Run With Me (20 page)

After an hour or so, I feel
emotionally drained, and decide to turn to more conventional
literature to pass the time. I take an old spy thriller from the
shelf and start reading. It's not my type of thing, but I force
myself through it, only stopping every so often to check the time.
For some reason, the clock seems to have given up working by early
afternoon. This actually doesn't bother me at all. For one, it forces
me to check outside and look at the sun to get a rough of estimate of
the time. OK, so that only takes a few moments, but it's something to
do. Secondly, time really has little meaning to me right now anyway.
I'm not on a schedule. I eat when I'm hungry, sleep when I'm tired,
and everything else just takes care of itself. All I can do is wait
for Dale to return, hopefully with news of Colt.

By mid afternoon I'm getting
antsy. I've almost finished the spy novel, despite finding it
incredibly boring, and can barely stand to read another word. I've
eaten again, even though I'm not really hungry, and have found myself
checking the sun every five minutes, partly to see if much time has
passed, and partly just to get outside. Quite frankly, I hate being
cooped up in this shack while events and people beyond my control
determine my future.

I begin to wonder what the
police are doing and how far this supposed hunt for me has really
gone. Are they really going to be looking for me up here? Has it
truly gone nationwide? I can't imagine that they actually think I'm a
culprit in the deaths of Tara and my aunt and uncle. More likely, I
guess, is that they think I'm dead as well.

The thought certainly crosses my
mind to wander town into the town of Concrete. I could stop at a
cafe, have a coffee, and watch some television. Maybe the news would
be on, and I'd be able to find out if there have been any
developments? It's easy enough to get there. I could probably walk it
in an hour or two.

Then I remember the howling
wolves and inquisitive bear. They could be lurking anywhere in these
woods and I've no way to defend myself. Maybe that's why Dale brings
people here? To stop them from running off when they inevitably go
nuts from isolation and boredom. On that thought, why is this place
so bereft of things to do? I mean, at least get a generator up here
and install a TV. Then I realize that people probably only ever stay
here for a few days at best, so keeping them entertained isn't likely
to be high on Dale's agenda.

Soon I fall into self rebuke
once more. I start thinking about how selfish I am for even having
these thoughts. Go off and have a coffee down in Concrete? Yeah, OK
Kitty. Go ahead and risk exposing yourself and undermining everything
Colt's doing for you, just because you're a little bored. I literally
tell myself off out loud in the cabin. “Jesus Christ Kitty, how
damn selfish and stupid are you.”

Great, and now I'm beginning to
talk to myself.

So, I decide not to venture off
into the woods again, and certainly not down into Concrete. Instead,
I occupy myself by making up games. I manage to get a good hour out
of throwing small stones at trees. The aim is to hit the same tree
three times in a row. Once you've done so, you can move to another,
one slightly deeper into the woods. Hit that three times, and move to
the next. Soon enough I'm flinging pebbles as far as I can into the
woods, irritating nesting birds as I do. When my aim falters and my
supply of stones runs low, I tell myself it's time for a change.

The day goes like this.
Entertaining myself with stupid, inane games. By early evening I've
managed to find a set of pencils down the back of the bookcase, the
same ones I suppose must have been used to write the more recent
confessions. Some of the pencils are pretty worn down, but others are
sufficiently intact for me to draw with.

I use the confessions book. I've
never been one for words, so the idea of writing out my final
thoughts, just like so many before me, doesn't hold much appeal.
Drawing, however, is different. My mom used do draw and paint when I
was a child. She'd use art as a means of relaxing after a long shift
at the hospital. I remember coming down in the middle of the night to
see her sitting under a spotlight in the living room, a beautiful
canvas in front of her. The things she could create. They were so
beautiful, so full of color and life. Mine were never as good, but
that passion my mother felt got passed to me. I guess, when I draw, I
feel close to her again.

How can I express myself
though? How can I express how I feel about all this through a
drawing? I can't tell a story. All I can do is provide a single
image, a snapshot in time. I decide that, since I most enjoyed the
uplifting stories that people told, I'd better do something of the
same. So I lie to myself, drawing a picture of the cabin from the
outside, the woods and trees around it. Then I add myself at the
front, smiling widely, with a bag slung over my shoulder. I caption
the drawing with the only words I can think of: “To the Future.”

It's not how I really feel,
although I am positive at times. In fact, I don't know how I do
really feel about all this. My emotions are far too jumbled for me to
make any sort of judgment. But what do I want when the next person
turns up here, afraid and alone? I want them to see that whatever has
happened in their past, there is still a future for them.

I stare at my drawing for a
while once I'm done, and realize I'm looking at someone I haven't
been for a while. That wide smile looks so alien to me now, as if the
last time I felt genuine joy and happiness was years ago. Eventually
the sight gets a little too much, and I snap the book shut with a
loud slap.

As the sound fades I hear
another, a rumbling in the distance. It's so faint but, out here in
these silent woods, my ears are attuned to any unusual sound. I
listen for a few moments, considering whether it's thunder; signs of
another storm brewing in the mountains. When it continues to get
louder, I know it's an engine. Dale – he's coming back to see me
already!

The thought forces my heart to
start pounding. It must be with news of Colt. What else can it be? He
only came yesterday and what did he say – that he'd be back “in a
few days”. This is one day, just one. So surely something's
happened?

I move to the window by the door
and stare out at the track. I see lights through the trees, moving up
and down as the car rolls up the undulating path. It's moving slowly,
almost unnecessarily so, as if trying to reach the shack unnoticed.
Then, suddenly, the lights go out, plunging the woods into darkness.
My heart-rate quickens now, my nerves standing on end. This isn't
right. Something's up.

