She burrowed down again, in search of some particle of warmth left over from the morning sun.
She should have taken her gun down to the creek that morning. What morning was that, exactly? There had been no clocks at the little cabin in the canyon, and no calendar. Days had passed, but maybe weeks. She didn’t know anymore.
One thing she did know. The man who had killed her husband and kidnapped and raped her repeatedly was still after her. Her escape had been an affront to his pride, and if she had any doubt of his determination to keep her forever, it had been banished by the sight of those wooden markers.
All Elaines. He had called her Elaine. All those Elaines. Twelve. My god, twelve of them. Twelve women before her. Had he kidnapped them all? Raped them all? Buried them all? Fashioned markers for them all? Why had no one noticed? Why had no one cared? There were mothers there, she was sure of it, daughters, nieces, aunts. Why had no one come looking for them? Where were their fathers, their mothers, their sisters and brothers? Where were their friends? Where were the police, and the state troopers, and the FBI? Where wasAmerica’s Most Wanted? Where wasCops? Where was60 goddamnMinutes?
She knew one more thing. Wounded, cold, hungry, huddled beneath a few branches and leaves, hundreds of miles from help, her own death one degree in temperature away, she knew she was luckier than anyone buried beneath those perfect wooden markers at the head of that perfect little canyon, a quick walk from the front door of that perfect little house.
Something rumbled in the pit of her belly. At first she thought it was a reaction to the rabbit. It took a moment to recognize it as anger, an emotion she had last felt aimed at Mark. She shied away from the memory at first, but it was such a tiny presence, barely a spark. She wrapped her arms around her middle and curled around it, creating a protective shield. The spark caught and grew, warming her.
If he doesn’t catch me.
If I don’t starve to death.
If I don’t die of exposure.
If I make it out of here.
If all those things, it will be because of you, Elaine.
The words ran through her mind again and again and at some point the “if” changed, faded, disappeared.
I won’t let him catch me.
I won’t starve to death.
I won’t die of exposure.
I will make it out of here.
I will beat him, Elaine.
I will beat him for you.
Here it was in the middle of the first fall storm, and his Elaine was right out in the middle of it. She wasn’t strong enough to brave the wind and the rain, and if his weather sense was not mistaken-and it hardly ever was-it would snow before morning. He bent his head against the storm and plodded patiently on.
She had to have water, and it had to be running water, so she had to stay close to the drainage system. Really, it was simply a matter of following her downhill, and she left enough tumbled rocks, broken branches and trampled grass to make that easy enough. He was worried, though; she had no jacket, no gloves, no sleeping bag. The highbush cranberry patch hadn’t been that big, and cranberries would not sustain her for long. She was probably hungry. His heart ached for her. Poor little girl.
Yes, of course, she had been naughty, and she had to be punished. She had broken a rule and she would have to pay for it. She always did.
Still, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. He’d seen three bears and at least a dozen moose. She had been lucky enough so far, but it was only a matter of time before she ran into something she couldn’t handle. He would be there for her.
Kind but firm, that was the best way. She would be nervous, perhaps even a little rebellious at first, but that was only natural. Deep down, she knew how things were.
And if she had forgotten, he would have to teach her.
Again.
He smiled into the upturned collar of his jacket, and plodded on.
Newenham, September 6
“You’re not going,” Liam said.
Wy looked at him, her face empty of all expression. “That’s my son up there. You can’t stop me.” She walked over to the map of southwest Alaska. They’d driven to the post with Prince, who was standing with her arms folded, shaking her head.
Wy pointed. “The airstrip for the Old Man Creek fish camp is Portage Creek. The fish camp is about four miles downriver from the strip. Moses keeps his skiff at Portage, but it’ll be at the fish camp now.”
“So even if you are crazy enough to get in the air in the first place,” Prince said, “and even if you’re lucky enough to get down in one piece, you’ve got to get from the airstrip to the fish camp. How?”
“There will be a boat. There’s always a skiff, somebody’s dory, something that floats that somebody leaves behind.”
“You don’t know that for sure. What if you get out there and this is the first time there isn’t? And what makes you so sure anyone is heading in that direction anyway? That’s a hell of a long way to hike through a storm. Especially when there are other settlements along the way.”
“Look,” Wy said, her tone so patient that Prince gritted her teeth. “Dead woman at Kagati Lake. Dead man at Rainbow. Dead man at Nenevok Creek. Connect the dots.” She snapped her fingers impatiently and Liam tossed her a pen. She drew a line between the three settlements. “Old Man Creek is the only dry ground on the Scandinavian Slough besides Portage Creek, and the creek is on the wrong side of the slough. The rest of the area is just one big swamp. Everyone in the Bay and on the river knows this, and by now she has to know that everyone in the Bay and on the river knows that some nutcase is killing people. The river is the best road out of here, she hits it, steals a boat, floats downstream and is home free. It’s logical for her to head in that direction.”
“You keep saying ‘her’ and ‘she,’ like one person killed all three people and that person is Rebecca Hanover,” Prince said. “She wasn’t anywhere near Kagati Lake. She couldn’t have killed Opal Nunapitchuk. And she didn’t have any reason to, no motive, nothing. Not to mention which, you just got done painting the most heartrending picture of Little Miss City Girl, who doesn’t know squat about surviving a trek through the Bush. How is she supposed to know where she’s going? What does she think she’s going to find when she gets there?”
Wy’s temper flared. “Look. There is a trail of bodies on a line heading southeast. The last body reported found-and please note we have no idea if it’s the last body to be found-is lying twelve miles from Old Man Creek. You’re right, I don’t know that Rebecca Hanover killed her husband, let alone Opal or Peter. Hell, for all we know, maybe she’s got a lover, maybe they’re in it together, maybe he killed Opal and Pete to make it look like there is a crazed killer on the loose. I don’t know and I don’t care. I am not taking any chances with Tim’s safety.” She tossed Liam’s pen back. He snatched it out of the air before it skewered his eye. “I don’t care what the two of you do or don’t do. I’m getting in the air and I’m going to Portage Creek. I’ll find a way to Old Man Creek when I get there.”