Ruthless (15 page)

I stare at his dead body and feel nothing but my living one. I feel my pulse, my breathing. My hearing is magnified a thousand times; my eyesight is too vivid, like I'm seeing in the ultraviolet
spectrum. I am nothing but a living body, the dial on all my senses cranked so hard they're in the red.

I don't know how long I stare like that, nothing but a living body devoid of thought, but then emotions fill that empty, physical space. My little bullet hit. I did it. I stopped him. It's over. The pursuit is over. Relief is there first, but it's chased by regret. I don't want to be a killer. I don't want this memory in my mind forever. I don't want it. It's not fair that I have this image of a man, dead by my own hand, facedown on the forest floor. I'll never be rid of this, never, never, never. From now on it's a part of me, a part no one else will understand. This moment has made me an alien. I will be alone with it my entire life, unable to escape what has happened, what I've done. The weight of this image suffocates me.

I try to get air into my lungs, but I can't, and my breathing turns into huge, gulping gasps.

I want to run, as though I can get rid of this thing, this moment, by racing away. But there's no getting rid of it; it's sticky on my soul like glue.

“I don't want it!” I scream to no one. A keening wail breaks out of my throat and echoes out across the silent autumn valley. It sounds like it comes from an animal, this cry coming out of me, and it won't stop.

I stare at his still form and my regret turns to rage. All of this is his fault. He did this to me. He's the one who made me do this. It makes no sense, but murderous rage takes over my regret, and I want to kill him all over again.

I want to kill a dead man, and this desire makes me hate myself.
I feel crazy. I've gone crazy. I'm nothing but a bundle of contradictions made electric by feelings too big for my body, for my heart, for my mind.

I want all of this to go away.

I want that body to disappear.

Then, the slightest bit of movement.

My tears stop like somebody turned off a faucet. My sobs turn into held breath. I'm not sure, but it looks like maybe his rib cage moved.

Now, for the first time, I notice something very important.

There's no blood.

My bullet hit him in the back. It hit him square and it took him down; there should be blood. Wiping away tears from my eyes, I get a clearer look. There's definitely no blood. I can't even see the bullet hole.

Shaky, I untie myself from my limb. Without my seat belt I feel dangerously tippy. It's harrowing, making my way down the tree. He's crumpled right at the trunk, and it requires an extra-big step to avoid walking on him. It's strange, but I feel as scared as I've ever felt. I'm scared I've killed him; I'm scared he's alive; I'm scared of his limp body; I'm scared of everything.

But I make myself kneel down.

I touch his back.

It's hard to tell, but then I'm increasingly certain he is breathing. Shallowly, but still breathing.

Thank God.

I search out the bullet hole with my fingertips. The fancy hunting
vest is strangely stiff and thick. I find the hole higher than I thought, higher than I aimed. It hit right beneath his neck.

And it's not a bullet hole.

It's the bullet.

My brain crashes like an overloaded computer. I don't get what I'm looking at. Again my fingers slip along the strange material of the vest, which is dull orange on top, khaki on the bottom.

As though somebody else is talking to me, a word pops into my head:
Kevlar.

This vest is made out of Kevlar.

This fucking vest is made out of Kevlar.

And Wolfman isn't dead.

Six Months Ago

THE MAN SITS IN HIS La-Z-Boy, drinking beer and con
templating the nature of promises. He made a promise to a woman, but is he obligated to keep that promise if she broke her word? She betrayed him. She destroyed their family before it had even really begun. So why should a promise to a dead woman hold any power over him? Why should it count for anything?

He has felt the power of the promise eroding like a clear-cut hillside. At first he fought it, trying to buttress the dirt, trying to build cinder-block walls to hold back the earth. Today he wants to just go ahead and claw at the soil, encourage it to fall down. It's coming down, anyway. He knows that. He knows it's coming. Why not just pull it all down?

His keys are on the counter. His truck waits in the drive. His notepad is in his flannel pocket. Maybe this afternoon he'll take a drive. Do a little reconnaissance.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I DIDN'T KILL WOLFMAN. HE'S
alive. How alive, it's hard to tell. The feel of his skin disgusts me, but I reach down and try to feel his pulse. He's a big, thick man, a hairy man, and it's not easy to find his jugular. When I do, it takes a lot of pressure to feel the beat of his heart. It's moving blood around his body, but not with a lot of gusto.

