The Wildman (33 page)

And then another figure appeared. A huge, black silhouette that seemed to be cut out of the night shifted in and out of focus until—finally—it assumed a huge, demonic shape that towered above Jeff where he lay. Red eyes blazed like angry coals, piercing him like lances. Jeff felt an odd duality as if—somehow—he had become this demon and was staring down at this pitifully fragile human lying crumpled in the bottom of a fragile wooden boat.

Some part of Jeff’s mind was aware that he was dying, but as much as he wished he could let go and embrace peaceful oblivion, he clung desperately to life, struggling against the darkness that swelled up all around him like a towering tsunami that was about to crash over him. With the last vestiges of life flickering inside him like the dying flame of a guttering candle, he raised his head and made a feeble gesture toward the nearby shore.

There were figures in the forest, too. He recognized his mother and father. Both of them stood in the deepest shadows of the trees, holding their hands out to him, waving him forward, urging him to join them. His mother smiled with a beatific smile.

“
I’m coming,” he whispered in a raw, crackling voice that squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

When he inhaled again, the freezing dampness of the night filled his chest like a gush of cold water. Again, he coughed and sputtered, thinking it was possible he had already fallen overboard and was sinking down to the slime-covered bottom of the lake.

The lowering sky suddenly opened up, and a torrent of rain lashed against him. Each drop that hit his shoulders and back stung like a tiny bullet. Crazed with pain and fear, Jeff somehow found the strength to get up onto his hands and knees, and lurch forward. His legs slammed against the boat seat hard enough to make him cry out. His hands dragged across the wooden thwarts of the boat, leaving his palms bristling with splinters.

The boat heaved violently from side to side as he crawled to the bow. The dark slash of land in front of him was closer … so close, but Jeff couldn’t find the strength to get out of the boat and onto solid ground. His arms and legs ached and vibrated with exhaustion. He had been pushed well past his limit, and there was nothing to do now except let go.

Let go … fall asleep … drift away to where the pain and cold will be gone.

But he couldn’t let go.

He couldn’t give up.

Not after coming so far.

Even if all of his friends were dead, his efforts would be wasted if he surrendered.

He made pig-like grunting sounds as he heaved himself forward. The rocking boat made the sky and land pitch crazily around him. He’d stop every now and then, convinced he was already falling, but then—miraculously—he felt someone touch him. Strong, solid, warm hands slipped under his arms and legs and belly and lifted him.

Jeff looked left and right, unable to see what was going on, but all he saw was a dense, black smear. He could no longer distinguish land from water or earth from sky. He had no sense of direction. He was flying … falling … drifting … tumbling into darkness … He was swimming in the rain-filled sky … He was crawling through chest-deep water … He was scuttling like a crab over
rain-slick rocks that scraped his hands and knees raw.

You have to make it … You have to make it,
whispered a small voice in the deepest reaches of his mind.

His hands plunged into cold water, splashing his face and reviving him with a sudden shock. But he was so far gone, he had no idea if he was moving or lying still. The dark band of the shore in front of him appeared to be closer. The uncanny sensation of unseen hands lifting him and keeping his face above the water got steadily stronger.

His left hand clamped around something rough and round. It felt like a gnarly wrist, but whatever it was, it was immobile, and he held on with the last shred of strength. It must belong to whoever was carrying him toward the shore even though he couldn’t see anyone beside him.

The dark swatch of land drew steadily closer, but the world still shifted in a crazy twirl. He had the distinct impression he was motionless, and the land was sliding silently toward him. Whoever or whatever he was holding onto was cold and lifeless, as stiff as wood. It took a long time to realize that’s exactly what it was.

A gnarled piece of wood.

He was clasping a tree root that had grown out into the water.

It took more energy than he thought possible to muster, but he dragged himself forward another few feet until he was out of the water and on the beach. Clawing at the rocks and wet sand, he lurched forward, inch-by-inch. His legs were useless weights, dragging behind him, and he chuckled when a line from Dickens
’
A Christmas Carol
popped into his mind.

“I wear the chains I forged in life.”

Is that what my body is?
he wondered.
The chains I forged in life?

The gritty sand rubbed his ha
nds raw, but he was past noticing any pain. He let out a resounding bellow before he collapsed, face first, onto the first solid land he’d felt in—

How long?

He had no idea. All he knew was that he had never expected to feel anything s
olid underneath him again.

You’re not home free yet, buddy,
a voice in his head whispered. He was amazed how some pa
rt of him could remain so calm and rational sounding under such circumstances, but then again … maybe it wasn’t him.

Maybe one of the people who had carried him to shore was talking to him.

His mind and body were screaming that he was finished and would just as soon die where he was rather than suffer any more.

He was on land, but he had no idea where the dock and parking lot might be. For all he knew, the wind and waves might have carried him to the opposite shore or back to the island. He would die wandering in the dark until the cold and damp finished him off.

He patted his upper right thigh with the flat of his hand, but his body was so numb from the cold that he wasn’t sure if he could feel the bulge of car keys in his pocket.

What does it matter? … I can’t make it.

He’d never survive long enough to find his car and get out of here, and even if he did, how would he ever be able to drive? His arms were lead weights dragging him down.

Still, the sensation was strong that someone he couldn’t see was urging him on. As he crawled forward, he couldn’t believe his arms and legs actually worked. Someone or something had to be supporting him, dragging him away from the water’s edge and into the shelter of the trees.

