Flee From Evil (36 page)

At the Edge of a Dark Forest
—February 2014

Cole Harrison, an Iraq war veteran, wears his disfigurement like a barrier to those who might love him, shielding them from the ugliness inside. He agrees to try and potentially invest in, a prototype prosthetic with the goal of saving a hopeless man’s dreams.

Carly Rose contracts to live with Cole and train him to use his new limbs, only to discover the darkness that wars against the man he could become.

At the Edge of a Dark Forest
is a modern-day retelling of
Beauty and the Beast.
Only it is not
her
love that will make him whole.

At the Edge of a Dark Forest

Chapter One

Cole hobbled up the snow-covered path, his metal crutch doing the work of his missing left leg. He turned to climb the wooded hill to his favorite perch for one last look. Knowing it would take five times as long as it did when he was a kid—having two arms and two legs back then—he scrambled up the frozen incline, using his right arm stump and dragging the crutch along beside him. He’d been a Marine. He’d do this or die.

In fact, he was counting on the latter.

Cole could never take his own life. Somehow, the thought of his remaining manor staff finding his body didn’t set well with him. Most of them had been on the payroll since before he was born and were more family than his own parents had been. No, he wouldn’t leave his remains for them. But maybe he could challenge God—or at least the elements—enough to where one or the other would finally do the deed.

Was that what drove him to this climb during a blizzard in freezing temps? He’d told Mrs. Rivera, the housekeeper, he needed to go camping—a necessary means of transitioning from war to civilian life. Regardless of the fact he’d been transitioning for years now, and hadn’t bothered to pack any gear.

She knew not to stop him. Not that she couldn’t, given his current condition. But had she done that, it would have left him feeling more impotent than he did now. He suspected she knelt by her Baby Jesus statue, at this very moment, rolling beads through her fingers as she mouthed the Hail Mary over and over again.

Lotta good that would do.

Cole’s moments “transitioning” only doubled in frequency rather than dwindled. He’d started back when he still wore a prosthetic arm and leg, but after months subjecting them to the cold and rain, night and day, they rubbed against his skin, chafing and burning, making him feel more caged than free. He’d finally chucked them over a precipice one morning, vowing never to wear any fake parts again.

He’d kept that vow. This was who he was. Not just after the IED, but before. Half a man. He’d always been half a man, scarred and disfigured. Only now his outsides displayed what his insides always suspected. No one knew that better than Beckett. And still Beckett had …

He shook the thought from his mind as he scrambled higher to reach the perch that once made him feel king of the mountain. He could oversee his entire domain—the family’s wooded acreage that rose and fell at angles as far as he could see. Now his. Solely his. No one left to share it with—except those he paid.

Today he didn’t feel like a king. He made his way up the hill like a slithering beast, rustling through the powdery snow. The thump of the intact limb, then a pulling and dragging of the other through the slush. His body left a trail like a snake. That trail would soon be covered by the precipitation falling unceasingly on this night.

He reached the top and spied the mountain road that meandered far below. A snowplow’s headlights traveled its length as it temporarily cleared the ice. No other lights followed. No one dared.

Cole collapsed into the plush snow, face to the emptying black sky. Snowflakes enlarged as they fell from the darkness into his eyes. Maybe his limbs—those left—would go numb before he froze to death. Would it be painful? He didn’t know. He’d never experienced these kinds of elements in combat. He’d been more used to the heat—blistering heat. Heat so bad it made his vision blur, waves of air that crinkled ahead of him.

Boom!

He jolted at the vision of the IED bursting into flames. That had been real heat! In one instant Lance Corporal Beckett Forsythe had been beside him. The next—nothing but parts. And Cole had been left missing a few of his own.

Was that sweat dripping down his back in these frigid temps? More droplets formed icicles on his forehead. He struggled to slow his breaths, hoping his heartbeat would do the same. He lay back against the fluffy snow again. It wouldn’t take long. The fingers on his left hand were already growing numb. He’d read somewhere people often hallucinated before hypothermia set in. Nothing new.

Crash!

Cole bolted up, wishing the visions weren’t so real. But this didn’t come with a vision. He looked around, fully aware of the frozen forest beneath his body and the vibration that had emanated with the sound.

He scrambled upright, pulled at his metal crutch, and rose to standing. Down the steep slope of the hill, a gouge in the guardrail opened to a trench through the snow. At the bottom lay a car mangled against a tree—its headlights a beacon to whomever might pass by.

No one would. Not on this night. Many roads had already been closed and only emergency vehicles and snow removal trucks traveled the others.

The only chance the driver had was Cole. Some chance. But Cole would not sit back and do nothing. He had to at least try to help. He couldn’t let anyone else die just because he wanted to. Do or die trying. The latter still sounded best, but now he needed the former more.

He slid down the steep hill, using his crutch like a ski pole, guiding his trajectory toward the wreckage. Snow packed in under his jacket, melting into his skin. He shivered out the cold he had previously been inviting.

At the bottom he drove the crutch into the earth and pulled up. Under trees, the snow measured inches rather than feet. He could get to the disabled vehicle and check on the driver.

Flexing the fingers of his left hand, he worked out the numbness and cursed his luck. Why’d this jerk have to come out on
this
night, in
this
storm, on
this
mountain?

He trudged toward the car and peered inside. The driver blinked rapidly, his head swinging around as if coming out of a daze. He banged the deflated airbag at the wheel with his fist.

Cole pulled his wool cap lower against the scars running from his scalp into his face, and knocked on the window. The man jumped and turned, eyes white in their largeness.

“Let me help you.”

The man seemed to take long moments to process the words then popped the latch on his door. It squealed and crunched. Cole yanked it open with his good hand against the folded metal at the hinge. It gave.

