Run With Me (30 page)

The day turns darker as we move
northwards past Seattle and begin to turn inland. There are black
clouds lingering ominously over the mountains in the distance, and it
looks as though a storm is quickly brewing. The light pattering of
rain signals the start of it, before the first crack of thunder is
heard off in the distance, rumbling through the hills and woods. I
see Colt's face stiffening at the sound and feel the car accelerate a
touch. Clearly, a heavy storm isn't going to make burying a man any
easier.

The rain grows heavier and the
skies darker with each mile. I check the weather app on Colt's phone
to find that the storm isn't intended to last long, which brings some
relief to him. Within 40 minutes the lights of Concrete, blurred
through the rain, can be spotted down the road. We only have to pass
through the town and make the short climb up into the hills before
turning down the track to the cabin. I feel my body growing tense as
we progress and consider asking Colt if he can just drop me at a cafe
and I can wait for him there. I don't, though, because I know what
he'll say. My picture will still be all over the news, so it's too
risky.

As predicted by the app, the
storm begins to fade as we start to move up into the wooded hills. I
can still hear the cracks of thunder behind us, but the most potent
clouds are now moving in the opposite direction, leaving behind a
trail of lighter fog that's all but emptied out it's supply of
precipitation. We reach the gate, previously concealed by shrubbery,
and begin driving up the track. Within minutes I see the cabin,
sitting alone in the clearing, up the tree lined track. I turn to
Colt to see his eyes, intense and unblinking, staring forward at the
sodden earth ahead. They're locked on a dark mound, slumped in the
soil. It seems to be moving, its outer surface undulating and
bobbing.

The car pulls quickly to a stop
and, before I can quite get my ahead around it, Colt rushes out,
shouting and shaking his arms. Immediately the mound halves in size
as a flock of scavenging birds spring into the air, leaving only the
remains of Dale's rotting body. Colt stops a couple of meters short
and kneels down slowly, turning his head slightly to the side and
covering his mouth and nose. Against my natural instincts I step out
of the car and follow Colt up the path. The stench of rotting flesh
immediately fills my nostrils, even amid the freshness of the forest,
and I feel my hand quickly rise to my face.

When I reach Colt I look upon
the second corpse I've seen in as many weeks. The first was Tara,
shot dead on my sofa. My friend. Now I'm looking at Dale, his half
eaten body decaying in the mud. Colt's friend. I rest my hand on
Colt's shoulder and feel his fingers fall on top of them. No words
are shared. There's nothing I can say, nothing I want to say. And
despite the putrid smell, despite the traumatic sight, I can't turn
away. We stay like that, Colt kneeling, me standing behind, for
several minutes, just reflecting on everything as the raindrops
continue to cascade down through the leaves. They create an
incongruous soundtrack to what we're looking at. The calming sounds
of a rainy forest conflicting with the grizzly sight of a murdered
friend.

Colt is the first to move,
standing and turning towards me. I can't tell in the rain but he
looks to have a tear in his eye. Or maybe it's just an expression of
pain. He hugs me suddenly, and I grip him back. I can feel him
breathing deeply and can only imagine what's going through his mind.
Revenge for his murdered friend. Justice. Guilt maybe. Regret that he
ever met me, that any of this ever happened...

He let's go of me as quickly as
he grabbed me and starts walking back to his car. He returns in a
moment with a shovel and moves 30 feet or so into the woods. I watch
as he pats the ground, searching for a suitable spot, and then begins
to dig. I follow after him but still have no words, nothing to say.
All I ask is: “do you have another one?” To which he shakes his
head and keeps working.

My eyes drift over to the cabin,
a place that was my refuge and my prison all at once. I get a strange
sensation as I stare at it. A mixed feeling of safety and fear all
bundled into one. Safe knowing that Colt had put me there, that Dale
was watching over me. Fearful of starting a new life, of turning my
back on everything. Then terror watching Dale get killed, having
Rugger pursue me through the silent, black woods. All of that within
a few days. But enough to make a permanent mark on me.

With the sound of Colt digging
at my back, I move towards the cabin. I smile as I look at the
rudimentary shower, at the washing line where the bear came and
sniffed my clothes. The smile disappears when I remember that the
bear was also killed by Rugger. Seemingly nothing could escape him.

My heart beats faster as I
approach the door, splintered and broken off its hinges. I remember
that dark night, scrambling to escape through the window as the door
suddenly caved in. When I step inside, I look immediately to my
escape route. At the jutted piece of wood that caught my bag. At the
tangled vines creeping up the wall outside. I think how lucky I was
to escape that night. How close I must have been to feeling the sting
of a bullet in my back. Of seeing the looming figure of Rugger
approach me as I writhe in pain, ready to finish me off in his own
special way.

Outside it's growing darker now
as heavy clouds begin to rumble back overhead. The inside of the
cabin is so cold and dank, the doorway wet from the splashing rain.
Without the flickering candlelight and silent woods, it's not how I
remember it. Any warmth and safety it had has deserted it, leaving
only a desolate shack, devoid of any life.

I turn to the table and see the
book, the main reason we've returned. I flick to the ripped out page
and look to the next one, the page Colt has come to examine. The
words are so faded that I never noticed them before, but there is
space where Pullman continued his confession. It crosses my mind to
rip out the page, fire up a candle and burn it. Spare Colt any more
heartache. But the thought is only fleeting. We've come all this way,
and Colt deserves to know what else has been said. Whether it causes
more pain for him or not, it may help to bring him closure.

I can still hear him digging
outside as the rain begins to grow heavier once more. I quickly
rummage around in the cupboard until I find a wide frying pan. I
return to Colt and kneel into the dirt opposite him, scraping as much
mud as I can using my makeshift shovel. The sight of me struggling to
dig a grave with a frying pan is the first thing to bring a smile to
Colt's face all day.

