In The Forest Of Harm (26 page)

THIRTY-NINE

From that moment on, a high whine keened inside her like the hum of angry wasps. It warmed her as she waded through the icy creek to her boots and paint box, the only weapons she possessed, and it did not stop when she filled the box with water and threaded her way back to Joan. She moved supple as a panther in the jungle and she wondered, as she neared their woodpile, if she wasn't glowing in some spectral shade of blue.

“Mary?” Joan crouched low to the ground, peering nervously into the woods. “Is that you?”

“It's me.”

“Jeez, Mary! What happened over there? All I heard was screaming!”

Mary slid to the ground beside Joan and told her that the barefoot man kept snakes and traps and a curious collection of souvenirs; that Alex had been tied up but that she was alive; that Mary had fallen into a snake pit kept by Ulagu. She did not, however, reveal to Joan that the barefoot man may well have beaten Alex to death just minutes ago.

“It sounded horrible.” Joan shuddered. “I didn't know what to do. . . .”

“You did okay,” Mary assured her, offering Joan some water from the paint box. Her own throat felt as papery as the snake skins that decorated Ulagu's rafters. “You did just fine.”

“What are we going to do next?” Joan eagerly slurped some of the water.

“I'm going to go back and kill him.” The words came out of Mary's mouth so fast and blunt that they surprised her. She'd just announced her intention to kill a man as casually as if she were going to debone a chicken.

Joan's eye gleamed like a pearl in the moonlight. “You're going to what?”

“Go back and kill him.” Mary stared at her, unsmiling.

“But couldn't we just kidnap Alex back, when he's gone?”

“He'd be after us in a heartbeat,” replied Mary, the wasp-hum inside her rising. “Even if we got a full day's head start, he'd catch us.”

“How?”

“Joan, we marked our way with yellow paint,” Mary reminded her. “A myopic cripple could follow our trail. This monster would be eating our livers before dark.”

Joan drew herself up into a small, ragged ball. For a long time she stared mutely at the cabin, fear and misery both twisting across the planes of her face.

Suddenly Mary was stung by a poisonous guilt. If it hadn't been for her, Joan would be back in Atlanta, safe in a sunny hospital room banked with flowers, talking her trauma out with some kind-eyed therapist. Instead she sat here—sick, feverish, huddled behind a rotting pile of logs, playing hide-and-seek with a madman. The hum notched higher inside her. Joan had been a brave woman to come on this trek. She deserved to survive. Mary knew she alone had the best chance of making that happen. She leaned over and said:

“If I kill him, we can rest. He's got a fireplace where we can get warm. He's got food we can eat. He's even got a damn bottle of vitamins.” She squeezed Joan's arm. “With him dead we can all walk out of here alive.”

For an instant Joan gaped at her as if she didn't recognize her—as if the Mary Crow who'd crept into the darkness an hour ago had returned as someone else. Then her face contorted, as if she were remembering that afternoon at Atagahi, when a man had appeared from nowhere and ripped her world apart. “Okay,” she replied quietly. “How do we do it?”

Mary smiled. “Do you remember how tall he is?”

Joan shrugged. “I don't know. Taller than Alex, probably.”

“Okay, let's say over six feet. I'll have to aim pretty high.”

“Aim what?”

“I'm going to take one of these logs and sneak back down to the porch. When he comes out in the morning, I'll be right beside the front door, waiting.”

“And?”

Mary felt the hum again. “And then I'm going to smash his fucking head in.”

Joan pressed herself tighter against the logs. “Do you honestly think you could do that?” There was a quaver in her voice.

Mary looked into Joan's mutilated face and remembered Alex's bruises, then thought of her mother, lying still and broken, so many years ago. “There's not a doubt in my mind,” she replied.

They talked on in the dark, working out the details of the plan. This time neither of them slept. A breeze rattled the trees. Shadows danced on the ground, and leaves tumbled across the meadow as if swept by an invisible broom. A front was blustering through from the north. This day would dawn frosty, rimmed in ice. Hog-killing weather, Mary thought with an odd little jolt of anticipation.

