She could tell instantly that he was dead. His eyes were blank, his mouth slack. His right temple had been battered and was now a caved-in, bloody mess. Pieces of what seemed to be tree bark protruded from the wound. At the top of his head was another wound, caked with blood.
“No, no,” Phoebe wailed, and choked back tears. Ginger scooted from behind her and tried to lick Hutch’s face. Phoebe grabbed the dog in her arms and struggled back up to a standing position. She had to call the police—but first she needed to get the hell out of there. She would call 911 once she was in her car and safely out onto the road.
She turned from Hutch’s body and started to cross the floor, careful where she stepped. She noticed for the first time that flames were dancing in the wood-burning stove, and it was piled with logs, as if Hutch had filled it only a short time ago. Instantly her brain processed the fact: This just happened. Her legs felt rubbery. Get out, get out, she told herself.
And then, directly above her, a floorboard groaned.
She froze in terror. Ginger began to squirm in her arms again, this time more forcibly, and then let out a sharp, tiny bark. Someone was up there, Phoebe realized, directly above her. Was it the retriever? she wondered. But it had sounded too heavy for a dog. No, she told herself, her mind strangely clear and precise. It’s the killer.
She didn’t dare go back through the front hallway—the stairs leading to the upper floor were there. Instead she lurched through the living room into the kitchen. The radio was playing music now, a peppy song that seemed absurd to her in light of everything. Phoebe flung open the kitchen back door and clattered down the steps.
It was pitch-dark out back, except for a faint glow from the kitchen light and some illumination from a sliver of moon. With Ginger still in her arms, she tore across the yard and into the first few feet of the woods that rimmed the back of the house. If only she could reach her car, she thought frantically, but by the time she made her way around to the front of the cabin, the killer might be down the stairs and outside the house. She had no choice but the woods, where at least she had the cover of darkness.
She plunged deeper into the trees. What little light the moon cast was obscured now by the dense branches. She could see almost nothing, just the bare outlines of things directly in front of her. She was wearing boots, at least, which made it easier to scramble over tree roots and logs, but the ground was also covered with mounds of dead leaves, and they made a whooshing noise with each movement of her legs. She was afraid the killer would hear her, know where she’d gone. When she was about twenty yards into the woods, she stopped to catch her breath. And to listen.
There wasn’t a sound now. The wind had stopped momentarily, Ginger was quiet, too—as if she knew she mustn’t make a peep—though Phoebe could feel the rapid beating of the little dog’s heart. Phoebe raised the dog slightly, so she could reach into her shoulder bag with her left hand and dig for her phone. Just as she’d managed to unsnap the purse, she heard a noise from back where the cabin was. It was the whooshing sound of someone else moving through the dead leaves.
God, no, please, Phoebe pleaded to herself. She began to move again, but slower this time, trying not to make noise. Branches snagged at her jeans and the sleeves of her coat, and one whipped across her face, stinging her. Still moving, she stuck her hand in her bag and rummaged desperately for her phone. Finally she felt its smooth surface and grabbed it. She quickly pounded in 9-1-1.
“Help me,” she told the operator in a whisper. “I’m in the woods, and someone is after me.”
“Can you speak up, ma’am, I can’t hear you.”
“I’m in the woods,” she hissed. “Behind Seven—um, Seven-ninety Horton Road. There’s been a murder, and the killer is after me.”
“Can you describe your location?”
“No—it’s just in the woods. Behind the house. Please, I can’t talk anymore. He’ll hear me. Just send someone.”
“I’m dispatching the police, ma’am. Please, leave your phone on.”
“Okay,” Phoebe said breathlessly.
She began to move again and realized that her feet were soaking wet. Glancing down, she saw that she was in mud, moving along the edge of a small stream. Behind her to the right, she could still hear the whooshing sound. Go faster, she screamed to herself. Faster.
The woods were deeper now, even thicker with trees. She could see only a foot ahead of her, and she was constantly forced to look down, to watch the ground for logs and underbrush. With a jerk, a branch suddenly snared the sleeve of her jacket and wouldn’t let go. Her fingers raced in a frenzy over the fabric as she tried to free herself. Finally she just yanked her body away. The sound of the fabric tearing seemed to carry through the woods. But beyond it she heard something else. Somewhere, off to the left, was the distant sound of cars passing by. The road, she thought. If she could reach it, she could flag down a car for help.
The whooshing sound behind her had stopped. Had the killer given up chasing her? She turned around, to be sure. At first all she saw were endless black trees, but then, as her eyes adjusted, she spotted a figure. The person, with a head as smooth as a bulb, stood on a rise not far behind her, illuminated slightly by the moon. Then the person began to move.
“He’s right behind me,” she nearly moaned into the phone. And then she screamed into the night, “I’ve called the police. They’re coming.” Ginger let out a low growl that made her whole little body hum.
Phoebe picked up her pace, forced every few seconds to catch herself from stumbling. Just get to the road, she told herself. The car sounds had receded. She stopped for a split second, just trying to listen. Close by, came the deep, shuddering sound of a truck moving. There, she told herself, and hurled herself forward.
Suddenly she seemed to be in midair, her feet no longer in touch with the ground. Two seconds later she landed hard, and she was rolling, rolling, rolling, over rocks and stumps and logs. She tried to hold on to Ginger, but seconds later she felt the dog being yanked from her. There was a crunching sound next, and pain shot through her arm and her head. Then it seemed as if she was under water, swimming slowly toward a place far away.
There was nothing next, just darkness and silence. And then a light was forcing her eyes open, making her head ache even more. It was from the beam of a flashlight, she realized. Someone was crouching just to her right. Her heart lurched. Was it the killer? But as she tried to lift herself, she saw that the person with the light was in uniform. A policeman. She let her head flop back onto the ground. She realized that she’d passed out, clearly for more than a minute or two.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he told her. He said something else, but she couldn’t hear the words, and she closed her eyes. She just wanted to sleep, even though she was wet and cold.
“Miss . . . miss.” It was the cop again, his voice stirring her.
“Yes?” she muttered, after struggling to open her eyes. She saw that there were now two cops, one just behind the other. Her head was pounding, and one of her arms ached badly, but she could barely tell which one. She began to shiver.
“An ambulance is on its way,” the cop said. “Try not to move, all right?”
Had she been trying to move? she wondered. She didn’t remember.
“Okay,” she said.
“Can you tell me your name?”
She had to think for a moment. “Phoebe,” she said finally. “Phoebe Hall . . . Where am I?”