“You’re not even going to kiss me first?” he asked. He’d been standing with his back to the dark brown siding of the cabin. He grabbed a fistful of Amy Raye’s hair and pulled her around, pinned her against the wood siding. He kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth, while undoing the buckle on his jeans. Then he shoved her down to the ground so that she was on her knees in front of him.
But he didn’t let her finish. He yanked her back up, grabbing more of her hair. Using his other hand, he tore at her jeans while she tried to push him away. “So that’s how you like to play it,” he said. He let go of her hair and pressed his arm over her collarbone, rammed her back against the cabin. She twisted her hips and tried to kick away his hand that was pulling at her jeans, undoing the button, then the zipper. But he was a tall man, with big bones, and used his size to hold her in place. He managed to get her jeans down to her knees, and, lifting her off the ground, he forced himself into her.
She burned and ached and cried, and he thrust himself harder until he groaned, and when he was finished, he shoved her to the ground, and as she fell, a jagged limb dug into her naked hip and tore her flesh.
Despite the rushing of the river, Saddle had heard her scream. He’d run through the woods and around the old cabin, and with teeth bared, he lunged at the man. The man was ready for him. He grabbed the limb that Amy Raye had fallen on and hit Saddle hard across the rib cage. Saddle yelped, and before he could get back on his feet, the man hit him again, this time across the head.
Amy Raye was screaming. She pulled her jeans up over the wound on her hip and charged into the man. She grabbed the limb just as the man was getting ready to strike Saddle again.
The man swung the limb hard, tossing Amy Raye onto the ground. He dropped the limb, buckled his jeans, and walked away. Saddle lay unconscious. Amy Raye scrambled over to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, laid her ear against him. He was still breathing.
She scooped him into her arms and stood. The wound on her hip bled through her jeans and down her leg. She didn’t feel the pain, just Saddle in her arms.
There was no one in town who could help her. She would have to carry Saddle across the bridge and the mile of road back to the cabins.
She stepped out of the woods with Saddle cradled against her. The man, called Mac, was now on the bridge and walking toward the parked vehicles. She didn’t see anyone else around. Saddle was still unconscious.
PRU
When Jeff and I reported in the next morning, I could tell Colm hadn’t gotten any sleep. “It’s going on four days since she’s been out there,” he said. “Got another three inches of snow during the night. Supposed to get a storm this afternoon. I got to tell you, Pru, I’m not sure how much longer we’re going to be able to keep this up. It’s slippery as hell out there. Had a near call a couple of hours ago.”
“What happened?”
“One of the volunteers lost his footing. Slipped on one of the ridges. He’s okay, but it gave us a scare. Another team ran into some problems getting back. I had trouble picking them up on the radio.”
Next to Colm, on the table, was a solar charger and a cell phone. Colm picked up the phone. “Dean checked out the camp.”
“The phone’s hers, isn’t it,” I said.
“It is.”
“Are there any messages?”
“Don’t know. It’s got a passcode on it.”
Looking at Colm, I caught his profile, the age on his face, the shadows along his jawline and beneath his eyes where his skin was thickening. Though I’d always thought him good-looking, in the weak morning light through the windows and the fatigue that Colm felt, for just that minute I glimpsed him as an older man.
“Why wouldn’t she have her phone on her?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless she didn’t want to be found,” Colm said.
He reached down the length of the table for a plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was a yellow piece of paper from a legal pad, the same kind of paper I’d found in the compass pouch two days before.
Inside the plastic, the paper was laid out flat, but there were creases throughout it, as if Amy Raye might have intended to throw the piece of paper away.
November 3
One of the things I love about you most is your ability to understand, and if you don’t, you keep digging until you come to a peace with it. I have lots to learn from you, Farrell. I have resolved a lot internally. You are a huge component of that. You have been my rubbing post. Sadly I’ve been running an emotional obstacle course to you. You are way too kind to me, more than I deserve, but I don’t think it’s wise of you. I don’t believe on any level you are emotionally safe with me. I am a mess, I am not going to lie. I am no good to you the way I am.
“It feels unfinished,” I said. “Where did Dean find it?”
“Inside the stuff bag for her tent, along with a couple of pens and a bottle of Advil.”
The note had been written two days before Amy Raye had gone missing. “Has the husband seen this?” I asked.
“I showed it to him before you got here,” Colm said.
“What did he say?”
“Said she had a tendency toward introspection. Said she wouldn’t have taken her life, and that she seemed fine before she left.”