Joan finally wore out. She splashed some cool water on her infected foot and slumped down behind the logs, fitfully sleeping. Mary knew that she, too, should get some rest, but she did not feel tired. From the moment she had decided to kill Ulagu, a hot, expansive energy had infused her. She felt as if she could stay up all night, kill Ulagu, and party all day tomorrow. Maybe this was what made them kill, she thought, remembering Cal Whitman and the five other men she'd nailed in court. Maybe delivering death was the headiest thrill life had to offer.

She shook her head. She couldn't allow herself to dwell there.

The old logs glowed like dull silver in the moonlight. She crawled over and pawed quietly through the pile, searching for just the right one. Most were too big and heavy for her to hold comfortably, but underneath some leaves she found a smaller one that had tumbled from the stack. It was almost a yard long and tapered at one end, like a thick baseball bat. She wrapped both hands around the splintery bark and swung it tentatively. The heft felt sweet and firm, and she knew without a doubt that it would cleave a man's skull like a melon.

When the dark began to soften into dawn, she touched Joan's shoulder.

“Joan,” she whispered. “I'm going now. I'll need my jeans to crawl through those weeds.”

Joan blinked, sleepily. “Did we just plan to kill Barefoot?” she asked. “Or did I dream that?”

“No.” Mary untied the laces on her boots. “You didn't dream that at all.”

Joan tugged off the pants and handed them to Mary.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Joan asked as Mary pulled on her jeans and relaced her boots.

Mary shook her head. “Just do like before. Keep watch and yell if you see him sneaking up on me. And you might say a prayer to whatever saint's in charge of putting mad dogs out of their misery.”

“I can do that,” Joan promised, smiling crookedly. She wrapped her arms around Mary's neck and held her close, as if trying to fill her with whatever small strength she had left. Mary felt the fever burning within her. “Thank you,” Joan whispered.

“Thank you?”

“For keeping me alive.”

Mary hugged her, then kissed the swollen cheek of the tiny soprano from Flatbush. “Your courage humbles me, Joan. Whatever happens now, I want you to know that you're a true War Woman. And I've never called anybody that before in my life.”

Joan smiled up at her. Her eyes were wet with tears. “And I want you to know that you did the right thing by coming up here. What is it you guys say? It's a good day to die?”

Mary chuckled. “I heard that once in the movies.”

“Then it must be true.” Joan wiped her eyes.

“See you later.”

“
Addio, amica del cuore
. Here. Take this. At least it's some kind of weapon.” Joan held out the palette knife.

Shouldering her log, Mary dropped the knife in the pocket of her jeans and slipped back through the trees. This time, however, she stopped at the back of the cabin. The weeds, she noted, grew taller here. She could creep through them and still remain hidden from anyone looking out.

“Okay, Wynona,” she murmured as she cradled the log in her arms and dived belly-down into the tall grass. “Stay with me one more time.”

The dew had made the weeds slippery and wet. She crawled with her elbows forward, always seeking the rim of another snake pit or the sharp metal edge of a trap. For every three feet she pushed herself through the cold, slick tangle, she felt as if she slid a foot back. She didn't want to raise up from the grass and expose her position, so she picked one pale star from the Pleiades overhead and crawled directly towards it. Already it seemed to glow less brightly than when she'd started. If she was going to reach the porch before the sun rose, she needed to hurry.

She crawled on. Husks of ragweed tickled her nose. To her left she heard a rustling in the grass. She froze. Ulagu? Could he have seen the tall grass moving in the dark? She held her breath, then the
who-who-who-whoooo?
of an owl came from the creek. Her heart sank.
Uguug
. To the old Cherokees, owls foretold death. “So be it.” She shrugged as she crept on. “Let's just hope Uguug's calling for him.”

The hum pulled her forward. Her senses were sharp as razors; the dawning world blazed fiery green; she felt as if she could hear spiders spinning their webs in the forest of grass. Had Cal Whitman felt such power when he committed murder?
This is what it's like
, a seductive voice whispered inside her brain.
This is why they kill
.

She crawled on. When she thought she had crept far enough to be hidden behind the cabin, she rose up.

“Twenty more feet,” she whispered, burrowing back into the weeds. Now the goldenrod was intermingled with some kind of plant whose tiny thorns tore at her cheeks and forehead as she pushed through. Wincing in pain, she narrowed her eyes and crawled on

Surely she must be there by now. Again, she lifted her head. This time her position was perfect. She had a straight shot down the windowless side of the cabin and onto the porch. Betting her life that no more traps or snake pits awaited her, she stood up.

