Authors: Jeff Gunhus
The bleeding started around lunchtime. Gertie Howell was the one who noticed it first. Chewing on the carrot that she limited herself to in an attempt to meet the standards set by the fashion magazines stacked next to her bed at home, she suddenly wrinkled her nose at her friend.
“Gross. What d’ya do? Pick a scab or something?”
Cathy Moran heard the words but their meaning was slow to register. She’d been like that all day. She was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her second period teacher had given her a break and allowed her to slump back in her chair and doze off while the rest of the class broke into project groups. She felt a little better when she woke up, but the feeling was temporary. Now her eyelids hung heavy and her body ached to lie down.
“Cathy? Did you hear me?” Gertie leaned forward and whispered, “Hey, you’re boob’s bleeding. Come on, it’s kinda disgusting, all right?” Gertie’s tone ensured that Cathy understood: Even if
she
didn’t care that a splotch of blood was spreading across her white sweater, it was embarrassing her friend.
Cathy’s head sunk down and her eyes lolled in her head until they came to rest looking down at her sweater. Gertie was right. There was a circle of blood about the size of a quarter just above her left breast. Suddenly, the lunch table tipped precariously and she had to slap her hand on the table to keep from sliding off onto the floor.
Gertie, whose side of the table hadn’t moved at all, glanced around to make sure no one else was watching. “Hey, you all right? You’re acting like a freak.”
Cathy pushed herself up from the table, the cafeteria swiveling around her on an unseen axis. She grabbed her books and held them tight in front of her.
“I’m fine…fine. Just need to go to the rest room.”
“Maybe I should go with you,” Gertie said without making any movement to put the words into action.
“No,” Cathy said. “I’m fine. I’ll…I’ll just see you later.”
Cathy walked unsteadily across the cafeteria, the hum of a hundred teenage conversations pelting her head like pressure waves. She wanted to put her hands to her ears to block the sound but she didn’t dare move the books that covered her chest. She lowered her head and shuffled out the door as fast as she could.
She walked past the bathroom nearest the cafeteria. Too busy. Dragging her shoulder along the lockers to keep her balance, she made her way to the P.E. locker room. At lunch it would be deserted. She didn’t want anyone else around.
By the time she made her way to the locker room, her arms were stiff from clinging so tightly to her books. In front of a mirror she forced her arms down inch by inch, afraid of what she would find.
The front of her sweater was soaked through.
There was blood everywhere.
Tears started to pour down her cheeks.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her sweater up over her head to take it off. Her fingers were numb, like they’d been dipped in ice water, so her effort was clumsy. When she looked in the mirror, her face was smeared with blood. The shock of it paled next to the rest of her image in the mirror.
Large sores were gouged out of her skin, blisters ripped open. Blood and pus oozed in time with her pulse, small rivulets of blood dripped down her breasts and fell to the floor. The bruises that had that morning only covered her chest now extended over her midsection, across her abdomen and down past her navel. She pushed down the front of her jeans. The bruises continued down into her pubic area. She turned and could see in the mirror that the same dark spots covered her back.
No one can know about this.
The thought screamed at her, warning her of the consequences if she told anyone. If she went to a teacher then whatever doctor they took her to would discover the disease she carried.
They would find out the she was getting the special medicine, the medicine her dad said was the only thing saving her life.
And if anyone found out, they would have to stop giving her the medicine. Looking in the mirror she imagined how much worse it would get if she couldn’t have the secret drugs.
She searched the locker room until she found a black sweater left behind by a sweaty P.E. student. It stunk, but Cathy pulled it on anyway, hoping the blood wouldn’t show on the dark color.
Using paper towels she did her best to clean the blood from her face. The bigger problem was her blond hair, now flecked with bright red blood. She found a ball cap in a locker and tried her best to tuck her hair into it.
She was satisfied with the result. It was good enough to get through the hallways. Luckily she had sneaked out of school enough times to ditch class that she knew exactly what door she needed to head for.
Wiping her eyes, she tried to focus on the task at hand. She had to get to a payphone and call her dad. It was all that mattered. He would help her. Sure they had their problems, but she knew he would do anything for her. He had gotten her the medicine to begin with, right? Maybe she needed a bigger dose. Or maybe they gave her the wrong shot last time. Whatever it was, he would take care of her.
