descended.
And there comes a dot that must be the fucking Bronco-hurrying down the switchbacks.
Not too far back; speeding to make up for it.
Son of a bitch.
She gets back in the Jeep and adjusts the baby in her throbbing left arm and drives down off the hill. Ahead in the distance above the trees she can see the V-shaped sign of the Citgo station.
Once in the woods she begins to search for turnings and when she sees a mailbox ahead she eases her foot back on the gas.
No good; an old house trailer up on blocks with a huge TV antenna on top of it and a Volkswagen beetle parked nearby and a fat woman hanging the wash on a line.
No place to hide there. She drives on, anxiety climbing.
Two more driveways give access to small newish bungalows near the road. No hope there.
Another mailbox. The dirt driveway disappears into the trees to the left.
She takes it.
Not far in there’s a small old barn beside the drive. It looks like a one-time carriage barn or a two-horse stable; not big enough for real farm work. The wood has gone pewter colored since its last coat of paint. There’s a rusty plow beside it-the wheeled kind that’s meant to be pulled by a tractor. The barn door hangs ajar-open a foot and badly warped, sagging on the ground and leaning.
Just behind it a stream cuts through, disappearing into tangled growth.
She stops the Jeep in the weeds and sets Ellen down on the seat. “Stay put ten seconds, my love. Be right back.”
When she gets out of the Jeep the baby starts to wail again. “I’ll be right back, damn it.” She grasps the twisted edge of the barn door and bends it out far enough to make room for her head and shoulders.
Inside there are two splintered stalls on the right. The rest is an open floor-mud puddles and wet straw. It looks as if it’s been in disuse for years but it still carries a horsey pungency compounded by damp earth and rotten wood.
There’s room inside for the Jeep.
She tugs at the barn door but it’s badly warped and jammed against the earth. It doesn’t want to move. She kicks the damn thing and stands back yelling at it. Her curses blend with the baby’s outcries.
She gets back in at the wheel and picks up the baby. “Shush now. You’ll get all hoarse.” She rocks the baby. Then with an abruptness that startles her an invention penetrates past the rage of frustration.
Of course.
She starts the engine and jockeys it back and forth until she’s positioned the mangled wreckage of the front bumper beside the edge of the barn door. She locks the wheels sharp right and backs up, hooking the jagged ruin of the bumper against the door.
Use the horsepower of the Jeep to pull the damn door open.
It gives. But she hears something snap with a loud report.
She parks the Jeep inside. Grabs her handbag and the sack of baby things out of the back seat, collects the baby in her arms and climbs out.
When they emerge from the barn she sees that the noise she heard was the snapping of the rusty bottom hinge of the barn door. Opening it has scraped a raw fresh wound across the earth.
Damn.
Holding the baby she puts her back against the sagging door and leans into it, thrusting her heels into the earth. The door slides reluctantly shut. It’s tilted against the building now, the bottom skirt bent out a foot or so away from the sill; but it’ll do. You can’t see the Jeep from out here.
No choice but to spend two valuable minutes kicking leaves and twigs across the tracks left by the Jeep.
Only when she’s satisfied by the look of it does she hike away.
Hauling Ellen back through damp tangles under the trees she remembers the revolver but to hell with it. Not worth the bother to go back for it. There may not be time anyway.
That grinding noise. Is that the Bronco? Christ …
She swings around and peers back through the tangle, walking backward, feeling her way with one foot and then the other. She hears the Bronco slow down at the mailbox.
She can see a corner of the barn through there. Not the road, though.
It’s stopping. The damn Bronco is stopping.
Easy now. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
It’s starting up again. Going on along the road.
Thank God!
She soothes the baby, whispering to her, stroking her tiny forehead.
“Give them a couple minutes, darling,” she murmurs. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
Oh Jesus. Oh Christ.
60
She hears it back up and change gears and come forward into the lane. She hears it stop somewhere just beyond the barn.
Bastards.
The sudden silence. Terrifying. She holds her hand near the baby’s mouth, ready to clamp down if she must.
Does she hear voices or is it just her overstimulated imaginings?
That sagging corner of the barn-
If they come around there they’ll be able to see her.
Come on, fool. Get out of here.
She pokes a toe back behind her and all of a sudden the wet earth gives way and she’s sliding helplessly …
Slithering. Out of control on this slick muck.
Don’t panic it can’t be far.…
Instinct brings the baby protectively against her chest, arms shielding Ellen from the twigs and stones. But it’s a quick soft slide: a few feet of mud and her scrambling feet find purchase against polished stones.
She looks over her shoulder. The stream has parted around her boots. She’s got her feet in the water. It’s only six inches deep.
She hears, very loud, the snapping scrape of wood on earth and she knows instantly what it is: they’re opening the barn door.
It’ll take them five seconds to absorb what they’re looking at-the Jeep in the barn-and a few more seconds to realize she’s on foot and then they’ll start looking for her footprints and in this God-forsaken mud it won’t take them any time at all.…
She takes three paces upstream, turning rocks over with her boot toes, making a plainly visible swath. Then she turns, crouching, and moves downstream on careful feet, dislodging nothing, clutching the baby, murmuring in Ellen’s ear: “Old Injun trick, kid, you betchum.” Not for nothing did she sit through those awful Westerns with Daddy in the PX theaters.
She giggles.…
Hey. Calm down, Little Beaver, this ain’t no time to go all hysterical on me.
She ducks under a fallen trunk that lies jammed across the gully; she eels past the clutching arms of a bushy thicket, letting it slide back into place behind her.
Careful you don’t turn an ankle on these stones.
The stream bends around the exposed roots of a big maple. She picks her way over them, staying in the
