Backwoods (36 page)

On the phone to Alice, he said, “How about
you? Still having bad dreams?”

Though he heard only silence on the other end
of the line, in his mind, he could see her retreating into herself,
her bright expression faltering, her smile growing slack.
She’ll
shrug her shoulders once,
he thought,
and drop her eyes down
to the floor. And I’ll have to coax her back now, find a way to
draw her out.

“Never mind,” he said. “Tell me more about
this horse of yours. What’d you say her name was, Sunset?
Sunrise?”

Another silent moment, then Alice said,
“Sunshine.” And with that, she returned to him, emerging from the
shadows into which even passing mention of Kentucky had forced her
to retreat. “She’s a quarter horse, chestnut colored with dark
brown mane and tale. She has a white star on her forehead. She
likes it if I scratch her there.”

“She sounds terrific,” he told her with a
smile.

Were Dead Fowl Mutilated or Killed By
Hunters?
read another news headline, linking to an online
article about a string of Canadian geese carcasses found in the
wooded region outlying Horse Shoe Run, West Virginia in the
expansive Monongahela National Forest.

And another from three days earlier:
Body
of Missing Hiker Found,
describing the gruesome discovery of a
woman’s eviscerated corpse following an exhaustive search in the
Dans Mountain Wildlife Management Area outside of Lonaconing,
Maryland.

Andrew had pulled out his iPhone and
carefully plotted each of these points into his mapping
application. Just out of curiosity, he’d told himself, watching
with a growing sense of dread as the points had seemed to indicate
a very clear, if not direct line running north from the eastern
edge of Kentucky toward New England.

From right about where Moore’s DARPA
facility was to here, as a matter of fact,
he’d thought.
It’s like someone or something is working its way from Kentucky
to Pennsylvania.

He doubted either Suzette or Moore had
anticipated the voracity of the virus they’d custom designed, or
just how accelerated the new tissue growth would become once it had
overwhelmed its host. Who knew what Prendick was capable of
anymore? Given the regenerative properties the virus had imbued him
with had seemingly no limitations, Andrew was willing to bet that
Prendick could have not only overpowered any additional troops
deployed to the compound, but escaped them as well, retreating into
the woods like the screamers of Alpha squadron before him.

Where he could survive quite nicely for a
long, long time,
Andrew thought.
Survive and hunt. And wait.
And grow.

“Next week is Family Weekend,” Alice told
him. “They’re having a picnic on Saturday, with hot dogs and
hamburgers. My teacher said we’re going to do silly sports, like
run a race with your leg tied to your mom or dad’s, or while you’re
carrying an egg in a soup spoon.” Her voice grew small, fragile.
“Will you come?”

He smiled. “Of course I will.”

“Maybe you could bring Dani with you?” She
phrased this as a question, left it hanging hopefully in the
air.

His smile faltered. “I don’t think so.”

He hadn’t seen Dani since Pikeville, hadn’t
talked to her, hadn’t as much as exchanged an email or text
message. He’d gone as far as trying to look up her home phone
number online, finding a listing for
Antonio Fernando Santiago
Santoro
, with a spouse listed as
Daniela E.
He’d
wondered what the
E
stood for, and felt a lingering
melancholy to realize he’d probably never see or speak to her again
to find out. He’d dialed the number a thousand times, but hung up
before it would connect. The one time he’d let it ring through, a
man had answered, presumably Tonio. Andrew had promptly hung up,
abashed.

She’s married
,
he
kept telling himself.
Let her go. Move on with your life, for
God’s sake. She’s
married
.

“But I’ll be there,” Andrew promised Alice.
“Trust me, after all the practice I’ve had lately hopping around on
one foot, we’re a shoo-in for first place in the three-legged
race.”

After hanging up the phone, he leaned his
head back and closed his eyes. Like Alice, since leaving Kentucky,
he, too, had suffered some moments of definitive night terror, with
visions of Prendick’s outstretched tentacles, the sick, squelching
sounds as they’d moved so fresh in his mind, he’d swear he could
still hear them, see them, smell them in the apartment. He’d been
spending more nights on the couch than in his bed since his
homecoming from the hospital. He couldn’t explain why, but thought
maybe being closer to the front door—an avenue of escape—made him
feel better.

He looked down at the iPhone in his hand,
studying that grim little line of missing or mutilated bodies on
the screen. The longer he studied it, the more troubled he felt.
West Virginia. Maryland.
Next up, Pennsylvania,
he thought
with an uneasy shiver and a glance at the nearest window, the
imposing darkness that lay beyond.
It’s like something following
a trail. Hunting, almost. Working its way north. Working its way
toward
me
.

At the sound of a soft tapping sound from the
front door to the apartment, he jerked in surprise, then had to
laugh at himself. “Jesus,” he muttered, because he had himself
jumping at shadows.