Cathy straightened up and pulled herself together. She walked out to the hallway and carefully made her way to the fire exit, praying that no one would see her and that her dad would answer the phone when she called.
Lonetree exited Interstate 70 only ten minutes out of town. They drove a couple of miles through grazing lands dotted with cows huddled near one another for warmth. There was no sign of a building of any kind in sight. Soon they turned onto a gravel road. Large ruts cut across the downward slope of the road, scars from years of heavy rain. The Bronco’s suspension creaked and groaned in protest as Lonetree hit the deep holes without slowing.
The forest was thick even though most of its foliage already lay decaying on the ground. Both sides of the road were walls of towering maples and birch, mostly sticks now with only a scattering of determined red and gold leaves not yet willing to fall. The trees had twisted masses of thorny brambles filling the space between their trunks. Jack had some of the same thorn bushes on his property and he knew they were almost impossible to break through.
They continued bouncing down the path for more than twenty minutes. Jack observed the road had a slight incline and the composition of the forest changed as the truck climbed. Large clumps of rock appeared through the underbrush, made up of the rounded granite found throughout the Appalachians, vestiges of a great mountain range once larger than the Rockies, now worn smooth by centuries of weather.
Lonetree yanked the wheel and turned into an opening between the trees. Branches scraped paint off the sides of the Bronco as it pushed its way down the narrow path. Lonetree leaned forward, looking carefully at the passing trees on their right, occasionally slowing to scrutinize an area more thoroughly. Then, without warning, Lonetree jammed the brakes and the Bronco shuddered to a stop. He turned the ignition, grabbed his gun, and jumped out of the truck.
Jack looked around the truck for something to arm himself with. He suspected that his captor wouldn’t be that sloppy but he didn’t want to miss an opportunity. He opened the glove box and poked through the contents. Nothing.
His door opened. “C’mon. We’re almost there,” Lonetree said.
Jack didn’t move. “Forget it.”
“What’s that?”
“I said forget it. I’m done with this.” Jack turned in his seat and looked Lonetree in the eye. “Tell me where we’re going. I want to know what’s going on.”
Lonetree hesitated, then raised his gun until it was pointed at Jack’s chest. Jack continued to stare the man down. With a sudden movement of the wrist, Lonetree flipped the gun so that the butt pointed toward Jack.
“Safety’s on. But it’s loaded,” he said. “Take it.”
Jack didn’t believe the offer. He reached out for the gun, expecting it to be pulled back from him at the last minute. Once he slid his hand over the handle, Lonetree released his grip and pulled his hand back. Jack turned the gun sideways to figure out the safety lock. He found the safety and disengaged it. Without hesitation, he aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.
The blast of the gun was louder than he expected, especially in the quiet forest. The recoil jammed the gun back into his hand, but it felt solid. Felt like power.
Lonetree looked up as if checking out the target Jack had just shot in the sky. His expression never changed. He waited to see how Jack would react to the trust he’d just given him.
Jack fought down the urge to demand the keys to the truck and get the hell out of there. He reset the safety lock and faced Lonetree. “All right, so it’s loaded. Why’d you give it to me?”
“Call it a goodwill gesture. I need to know whose side you’re on.”
“I’m sure as hell not on your side,” Jack said.
“Yeah, but you’re not on their side either. I’d be dead right now if you were.”
“What do you mean their side?
They
who? How is Huckley involved? What does he want with my daughter?”
“Slow down.
They
are the bad guys. Huckley and the others.”
“What others?”
Lonetree paused. “Not yet. I’ll tell you eventually, but not now.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “O.K. So there are these bad men. What do they want with Sarah?”
“To be honest, that’s what I’m trying to find out. This is a smart group. They don’t make very many mistakes. Huckley attacking you in that rest area was way out of bounds. He already had the girl in the car so his hunting trip was successful.”
“What do you know about the girl in the car?”
“I know Janney tried to make you think you had imagined the whole thing.”
“Yeah, he said there was no body. I know he’s lying. The body had to be there.”
