Now, walking to the entrance of the garage, he scanned the area, taking in the scene. He saw the oaks and pines with kudzu climbing their trunks and noticed that the shadows had begun to lengthen. A hawk passed overhead, its outline flickering across the drive, and starlings called from the branches above. All else was quiet in the early summer heat.
But someone was watching him. Someone was out there, he was sure of it, and he flashed on an image of the shotgun he had buried beneath the oak tree near the corner of the house all those years ago — not deep, maybe a foot down, wrapped in oilcloth and sealed from the elements. Tuck had guns in the house, too, probably under his bed, but Dawson wasn’t sure they were warranted. There was nothing out here as far as he could tell, but in that instant a blur of movement flashed near a clump of trees on the far side of the drive.
When he tried to zero in on it, though, he saw nothing. He blinked, waiting for more and trying to decide whether it had been his imagination, when the hairs on the back of his neck slowly began to rise.
Ted moved cautiously, knowing that rushing in would be foolish. He suddenly wished he’d brought Abee along. Would have been good to have Abee close in from another direction. But at least Dawson was still up there, unless he’d decided to walk out of the place. Ted would have heard the car start up.
He wondered where Dawson was exactly. House or garage, or somewhere outside? He hoped he wasn’t inside; hard to get up to the house without being noticed. Tuck’s place was set in a small clearing, with the creek out back, but there were windows on all sides and Dawson might see him approach. In that case, it might be better if he hung back and waited until Dawson finally came out. Problem with that was Dawson could go out the front or the back, and Ted couldn’t be in two places at once.
What he really needed to do was cause a distraction. That way, when Dawson came out to investigate, he could wait until Dawson was close enough before pulling the trigger. He felt confident with the Glock up to about thirty feet.
What kind of distraction, though? That was the question.
He crept forward, avoiding the loose piles of rocks spreading out in front of him; this whole area of the county had marlstone everywhere. Simple but effective. Toss a few, maybe even clank one off the car or break a window. Dawson would come outside to check it out and Ted would be waiting.
He grabbed a handful of marlstone and shoved it in his pocket.
Dawson quietly made his way to the spot where he’d seen the movement, replaying the hallucinations he’d experienced since the explosion on the platform, thinking it all felt too familiar. He reached the edge of the clearing and peered into the woods, trying to calm the racing of his heart.
He stopped, hearing the starlings chirp, a hundred of them calling from the trees. Thousands, maybe. As a kid, he’d always been fascinated by the swarmlike way they would break from the trees when he clapped, as though they were tethered together. They were calling now, calling for something.
A warning?
He didn’t know. Beyond him, the forest was a living thing; the air was briny and thick with the scent of rotting wood. Branches of low-slung oaks crawled along the ground before reaching to the sky. Kudzu and Spanish moss obscured the world less than a few feet away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement again and turned quickly, his breath catching in his chest as a dark-haired man in a blue windbreaker stepped behind a tree. Dawson could hear the sound of his own thudding heartbeat in his ears. No, he thought, it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real, and he knew he was seeing things.
But pushing aside the branches, he followed the man deeper into the woods.
Getting close now, Ted thought. Through the foliage, he spotted the top of the chimney and he bent over, stepping carefully. No noise, no sounds. That was the key to hunting, and Ted had always been good at it.
Man or animal, it was all the same if the hunter was skilled enough.
Dawson pushed through the undergrowth, veering around trees. He was breathing hard as he tried to close the distance. Afraid to stop but growing more frightened with every passing step.
He reached the spot where he’d seen the dark-haired man and kept going, searching for any sign of him. Sweat poured off him, slicking his shirt to his back. He resisted the sudden urge to call out, wondering whether he could if he tried. His throat was like sandpaper.
The ground was dry, pine straw crackling underfoot. As he hopped over a fallen tree, he spotted the dark-haired man pushing through the branches, ducking behind a tree, his windbreaker flapping behind him.
Dawson broke into a flat-out run.
Ted had finally inched his way forward to the woodpile, which sat at the edge of the clearing. The house loomed directly behind it. From his vantage point, he could peer into the garage. The light was still on and Ted watched for almost a minute, looking for signs of movement. Dawson had been in there working on the car, he was almost sure of it. But he wasn’t there now, or anywhere out front.
He was either in the house or in the back. Ted ducked down, moving into the cover of the forest before circling around to the rear of the house. Not there, either. Retracing his steps, he made his way back to the woodpile. Still no sign of Dawson in the garage. Which meant he had to be in the house. Probably to get a drink, or maybe take a leak. Either way, he’d be out soon enough.
He settled in to wait.
Dawson saw the man a third time, this time closer to the road. He sprinted after him, the branches and bushes slapping at him, but couldn’t seem to close the distance. Panting, he gradually began to slow before coming to a stop at the edge of the road.
The man was gone. If, of course, he’d ever been in the woods at all, and Dawson suddenly wasn’t so sure about that. The prickling sensation of being watched had dissipated, as had the icy fear; all he was left with was a feeling of being hot and tired, with a sense of frustration and foolishness mixed in.
Tuck used to see Clara, and now Dawson was seeing a dark-haired man wearing a windbreaker in the early summer heat. Had Tuck been as crazy as he was? He stood still, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He was sure the man was following him, but if so, who was he? And what did the man want with him?
He didn’t know, but the more he tried to focus on what he’d actually seen, the more it began to slip away. Like dreams only minutes after waking, it faded, until he was no longer sure of anything.
He shook his head, glad he was nearly finished with the Stingray. He wanted to return to the bed-and-breakfast to take a shower and lie down and think about things. The dark-haired man, Amanda… ever since the accident on the rig, his life had been in upheaval. He looked in the direction he’d come, deciding there was no point in traipsing back through the woods. It would be easier to follow the road and just hike up the drive. Stepping onto the macadam, he started walking, only to notice an old truck parked off the road behind a clump of bushes.
He wondered what it was doing out here; there was nothing to be found in this part of the woods except for Tuck’s place. The tires weren’t flat, and though he supposed the truck could have broken down, whoever it was probably would have come up the drive in search of help. Stepping into the underbrush, Dawson noticed that the truck was locked; he reached over and placed his hand on its hood. Warm, but not hot. Probably been there for an hour or two.