“I said, put that gun back into your holster!” snapped Joe. “You almost fired it, didn’t you?”
I hiked up my skirt and struggled to fit the pistol back inside the leather casing. My hands trembled from coming so close to shooting that bullet. I couldn’t breathe quite right.
“We’ll make this work.” Joe stepped toward me. “We’ll stay safe.”
I lowered my skirt. “How?”
“I—” He stopped in front of me and rubbed his left thumb against the side of his face, while the lantern swung and squeaked from the rest of his fingers. “I don’t know just yet. Let’s find a place to sleep so we don’t have to worry about anyone seeing us walking around. We’ll talk about our plans after we’ve had some time to settle down and think.”
I grumbled, but I complied, and the woods turned dark and cold.
A HALF MILE OR SO FARTHER, I CAUGHT SIGHT OF A stretch of water that glistened with moonlight between the trunks of spruces wider than Joe and me and at least two other people put together. In that same direction, hundreds of frogs croaked in a chorus that sounded frantic and urgent and gave me the chills. The world smelled of pines and dampness.
“Is that a lake I see up there,” I asked, “shining in the moonlight through the trees?”
Joe ducked down beneath an outstretched branch for a better look. “It’s just the widest section of Engle Creek, I think. But . . . wait . . .” He slid beneath the branch and disappeared from view in the blackness ahead. “There’s a building of some sort.”
I followed him and just barely made out the silhouette of a small log cabin. I inched up behind where Joe stood, and the warmth of his back permeated the chill in the moist night air.
“Do you think anyone’s in there?” I asked in a whisper.
“I don’t see any lights through the slats. I think it’s probably a boathouse. Or maybe a place to store fishing gear, like Mr. Paulissen’s shed used to be.”
“Or a whiskey still?”
“I doubt it. It’s too quiet.” He edged down the low embankment, his soles scraping and sliding across the damp earth.
I cupped my hand over the holster against my thigh and followed him. My feet snagged on tree roots and other obstacles I couldn’t see without any light.
At the bottom of the slope, I parked the picnic basket and blanket next to a bush. “Let me go ahead of you,” I whispered. “I’ve got the gun.”
“I don’t want you shooting some poor raccoon.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He snorted. “Like you were with that deer?”
“I didn’t shoot that damn deer, did I?” My shoes squished through the soft soil, toward the direction of the door, and I kept my hand pressed against the holster.
The moment I reached the door, my gut told me to act, not to hesitate. I lifted the wooden latch and kicked the door open.
Darkness.
Deep-down-at-the-bottom-of-a-well darkness.
Something moved inside, and I could have sworn I heard my father whisper, “It’s not safe here. Go!”
I jumped backward and bumped into Joe, who shrieked, which made me shriek.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t see a damn thing.”
“Why’d you jump?”
“I thought I heard my father warn it’s not safe in there.” I rubbed my neck. “Christ, Joe, where are we? What are we doing out here? I’m scared to death.”
Joe crouched on the ground and shuffled around in his bag, but I could scarcely see him down there in the pitch-dark.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking for matches so I can light the lamp.”
He struck a match, and a flame hissed to life with a burst of light that illuminated his chin and his hands. I saw that scar on his lip again—the one that looked like a wound that had healed up all wrong. He turned a little apparatus that raised the lantern’s glass chimney, and he set the burning end of the match to the flat cotton wick. The lantern awakened and glowed against the side of the cabin, revealing thick logs covered in moss and holes created by either woodpeckers or insects. Joe blew out the match and lowered the chimney.
“I’ll go in and see what’s there.” He rose to his feet.
“Be careful. I could have sworn I heard something.”
With cautious footsteps, he sidled his way into the cabin. The lantern’s light fluttered against the uneven floorboards within.
“Joe?”
“It’s empty,” he said. “Just some used-up bottles of booze and French postcards.”
I dared to step inside after him, and my eyes widened at the sight of naked white ladies—a half-dozen bare-breasted, bare-bottomed beauties—posing on postcards nailed to the log walls. The lamplight flickered across their smiles and flirty eyes and gave the impression that they were all winking at us. The air inside the cabin stank of whiskey and cigarettes. Fiction magazines and newspapers littered the floor in the far-right corner.