I stand glued to the window as
the woods begin to grow slightly clearer, my eyes adjusting to the
pale light provided by the moon above. I can still hear the car,
approaching slowly, but can't yet make it out. Then, suddenly, the
rumbling stops down the track. I keep staring forward, and can just
about see the outline of the car, stopped 100 feet away.

Dale's truck,
I think. It
looks just like it. But why is he creeping up on me like this? I look
to the driver's seat. There's a dark silhouette there, the shape of a
man's head. Dale? What the hell is going on?

In my mind I'm beginning to
panic. There's something not right. This isn't right. Is Dale on
Carmine's side? Has he played Colt for a fool? No, surely not, he'd
have killed me already. I try to breathe as slowly as possible but my
heart is racing fast now. Then, without warning, I see a quick flash
inside the car. It blinds me for a brief moment, before that
silhouette grows clear again. Only this time, the shape has changed.
Before it was of a man's head, sitting upright and looking forward.
Now, that head is slumped on the steering wheel.

I gasp in the silence and
immediately know the truth. The flash was a gunshot, the target was
Dale's head. I'm frozen now as I hear a click as the back door opens
and a shadow steps out. The same shadow that I saw in the window at
my aunt and uncle's house. A shadow, bringing death.

My body threatens to collapse
with fear, but I stand firm. I have to get out, right now. I can see
him, walking slowly towards the house, a silenced pistol gripped in
his hand. I turn, and see my bag in the flickering candlelight.
Inside are my clothes, my money. I rush towards it, my knees and
hands shaking, and lift it straight over my shoulder. I know he's
getting closer now, 80 feet from the door. I turn towards it, ready
to dart out and into the black woods, but stop. The tracker. I need
the tracker.

I turn and scan the area with my
eyes. It takes two, maybe three, moments to spot it on my bed, but
it's enough to cut off the front door as an escape route. He's
closing too fast now – 50 feet away – and I'll be shot as soon as
he sees me.

I take up the tracker and shove
it into my pocket, then turn to the only other way out – the back
window. I open the lock, which is rusty and stiff, and manage to push
the window outward, breaking through vines and other shrubbery. Then
I climb, throwing my legs through and stepping out onto a pile of
logs on the other side.

I feel something pulling at me
as I emerge into the night, tugging at my back. For a moment I think
he's got me, that he's going to pull me back inside and execute me
right there. My pulse explodes into life and I resist, pulling with
all my strength. But there's no give, I'm stuck fast.

I look behind me in fear but see
there's no one there. It's my bag, the strap caught against a piece
of wood jutting out from the window frame. I know he's close now, I
can almost hear his light footsteps on the other side of the cabin. I
reach in and try to untangle the strap. There, almost got it....

CRACK!

The door flies open inside the
shack and I instinctively let go of the bag, falling backwards over
the pile of wood and hitting the earth with a thud. I don't dare look
back as I stand and run, straight off towards the nearest trees at
the edge of the clearing. As I reach the woods the bark of a tree to
my left explodes in anger, splintering and bursting into a million
shards. I duck to the other side and behind another tree as more
bullets are sprayed at me, cutting through the wood.

There's a lull, and I hope he's
reloading. It's my only chance. I run again, straight forward into
the deepening blackness of the forest. I can hardly see what's ahead
of me, but just about manage to hurdle roots and vines as they snake
across the ground. The sound of bullets whistling past my ears fades,
but I don't stop. I keep going, moving uphill and further into the
depths of the tangled wood. It gets thicker as I go, and so black my
eyes can barely penetrate it. My foot catches on a low root and I
fall, knocking the wind out of me. There's a lull as I lie on the
ground, wheezing lightly. And then I hear him, footsteps crashing
through the undergrowth. I turn back to see a light moving from side
to side through the trees as he combs the area for me.

I stand, still gasping for air,
and creep forward, trying to keep low to help shield me from his
light. My progress slows as I move further from the cabin below, the
woods growing thicker and more dense. The knotted branches up above
create a blanket, shielding the moonlight and making it harder to
see. But I keep moving, keeping my eyes on the ground as I search for
roots and other obstacles.

I can hear him gaining on me
now, crashing through the undergrowth, his light clearing the easiest
paths for him to follow. I turn left, but the thicket is too thick. I
fall again, this time my head hitting a low hanging branch and
sending me flying onto my back. I lie there, dizzy, for a moment,
trying to merge the two moons above into one.

But I have no time to stop, no
time to rest. I stand and my vision remains blurry, the trees
wobbling from side to side in front of me. I lift my hand to my head
and feel a sticky warmth spreading down my forehead. I lean against
the tree, breathing deeply and blinking, as the shadow keeps coming
up the hill. I can't keep running. I'll never outrun him like this.

Then I realize: I don't have to
keep running. Without a second thought I grab the branch that cut my
head and lift myself up onto it. I grab another, several feet higher,
and move further up off the ground. I keep climbing, focusing all my
attention on every handhold, every grip on the ragged bark. Soon I'm
20 feet off the ground, then 30. I keep climbing as a light
illuminates the trunk of the tree. I look down the hill to see the
shadow only 30 feet away, rushing forward. I stop on a thick branch
and lie my body onto it, clutching tight.

As his light grows at the base
of my tree I see it rush briefly across the low hanging branch. I see
a flash of red on it from where it hit my head and my heart almost
stops.
Don't see it
, I pray.
Please don't see it
.

In a flash he's right beneath
me, panting wildly. He reaches the branch and I shut my eyes tight as
if I don't want to see him notice the blood and make the connection.
I say a silent prayer, but all I hear is the sound of his continued
rampage through the woods. When I open them, he's past the branch and
is still moving, deeper and further up the hill. I dare to let out a
sigh of relief as I watch him continue on into the distance, only the
glow of his flashlight telling me of his position.