Larkspur Cove (47 page)

I turned back to the door, held the latch hesitantly. Perhaps we were better off in the woods. . . .

Somewhere along the riverbank, a mountain lion cried out, the scream causing hair to rise on the back of my neck. I turned the lock and pulled my hand from the door, the decision made. The source of that call was way too close. Hugging Birdie to my chest, I slid to the floor, let my head rest against the door. “It’s okay. We’re safe here,” I whispered. We had to be safe here. There was no other option.

Exhaustion washed over me, pulling my eyes closed, setting my mind adrift, pushing away the images from the night until they felt strange and unreal again. In the murky fog, my thoughts swam homeward, told me that in the morning I’d awaken on the sofa and none of this would be real.

The sounds of the forest faded, and Birdie’s breaths grew long and even against my chest. I drifted and drifted, floating toward sleep, small shivers pulling me back, reminding me of where I was, vague apprehensions warning me not to let go, to stay awake and listen. Slowly, my skin warmed, the remnants of the daytime heat seeping from the thick stone wall and into my body. Sleep chipped away at my awareness, taking it a piece at a time. I felt myself sinking, then jerking awake as my head fell forward, then sinking again, deeper each time.

The screams on the hillside and the song of the mockingbird dimmed, and I was home. Safe. The night was clear and silent, warm inside the lake house. Outside the windows, a panorama of stars twinkled. In the distance, a motor hummed, slowly growing closer. Leaving the sofa, I hurried to the window, looked out across the water. Mart was coming. I opened the back door, ran down the hill, the grass damp and dewy beneath my feet. Overhead, a mourning dove cooed softly, the sound soft, hypnotic.

Mart was waiting on the dock. He gave a crooked grin beneath his cowboy hat and spread his hands. I crossed the dock, slipped into his arms. He lifted me and twirled me in a circle as I threw my head back, laughing, giddy like a young girl in love.

“You’re here,” I whispered against his skin. “You came.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Setting me on my feet, he looked into my eyes, and I wondered how I could have ever thought about telling him good-bye.

He’d left the boat motor running. . . .

The sound was loud, growing louder, causing the ground to tremble under my legs. I turned away, trying to block out the noise, felt my head bob forward until I gathered an awareness of my surroundings again. I wasn’t home. I wasn’t with Mart.

The rumble of the engine remained. I jerked upright, adrenaline rushing through my body, pushing away the fog of sleep. A car door opened and closed.

Someone was outside the building.

I shifted, and Birdie squirmed drowsily in my lap, a soft gasp escaping her. “Shhh,” I whispered against her ear.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel, came closer. I turned my ear toward the sound, straining to gather information.

The park ranger, maybe? Had he come back? Or someone else. The truck was running rough, a set of what Dustin called
glass
packs
giving it a loud rumble that vibrated the ground. A state truck wouldn’t have glass packs on it. . . .

Maybe the truck belonged to teenagers, out for a good time on Saturday night, or someone who’d been fishing or camping on the lake. Someone who could help us.

Maybe it belonged to C.J. and Norma. Their vehicle was loud.

Birdie twisted in my arms, swiveling toward the noise.

“Shhh,” I whispered again. Someone was right outside the building. I heard him try the door on the men’s restroom, twist it back and forth and rattle it hard against the frame, trying to gain entry. Apparently it wasn’t just closed, but locked. Through the scalloped bricks near the ceiling, I could hear a man’s breathing, the sound labored and impatient, angry. Pulling Birdie closer, I huddled in the shadow of the wall, scooting silently away from the stream of light that pressed through the tiny window overhead. A string of muttered curses followed as he smacked the men’s room door, sending a thundering echo through the building.

Birdie jumped, then burrowed against me, whimpering at the noise, her body trembling. Clasping a hand over her mouth, I pulled her close and held her so as to smother any sound.

The footsteps moved across the gravel until they were right outside our door. I slid a hand silently upward, clasped the doorknob, grabbed tight, hoped the lock would hold. It jiggled and twisted in my hand as he tried to turn it in both directions, then he shook the door, so that it vibrated against my back.