Before I can pull my fingers away, his head slides off the rock he landed on. It's not a smooth slide, but instead strange and catching, and I wonder if there's a skull fracture. Maybe the bullet didn't do anything but knock him down. Maybe the rock is the source of the real injury. Up on the balls of my feet, I tip backward onto my rear without meaning to. Holding my face in my hands, I want to cry, but I'm already all cried out.

“What do I do?” I say it out loud, but there's no one to answer me. Only birds and trees and sky and fallen leaves hear me.

His holstered handgun is right by my knee. I could truly end this right now. There's a logical part of me that says this is the best answer. The logical part of me wants to launch into an argument about why this is smart. But I won't hear it. Knowing I'd killed him, for that handful of minutes, was terrible in a way I didn't know terrible could be.

If I leave him here, facedown in the dirt, he might die. Of brain trauma. Of exposure, possibly, or who knows what.

After a few seconds I decide this is okay with me. I will do my best to make my way to civilization, and I will tell people he is unconscious in the woods. They will look for him and maybe save his life. In the end, considering everything, this is more than generous.

I take another second and think about his potential recovery. That bullet didn't go into him. I don't know how much damage the rock did. Why his pulse is so faint, I don't know, but there might not be very much wrong with Wolfman at all. He is tough. He is a woodsman. He is a tracker and a hunter and a killer. He does these things extremely well and should never be underestimated.

Wrestling off his handgun and holster is far more difficult than I would have guessed. My right arm is pretty angry about this, but my left arm, the one with the bullet slice, seems a bit improved. The pushing and shoving makes his body roll over. There's a bruise blooming on the side of his head where he hit the rock, but no blood.

When I go to belt the holster around my own waist, I have to wrap it around two times to get it to fit. Wolfman is literally twice my size. His .45 is lighter than my now-empty and useless Colt Python, but even that small amount of weight feels like a lot. At least the holster puts the weight on my hips, not my arms.

I struggle to pull off the Kevlar jacket, and it's heavy and stiff. It's like trying to undress a dead man. There are long stretches of wrestling with him where I can't see him breathe at all, and I wonder if he is dead. By the time it's off him, I'm panting hard and feeling light-headed. Sinking to the ground, I go through the vest. It's strangely exhausting, just searching pockets. Zip ties, chloroform, a small knife. For a change of pace there are handcuffs and duct tape. More disturbingly, there are sunglasses and a wig. He came prepared.

But he didn't bring his truck keys.

I wanted those keys. I also wanted to keep this vest, but now I know it weighs too much. Weight that would rest on my injured shoulders. Weight I can't afford to lug around. I take the knife, zip ties, and duct tape, and cut the disguise into bits before tossing it into the woods.

There's nothing left to do.

The thought is dangerously draining. Searching the scene, I hit upon his shoelaces. Rope is useful. It takes a while, but I free the laces and tie his wrists and ankles. I give myself a chance to breathe. This has all been very hard work.

Now there's really nothing left to do.

Kneeling in the dirt, I shift my gaze from his motionless form to the forest. It has never looked so vast, so daunting. How to navigate to civilization? How to make this broken body of mine keep going? Instead of the usual fistful of energy in me there's a void. My fight wants to leave me. It's the one thing I've got going for me, my endless fight, my desire for victory. It can't leave me now, because it would leave me with nothing.

It's strange. Having a living, hunting Wolfman motivated me. Hav
ing a limp, lifeless Wolfman leaves me empty, without strength. Maybe it's not rational, but the forest is harder to face than Wolfman. He left no room for anything but instinct and action. The forest is nothing but space. It allows me to think, to feel, to ponder, but it is cold and uncaring. It makes no difference to the forest whether I live or die, whether I suffer. It will not force me forward, but it will hold me back.

Time to take a big breath.

Time to get to my feet.

Left foot first, then right, I pull myself up. My hearing dulls, my head hums, and something swervy happens.

Bark. Against my cheek. Under my fingers. Blinking, I orient myself. I must have passed out, but I'm not all the way down. Instead, I'm clutching my leaning tree.

“C'mon, now,” I order myself. “Come on.”

I stagger off toward the road.