The man scanned Cole’s length, no doubt assessing his missing limbs. His mouth dropped open. “You’re …” He slammed his fist against the steering wheel again and released a string of language Cole had only heard on the battlefield.

Yes. Cole was a beast. A slithering, angry beast. Uglier on the inside than on the out.

The man peered into the sky. “Lord! Must you continually remind me of my failings?”

Lord? Did this guy really think God would answer? “You comin’ or not?”

The man’s jaw jerked. He turned his white-cropped head away from Cole. “Not!”

Was Cole that ugly, that horrifying, the guy would rather die in the cold than trust Cole to bring him to safety?

“Look,” Cole almost spit fire, “Your cell won’t work up here and nobody’d come for you in this weather if it did.” He nodded over his shoulder. “My house is just down a path over there. If we help each other out, we could both get there safely.”

The man’s brows drew together. Cole could almost feel the guy’s gaze travel the length of him again, hovering at the stump below his right elbow and then the left thigh missing everything from what once had been a knee. Was that concern on his face? Cole steeled against the idiot’s pity. He turned.

“Wait.” The car door creaked as the man pushed it wider. “I’m coming with you.”

~*~

Cole poured Irish Cream into his coffee as Mrs. Rivera scurried to prepare hot chocolate and cake for their guest. Henry, the man from the vehicle, sat wordlessly by the fire in the living room, wrapped in a blanket.

Mrs. Rivera eyed Cole’s elixir. “You should lay off that poison,” she said in her thick Mexican accent that hadn’t lessened in the thirty years she’d lived in this country. “It’ll keel you.”

As if that would discourage him from using it. He took a long draw, the heat of the coffee thawing his body, the burn of the alcohol numbing his mind. He poured more coffee, then topped it off with Irish Cream. Mrs. Rivera tsked.

She rattled ahead of him, tray filled with goodies, to the living room where Henry waited. You’d think Henry was an angel sent by God the way she had attended to him, having made a fire, wrapping him in a blanket and taking out the best china for his impromptu visit to the Mansion.

She placed the tray on a coffee table in front of him and poured hot chocolate from the pitcher. He accepted the cup and glanced to Cole before dropping his gaze to the liquid inside. “Thank you.”

“De nada.” Did she just curtsey? “Let me know if you need anything else. I will prepare a room for you to stay the night.”

Henry nodded and glanced at Cole in the archway between the rooms one more time. Did Henry fear him?

Mrs. Rivera took the coffee from Cole’s hand. “Let me get this for you.” She placed it on the table in front of Henry as if that were where Cole intended to sit. Hand free now, he grasped the metal crutch and hobbled over. Might as well not be a complete ogre to his uninvited guest—well, begrudgingly invited. Mrs. Rivera disappeared through the hall.

Henry turned to Cole and took him in, unflinchingly this time. His gaze traveled up the lonely leg, took in the right-arm stump, then hit on the scar from his upper lip that carved all the way up his left temple. Cole could almost feel the screech of brakes as the man’s eyes halted—no doubt at the ugly etching pooled at the end of the scar on his purposely bald head. “How’d you lose your limbs?” This guy got right to the point.

“Iraq. IED.”

Henry drew in a breath. “My younger brother lost his in Nam.”

Cole wondered what sort of device did the job, but decided not to ask. “Arm and a leg?”

“Both legs.”

“Oh.”

Did Henry think they were kindred spirits now? Not! “How old is he?”

“He committed suicide on the five-year anniversary of his return.” His brows drew together with a sense of anger and irony. What was he thinking? “I vowed to help others like him.” His words were strained. “So they wouldn’t feel …”

Cole waited for the rest of his sentence, but it didn’t come. In fact, he didn’t need it. His own bitterness churned against the lowering censors from the excess alcohol in his coffee. He glared at the man on his chair. “How does one help others like your brother?” His sarcasm grew as did the curl of his lip. “House him. Pamper him. Find jobs he can’t do with people willing to make it easier for the crippled guy?”

Henry jolted. Tears hung on the edges of his eyes. “My company developed prosthetic limbs for amputees. At one time, it was the leader in research and development, giving the wounded lives closer to what they’d been before the loss.”

Cole sensed more. “And now?”

“I gave control to my two sons when I retired early. They believed it wiser to cut costs than to build lives. They ran the company into the ground, peddling defective products that did more harm than good. They even gave bonuses to prosthetists who pushed inferior products.”

Henry shifted, placed his mug on the table, his gaze never rising from it.

“Several months ago, a young veteran died when a seriously defective screw caused him to fall down a steep concrete stairway. Since the news coverage, other complaints have come in which have begun to lead to mass recalls.”

Cole’s breathing slowed as he took in the guilt that poured from this man’s features, his posture, his mind.

Henry stared back. “You must hate people like me who profit from other’s loss.”

“You profited?”

“My company made me a wealthy man.”

“Oh.”

“But it will all be lost in the lawsuits, when they find the willful neglect of the higher ups in my company.” His laugh was bitter. “My sons.” He shook his head. “And I will not fight to keep it.”

The story was beginning to come together. “What’s your company’s name?”

“Rose Prosthetics.”

Cole tensed. He’d heard about the accident in the news. The victim was a decorated veteran and the head of a large family. His wife widowed, children orphaned, and all because this man’s sons felt it more important to make a larger profit off the backs of the desperate. Bitterness swelled, peaked, then dissipated in one instant at the man’s despondency.

Henry eyed Cole. “I can see you know the story.”

“I do.” Cole finished the coffee, his muscles dragging rather than holding him up. It’d been an exhausting evening, climbing those trails and rescuing Henry. Only now he wasn’t so sure if he had been the rescuer? Yes, Cole had brought him to his home, but Henry had lent him his arm most of the trail leading there. He wasn’t really sure who’d helped whom more.