The SUV punched into us from behind, this time harder. I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead and my pulse banging through my body. There seemed to be no escape as our car—and our lives—went out of control.
I checked the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of them coming up on us again, fast. They moved alongside us, just enough to nudge the side of the car with their front bumper. I fought for control of the wheel as they started to force us off the road again. Beyond it was a drop. We were riding the shoulder now, loose gravel flying up against the car’s undercarriage, the SUV now right alongside us, preventing us from getting back onto the road. I wondered how much longer until we went over the edge.
And then with a final burst of power, the SUV sent us right off.
Our car went down diagonally across the steep embankment. All I could do was hang onto the wheel and try to keep us at an angle rather than heading nose-first straight down the slope.
We finally hit the bottom, crashing into a dense group of scrub brush that brought us to a stop. My hands were clenched so tightly on the steering wheel that they had cramped closed.
Complete silence.
I wasn’t sure if I’d been hurt, felt no pain, but knew the power of shock, how it can have a numbing effect. I’d just narrowly escaped a bleeding crisis with the dog, now I was facing yet another.
Just the thought was enough to renew my panic. As soon as my hands relaxed, I felt around my body, furiously patting my clothes like a man who’d lost a wallet full of hundreds.
The words repeated in my head as I kept checking for blood.
And then, relief: pants, shirt, head, neck, and arms all dry. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath; it felt like the first one since this whole thing had started.
But that relief had a very short shelf life. Panic returned when I glanced over at CJ: head back, mouth wide open, unconscious. Blood spilled down the side of her head.
“CJ!” I yelled, then leaned over and grabbed her shoulder. “Can you hear me? CJ?”
No response.
I fumbled in my pocket for my cell phone to call for help.
And noticed the single drop of blood on the seat between my legs.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Random images often invade my dreams. Some I can identify, others are elusive. Dark, formless, and gritty, they slip through the folds of my inner consciousness; most leave as quickly as they come, but the ones that stay with me seem so real…I can feel them, smell them, sense their emotional charge. It’s as if they speak to me in a language that doesn’t use words.
I’ve had these dreams since I was a kid. Don’t know why. Don’t understand them.
The dream about the woods is the most frequent, the most vivid, the most disturbing. I’m flying through a forest face down. Rain is falling hard, loud claps of thunder slapping at the air, water filtering though the trees and soaking my body. As I continue, I realize there is blood—lots of it—dripping onto the forest floor, covering the dead, wet leaves. The farther along I move, the more the blood seems to pour, until finally, the ground beneath me is a rich velvety red.
In the distance, I hear a voice, like someone singing. It echoes through the trees. Haunts me. Sounds like a little girl or—I’m not sure who it is. I can barely make out the words:
Then I am standing in the middle of a clearing, with a little boy blocking my way. He smiles and motions for me to follow him, turns to head deeper into the woods. His back is horribly disfigured: gnarled flesh with two gaping wounds from shoulder to waist. I ask him what happened, and he tells me he was once an angel, but someone ripped the wings from his body.
And then the dream jumps again, and we are standing together on a bridge, overlooking a stream. He stares at the water, his expression sad and troubled. I look too; and as I do, something powerful shoves me forward. I burst through the railing. Everything is happening in slow motion as I sail through air, pieces of wood flying all around me. I see the bridge above me. The little boy is no longer there; instead, watching me, laughing, is my mother.
I begin my downward spiral.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I threw my hands up to my face, ran my palms over it, and felt something wet. I checked my face in the rearview mirror. There was a gash above my eye, no more than a half-inch long; but there’s no such thing as a small cut in my world. For the first time since childhood, I was broken open, my blood betraying me. I felt it trickling down the side of my head and neck now, faster, faster. How long before I bled to death? Minutes? Seconds?
I heard a wild scream, and for a split second, thought it came from me.
Soon firemen and paramedics were sliding down into the ditch. They pulled the doors open. One group began loading CJ on a stretcher. Another reached for me. I had my hand pressed tightly against the wound; I could feel my palm full of blood, and my shirt was wet. “I’m a Type Three VWD!” I said to the nearest paramedic.
He yelled up the hill with urgency, “Get me some Desmopressin! We’ve got a bleeder here!”
By the time they got us to the E.R., they’d managed to slow the bleeding but couldn’t make it stop completely. Desmopressin has its limitations for certain people; apparently, I’m one of them. Next line of defense: Factor Concentrate, a stronger agent that would hopefully shut down the flow.
After several minutes, it did. They closed the wound, then took me to radiology to check for internal bleeding. Thankfully, everything came up negative. I was out of the woods. Such a tiny hole, and yet so dangerous.
A tiny hole that could kill me.
Luckily, I hadn’t lost enough blood to cause any serious problems, but it was a reminder of just how fragile I was, how vulnerable.
After checking my vitals to be sure I was stable, they parked me in the waiting room. I sat there wringing my hands, worrying about CJ, and trying to process the past few hours. Someone had just tried to kill us.
I wasn’t sure—all I did know was this wouldn’t be the last of it. Whoever was coming after us would continue until the job was done, until we were out of the picture.
I buried my head in my hands for a moment, then I heard my name. Looked up and saw the doctor gazing down at me, his expression one of concern. Just over his shoulder, I spotted the last person I wanted to see right now: Baker heading toward us at a rapid clip, his expression revealing not a trace of concern, only that suspicious glare I was growing accustomed to.
“Mr. Bannister?” the doctor repeated.
I took my attention away from Baker and gave it to the doctor.
