Possibly the truck is fueled by my rage and fear. That’s a renewable resource.
Finally a dirt lane comes into view. I get off the firebreak and head back into the maze, doing my best to avoid old mistakes, sticking strictly to new ones. Either way, I’m driving around the -Wolfman’s backyard, and it’s as though the very air is filled with his stink. He’s everywhere around me, inescapable.
I can’t stop craning my neck, checking out the ridgelines. He’s up there somewhere; there’s no question. But the cover is too thick. I can’t see him, but I also can’t fight the compulsion to look, even though it’s only adding to my anxiety.
The sun is about to set. Night will remove all hope of spotting him.
Yet another hairpin turn takes me to a new part of the valley. This is good. I definitely haven’t been here before. Maybe I’m making my way out. Any bit of optimism makes me paranoid, and I immediately check the hilltops, looking for Wolfman.
That’s when I see it.
A house on a hill.
There aren’t any lights on, but even if it’s empty, it’s shelter. Maybe food. Clothes. Possibly even a weapon. I head for it, like a beacon. Other forks in the road present themselves, but it’s easy to make decisions now. I just keep heading for the house on the hill.
The sun drops below the horizon, and a miracle occurs. Lights turn on in the house on the hill. Somebody’s home. Somebody is there. The closer I get, the worse I feel. I’m almost saved now, and as my adrenaline unclenches its iron fist on my body, every one of my injuries comes screaming to life.
My scalp, my right arm, my bullet wound, my feet. This is what I’ve been afraid of. I knew the pain was there, real and alive and just under the surface, waiting to get out, waiting for my mind to give up and set it free. The sight of the house has set all of my nerves free to scream.
The truck sputters to a halt. It’s out of gas.
I don’t know how I’ll climb the steep driveway to the front door.
Lowering myself carefully to the ground, I see a portable gas tank stuck behind the bench seat. I shake it and find it’s full. Gasoline was never a problem; it was just a problem I hadn’t fully investigated.
I consider filling the tank so I can drive the final twenty yards, but the idea exhausts me. It seems easier to make the walk.
Up on this vantage point, I get a sense of just how short the distance I’ve traveled really is. Down below me is a squiggling valley, offering hairpin turn after hairpin turn. That is where I spent my day, lost. On this hill, though, I can see the shortcuts, the ridgelines that connect peak to peak to peak. That is where -Wolfman probably spent his day, knowing exactly where he was.
An uptick of fear puts my painful body into motion. It hurts to move, but there’s still enough adrenaline to get me to the finish line.
I stay focused on the house. It’s a beautiful log cabin, new and expensive. It looks like a place my parents would rent for a family weekend.
These twenty yards are killing me, but then I hear movement inside. Hope spurs me on, as does relief. This is all about to be over. I’m about to be rescued. I’m about to win.
Climbing the porch steps takes everything I have. The front door is inset with a complicated pattern of beveled glass, and I can see warped fragments of the luxurious interior. Heart-of-pine floors, leather sofa. It’s clean and neat and pretty.
I can also see shadows of my reflection in the glass door. It’s only a hint of my appearance, but I avoid even that. It’s too disturbing.
Now that I’m at the front door, I can smell food. Their dinner. My mouth waters as I knock on the beveled glass. Meat and corn on the cob. I’m salivating so much I have to swallow my own spit.
Next to the front door is a wooden sign that says THE LOGAN FAMILY LODGE.
A silver-haired man appears in the hallway. He stands stock-still and stares at me.
I knock again.
A woman joins the man. She’s older, too, but her hair is dyed dark. They look like models from a Lands’ End catalogue.
I knock a third time.
The silver-haired man barks at his wife. “Get back! It’s a naked girl!”
She disappears around the corner, and I realize this isn’t going to go as I imagined.
Knocking, I yell, “I need help!”
“Get away from here!” he yells back.
“I’ve been attacked. I’ve been kidnapped. I need help.” I want to sound calm, but I don’t even get close to calm. Even to my own ears I sound like a wild animal.
The wife says something from her hidey-hole. The man turns his head and says, “Honey, it’s one of these meth addicts. They’ll do anything.”
“I’m not a meth addict. I’ve been kidnapped. My name is Ruth Carver. Please, you’ve got to help me.”
“Whoever you are, I’m giving you until the count of three.”
My ability to stay calm completely shot, I scream at him, “Please call 911! Tell them you have Ruth Carver at your house!”
“You need to leave right this second.”