Someone tapped the vehicle’s horn, and Birdie let out a soft, fearful whine. I held my breath.

“Cud-it-out!” the man roared, his words thick and slurred. I tried to decide whether I recognized the voice.

A woman answered from the vehicle, only bits and pieces audible. “. . . ocked up . . . et’s go!” Was that Norma? Or was it someone else?

I clung to the doorknob as the man answered with another string of obscenities, then slammed a fist against the door so hard that the frame splintered around the lock, the door bumping forward. I rolled onto my knees, depositing Birdie on the floor. Bits of wood plinked against the cement.
Please,
I cried out in my mind, bracing my shoulder against the door.
Please.

Birdie scrambled into a restroom stall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. If he stopped cursing long enough, he’d hear her.

Be quiet. Be quiet now.

Thunder rumbled, and as if in answer, a long, eerie scream split the night, the sound bloodcurdling, so close it was deafening. Echoes pressed through the small screened window above, sending a primal chill over my skin, raising gooseflesh.

The intruder moved away from the door at the sound, muttering.

The woman’s voice called out insistently, “Let’s go! That thing’s right there by the Dumpsters! I can see its eyes!”

Breath gushed into my lungs, then out, as I heard footsteps move away from the building. Moments later the truck door slammed, the engine roared, and they drove away.

I pressed myself against the door and didn’t move. Birdie scrambled across the room, into my lap, and I hung on to her, rocking her until she quieted. Together we listened to the mountain lion prowling around the park, rifling through trash cans, looking for an easy meal. Finally the cat ate its fill and moved off into the woods. Exhaustion slowed my heartbeat, seeped into my arms and legs, tugged my eyelids closed.

My mind came and went from the small stone building, until I couldn’t keep it there any longer. I let go, let myself drift away again. No dreams tempted me this time. There was only darkness, only weariness.

When I awoke again, the soft gray light of dawn was pressing into the building. A sudden elation swirled through me at the realization that it was morning. We had made it through the night. I said a prayer of pure, heartfelt thanksgiving for the new day and realized it had been far too long since I’d done that – since I’d been grateful for simply being healthy and safe and greeting the sunrise. For the past year, I’d been so busy focusing on all the things that had gone wrong in my life, that I hadn’t seen how truly blessed I was. But this morning I was thankful for all that I’d been taking for granted – my home, my family, my son, Moses Lake, my life . . .

In my lap, Birdie shifted. I looked at her and realized she had opened her eyes, fixed her gaze on the door handle. Someone was turning the lock – not attempting to force it, but opening it with the key. I slid away, tried to get up, but my legs were numb. The door creaked open. A flashlight beam came through along with the dawn. It settled on us.

“We’ve been looking for you,” a voice said as my eyes adjusted to the sudden influx of light that made a silhouette of the man in the doorway. He was wearing a uniform of some sort. A park ranger? “State game warden,” he said, but the voice wasn’t Mart’s. “You’re safe now, ma’am.”

Relief spiraled through me, tears pressing my eyes as he entered the room and set his flashlight on the sink. “Jake Moskaluk.” He introduced himself while helping both of us to our feet, trying to ascertain whether we needed medical assistance.

“We’re fine,” I told him, clasping my hands together and pressing my thumbs hard against the base of my nose to keep from breaking down. “We’re really all right.”

When I looked up, he was thumbing over his shoulder toward his truck. “Guess I’d better radio that in. There’s been a lot of folks worried about you two.”

“Wait.” I caught his arm before he could go. “Len . . . He was at his house. They were beating him . . .”

Jake’s gaze slid to Birdie, and she watched him silently, waiting.

“The sheriff ’s deputies found him in the barn. Guess he’d crawled in there and hid himself in the hay. He’d been roughed up pretty good, but we got him to the hospital right away. Those dogs of his probably saved his life. Looked like somehow he’d gotten the back door of the house open while he was being knocked around, and the dogs had held that mob off just long enough for Len to get away.”

“Oh, thank God.” I realized that the dogs had probably saved our lives, too. They’d slowed C.J. and the others long enough for Birdie and me to reach the brush.

