59
The ground began leveling out. Running, Jacob finally reached the darkness of the trees. The man chasing him was still gaining, but at least he couldn’t fire his gun while running. Dorothy was on his shoulders again, giving directions. The moon broke free from the clouds, showering the dark forest with tatters of silver light.
“Hard left!” Dorothy whispered.
Jacob veered left, whipping through some tall weeds, and found himself in the deep shadow of a long brick wall. This, he remembered, marked the beginning of the hop kiln ruins. He ran along the wall, keeping to the shadows. There was a gap up ahead that he and Sully used to go through. And there it was. He ducked through and raced across the overgrown field toward a row of ruined hop kilns, four of them, rising up like tall pyramids, their big metal doors hanging crookedly.
Jacob remembered that the farthest kiln was the most intact, with its iron door still on its hinges. Maybe they could shut themselves in. He ran toward it, vaulted another ruined wall, fought through some stinging nettles, and reached the brick platform. He ducked into the kiln, grabbed the door from the inside, and tried to shut it. But it was frozen with rust. He looked back out and saw that one of the men was already crossing the field, advancing more slowly and sweeping the area with his flashlight beam. He was joined by the second man, coming in from a different direction. They seemed to know that he had taken refuge in the kilns and were advancing more deliberately as a result.
Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea after all. He tried one more heave on the door and realized it was hopeless. If he tried to run, they’d see him. He retreated into the back part of the kiln. The brick floor had been built with gaps, and in places the bricks had fallen down, leaving holes into the lower part of the kiln. But the holes were still too narrow for him to get through.
“Put me down,” Dorothy said.
He put Dorothy down.
“Give me your flashlight.”
Jacob pulled out his flashlight. She took it and laid it down. With her two claws, Dorothy reached into the back of her head, into the gap left by the bullet, and began rummaging around.
“What are you doing?” Jacob whispered.
“I’m removing my audio board. It has a speaker on it. I won’t be able to talk after this. Two taps for yes, one for no.” She rummaged a bit more, used the screwdriver, and deftly removed her head—Jacob felt a momentary shock. She laid it on the ground in front of her and unscrewed a plastic plate. He wondered how she was able to see what she was doing with her head cut off, until he noticed she was doing it by feel, or at least by tapping with her fingers. Once the plate was removed, she delved inside, felt about, and with a quick motion pulled out a small circuit board with chips and a tiny speaker mounted on it. Then she put her head back on, with a deft turn and click. Next she unscrewed and took apart the flashlight, removing the bulb and the reflector and detaching some wires. With these she clumsily wired the circuit board to the flashlight.
Jacob saw a flash of light and peered out the open door of the kiln. He could see two flashlight beams moving at the far end of the row of kilns, and he could hear the murmur of voices. They were searching the kilns, one by one. Thank God they had started at the far end. But they would be where he and Dorothy were in minutes or less.
Dorothy took the wired circuit board and laid it carefully on the floor of the kiln, covering it loosely with dry weeds. Then she turned the flashlight on and tapped him twice on the arm. She pointed toward the rear door of the kiln, making a gesture that indicated they were to go. He grabbed her and scrambled to the door. He waited while the two men went into one of the far kilns, and then he hopped out of the kiln, scooted across a ruined brick platform, and took off running across a meadow, toward the woods. The main creek was a hundred feet away, hidden in a grove of trees. He tore across the meadow toward the trees. At the moment he reached them, he heard, from inside the kiln they had just left, the sudden loud crying of a boy. Sobbing.
With a chill he realized that it sounded like his own voice. Dorothy, it seemed, had set up a diversion using her audio board.
He came out on the trail beside the creek and started down it as fast as he could go, his run deteriorating into a fast limp. He tried to ignore the pain in his foot, which was now joined by a fiery sensation on his arms from the stinging nettles. The flower farm was about half a mile down the creek. If he could get there, he’d be safe. He hoped to God they hadn’t moved the key to the barn.
