Listening to his gut had gotten Finn out of dicey situations before. Now it was telling him to slip away before that intense woman caught him gawking at her.
He studied the notes on his map. The project logs had been written in German. Preparing Finn for the eventual day he’d have access to them, Rollie had spoken the language to him throughout his childhood. Hopefully Finn hadn’t mistranslated a critical detail.
Resisting the urge to pull off his sweaty T-shirt, Finn inventoried the three decrepit buildings within view, then spotted a rusted chain-link fence draped in porcelain berry, a vine that grew almost a foot a day. Beyond the barrier stretched a blanket of ivy, interspersed with Norway maples. It had to be the tennis court, which meant the woman was showering in the staff house.
According to the diagram, he’d need to cut across a meadow to reach his kayak, while watching out for Giftefeu (poison ivy). Rollie had noted its presence on his map.
A sharp gust zipped past Finn’s ear.
Lodged in the trunk of the cottonwood, a surgical scalpel vibrated only inches from his head.
He raised his hands to protect his face.
The knife had come from behind; he spun to locate its owner.
Above, the leaves shook from seagulls and ospreys taking flight.
Despite their cawing, the forest seemed quiet. Oddly and creepily so.
Her singing had stopped, he realized.
The air whistled again, and a second scalpel hit the wood with a thwack. He ducked into the foliage and yanked his pack in front of his chest. Shielding his eyes, he studied the knife suspended in the tree. This one had been thrown from a different direction; there had to be at least two assailants.
If these same men had caused her scars, Finn had to get the hell out of there.
But how could he leave her, assuming she was still alive?
At the start of his second year in the Peace Corps, he’d requested reassignment to the civilian relief effort in war-torn Ivory Coast. The night the rebels took control of Danané, he’d seen what could happen to those left behind. It still caused nightmares and regret.
Cold sweat dripped from his brow.
The forest was too still; he was being watched.
He tasted blood and realized he’d bitten his tongue. Another scalpel could whiz through the air, this time landing in an eye or the back of his head. Unlike all those who’d been incinerated or transported to Potter’s Field on Hart Island, his body would rot where it landed.
If Finn had respected his father’s ruling that North Brother had become too risky, he wouldn’t now be defenseless and alone, about to die on a deserted island surrounded by eight million people.
The faint hum of traffic underscored the proximity of help; so close, yet so far.
He knew his best option was to flee. Surveying the greenery, he spotted the tennis court fence that marked his escape route. Yet he didn’t bolt.
Either his invisible enemies were defending the woman, or they wanted to kill her, too. Assuming they hadn’t already sliced her throat, Finn and she, together, might be able to make it to his kayak. The currents would quickly carry them beyond the range of those blades.
With the daylight, a patrol might notice them leaving, but he’d gladly take an illegal trespassing charge over death.
A pokeberry plant blocked his view of the decaying bathroom. He eased aside a long, thin cluster of dark berries, revealing only more vegetation. He would have to get closer.
Shifting his pack onto his back, he realized that he’d dropped his sketchbook and turned to reach for it.
The air trilled.
A third scalpel—this one from above—stabbed the moleskin cover. Protecting his face with his hands, he looked up.
On a thick branch, almost directly overhead, perched the woman.
Her blue eyes were trained on the bridge of his nose as if she were a sharpshooter scoping her target.
So she is on their side, he thought, but what are they doing here?
Barely blinking, she continued to stare at him.
He averted his attention.
Droplets landed on a bracket fungus, darkening its orange hue. Finn peered upward, realizing they’d fallen from her hair, now in a loose ponytail. She was wearing a faded tank top, khakis, and men’s steel-toed boots. Even with the racket of the birds, he should have heard her climbing the tree.
If he grabbed the weapon wedged in his book, he knew she’d react swiftly. He dared not rifle through his pack for his utility knife.
“I’m unarmed,” he said, showing his palms.
“I’m not.”
Silver glinted near her ear, and Finn distinguished an olive-green work glove from the leaves partially shielding her head. She was holding a scalpel. With a flick of her wrist, she could lodge it in his skull.
Finn leaped backward. Despite the plants around him, there was no place to hide. “I didn’t see anything.” He raised his hands. “I swear.”
“You saw plenty.”
He winced. “I meant—I’m sorry. It was dark. I didn’t even . . . whatever you guys are doing here; it’s your business.”
“Guys?”
He scrutinized the foliage again. “You mean you’re all women?” Dread gushed into his stomach as he pictured other women with similar scars and equal anger.
“No,” she said in a stiff tone. “I was refuting your use of the plural.”
To have thrown all those scalpels, she would have needed to be in three places practically at once. Or impossibly quick. “That can’t be.”
“I wish it weren’t the case,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. Keeping the knife raised, she settled into the crook of the branch.
Finn sensed an opportunity to retreat. Using his bag as a shield, he unfolded his long body. “I’m going to back away slowly, get in my kayak, and forget this ever happened.”
From this higher vantage point, he