With the log clutched against her chest, she sprinted to the shadows of the cabin wall. When she reached them, she stopped, half-expecting a man in green camouflage to pop out from the porch and greet her. “Why, hello,” he would say. “How nice of you to drop in! I've been waiting for you for hours.”

But no such thing happened. The cabin remained as quiet as when she'd first visited. She crept along the wall, listening for the sound of someone stirring, a human body awake, but by the time she reached the porch she'd heard nothing except the frantic thunder of her own heart.

The slate-colored light revealed the porch and the door, but little else. From here on, however, she could make no mistakes.

She grasped the log and eased her right foot on the porch, testing the strength of the board. Tentatively, she shifted her weight. The wood did not give or wobble. She held her breath and straightened her knee, moving her left foot up beside her right. Triumph flooded her. She'd reached the porch without making a sound.

The door stood ten feet away, the latch on the near side. She would have to cross to the other side to get the needed leverage to shatter Ulagu's skull. She inched her right foot three boards toward the door, then shifted her weight. Amazingly, the ancient boards again held firm.

She crept along for what seemed like a century. She had to crawl below the single front window, and she froze once when a board squeaked loudly beneath her. She pressed herself up against the cabin, waiting for Ulagu's bellow, but nothing happened.
Heavy sleeper
, she noted with a quickening in her veins.
Smug in the protection of his
damn snakes.

Finally, she reached the door. With a single swift motion she crept across the doorway and positioned herself on the other side. She was here. She was ready. She'd gone over what to do a million times in her head, but it wouldn't hurt to rehearse it again. First wait, when the door opens, to make sure whoever is coming out isn't Alex. Then, if Ulagu comes out fast, swing like hell for the back of his skull. If he comes out slow, smash his face first, then his head if he goes down. If he doesn't go down, smash his balls, then the back of his skull.
And if
none of that kills him,
she thought as an early-morning robin began to chirp,
then the death song that Uguug was
singing must have been meant for me
.

FORTY

Morning, sugar.” The words startled her so, she almost dropped the log. “I was wondering when you'd drop back by.”

A coldness seized her body. How could this be? How could he have slipped out of the cabin without her seeing him? Reluctantly, she turned. With a long intake of breath, she lifted her eyes. For the first time, she was going to stand toe-to-toe with Ulagu.

He glared down at her, yellow eyes burning beneath woolly brows. Three fresh red scratches scarred the left side of his forehead and continued down his cheek. In his right hand glittered a hunting knife, the point of which now trembled an inch from her throat.

He grinned, his frank gaze a circular assessment of her face, then her breasts, then her face again. “You're Cherokee, aren't you?”

She gave the slightest nod.

Ulagu frowned. “You made an awful racket in my snake pit last night. You weren't much quieter when you were scampering back to that log pile, either.”

“Sorry,” she managed to croak, her last wisp of hope evaporating like dew in the rays of the sun. She hadn't fooled him for an instant. He had known all along. Joan! He must have slit her throat the moment Mary had taken off for the cabin.

Ulagu grinned. “You know what I do to people who trespass on my property?”

Mary stood there, unflinching. “Kill them, I imagine.”

“Mostly.” Ulagu's amber eyes glittered. “But not right off the bat. First, you tell me why you're here.”

“You kidnapped one of my friends and killed another. And I think you killed my mother.”

“Killed your mother?” Ulagu pressed the knife blade against her throat as if making a pin hole in a piece of paper. “What gives you that notion?”

“The way you walk,” Mary replied evenly.

“Well, I might have helped a few pilgrims on to Glory, but I don't know that any of them were your mother.” His upper lip snarled away from teeth brown with decay. “And here you are, fixin' to kill me with that stick.”

Mary looked at him without speaking.

He traced the tip of the knife down her throat and between her breasts, bringing it back to rest just under her jaw. “Why don't you drop that log on the ground and come inside with me? I think Trudy and I need to have us a little family conference.”

For an instant she considered trying to bash his head right then and there, but she remembered the swiftness with which he'd skinned that coon.
Wait
, she decided as she let the log thud to the porch boards.
Your time still
might come
.

