My decision was made for me when I heard the sound of the Blazer coming up the drive. I began my descent. I slipped and slid a couple of times, but made it down to the creek. I heard the doors of the Blazer slam shut. I crawled until I was under a bush that I hoped would hide me from their view, and waited, feeling myself break out into a cold sweat.
Within minutes, I heard an almost animal cry, a screaming wail of denial and grief that I knew was Raney’s. He sobbed Devon’s name again and again in loud cries. I felt it go all the way through me. I had killed Devon to survive, but I didn’t rejoice in it.
Soon I heard his cries turn to rage. “I’m going to kill that fucking bitch! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!”
Another voice, the Goat. Lower, calmer. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Raney began screaming again. “Fuck you! Fuck you! This is your fault! This is all your fault! Oh God, Devon!”
There was a gunshot.
Had one of them killed the other? No, after a moment I could hear their voices again. Raney’s much quieter now. Then the sound of the truck starting and driving off. Had they left?
I heard someone moving around outside. The hair on my neck stood on end. I could taste my own fear. I listened. Nothing.
I waited a long time. Still nothing. Slowly, I pulled myself down to the creek, rinsing my face, calming myself. I felt for the knife, but realized I must have lost it in the fall down the slope. With small, careful movements, I made my way along the creek bed, trying to stay out of the view of the cabin. I would survive. There were trees up ahead that would hide me better.
“THAT’S FAR ENOUGH,” a voice said in front of me.
28
HE WAS POINTING a gun at me. There was no need for a mask now. I would be dead soon, so why bother? Still, I was surprised. I had guessed wrong.
“Hello, Paul,” I said, as if I were meeting him at a church social instead of after being his prisoner. And now his prisoner again.
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it, and said, “You’re going to very much regret what you’ve done, Irene. Devon was my cousin. I loved him very much.”
“As much as you loved your grandmother?”
I should have known what his response to that would be. Runs in the family. His blow to my face brought me to my knees. He put the gun up against my forehead and told me to stand up.
“Can’t. You’ll have to help me. Your beloved cousin did too much damage to my ankle.”
His help wasn’t gentle. As he reached to grab my shoulders, I saw a set of white ridges on his wrists. It was not a tattoo of a goat that Sammy had seen after all — she had recognized the scars of Paul Fremont’s teenage suicide attempt.
He dragged me between the trees and up a slope that wasn’t as steep as the one I had slid down. I was beyond being able to resist physically. I decided I wouldn’t cry if I could help it. No tears, and no yelling or screaming. No telling him where the journal is. I had my rules in place by the time he let me fall into a heap in the clearing in front of the cabin.
I dreaded the possibility of being put back into the room with Devon’s body, but Paul didn’t take me inside. He stood over me a long while, as if deciding a course of action. I lay unmoving, as much from exhaustion as from fear.
He moved behind me, pressed the gun to my head, and flattened me to the ground by placing a knee into my back. My left arm was pinned beneath me. He grabbed my right wrist, pulling my arm up into my back.
“Uncle,” I said, wincing.
He pulled it harder.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Without saying anything, he eased the pressure off it, moved it around so that my hand was to the side of my head. He held tightly to my wrist, pressing it to the ground. He kept the gun up against the back of my ear. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted me to do.
My shoulder was on fire, having been stretched as far as it would go. Or so I thought. He proved me wrong by suddenly yanking my wrist up into the air with all his might. I felt a burning, tearing sensation. My shoulder, leaving its socket. Tears came to my eyes unbidden, but my teeth remained clenched, so I managed not to scream. He laughed and laughed.
“When Frank Harriman finds you, lady, you are going to be broken into so many pieces it will take all day to count them. Think about that.”
What I thought of was a string of obscenities. I was drenched in sweat. I felt close to passing out. I longed to. I didn’t.
He grabbed my right hand, never moving the gun from my head. He bent my right thumb part way back. My shoulder hurt so much, it was amazing to me that I could feel him pull at my thumb.
“You know what’s coming, don’t you?”
I did, but I didn’t answer him.
When he broke the thumb, I broke my rule about crying out. The scream was something that seemed to happen on its own.
It was as that scream died that I heard the sound of a motor. Someone coming up the drive.
He heard it too. “Raney’s back. Now I’ll have to share some of this fun with him. If I can keep him from killing you outright.”
But I knew he was wrong. I had learned the sound of the truck, and this was not the truck. Hope rose up against my pain. The sound stopped before the vehicle had reached the crest of the drive, and we heard doors
