The Wildman (30 page)

Wouldn’t he?

Unless he was still in the woods, searching for Evan around the infirmary. Or maybe he was waiting for them at the boat, hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce when they showed up.

The boat was their only possibility of escape, so that seemed most likely. Just wait them out …

And meanwhile, where was Tyler?

If he was helping Ben because he still believed Ben was really Evan or because of some promise Ben had made not to be hurt, he must be around here somewhere, too.

As far as Jeff knew, Ben might already have found Evan and silently killed him. He didn’t need a gun. He could have gotten a knife or some other weapon from the dining hall. This very second, Evan might be lying face down on the water-soaked sand, leaking blood that washed away in the runoff rainwater.

Tension and frustration coiled inside Jeff until he could no longer stand it. He broke cover and moved toward the dining hall. No matter what was going on, he had to act fast. One way or another, Ben and probably Tyler were going to be coming for him.

His feet made loud slopping sounds on the muddy ground as he approached the side of the building. Water gurgled as it ran off the roof, overflowing the gutters and pounding the ground into a muddy mess. Jeff went to one of the windows and, easing himself up cautiously, looked inside.

The glow of firelight seemed to mock him. The piles of clothing and bedding, all spread out in an arc around the blaze, looked so comfortable and innocent Jeff found it all but impossible to believe he was engaged in a fight for his life. Seeing what had been so normal until a short time ago filled him with an odd sense of unreality.

Come on … Just do what you gotta do,
he told himself.

Still, he didn’t dare move. Narrowing his eyes,
he stretched out his senses, trying to feel where Ben was, but the heightened perceptions were dulled again, if not gone. All he felt now was fear—fear that he and Evan weren’t going to survive … fear that Ben was going to outsmart him and kill them both … if Evan wasn’t already dead back on the beach.

Fighting a dark wave of despair, Jeff sneaked around to the side porch, keeping his back to the building. His heart was racing so fast it felt like the cold hands were wrapped around his throat and squeezing.

He hesitated at the foot of the porch when he looked up and saw the still, silent form of Mike, sprawled on his back next to the railing. Jeff was almost too afraid to walk past his dead friend, but he couldn’t waste any more time. Something—he had no idea what—was happening down on the beach. Either Evan had the boat and was preparing to launch, or else he was dead, and Ben was coming for him.

Sucking in his breath and holding it, Jeff stepped up onto the porch. The rotting wood sagged beneath his weight. Rusty nails made dull squeaking sounds as they pulled out of the wood. Jeff couldn’t stop glancing at Mike’s body, unable to believe his friend was really dead. And Fred’s was lying stone cold just inside the doorway.

This can’t be happening.

As he stepped over Mike’s corpse, Jeff half-expected him to roll over and grab him by the ankle before pulling him down … down to join him in death.

“
Fuck this shit,” Jeff whispered as he jumped over the body and quickly entered the building. He didn’t even pause to note Fred’s body, where they had laid it in the hallway by the restroom door.

The smell of wood smoke tingled his nose, almost making him sneeze. The blast of warmth embraced him as if he had just stepped into a hot sauna, but he didn’t have time to luxuriate in the heat. He had to grab what he needed and get the hell out of here before Ben caught him.

As he rounded the corner into the main dining room, the sudden brightness after being outside in the dark for so long stung his eyes. He stumbled over something on the floor and almost fell. Wheeling around and dropping into a defensive crouch, he expected to see Ben standing there, gloating over how easily he had fallen into his trap.

What he saw instead was worse.

Much worse.

Tyler was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him. His head was hanging at an awkward angle to one side.

It was obvious he was dead.

A wide wash of liquid as dark as used motor oil covered the front of his jacket. His face was as pale as bone. Even the orange glow of the fire didn’t make it look warm. His tongue was hanging out of the side of his mouth like something he had been trying to eat and then spit back up. His eyes—wide open and glistening in the firelight—stared sightlessly at the floor. Even so, Jeff felt as though Tyler was looking straight at him, silently accusing him and pleading, as
king
Why … why did this have to happen to me?

“Because you fucked up,
my friend,” Jeff whispered as he knelt down beside Tyler. Shivering at the touch, he closed his friend’s eyes. There was nothing more he could do for him.

Tyler’s throat had been sliced from ear to ear. The blood no longer flowed from the wound, but it was still warm and sticky to the touch. He couldn’t have been dead long.

So it was down to the three of them—him, Evan, and Ben. The odds were still in Ben’s favor, but Jeff would see if he could change that.

But if he has a gun,
Jeff thought,
why didn’t he use it to kill Tyler?

Why slit his throat?

Is he low on ammunition … or maybe out?

Or did he not want to reveal himself with a gunshot?

Or had he enjoyed cutting Tyler’s throat?

These thoughts sent a chill through Jeff that bit deeper to the bone than the foul weather outside. If he had been any doubts before, this gruesome example of how far Ben would go made it clear just how dangerous the situation was.

Jeff took a shuddering breath, wincing at the stink of death that filled the room. Then he stood up. He had to move fast.

Keeping in a low crouch so Ben wouldn’t see him through the windows if he was outside, he went over to his pile of things and quickly rifled through them. His hands were shaking out of control, and his teeth were chattering as he grabbed his car keys, cell phone, and wallet, and stuffed them into his pants pockets. He ran to the corner of the room where they had stashed their supply of booze and grabbed an unopened bottle of rum. Before sliding it into his coat pocket, he couldn’t resist breaking the seal, screwing off the cap, and raising the bottle to his mouth.