“No,” Lonetree said, “he wasn’t lying. He didn’t find the body. I did.”
“I don’t understand. You were there?”
“I was tracking Huckley. Saw the whole thing.”
“But why the hell would you--”
“Hide the body for him? It didn’t fit in my plan for him to get picked up by the regular police. Besides, I’m sure it’s driving them crazy not knowing where the body is.”
“But the girl. Her family. You can’t just hide the fact that she’s dead.”
“They hunt runaways, druggies, kids without families or friends to miss them when they disappear. She was already dead, so she didn’t care.”
Jack saw the girl’s face pressed up against his windshield. So terrified, so aware that she was about to die. “You said they hunt runaways. What do you mean ‘hunt’.”
Lonetree waved the question away. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. My turn for questions. Has Huckley been in contact with you? Shown up in a dream? Anything like that?”
Jack pressed his lips together in frustration. This man knew too much about him and he knew nothing. He was getting sick of playing catch-up. “Who are you?”
“Has he been in contact with you?” Lonetree insisted.
“Yes, yes he has. The bastard was in my head. Laughing at me. Almost made me take a baseball bat to my family. Now who the hell are you? What do these bastards want with my family?”
“I don’t think you’d believe me right now if I told you what was really going on. Let’s just say there are good guys and bad guys. I’m one of the good guys.”
“Not good enough,” Jack said. “I want the whole story.”
“Well, you’re in luck. That’s exactly why we’re out here.”
“What is this place?”
“This place? This place is where the bad dream starts, Jack. A really bad dream. To make you believe what I have to tell you, I have to show you the proof. It’s the only way you’ll buy into it.”
“Try me.”
Lonetree shook his head. “No dice. You come along for the whole ride or you get nothing. Your decision.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because your little girl is in real danger. Huckley should never have taken the chance he did which tells me there’s something special about your daughter these guys want. And when they want something, they won’t stop until they get it.”
“But what could they want with her?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. But make no mistake, when they do get her, they’ll kill her. That I know for certain.”
Jack’s mind reeled. A few days ago he would have reacted differently to what the man had just said. He would have declared the man crazy, used the gun to demand the keys to the Bronco and headed home to call the police. What Lonetree was saying was insane. Nate Huckley was in a hospital bed in a coma. How could he harm his family?
But the last few days had provided Jack with a thorough introduction to the surreal. He lacked the confidence to declare with certainty that Lonetree was lying.
Hadn’t everything that had happened over the last few days been impossible? That was the problem. It was, but it had still happened.
He didn’t know if it was stress induced or something else, all he knew was that somehow Nate Huckley was hardwired into his brain. Lonetree thought he knew what was going on. Whether delusion or reality, Jack decided it might shed light on what was happening to him. Amazingly, he found himself ready to listen to the man in front of him.
“O.K. Let’s say for a second that you’re not some delusional psychopath, why do you care what happens to my family?”
Lonetree shrugged. “I don’t. Your problem is my opportunity. That mess you made on the highway has brought some rats out of the sewer, ones that I’ve been hunting for over a year. But the head rat is still hiding. He’s the one I want. Our working together is a matter of convenience, nothing more. If I have to choose between saving your family and getting my revenge, I won’t think twice about the decision.”
Jack squared his shoulders to the huge man. “If you get in my way of taking care of my family, I won’t think twice either.”
Lonetree broke the tension with a broad grin. He was starting to like this guy. “O.K. Pissing match over. We don’t have much time and it takes some work to get where we’re going.” Without waiting for an answer he headed up the trail leaving Jack behind.
Jack hesitated. Even though he still had the gun in his hand, he was reluctant to blindly follow this strange man into the woods.
Then again, his other option was to fill the prescription for lithium still in his pocket and pretend none of it had happened. Faced with a choice between action and medication, Jack knew what he had to do.
Jack followed Lonetree down the trail. He laughed out loud when the Robert Frost poem popped into his head, something he used to have on a plaque in his office.
I chose the path less traveled and that has made all the difference.
In the back of his mind, he wondered at his choice. On what path was it that he now traveled?
That of discovery?
Or the path of madness?
He worried that the two had somehow become one and the same.