We dig for another half hour as
the rain continues to pummel us. For one thing, it helps to soften up
the dirt, although I'm now beginning to resemble a water rat. My
blonde hair has probably turned brunette again, too, and I'm
shivering so heavily I think I might fall into the pit at any moment.
Colt continues like a man possessed, however, his metronomic digging
motion helping to speed the job up no end. When I think the grave is
deep enough, he keeps going another foot or so. He tells me with all
the wildlife here, it's important to dig deep to make sure the grave
is secure.

By the time he's finished, the
top of his head barely reaches the top. I've stayed out to clear
around the edges, and it's a good thing too because he needs my help
to haul him back to the surface. With the mud so soft and slippery,
climbing back out proves more difficult than either of us would have
thought. After a few slips and slides back inside, however, he
manages to finally extricate himself.

Covered in mud and looking worn,
he returns to the trunk of his car and pulls out a large raincoat.
I'm about to suggest it's a little late for that when he moves to
Dale's body and carefully rolls the coat around him. He zips and ties
it all up as best he can, ensuring that his entire body is carefully
enclosed, before gentry dragging the body towards the grave.

I help him position Dale on the
edge of grave, but there's no graceful way of lowering him into it.
In the end, all Colt can do is roll him over the edge into the soft
mud below, which is already collecting water. The body lands with a
slap in the puddle, but remains contained within the coat. I stand up
straight now, next to Colt, as he looks down into the grave for a
moment, perhaps saying a silent prayer. Then he picks up his shovel
once more, and begins filling the grave with mud. I help, scraping
with my frying pan, until the grave is fully filled. Finally, Colt
moves to the nearest tree, draws out a knife, and engraves Dale's
name and life dates into the bark. Below it he merely writes:
RIP,
Brother
.

Once he's done he turns to me
and looks me up and down. I'm soaked to my skin and shivering, my
clothes covering in mud. “Let's get warmed up,” he says softly,
before taking my hand and leading me towards the cabin. Once inside
he manages to somehow shift the door back onto its hinges so it can
close well enough, preventing the rain from splashing inside. He then
heads straight for the small fireplace and quickly gets a fire
started, bringing that warm glow back into the cabin. I help by
lighting candles around the room, which is suddenly inviting and
homely.

I'm still shivering, even with
the growing warmth, when Colt moves next to me and wraps his body
around mine. “This will help warm you up,” he says over my
shoulder, the mud on our bodies caking together. He holds me for a
few minutes, rubbing my back, before stepping back out into the rain.
He returns moments later carrying extra dry clothes, which he lays
down near the fire.

“
We should get out of these
wet clothes,” he says, stripping down to his underwear. In the
candlelight, his muscles ripple as he steps towards me and helps me
out of mine. They cling to my body with rain and mud as he peels off
my top, before stepping away and letting me deal with the rest.
Thankfully, my underwear are still dry enough, because I don't think
he'd have any spares for me. What he does have, however, is a pair of
sweatpants that are loose-fitting but warm, and a shirt that hangs
cozily over my body. Once I'm dressed, he looks at me with a smile I
can't work out. Probably amusement at my appearance, but there's a
hint of desire in there as well.

After being warmed against the
fire, the clothes feel incredible against my cool skin. I hug them
tight to my body and soak up the heat as Colt dresses in his own
clothes. They fit better than mine, as you'd expect. Then he sets
about preparing some food from the supplies still remaining in the
cabin, which we eat as the room begins to grow warm and cozy.

I realize that the entire time
he doesn't even look at the book. He must be itching to go straight
for it but he's more concerned with tending to me first. He asks me
several times if I'm OK, comfortable enough in the clothes, warm
enough by the fire. He lets me do nothing as he works the flames,
makes the food, ensures the door remains firmly fixed in place to
prevent the wind and rain from entering.

When he's finished clearing the
dishes we sit together on the sofa and I kiss him, swirling my lips
against his. He holds me in his strong arms as my entire body
relaxes, suddenly overtaken by the urge to shut my eyes and drift
away into his embrace, the softness of his lips. When I feel his lips
pull away from mine I allow my head to rest onto his shoulder,
muscular and soft like a cushion. I can't help but fall asleep now,
safe beside him, as the night sky grows dark and the flickering
flames of the fire and candlelight more pronounced. The rain
continues to steadily fall, pattering against the roof, and drawing
me into a deep sleep, one devoid this time of nightmares and dread,
but filled with promise and hope.

I don't know how long it lasts,
but it's the sound of a crack of thunder that brings me back to life.
I lift my head from the sofa, and find that I'm no longer lying
against Colt, but am flat down on the cushion. Several candles have
burned out, but there's one still glowing bright on the table in
front of me. Sitting at it in a chair is Colt, his eyes staring at
the open book ahead of him. It's the same intense, unblinking stare I
saw earlier. And I know that something's not right.

I sit up and whisper: “Is
everything OK?”

He doesn't answer, but just
turns to me and slides the book along the table in my direction. Then
he passes me his ultraviolet penlight and I take it in my hand. In
the book, Colt has placed the ripped out page back into its rightful
place. I begin scanning the light over Pullman's confession again,
before reaching the part neither of us had seen. It begins at the end
of the ripped page, the line I only read for the first time
yesterday:

I heard the woman had a
husband. I was told this by...

I hesitate briefly before
scanning the light up to the top of the following page, nervous as to
what the words will say. When I begin reading, I quickly realize why
Colt's eyes are burning with such a fire.

I was told this by....the man
who hired me for the job. I can hardly live with the thought that
he's going to learn about this and never know the truth. Part of me
wants to confess and take the consequences, but I know I won't. I'll
live in guilt and live ashamed for the rest of my life, and hopefully
try to make amends in some small way.