Like Prendick’s going to slash his way
through the forests to track me down, then bother to be polite and
knock.

With a groan, he lugged his ski boot down off
the coffee table and hobbled to his feet. Truth be told, he felt
ungangly in the walking cast, no matter how much therapy he had to
adjust to it. He felt like Frankenstein’s monster as he lurched
along. Pausing at the threshold, he leaned forward and peered
through the security peep hole.

“Dani?” he gasped, opening the door, not
convinced he wasn’t seeing things. But there she was, standing at
his door even though New York City was a good three hundred miles
away from Johnstown, a four-hour drive at least. Dressed in a
simple cream-colored sweater with a tan leather jacket shrugged
atop and her lips unfurling in a hesitant smile, she was every bit
as beautiful as he remembered.

“I’m getting a divorce,” she said.

That was it. No greeting, no ‘hey, partner,’
or ‘how’s it going’ or ‘nice to see you again, Andrew. ’ He blinked
at her stupidly. “What?”

Dani took a deep breath as if mustering
resolve, then said, “The night we met, the night you crashed, I’d
driven out to Powell’s Creek. That was the only town with a post
office near the base. I’d written Tonio a letter, told him I want a
divorce. I’d sealed it in an envelope with my wedding ring inside.
I was on my way back when we almost hit each other.”

Andrew stared at her, wordless. Her eyes had
glossed over with tears and she swatted at them as they fell,
smearing them against her cheeks, even as she laughed. “I keep
thinking about what you said. How everything happens for a reason,
and how I was yours. I think you’re mine, too, Andrew. My
reason.”

Without another word, she stood on her
tiptoes, clasped his face between her hands and kissed him
fiercely. He drew her against him, deepening the kiss, feeling her
relax against him, her mouth opening in warm invitation. Her
breasts pressed into his chest, her fingers splayed through his
hair and for a long moment, they stood that way, tangled together
in the corridor outside of his apartment.

“So are you going to invite me in now?” Dani
asked, her voice low and breathless when at last, they drew apart.
“Or do you want me to rip your clothes off and do you right here in
the hall?”

****

Later that night, she jerked beside him with
a frightened cry, her body wrenching so violently, so rigidly, at
first he thought she was having a seizure.
“No!”

Startled awake, he reached for her.
“Dani?”

They had fallen asleep spooned together in
his bed, the curves of her buttocks nestled in near-perfect
complement with his groin and his arm draped across the slim
indentation of her waist. Bleary and bewildered now, he started to
sit up, but she struck at him, her hands balled into fists, her
hair hanging in her face in a dark, disheveled tangle.

“No,” she cried, her voice shrill with
panicked terror. “No, no, get them off, get them off,
get them
off me!”

“Dani.” He caught her by the wrists, and she
struggled with him, wailing in frightened protest. “Dani!” Grasping
her by the shoulders, he shook gave her a firm, forceful shake.
“Dani, wake up.”

At once, she fell still and blinked at him,
her dark eyes round and glistening in the dim light coming through
his window. A light tremor worked its way through her slender body,
and when she spoke, her voice came out quavering. “Andrew?”

She looked around, pushing her hair back
behind her ears, getting her bearings. Slowly but surely, the
frightened tension drained from her body, but the trembling
remained, growing stronger, more insistent.

“It’s alright,” he said, touching her face
gently to draw her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and when he drew
her into his arms, she crumpled against him and burst into tears.
“I…oh, God, I thought I was back in the lab, back when they had me.
When Langley had grabbed me and those things were wrapped all
around me…those horrible things coming out of his body.”

“It’s alright,” he said, holding her, rocking
back and forth and kissing her head through her hair. “I promise,
Dani. It’s over now.”

At length, her sobs subsided and he felt her
relax. Her shudders waned to trembles, then dissipated altogether,
but still, Andrew rocked her in his arms. Again he thought of the
map he’d made, the line that seemed to be working its way north,
heading with a deadly, brutal accuracy.

West Virginia, then Maryland, then on to
Pennsylvania,
he thought again
. New York comes next, then
east to Massachusetts. Hunting us down, one by one. First me, then
Dani. Then Alice.

The ones who had stopped Prendick. The ones
who had escaped.

He leaned down and kissed Dani’s brow. “It’s
alright,” he whispered again. “It’s over now.” In his mind, he
added:
God, please, let it be over.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“Definitely an author to watch.” That's how
Romantic Times Book Reviews
magazine describes Sara Reinke.
New York Times
bestselling author Karen Robards calls Reinke
“a new paranormal star” and Love Romances and More hails her as “a
fresh new voice to a genre that has grown stale.” Find out more
about Reinke and her work at: www.sarareinke.com.