The cabin was not much lighter than it had been the night before. The dripping snake skins gave the place a feeling of macabre festivity, like decorations left over from a witches' ball. Animal hides adorned the walls like posters—a fox, a skunk, a dingy piebald thing that had once been a Jersey calf.

As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, Mary saw what she'd come for. Alex. She lay curled on the floor by the cot, her back to the door, one hand scratching limply at her scalp. Relief swept over Mary—whatever else Ulagu might have done, at least he had not yet killed Alex.

“Get up, Trudy! We got company!” Ulagu slammed the door behind him. Alex jumped. Slowly, she twisted toward them. This morning both her hands and legs were bound tight together, and a shorter leather cord tethered her to the cot.

“Mary!” Even beaten and tied, she still managed her old smile. Mary wanted to cry, then she felt a hard shove between her shoulder blades.

“Go sit on that bed. I need to think about this.”

Mary stumbled over to the cot and sat next to Alex. She smelled of old smoky fires, and an ugly grid of switch marks crisscrossed her breasts. Her face was swollen and bruised. Still, she looked at Mary and smiled.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” Alex said, giving a wheezing chuckle. “Then I remembered you've never been on time for anything since I've known you.”

“You shut up, Trudy!” Ulagu barked. “My business is with
her
today.” He waggled his knife at Mary. “This is amazing. I didn't even know you existed, and here you are, the girl tracker of the century, coming to avenge her mama.” He squinted, then grinned as if a marvelous idea had just occurred to him. “Why don't you stand up there and take off those clothes? I'm ashamed to say I've never seen any Native American pussy.”

Mary stared at the blade of Ulagu's knife. A thousand scenarios flickered through her head. She could wrestle it away from him and cut his throat. Or she and Alex could knock him down and stab him to death with the palette knife. Even if he was armed, it was two against one. But Alex's hands and feet were bound, and what good was a flimsy painting knife against a Bowie? Still, there must be something she could do. She sat motionless, feverishly thinking.

“Hey!
Sacajawea
! Look up here! Now's not the time to be shy!” Ulagu swished the knife. “All your girlfriends have done it. Now it's your turn. I need to make sure you've got all your parts.”

“
Shogwa
.” Mary began to count in Cherokee, stalling for time. “
Talee, zoee
. . .”

“Don't give me that Indian shit!” Ulagu screamed, the veins standing out in his neck. “Get up and get your clothes off! The three of us are gonna have some fun today!”

“Do what he says, Mary,” Alex advised wearily. “Little Henry here can throw a real tantrum when he doesn't get his way.”

Mary stopped counting. With Ulagu's eyes upon her, she stood up and walked toward him. Only the creaking of the floorboards and the rasp of his breath broke the silence of the old cabin.

Brank made a soft moan of anticipation as Mary stood before him, her fingers fluttering at the button of her jeans.

“Any particular way you want this done?” she asked, drawing out the moments between them.

“The knife don't matter,” Brank chuckled. “As long as the fruit gets peeled.”

Slowly, she grasped the hem of her sweatshirt as if to pull it over her head, then she stopped. She pulled her sweatshirt back down and began to unzip her jeans. She had just eased them over her hips when suddenly she plunged her hand in her sweatshirt pocket and pulled out Wynona. Faster than she'd ever moved before, she aimed, hurling the little statue at Ulagu's head. It struck him just below his left eye. Not a heavy blow, but it was enough. For an instant, she had surprised him.

Mary lowered her head then, and threw herself into him like a tackle on a football team. As the top of her skull plowed into his chest, she felt the breath whoosh out of him. With one startled “
Uhmpf!
” he fell backwards, his knife clattering. Together they tumbled to the floor.

“Try to get loose, Alex!” she screamed as she tried to pin him down. He twisted and bucked beneath her. With her knee pressing hard on his throat, she groped for the palette knife. It should be here, somewhere in the pocket of her jeans, but she couldn't find it. She pressed herself desperately onto his chest, hoping the sheer weight of her body would keep him down until she could get the knife, but he was writhing like a wild animal. With a sinking feeling in her gut she realized that he was too strong for her; in just moments she'd be on the floor with a madman on top of her.