Once he was under the tall pines, the downpour cut off as sharply if someone had turned off a spigot. Rain splattered as it fell, hissing as it swept in harsh gusts across the lake’s surface, but he was protected under the trees.

Waves of exhaustion rolled over him. All he wanted to do was lie down, curl up somewhere, and sleep. Yes, sleep. Every breath made his chest and back scream with agony. He was sure several ribs were broken along with half a dozen other bones in his body. The knife-sharp pulsing in his wrists and neck made him wince, but he could no longer feel his hands or feet. When he leaned against a tree truck and tried to pull himself to his feet, the sensation of being outside of his body and watching this pathetic attem
pt to stand returned, stronger than ever.

You can make it … You
have
to make it,
the voice in his head or
beside him said again, and Jeff actually felt a spark of hope that he
was
going to make it. He would because he was no longer in charge of his own body. Someone or something else was making him move. Like a puppet. An indescribable energy surged inside him and around him, making his arms and legs move.

The world was spinning around like an insane carousel as he hugged the tree and pressed his forehead against the rough bark. He was only dimly aware of the stinging pain and the blood flowing down his face, but the pain—like the hands he couldn’t see in the dark—pulled him closer to awareness of who he was and where he was and what he had to do.

He groaned as he steadied himself on his feet, determined to move forward. He had no idea where he was going or what he intended to do, and he was surprised he didn’t fall down after taking the first step, but—somehow—he kept his balance. He was crying as he made his way through the woods, continually bumping into trees and stumbling over unseen rocks and roots. Several times he fell but somehow found the strength to get up and keep going.

When he looked to either side, he still saw indistinct shapes, shifting back and forth, darting in and out of view as they tracked him. A few times, he caught the cold stare of eyes that burned with red fire as they watched him. He wondered if these were the ghosts … not only of Jimmy Foster, but of everyone else whose lives the lake had claimed. The hissing rain as it fell through the trees all but drowned out any other sounds, but he thought he heard several voices, whispering to him. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but even if they were just inside his head, they drove him on into the night.

* * *

Was it pure luck, or did some force he was only vaguely aware of guide him in the right direction?

Jeff was too far gone even to contemplate what was really happening to him. It took him a long time standing there, swaying drunkenly on his feet, to
realize that the dark mass of the launching ramp angling up out of the water was no more than a hundred feet in front of him.

That’s impossible,
he t
hought with a soul-deep shiver.

It had to be an illusion … a hallucination he was having moments before he died.

Sometime in the spring, he thought, some fishermen or boaters or maybe a group of hikers would stumble across his body. His flesh would have rotted away by then. Crows would pick his bones clean and, in the warming days of spring and summer, maggots would feast on his remains until his bones were stripped clean. He shuddered to think that it would be a long time—if ever—before his body was identified.

And what about Ben?

Would he get ever off Sheep’s Head Island, or would he die out there, starving to death when winter came?

Or did he have an escape plan?

He sure seemed to have every contingency covered, so why wouldn’t he have a fallback plan?

But what if he didn’t?

Maybe he didn’t want—or need—one.

Maybe he came into the weekend with such confidence that he would kill everyone that he never intended to leave the island alive. If he wanted to kill them to get revenge for his brother’s death, once he’d accomplished that, what more would he have to life for?

Or maybe Ben had a terminal disease … Maybe that’s why he had done all of this in the first place, and he was content to die now that he had done what he’d set out to do.

In the end, what difference would it make?

How important, really, were any of their lives?

In the great scheme of things, he, Ben, Mike, Tyler, and Fred all counted for little … if anything.

No one would miss any of them for long. The world would
go on just fine without them.

No …
whispered the voice inside his head.
You’ve got to get back … You’ve got to make sure people know who did this and why.

The thought galvanized him, stiffening his resolve to make it to the
launching ramp and up to the parking lot where the cars were parked. There was no way his cell phone would work, so he would have to drive out of here. First, though, all he had to do was get to his car … get it started … and turn on the heater so he could thaw out.

He hoped it wasn’t already be too late.

His hands and feet were so numb they might as well have been amputated. As he took a few tentative steps forward, he was sure his legs would fold up, and he would fall down, only this time he wouldn’t be able to get back up.

I’ve fallen down and can’t reach my car.

It felt like walking on stilts as he started along the beach toward the launch ramp. He reached an open stretch of beach where there were fewer rocks, but he kept stumbling in the mucky sand and tripping over his own feet. Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, he moved one foot in front of the other.

Left … right … left … right …

No matter how hard he tried, though, the launch ramp didn’t look to be any closer even after he had gone for what felt like more than a mile. The world seemed to telescope. He wondered why the figures in the woods—the ones who had carried him out of the boat and whispered to him, encouraging him—seemed to have abandoned him now.

Did they know he would find the strength to make it on his own?

Or had they deserted him because they could see he wasn’t going to make it?

The slow, dull throbbing of his pulse was making his head spin. Each pulse was weaker that the last. His knees buckled as a terrible pressure was bearing down on him. It took every shred of strength to keep moving forward.

The rain was coming down in a downpour. Visibility was cut to practically nothing as he slogged along the shore, staying close to the lake and taking advantage of any stretches of open beach. He staggered forward, no longer even sure if he was even headed in the right direction.