He took a bigger gulp than expected. The liquor ran from the corners of his mouth and filled his chest and belly with blast furnace warmth so strong it staggered him. He narrowed his eyes, allowing the flickering glow in the room to shatter into thousands of wavering points of light.

He took another, smaller swig of rum, telling himself it was all he could allow himself. He had to stay sharp, focused. His hands were still shaking as he grabbed a clean, dry sweatshirt and T-shirt, shucked off his wet jacket, and slid the fresh clothes on. He considered putting on some dry pants. The one he was wearing were so saturated they practically slid off his hips, but he didn’t dare take any more time than absolutely necessary. He rolled up two pairs of pants and two pairs of dry socks, and stuffed them inside his jacket, zipping it up and hoping they would stay dry enough until he and Evan had a chance to change into them.

As he turned to leave, he noticed the cooking utensils Ben had used to prepare their meals. After a quick search, he realized the heavy carving knife was missing.

Of course it’s gone!

That’s what Ben used to slice Tyler’s throat.

Jeff shivered but resisted the temptation to take another shot of rum. He looked around one last time, feeling like there was something he was forgetting, but didn’t see anything else he could use. He didn’t want to overburden himself with too much stuff, anyway. If he and Evan got the drop on Ben, they could come back and take all the time they wanted to eat, drink, dry out, and warm up in front of the fire before they went to the mainland and notified the cops about what had happened out here.

“
First things first,” he whispered, and his first priority was to find Evan and see what they could do about getting the boat.

* * *

Jeff felt as though he had been inside the dining hall for a long time, at least an hour, but he realized it must have been less than five minutes.

A lot could have happened in that time, though.

Ben hadn’t come for him, so that meant he likely was down on the shore, waiting with the boat. Darting from tree to tree and keeping to the shadows, Jeff ran to the beach where, earlier today—

Was it really today and not a couple of years ago?

—
they had beached the boat after their aborted cruise around the island.

Jeff was all the more convinced Ben had faked the engine failure as part of his plan to isolate them. It might be a vain hope that they could get the boat going, but he clung to it, thi
nking
maybe … just maybe …

The raging wind tore through the trees overhead, making the branches click as they swayed wildly back and forth. Gus
ts of wind drove into his face, chilling him. The rushing sound of wind filled the night, masking all other sounds. As Jeff looked around, hoping to catch some sign of Evan, he wondered why he no longer had that intense feeling of altered senses.

Had it been an illusion brought on by anxiety and tension, or had it been real? Had he been in touch with something magical or supernatural?

It was easy to imagine he had been transformed, that somehow Hobomock or some other ancient force of the forest had taken him over and given him the strength and perceptions he needed.

Now, it was gone, faded away, and he was what he had always been—a mere human who, even though he was out of shape and unprepared for this, was fighting for survival.

As he stared at the mist-covered lake, he wished he could get back in touch with whatever that feeling had been. He wished he could feel and hear and see and smell the night, but now, when he stared into the misty night, all he could see was darkness. A cold, terrible fear wrapped around his heart like a snake and squeezed.

There was nothing he could do for Fred, Mike, or Tyler, but he
had
to survive … He had an obligation to live and save himself and Evan, if he cou
ld. If it came down to it, he knew he would sacrifice Evan, too, but he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

As he approached the beach, he knew his options were limited. He would go down to the water’s edge and then move up the beach until he came to the boat. The mist closed in around him, and he could see no more than thirty or forty feet in any direction. All he knew was, the boat was up ahead. It had to be. The only real question was—who would be there when he got there—Evan or Ben?

As he ran, his feet sank into the wet sand and kicked up grit behind him. Waves stirred up by the wind hissed on the sand. He ran in a low crouch, thinking he would offer as small a target as possible if he bumped into Ben first. Before he saw anything, though, he heard a sound from up ahead.

A loud hissing, grinding sound and a faint splash.

It sounded like someone sliding something heavy—a boat, perh
aps—across the sand.

Please … please be Evan,
he thought desperately as he slowed his pace
and approached more cautiously. Through swirls of mist, he saw the dark bulk of the boat up ahead and someone—he couldn’t tell who it was—moving around on it. He resisted the urge to call out. If it was Ben, the only response would be gunfire.

He stopped short and, scooching down, watched as the person struggled with an oar, trying to push the boat out onto the lake. Waves slapped against the side of the boat, rocking it as the person struggled to cast off.

Je
ff didn’t move as he watched and waited.

It
had
to be Evan.

Ben would have no reason to be taking the boat out.

But if it was Evan, where had he gotten the oars?

Ben wasn’t so stupid he would have left them on the boat … Was he?

Maybe, in all the confusion, he hadn’t had time to take them.

Jeff stared into the swirling fog as it congealed in thick, white clots. He imagined he saw several figures, darting elusively in and out of view.

Is that Ben, or is it the unsettled spirit of Jimm
y Foster?

Come on,
Jeff told himself.
Get a goddamned grip!

No matter how much he tried to tell himself his imagination was getting carried away, he was all but convinced he could sense if not actually see presences nearby.

If it’s the ghost of Jimmy Foster, is he angry … or sad … or lonely?

Maybe he was trying to communicate with Jeff and tell him how, after being out here all alone for so long, he was glad someone had remembered him and come back to join him.

The fog muffled whatever sounds Evan or Ben was making on the boat. All Jeff could see was a dark silhouette looming out of the mist. He got a quick, horrifying image of Charon, the boatman, preparing to ferry him and Evan across the River Styx to the Land of the Dead.