“Try to get out of here, Alex!” she screamed. “Try to get out of here
now
!” She was losing this fight, fast. She gave up on finding the palette knife and wrapped her hands around his throat, trying to bang his head against the floor. His neck was thin, but tightly corded with muscles. She tried to squeeze his windpipe shut, but his eyes only seemed to brighten. He connected with hard, sharp blows to her breasts and ribs, then, with an insane grin, he winked and brought his fist smashing into her left ear. A flash of bright pain jolted through her head and all she could do was try to hold on to him, blind, and hope that Alex could break her ropes and get away. She struggled with all her strength, but she knew she had lost; already she could feel him squirming away. Soon he would be free.

Frantically she tried to knee him. A blow to his scrotum might slow him down. He was too quick, though. He twisted on top of her and with one move, pinned her shoulders to the floor. “You're a regular wild Indian!” he snorted as he sat down on her stomach, his stench filling her face.

With the bulk of his weight over her hips, he grabbed her sweatshirt and pulled it up over her face. She could see only blackness now, as she felt his rough fingers pawing her breasts. Alex began to yell as he lifted himself off and yanked Mary's jeans and panties down around her knees.

“Look, Trudy,” she heard him cry. “Just look at what your little brother's gonna do to your friend.”

Alex thrashed to get loose from the cot. Mary squirmed, struggling to pull the cloth away from her face. She needed to look him in the eye while he did this.

He perched on top of her grinning, feasting on her nakedness. He pried her legs apart with one knee while he fumbled with his fly. “Didn't your poor dead mama teach you that it's not nice to hit people with logs? Didn't she tell you it's not
höflich
?”

He pulled his penis out. Huge and hard, it was violet with anger and desire.
Don't look away
, Mary commanded herself.
Die with your eyes open. Honor your mother's
memory.

She was trying to stare into his face when a small movement caught her eye. She glanced toward the door and gasped. Joan stood just inside the cabin, her eyes blazing.

She's not dead,
Mary realized, her hopes catching fire.
We still have a chance. Keep him busy and we still have a
chance. . . .

Mary turned her gaze back to Ulagu, and stared at his penis. “You call that a dick?” She guffawed.

“It's big enough for you, Pocahontas,” he growled, prying her legs farther apart.

“Looks like a funny little frankfurter to me, Ulagu. Doesn't it, Alex?” Looking over at Alex, Mary shook her head and gave an extravagant laugh.

“Don't you talk to her!” He slapped Mary hard. “And don't you laugh at me!” He smiled. “You know, that little Native American mouth is a lot prettier than your pussy. How about we put it to good use?”

Reaching backward, he pulled something from his boot. At first Mary thought it was a pencil, but he flicked his wrist once and a slender, sharp blade whisked out.

Mary caught her breath. An old-fashioned straight razor, the weapon of choice for her third conviction, a skinny carpenter who had a penchant for carving his initials in female flesh. The pictures in his evidence file still made her queasy.

“Ha!” Brank laughed at her expression. “This little beauty gets your attention, don't it?”

She did not answer.

“Okay, Sacajawea.” Brank scooted toward her head, his penis thrusting forward like the prow of a ship. With one hand he held the tip of the razor at the inside corner of her left eye. “You know what to do. But I warn you— if I feel one tooth nibbling at my frankfurter, you're gonna kiss your face good-bye.
Verstehen
?”

Mary nodded, her heart thudding.
Where was Joan?
Had she lost her nerve?

“Here we go, Cherokee gal.” Brank's foul breath blew hot in her face. “Open wide and suck hard.”

“Suck hard yourself, you fucking asshole!” screeched a voice from above them.

Brank's eyes grew wide, then he made a sound as if a rat were crawling up his throat. The razor clattered to the floor as he released Mary and clutched at his neck with both hands. Joan stood just behind his left shoulder, her black hair wiry and disheveled, her one good eye gleaming crazily. She leaned over and spoke into Brank's ear.

“
Stupratoré
!” she screamed. “You filthy, cock-sucking
stupratoré
!”

Brank blinked at her in astonishment, then his body arched backward as blood began to pour from his mouth and nose. With his head bobbing woozily, he looked over at Alex, his glazed eyes pleading in a curiously tender look of betrayal. He moved his lips and tried to speak, but only grunts came out, and soon even they were drowned in a cascade of foaming red bubbles. Mary felt the wet warmth of his blood as he slumped forward on top of her, then Mary Crow felt nothing at all.