In the Woods (2 page)

When he'd suggested it, she'd gawked. ‘Camping?'

Hank had grinned. ‘Why not?'

She hadn't known where to begin; the list of ‘why nots' was long. ‘We don't even have equipment any more.'

His grinned had widened. ‘Yes, we do.'

He'd bought new stuff. He'd rattled off the list. Harper had panicked. ‘I don't know – neither of us is in shape to climb.'

‘We won't do anything strenuous. Let's get away. Just us. Look, we haven't been alone together since Chloe was born.'

He'd been right. They hadn't been. Even before Chloe had joined them, they'd needed time alone, just the two of them. They'd had a lot to recover from: Harper's service in Iraq had left her with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and a permanently injured left leg. Hank's fall from their roof had almost killed him and left him with a limp and aphasia that had limited his ability to speak. And then, they'd been shaken by a series of freakish incidents – fraternity boys committing murders in the house next door, smugglers trying to steal the artifact collection Harper had been cataloging, terrorists kidnapping scientists at a symposium Hank had been attending. Now, Hank's aphasia had passed. He was speaking again, working as a geology professor at Cornell. But with the whirlwind of the last few years, they needed to reconnect. To be together, just Harper and Hank.

And so they'd gone camping. Chloe was gleefully spending the weekend at Aunt Vicki and Uncle Trent's, where she was completely in charge and over-indulged. And Harper was lying awake, listening to Hank snore and owls hoot, thinking about what to do with her life now that her baby didn't need her as much. Cornell's Archeology Department wasn't hiring. But even if they were, she couldn't imagine taking a regular job, working regular hours. Being away from Chloe all day every day.

Damn. She needed to let go, let Chloe grow up.

Maybe she and Hank should have another baby.

But wasn't that just postponing the question? Who was Harper? What did she want to do now that she finally had her degree? What did a PhD in archeology qualify her to do? She turned onto her other side, removing Hank's arm. Hearing a loud, sharp crack just outside the tent.

Reflexively, Harper rolled over and grabbed the Winchester. It was a conditioned response, left over from Iraq. She had her hands on the rifle and was ready to pull the bolt back when Hank grabbed her arm.

‘Harper?'

In the dark of their tent, she could see only his outline, a long lump of sleeping bag. She held still, listening. Hearing only the night.

‘What are you doing?' He sounded clueless.

‘Shh.'

Neither of them moved. They heard nothing.

‘What was that?' Hank asked. ‘A flashback?'

No, it hadn't been a flashback. Why did everyone assume everything she did was because of a flashback? ‘I heard something.' Actually, she wasn't sure that was true. She assumed that she'd heard something because she'd reacted as if they'd been under fire.

‘What kind of something?' Hank reached out, took the rifle. ‘An animal?'

Harper thought back, tried to recapture it. ‘Maybe a gunshot.'

‘A gunshot?'

‘I think so.'

‘Harper. We're in the woods. People are hunting here. Hunters shoot. Gunshots are normal.' He pulled her close.

Wrapped in the sleeping bag with Hank, Harper didn't think about the sound that had startled her. When she heard it again, she didn't even react. They were in the woods, like Hank had said. Hunters were hunting. She dismissed the sound as soon as she heard it and concentrated instead on Hank's lips. By the time she crawled out of their tent an hour later, Harper had forgotten all about it.

If Josh lifted his knees, the new legs worked smoothly, much better than the old ones. He was pleased with himself. Hell, he should forget about being a damned mechanic, should work in prosthetics, making limbs for amputees – or maybe some of those arms for astronauts, the ones they used in space walks. Because, damn, he was good. He'd designed and built these all on his own. And the wide supports at the bottom fit perfectly into the molded plastic feet, balancing him securely. And the bear pelts were smooth, covered him like his own skin. In fact, as he stomped through the woods, looking down from seven feet and four inches, Josh almost forgot that he was wearing a costume. He felt comfortable, bending his knees, practicing his stride, moving swiftly, even running along paths, into campsites. Leaving footprints. But he didn't have time to accomplish much now. The eastern sky was already glowing. In minutes the sun would peek over the trees, and he didn't want some half-assed weekend hunter to see him and take shots, thinking he was a bear.

