Before the bullets, the forest was quiet. In mourning, as if it knows my loss, feels it along with me. It normally shelters me, hides me from the bad people. I know it like the back of my hands and they don’t. Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, or the day before—they’re all running together now—they got caught up in the limbs and bogs and finally, finally, gave up.
I retreat deeper into the woods, back toward the river, knowing they can’t follow long. So I can grieve properly, in private, without them breathing down my neck. Revisit my memories, my life, with all its twists and turns and hurts.
More bullets fly, but they’re high and back to the right, away from me. Toward the chalky cliff, where they’ll assume I’ve retreated. No one in their right mind would go up, instead of down toward the road and escape.
I don’t stop to wonder who is shooting at me. It doesn’t matter. It used to be us against the world, and now it is only me. Me, and no one else. I have no allies. No friends. No family. No one even knows I still exist.
Five minutes of rough terrain, my legs burn and throb, but I’m on the high ground now, approaching the edge of a steep cliff where I’ve been sleeping, looking down toward the cabin. They’ve defiled it. I will never feel safe there again.
The gunshots are over now. The forest is returning to normal. The birds resettle in the high meadow, chirping madly; the deer creep from their thickets. I push onward, higher and higher, to the one place I know I’ll be okay. Closer to heaven. Closer to him.
I don’t see the branch coming. When it hits me, with the force of a baseball bat, I go down in a heap. Blood pools in my mouth, two molars on the backside are loose, I’ve bitten my tongue. My nose is broken; I can feel blood spurting from the wound.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Every ounce of my being panics. That voice. The voice I’ve been running from for so long, thrashing and screaming in the night to get away from, is here. It’s over. It is all over.
I roll to my hands and knees, still stunned, scrambling backward. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out my thrashing. I can’t speak, my tongue is swollen and in the way. Bloody saliva spills down my chin and mingles with the forest floor. I am afraid to look up, knowing what I will see.
“Where have you been, little one? I’ve been looking for you for such a long time.”
The voice laughs, and my blood freezes. I can’t be taken. Not again. Never again.
I inch toward the edge of the cliff. It is my only hope. I hear the water rushing; the waterfall is less than twenty feet away.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
I have one chance here, one chance to get away. I look up, and there is sudden recognition in the blue eyes facing me, but it’s too late. I leap off the edge, tumble backward into the air. The free fall is sickeningly long. These may be my last moments, so I shut my eyes and allow the air to buffet me as I drop steadily, toward the water.
Death or freedom. There are no other choices for me now.
Chapter
19
1987
McLean, Virginia
IT WAS HOT for June. Working construction was supposed to be a stress reliever, a good way to get a tan, make some money and learn a trade. His father always said learning a trade will be your greatest asset later in life. Work with your hands. Figure out how to build things. You won’t regret it.
His best friend, his only friend, really, was lifeguarding at the local country club. Adrian tried to apply with him so they could spend this last summer of high school together before they became seniors and their world changed forever. But the club was adamant; they only hired the children of members. So Adrian’s choice was a summer of mowing lawns or building houses. He didn’t have the temperament to be a waiter. He chose houses.
He liked seeing something created, liked knowing it was going to stand for years to come. After a day’s work, there was discernible progress. Foundations were poured. Wall frames went up. Trusses were laid, roof beams installed, and shingles and drywall; then suddenly they were finished and on to the next house.
His foreman was a dick, but who liked their boss? Frank was a heavily muscled jarhead who chewed gum like a cow, mouth open, the elastic wad of tasteless Juicy Fruit snapping back and forth like cement in a mixer, and barked orders while sitting on his ass, watching everyone else work. He’d slide in when the heavy stuff was going on, take all the credit. Adrian knew to keep his mouth shut, and take his lumps along with the next guy. The pay was decent, he got to be outside all day and if Frank needed a favor, he usually came to Adrian first, the youngest, least experienced member of the crew.