Shit.
The creature must have glanced off him on its way down. I missed. Billy shoved the gun back into his waistband and peered up into the tree.
“Megan,” he called out.
I didn’t answer.
“I gave you that cassina back when you came to see me just to slow you down a little,” he said. “So I could talk to you. It’s a natural drug. It doesn’t give you anything but a bad bellyache.”
He was peering up at me, shifting his balance from foot to foot, waiting for me to answer. When I didn’t, he bent down then and yanked at one of his bootlaces that had come undone. And I saw a movement around his feet, just to his right—a flash of brown and black that darted out and hit him.
“God fucking dammit!” he yelped, jumping back and grabbing his arm. I jumped too, banging my head against the tree.
Billy struggled to his feet, still holding his arm, and backpedaled until he was a couple of yards away. He was puffing and frantically searching the area around his feet. Then, gradually, his movements slowed. Then he wasn’t moving at all. Just swaying, the slightest bit, and his head drooped. He drew in a breath and fell back against the trunk. I heard a shush-shush sound: his breathing.
Was the venom already taking hold? Did it really happen that quickly?
The woods were silent, except for the chee-ing birds and squirrels. I didn’t move for what felt like an eternity, just sat crouched in the heart of the oak tree, holding my breath and waiting for Billy to leave.
He never did.
At last, I stretched out my cramped legs and dropped down, branch by branch, to the ground. I tiptoed to Billy. He had sunk to the ground and was staring up at the sky, blinking. When I drew close, he turned his head toward me. He was pale, slick with sweat. I saw his hand. It was red and purple, already swelling in strange, bubbly formations.
“I tried,” he said.
“Where’s Koa?” My voice shook. “What did you do to him?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at his hand.
I leaned closer to him. Gathered a handful of his shirt and pulled him close. I could smell his breath. Tobacco and tea.
“Tell me what you’ve done to Koa, Billy,” I said.
His eyes met mine. “I would never hurt you,” he said. Saliva webbed his lips. His face looked waxy and bloodless. “You were the sweetest little thing, Meg. So small. So innocent. I tried to keep you close. I tried to protect you from her. But I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t, and she hurt you.”
Fear prickled across my skin.
One tear slid down his cheek. “She’ll kill you, Meg. If you don’t go now, Kitten’ll finish what she started.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move or think straight. Was he telling the truth? Lying? Or completely out of his mind? I couldn’t tell.
“Run,” he said.
I did.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 20
Fay ran.
To the top of the stairs, down the halls, all the way to the back of the house, she ran, her breath coming in great gulps. She threw open the door to Kitten’s bedroom.
The room was dark, and the air smelled of Kitten’s peppermint shampoo. The bed was made, toys neatly lined up on the window-seat cushion. Fay flew to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Under the periwinkle book of poems, she saw a glint of red-brown stone. The ashtray. Kitten’s make-believe mico’s bowl.
And a small foil packet with a double row of tiny blue pills.
She grabbed the ashtray, ran to the window, and pushed it open. She sat on the sill carved with Cappie Strongbow’s name, and closed her eyes. Holding the bowl with both hands, she jumped.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Forty-Three
At the dock, I found the keys sitting in the driver’s seat of the Jeep. Minutes later, I was skidding into Koa’s yard. I leapt out of the Jeep, tore through his cabin, banging open every door and calling his name.
The place was deserted.
I drove into the woods, north, toward the middens. A silent mantra repeated in my head: let him be there, let him be there. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the woods and killed the engine. I ran to the edge of the bluff, the serpentine line of the shell wall a beacon shining white in the sunlight. I shaded my eyes against the glare.
Then—a whinny, deep and guttural, like a groaning through the pounding of the surf. The foal. I scanned the wall until I spotted her, the smallest blob, near the western end. Panic rising in my throat, I slid down the bluff and across the flat stretch of beach. As I neared the wall, I could see she was lying down, and the wall above her was stained with blood.
No.
Had she been shot? I couldn’t see the wound, but there was blood pooling around her, and she wasn’t moving. I’d been right after all. This was the killing place. It had been done here before.
I reached her and touched her head and she twisted around to me. Then scrambled up. I exclaimed and nearly flipped myself backward in shock. She pranced around and stuck her nose into my lap, searching for a treat.
She was unhurt. Completely unhurt.
I touched the blood spattered on the wall. “Whose . . .”
And then I knew.
I pushed the foal out of my way and made for the end of the wall. The tide had come almost all the way in, and it and the wind roared together. There was only a narrow strip of sand, now, between the water and the wall. I ran down the wall, scanning the water desperately, not even sure what I was looking for. Then, as I neared the far end, I spotted something dark, half on the sand, half in the water. It appeared to be a body, bobbing in the shallow surf.
I broke into a run, splashing through the rising tide.
When I reached him, I grabbed his soaked shirt and tried to roll him over. After the third attempt, I finally succeeded, frantically pushed the wet hair away from his mouth and nose.
“Koa!” I screamed.
I felt for a pulse, the waves tossing his body against mine relentlessly. It was impossible to hear or feel anything. I had to get him out of there. He appeared to be bleeding from the head—the water that swirled around my shins was tinged pink—but I couldn’t tell how serious the wound was. The tide was coming in fast, though. By now we were both more than half-submerged.
I looped my arms under his shoulders and lugged him up to the small strip of sand between the water and the wall. He gasped twice, then heaved up a fountain of bloody sea water. He groaned.
“Koa, it’s Meg. I’m going to look at your head.” I examined his bleeding head, but I couldn’t find the source. I tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, nose, and mouth, but he screamed and jerked away.
A raw strip of skin, the size of a child’s hand, dangled against the side of his head. It had somehow been partially peeled back, and now it was open, exposing layers of red and white beneath.