Josh turned around, heading back to the compound, satisfied with his new improved legs. Loping along through the woods, he figured the shortest way would be through the clearing and that, at this hour, probably nobody would be around. At the edge of the clearing, though, he saw somebody. A guy standing by a tree, taking a leak. The guy must have heard him because he turned to look at him. His mouth opened, his eyes popped, and he stood there, just staring as if he was seeing the Devil himself.

Josh couldn't help it. He let out a howl and lunged toward the guy, watched him take off like he'd gotten shot out of a cannon, smashing into low branches and weaving his way around trees. Josh followed for a few yards, lured by the smell of him. It was strong, more potent than the dead bearskin. And intoxicating. Josh had to force himself to stop chasing the guy and go back. But it was tough; the smell of fear was even more appealing than the smell of blood.

The Impala made a grumble and groaned.

‘I told you a hundred times to fix the muffler.' Pete was jittery.

‘Just be cool. Act normal.' Bob pulled into the campground just before sunrise, parked near the RV area.

‘What if somebody stops us?'

‘Jesus Holy Christ. Nobody's going to stop us.'

‘What if they do?'

Bob's nostrils flared. ‘We've talked about it. What don't you get yet? We're a couple of dudes backpacking for a day, that's all. We don't need no hunting permits. No reservations. Nothing.'

‘Right. Nothing.'

‘You okay?' Bob turned, looked at him.

Pete nodded. He chewed his thumbnail.

‘Because you're doing that thing you do with your eyes.'

‘What thing?'

‘Where you blink real fast.'

Pete shrugged and tried not to blink.

‘You got to tell me you're okay. Because once we get out of this car, there's no going back.'

Pete blinked a bunch of times. ‘I know.' He reached for the car door.

‘Not yet. Hold on. Let's double-check the packs.'

Pete twisted around and climbed onto his knees, facing the back seat.

Bob reached into the pocket of his down vest, took out a list. ‘Okay. Dynamite.'

‘Check.'

‘Rope.'

‘Check.'

Bob read the list: cable, wiring, tool kit, blasting caps, detonators. Maps. Flashlights. Spare clothes. Tarp. Beer, beef jerky. Baggie of grass. Matches. Pipe bombs. Pete's phone with the GPS.

‘Check.'

Bob's eyes were glowing. ‘This is it, man.'

Pete's hands were shaking.

‘Scared?'

‘Shittin' my pants.'

Bob laughed. ‘That's okay, man. Think of it this way. Before a tough football game – before anything tough, your body revs itself up. You feel scared sick, but it's not fear – it's just hormones or chemicals. It's your body preparing itself for something big. So it's a good sign if you feel sick.'

Pete remembered Homecoming, senior year. He'd been scared sick then, too, and they'd won 28-11. Bob was right. His body was revving up to do something great.

‘How about you? Do you feel sick?'

Bob grinned. ‘Me? I'm so revved my eyes might pop out of my head.'

Pete nodded, stared out the windshield. In a few minutes, the sun would come up. But, for now, darkness would cover them.

‘Ready?' Bob punched his shoulder.

Pete didn't answer, he just returned the punch. This was it, the day they'd been planning for months. This day, today, they were going to do something mind-boggling. They were going to become famous and change history.

This day was going to be great.

Just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Angela Russo led her husband Phil to the edge of the field.

‘This is probably the best place to spot small game. You want to stay still, watch for movement. Don't move because, if they spot you, they'll freeze and you won't see the grass moving.'

Phil nodded. ‘I'll be fine.' She looked so beautiful out here, without make-up. Her hair up under her cap. Freckled like a tomboy. Or a modern Annie Oakley.

‘You remember how it goes? Aim, deep breath, hold it, aim, squeeze off the shot, breathe.'

‘Got it. I'll be fine.'

‘Be careful. Don't take any chances on your first time out.' She patted his arm.

‘I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about.'

‘I've been hunting half my life, Phil. I know what I'm doing.'

‘But you've never gone after bear before. At least not by yourself.'

‘That's the point, though, isn't it? I want to bag one. Just me. All by myself. Without goddam Stan. Without anyone.'

