Having said my confession prayers, I feel better, clearer, stronger. It seems a natural idea to keep going downriver, hoping to hit a highway. Pulling my boat out, I find it’s gone a bit flat. I add air and patch up areas that seem leaky.
My raft pole is still with me, which is good. It’s nice and straight, without any rot. As I get into my boat and set off, the sun at my back, everything seems brighter. I’ve escaped Wolfman. I’ve lived a day alone in the wilderness. I’ve eaten a good bit of protein, and there’s plenty of water to keep me hydrated. I’m confident this river will eventually lead me to a road.
It strikes me as strange how despairing I was twenty-four hours ago. Maybe it was hunger, or exhaustion. Maybe it was just the fact I’d lost faith. No matter the cause, I’ve been cured. For the first time since I found myself in the back of the truck, the odds are in my favor. I will get out of here. I will survive. My fight is back, and once again I can taste victory.
I said my confession prayers and meant every word, but I cannot help but imagine what it will be like to find my rescuers. They will be amazed that I survived, that I beat the odds. They will be blown away by the fact that I defeated a serial killer at his own game. I won’t say it out loud, because that would be too much, but on the inside I’ll think, I am Ruthless, and I’m no one to be trifled with.
Ten Days Ago
HE SITS AT THE COUNTER of the Denny’s, listening to the target go on and on about herself. There is the entertaining thought of spinning around, leaping upon her, and stabbing her in the neck. Satisfying, in its own way, but the repercussions would be too severe. Besides, what would she learn from that? Nothing. There must be some purification for her, too. It’s not all about him and his needs. There should be a balance struck. To be fair, it is also about his own needs, and considering how very, very long it’s been, he’s planning on taking his time. He’s going to make this into a special vacation for himself.
Right now his plan is to return to sobriety after this job is over. Way, way down, deep underneath, he senses that once his sobriety is blown, it will be hard, maybe even impossible, to get back on the wagon. There’s a vague discomfort with this, so it’s best to keep believing that this is a one-time gig.
For twenty minutes now it has been nothing but the target pretending she’s not flirting with the boy. The man finds the kid interesting. He’s obviously smart. There’s a perceptive look about him, so why does he tolerate her torture? The man shakes his head. He is going to be doing this boy an enormous favor. Sure, he’ll be upset at first, but in the long run he’ll be thankful.
At last, something of note. The target complains about her horse’s injured hoof, how no one is competent enough to wrap the foot correctly. She complains about entrusting her mother with the task during her absence. She complains about how she is going to have to get up so early before she goes to the beach to take care of the injury one last time.
He is profoundly grateful. Truth be told, he continued to have some doubts about whether it was right for him to break his promise. But here the stars have aligned; they have come together to tell him that this is meant to be. Providence never lies.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT’S SOMETIME IN THE AFTERNOON when I decide to get off the river. The day is pleasantly warm, probably close to seventy degrees. The river has been nothing but smooth sailing. It’s hard not to feel anxious about how long I’ve traveled without hitting a road, but I’m trying to have faith. A road will come. I know it will.
After I pull my boat out of the water, I use the forest as a bathroom. Not comfortable, but I see it as a good sign. My body is returning to normal. This is good. This is hopeful.
If only I was at the road already. . . .
Nope. Not going to think about that. Instead, I search for mussels. I find a handful, but no more. My morning feast was a lucky break. There are minnows darting in and out of the shallows. I want to catch and eat them, but it’s a temptation that should be resisted. Trying to catch little quicksilver fish would be a good way to waste time and calories. Instead, I make repairs to my boat.
It’s time to get back on the river. Just as I step into the tube, I hear the baying of hounds. It’s far, far off. I can barely hear it, but it’s definitely the sound of hunting dogs.
Or maybe the sound of search-and-rescue dogs.
“HELLO!” I scream so loud it hurts my throat.
Nothing.
“HELP!”
Nothing.
“HELP!”
It’s pointless. You can hear a good coonhound from five miles away. The human voice doesn’t travel like that. Especially not over the sound of a river. I strain to hear, pacing up and down the riverbank, but the hounds are gone.