Nothing feels real anymore. I wish I had the moon to talk to. It's not here yet. Instead it is endless sameness. Trees, fallen leaves, hills, and rocks. The sun is nowhere. Just flat clouds overhead. At least it's warmer than it was. A southern fall can be cold or hot or anywhere in between, and today is definitely on the warm side. I should be thankful for the temperature change, but I'm not. I'm not anything.

I wish I had my fight. Everything is easier with fight. I want it to come back, try to cajole it. But my fight has nothing to say. Instead, something else replies.

Maybe you were meant to die here.

No, don't say that. I'm going to live.

Maybe not. Maybe you're going to die.

No. I'm going to the road and then people will find me and I'll be okay.

Maybe no one is looking for you.

They are looking for me. My family loves me. My friends love me.

That's the nice thing to think, isn't it?

No more. I'm done talking to you, whatever you are. I wish the moon were here, to comfort me. But he isn't. There's nothing here for me. There's nothing to distract me, and I need to fill my head with something. The terrain means nothing to me. I don't feel anything right now. It's like I don't have a body. I barely have eyes. There is nothing for it but to trudge along, trudge along, until I run into the road.

I need something. Something concrete. After so many days of this I feel lost. How many days have I already survived? I don't know.

I reach back for the beginning, but it's like trying to catch smoke. The beginning isn't there for me. This isn't good. This is something I should know. After fumbling around for a while, I find it. The back of the truck. The shavings and manure and blindness.

Once I touch it, everything gets worse. It's too painful. I've opened a horrible door, and now I can't close it. Recalling the truck makes me recall the cabin, which makes me recall the gunshot, which makes me recall driving through the mountains, and then something else happened.

Blankness.

This is the perfect time to shut the door, but it's so strange that I can't remember what happened next. The door stays open. Tentatively I peer through it.

Then I see a house, a log cabin sort of house.

Lockeys.

No, that's not right. Not Lockeys. Something like that.

Logans.

That's right, the Logans. There's some satisfaction that comes with naming them. The satisfaction gives me the boost I need to shut the door on memories. Nothing good comes of memory. Better to think of the road.

Where is the road? Why isn't it here yet?

The featureless sky casts no shadow, but it must be getting late. I've been walking a long time. The road should be here by now.

It's almost dark. I'm lost. I have no idea where the road is. The worst thing, the scariest thing, is that I'm not scared. That's not good. On a deep, primal level I know it's not good. I should be scared. Scared of dying of exposure, scared of Wolfman coming to and hunting me down, scared of my injuries going septic.

That thought makes me pause. I take a Tylenol.

Once the Tylenol is back in my pocket, I look up, ready to resume my walk. But I'm no longer sure of which way I'm going. Everything looks the same. Thing is, if you're lost, does it even matter which way you were going?

See? You were meant to die out here.

I sit down. It feels like there's a bowling ball in my stomach. It's grief and I'm grieving for me. I can't think about my family or friends or God, but I do think about the fact that I can't think about them. They're right outside my line of thought, and it's a
line I can't cross. There is only the tiniest thread, a spider's bit of silk, that is keeping me from death. Remembering my life before Wolfman, before the forest, threatens to snap that line in two.

Need to get up. Need to keep moving.

But I'm still sitting. Every thought is too painful to touch, so I don't touch anything. I just sit. It's not peace, but it's not pain, either. It's the only thing I can manage. Perhaps this is me taking a break, and in a little bit some strength will come back to me.

It's getting darker. Colder.

Deep, deep, deep down, a low, urgent voice tells me this isn't okay. This is going very badly. This can't continue.

But I don't get up.

Instead, I close my eyes and live in darkness. For how long, I don't know. Time doesn't exist for me like it once did.

Then, to my left, something shines; the brightness is visible through my eyelids. Turning to look, I see a line of glowing things. They resolve, become recognizable as glowing ghosts. The other girls. They've returned to me. Tears sting my eyes. I haven't been forgotten. Someone still sees me. Someone still cares. That the someones who see and care are hallucinations doesn't matter. They're here and that's all that counts.

I get to my feet as the solemn procession approaches. They are as silent as ever, but they touch me, and it feels so good to be touched. They reach out and touch my hands, touch my shoulders and face. They crowd around me and love me, and tears fall down my cheeks. I have not been forsaken. Not even by myself.