Phil put a hand under her chin. ‘I know it's important to you, darling. I just wish you knew you don't have to prove yourself. Certainly not to me. To me, you're already perfect.'

Angela pursed her lips.

‘Okay, sorry. I know. This isn't about me. It's about you.'

She smiled stiffly. ‘Bring home a rabbit, Phil. I'll be back for you in a couple of hours.'

He watched her go, the sway of her round bottom inside her coveralls. He waited until she disappeared into the trees beyond the field. Then, alone, he found a spot near the edge of the woods and waited, motionless, the way Angela told him. As the sun came up, he saw a bird or two, but no squirrels or rabbits. Damn, he wanted to bag something just to show her that he could. To gain her respect. Not that he'd ever compare to Stan, hunting-wise. Stan and Angela had hunted together their whole marriage. They'd come here every year and bagged venison every season. Stan was supposedly a crackerjack shot, whereas Phil had just this year managed to hit a tin can. But if he could hit a rabbit, maybe he could show Angela that he was competent.

Phil gazed across the field, watching for movement. A chilly breeze rattled the leaves of the trees, swayed the grass and weeds. Occasionally, a bird called out. Other than that, the woods were silent. He looked across the clearing at the trees with their vibrant colored leaves, wondered if Angela had found tracks yet. If she'd actually shoot a bear. Jesus. What if she did? What would they do with it? Mount its head on a board and put it in the den? The thought made Phil queasy. Up ahead, something moved through the grass, making a line. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, reminded himself: aim, breathe, hold, squeeze. Saw the rabbit through his scope. Took a breath. Held it. Aimed.

What in God's name was he doing? Was he really going to shoot at that defenseless little creature? Was he going to kill it? He watched it hold still, trying to become invisible as if it sensed a predator. All he had to do was fire, and he'd have a prize for Angela. He pictured the rabbit, skinned and gutted. Its feet would be good-luck charms on key chains. It was up to him. He had the power over the rabbit's life or death. Gracious – what was he doing? Phil lowered the rifle. He stared at the weapon, at his hands. Felt sick.

But what about Angela? He wanted to impress her, ached to have her look up to him the way she looked up to Stan. But Phil could never be like Stan. He was a pharmacist, not an outdoors man. He preferred to garden, watch films, play bridge, drink fine wines. He hoped that Angela loved him for the man he was. Of course she did. She was married to him now, not to Stan. Hunting was simply a passion that she hoped they could share, the way he hoped she'd learn to play bridge.

The gun was heavy. His new boots felt stiff. The ground was rocky and, even with his flannel shirt, he felt the nip of the air. Phil looked back at the bunny. It was gone.

He sighed, annoyed with himself. It was just a dumb rabbit – it wasn't like he was murdering a person. He had to do this for Angela. Just this once. He had do it to prove that he could, and then never again. He held very still, watching the stillness of the field. Recognizing some of the plants – bull thistle over there, day lilies all over. Purple loosestrife. And weren't those Spanish bluebells? He held still, staring at the plants as the sun peaked higher. There was something Zen-like about standing so still and silent, waiting. He was staring at a privet blossom, letting his eyes drift out of focus when, close behind him, he heard a shot.

He didn't move, didn't even breathe. He could swear he'd felt a whoosh of air along with the crack of the shot. But certainly that had been his imagination. In fact, the shot probably hadn't been all that close. He wasn't familiar with the sound of shots fired in the woods; quite possibly, the sound had rebounded off trees, bouncing and ricocheting in all directions, so he couldn't really be sure where it was coming from, let alone how far away.

Even so, that crack had alarmed him. Had sounded as if it had come from a copse of trees not far away, toward the south end of the clearing. He looked that way, hoping he wouldn't see a bloodied deer or, worse, a hunter gutting it. Would the guy gut it right there, in the woods? Phil didn't know about the gutting process. Didn't want to. Hunting, he decided, was not for him. It was barbaric, the whole sport – even calling it a ‘sport' was barbaric. It was not a game; it was killing, pure and simple. And calling the victims ‘game' – as if killing them were somehow playing – that was twisted, too. Phil scanned the area where he thought he'd heard the shot. Didn't see any animals, dead or alive, but under a tree on the ground, he saw a patch of blue.