch. I take pleasure in seeing that I knocked one of his front teeth out. I know that Huntley can’t hurt me anymore with Stitch here. He knows that all I have to do is give Stitch a command and it’s all over.
I just blink up at him, wondering how so many people could have been so fooled by him. Was he always so greedy, so willing to sacrifice others for financial gain? I didn’t think so, but maybe the evil has always been there, lying dormant, waiting for the right moment to emerge. I have no doubt that Huntley will drown me in Five Mines and find a way to hide my body so no one can find it. I have no doubt that he will try to find a way t
o discredit me and make my account of what happened here suspect. He’s a respected doctor in Mathias. He has money and clout. But I have something more powerful, the will to live and a petri dish worth of Huntley’s DNA beneath my fingernails.
I can order Stitch to back off, to stand down. Stitch and I can leave Huntley behind and stagger out of here together. Battered and bruised but alive.
“Sedni. Klid,” I tell Stitch. Sit. Quiet. Immediately, Stitch’s jaws still and he sits. He keeps one eye on me, waiting for me to tell him what to do, and the other on Huntley.
He’s on my back before I have the chance to even get to my knees. His fingers wrap around my throat, squeezing. I reach one hand out to Stitch who’s waiting for me to give him a command. I try to peel Huntley’s fingers from my windpipe.
“Zabit, Stitch,” I manage to breathe. “Zabit,” I say again. Kill.
25
Stitch leaps to his feet. I close my eyes. My last image of Huntley’s face is of pure fear. I should feel something—sadness, regret, anger. But I feel nothing. With difficulty, I get to my knees and then to my feet. I don’t want to witness what is happening behind me and I’m thankful for the silence. I start walking. I’m less than a mile from home. The moon has set and the sky is darker than it has been all night. What was the old saying? It’s always darkest before the dawn? Despite the black morning I know what to do. I know which direction to go. Follow the river.
I unzip my sodden running jacket and drop it to the ground. Despite the cold, in my long-sleeve T-shirt I immediately feel lighter, freer, I can breathe more easily.