Bracing his hands on his knees, Jake leaned close to Birdie. “Your granddad’s gonna be okay. He’s got to have some surgery, but he’s a tough old bird. The doctors are taking real good care of him, all right?”

Birdie nodded, her hand sliding to the hem of my T-shirt uncertainly.

Jake stood up. “I better go make the call before I get myself in trouble.” As he walked to his truck, I turned on the water and stood looking at myself while Birdie cupped her hands and took a drink. I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. She was covered with tiny scratches from briars and brambles, her face smudged with dirt and mascara trails. Her hair hung in dark tangles encrusted with dirt and leaves. No one who knew me in my old life would have known her. No one would have believed Mrs. Karl Henderson capable of surviving such a night, of finding her way in the wilderness. But this woman in the mirror, Andrea, had done just that. Looking at her, I saw a little of Aunt Lucy, a bit of the woman I’d always wanted to be. The woman God created me to be.

Wetting a paper towel, I did my best to wash Birdie and myself while Jake made calls on his radio. When we walked out, he was waiting with blankets, a couple of Snickers bars, and bottled water from his cooler.

“Figured y’all had to be hungry, thirsty, and cold after last night,” he said, laying a blanket on the tailgate, then lifting Birdie into it and bundling her up before giving her the candy bar and drink. I took a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. The day would be warm soon enough, but at the moment it was still foggy and dim, and I was chilled to the bone. All I wanted to do was go home, curl up on the sofa, and sleep.

“I just got the report that they caught the couple in the white Bronco. State police had been hunting them since the shootout at the cabin last night.”

“Shootout?” Acid gurgled into my throat. Suddenly the idea of food seemed unappealing. “Is everyone all right? Was anyone hurt?”

Hooking a leg over the edge of the tailgate, Jake shook his head. “Oh, you know, we Fish and Game boys are bulletproof. To hear McClendon tell it, anyway. You can ask him about it yourself.” He motioned toward the river, and I heard the whir of a motor somewhere in the thick, milky fog that eclipsed the Wailing Woman’s cliffs and Eagle Eye Bridge. “Sounds like your ride’s just about here.”

Jake’s voice seemed far away. My mind had slipped into the dream from last night – the one in which Mart sailed across the water and took me in his arms while the mourning doves cooed overhead. Somewhere nearby, a dove was cooing now. On the horizon, the sun inched above the hills, working its way toward the river channel to burn off the moisture and clear the day.

Holding the blanket around my shoulders, I took a few steps toward the river, squinted into the fog, tried to see who was coming. Even though the ranger had just assured me that C.J. and Norma were safely in custody, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were here, hiding in the fog, waiting.

The whir of the motor grew louder, fanned out and traveled on the fog, then separated. More than one boat was coming. I moved closer to the drop-off, stood high on the edge of the bank. Below, a little flock of mallards pulled their heads from under their wings and turned toward the noise, and in the trees, the mourning doves stopped cooing, as if even they were waiting in breathless anticipation.

Lights melted slowly out of the fog, drawing small circles in the mist, first one set, then two, then three, then four. The lead boat materialized, the bow first, then the windshield, then the man behind it, standing over the steering wheel with one foot braced on a cooler. Even in the morning shadows, I recognized him. I would have recognized him anywhere. Robin Hood.

An armada of merry men trailed behind him in a ragtag fleet of fishing vessels and aluminum boats. I recognized the people inside. Everyone I knew must have gotten involved last night when Mart was trying to find me – Burt and Nester, my parents, Meg and Oswaldo, Bonnie and Taz, Reverend Hay, Sheila, and even Pop Dorsey, wrapped in a neon-green life vest. When he saw me, he let out a yell and waved his hat over his head, like a cowboy swinging a lasso. Laughing, I waved back at him.

Mart pushed his boat up to full throttle, outdistancing the rest of them and reaching the park first. Swinging into the shore, he jumped from the boat and looped a line over a tree branch without even looking to see where it landed. Throwing off the blanket, I half ran, half slid down the rocky slope, bolted toward him with no thought as to how he would feel about it or who might be watching. He opened his arms and caught me, the impact driving him back a step and pushing a puff of air from him.