As he ran, the crying boy became fainter. The trail was dappled with moonlight. Dorothy was totally silent now.
The desperate crying behind him rose to a scream, cut short by a muffled volley of gunshots. Then one final scream.
It wouldn’t take them long to figure out they’d been tricked. But what would they do then? He wanted to ask Dorothy, but she couldn’t talk. As if reading his mind, she squeezed his shoulder with her hand, a gesture that reassured him.
In three or four minutes, through the trees, he saw the looming white outline of a greenhouse. He was almost there. He came out in back of the first row of greenhouses of the flower farm. The dozen greenhouses were lined up in three rows, standing in a large open area, the glass glittering in the moonlight. They were oriented the long way, with the ends facing him, surrounded by tall weeds and pipes. It would be faster, Jacob thought, to run through them than around them or in the spaces between them.
He paused at the barbed wire fence surrounding the greenhouse complex. He had climbed it with Sully many times before. With Dorothy clinging to his back, he grasped the closest T-post, climbed it like a ladder with one foot on either side, swung a leg over, being careful not to snag his crotch on the barbs, swung the other leg over, and jumped down.
He gasped at the pain in his foot when he landed, took a few deep breaths, and went on, loping across the field to the back door of the first greenhouse. He tried it. It was locked. But it was made of flimsy aluminum and plastic, and a single kick sprang it open. Inside were rows and rows of nursery plants and flowers, to either side of a long central aisle. He fast-limped down the length of the aisle.
Just as he reached the end of the long greenhouse, shots rang out from behind. He heard the bullets hitting the glass with popping sounds, followed by a tinkling shower of glass falling like rain, crashing to the ground behind him. A second series of shots sent glass raining down on top of him, getting in his hair, more glittering showers in the moonlight.
He burst through the opposite door and rammed his way into the next greenhouse. With his bad foot, he could hardly move faster than a trot. If he could get to the barn, he’d be safe. He heard the men batter down the door behind him, and another volley of shots shattered the glass around him, some of it so close that slivers sprayed across his face, cutting his cheek.
Jacob rammed through the last door. It opened onto a large graveled area. On the far side was the barn, along with more greenhouses, a row of parked pickup trucks, and equipment.
He limped across the open area to the barn and around to the far side, hidden from the greenhouses behind him. He paused, bent over, gasping with fatigue. That side of the barn had a small door. Long ago, he and Sully had found the key under a brick next to the door. He stopped and lifted the brick, uttering a little prayer—to who he did not know. There was the key. He jammed it in the lock and pushed open the door, pulled the key out and put it in his pocket, and shut the door behind him as quietly as possible, making sure it relocked.
He stopped. Bands of moonlight filtered in through a row of high windows. The place looked just as he remembered it. In the front were several rows of tractors and equipment. In bays in the back were stacks of baled straw and a huge pile of loose straw where they used to play.
From outside, he heard a distant shout, then an answering response, in that same foreign language. He wished he could understand what they were saying. Had they seen him come into the barn? If they hadn’t, and with all the doors locked, he’d be safe. They’d never think he was in there and search the barn. To be doubly safe, he would bury himself in the straw and wait it out.
God, he wished he could talk to Dorothy. But again, as if reading his mind, she gave him a reassuring squeeze. And he could talk to her: he just had to ask a yes or no question.
“Do you think we should hide in the straw pile?”
A hesitation. Then two taps.
He made his way to the back of the barn. The pile of straw towered at least ten feet high and twenty wide. The bulk of it was reassuring. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled in, carefully pulling the hay around and behind him, plugging his entry hole so as not to leave traces of a disturbance. The weight of the straw got heavier as he burrowed and wriggled deep into the center of the pile.
He stopped. It was brutally hot in the pile, it smelled strongly of mold, and he felt itchy all over. But he was well hidden.
“Think this is good?” he whispered to Dorothy.
After a hesitation, two taps.