Then I saw movement near the van. I froze, lying motionless with my nose to the ground.
But what if the rifleman was coming into the woods after me? I couldn’t stand not to look. I lifted my head and peered toward the van. All I could see was a dark figure moving beside the van. Then I heard a door open.
The rifleman was looking inside the van. This was my chance. I jumped to my feet, losing the branch I’d used to hide my hair. I ran behind a big tree, an evergreen of some kind. Then I stood still, not daring to breathe, hoping that the wind would make all the trees move enough to hide the way my tree was quaking.
I heard a bang, but it wasn’t a shot. The van’s door had slammed. Apparently the guy with the rifle hadn’t seen my dash.
I moved the branches of the evergreen aside, very gently, willing the dark figure not to see the motion. I could make out the van and the figure, but I couldn’t see any detail. It was just a blob moving around. But it could easily move toward me, into the woods.
I didn’t dare stay where I was.
I looked for another likely hiding place, one farther from the van. Trees and bushes were all I could see in any direction. I picked a likely tree—another nice, thick evergreen—selected a path to it, and skedaddled. I reached it without any shots being fired. I stood still a minute, then picked another tree that looked as if it could hide a six-foot blond. This one was a maple with lots of bushes around its trunk. I ran for that one. I picked another tree. I ran for it. I kept this up for a long time.
For the first time in my life I subscribed to Aunt Nettie’s view that trees were for hiding behind. Unfortunately, I was also highly aware of my own view of trees as hiding places for potential enemies.
But I slogged on, seeking out the thickest bushes and trees I could find for what seemed like hours. Finally I decided I needed to assess my situation. I looked at my watch, then crawled under the low branches of an evergreen. I was determined to lie still for five whole minutes and try to see if the rifleman was following me.
I couldn’t hear anything except my own panting and the wind high in the trees. Had I escaped? I was shivering; I hoped my shaking wouldn’t rustle the dry leaves that covered the forest floor. A picture of a forest popped into my mind—a still forest with one tree shaking like mad. The one I was under.
I was so giddy the picture almost made me laugh. I tried to force myself to lie still. This wasn’t hide and seek. It wasn’t even paintball. It was life or death. My life. My death.
Still I heard nothing. My panting gradually turned into longer breaths. I lay quietly. I counted to two hundred. It had been long enough for me to check my watch, I decided. Surely the five minutes I’d allotted were up. I lifted my head and looked at my wrist.
That’s when I realized the next danger I faced. Because now, under the branches of the evergreen, I couldn’t read my watch. It was too dark to make out the time. I wouldn’t be able to read it until I’d punched the little button that lit up the face. But I knew what time it was.
It was time to panic.
It was nearly dark. I had no idea which way I had run since I fled from the rifleman. The temperature was dropping. And I’d left my jacket under some bush.
I was beginning to believe I’d gotten away from the rifleman, but I might be in as much danger here as I had been in the van. I was lost in the woods with no flashlight and no jacket. And it was getting dark fast.
I crawled out from under the evergreen and stood up. That was one of the worst moments in my life. Five generations of North Texas ancestors hovered over me, murmuring, “Trees, trees, trees, trees! Trees in every direction. You can’t
see
where you’re going! You can’t
see
the horizon! Nobody’s even going to start looking for you until you don’t show up for your date with Joe at nine o’clock! You’ll be dead by then! They won’t find your body until the spring thaw! Animals will gnaw your bones!”
It was all I could do to keep from running off in all directions.
Then a different group of North Texas ancestors began to murmur. “Wait a minute, gal. There may be trees, but east is still east, west is still west, and north and south haven’t budged. Dangerous wild animals are scarce in this part of Michigan; this ain’t the Upper Peninsula. You might stumble over a skunk or a deer, but they won’t eat’cha. You kin git outta this, baby doll.”
I took three deep breaths and resolved to start getting out of it while there was at least a glimmer of light coming from the overcast sky.
Speaking of light, that wasn’t going to be any help in deciding which way to go. The blankety-blank trees were hiding the sky. I couldn’t tell which quadrant was lighter, which way the sun had set.
So I listened. On my left I heard highway noise. That would be the trucks on Interstate 196. On my right I heard Lake Michigan. That cool west wind was whipping the normally placid water into surf. It might not be booming like the Pacific, but it was loud enough to hear.
If the Interstate was on my left, and the lake was on my right, I was facing south. The highway and the lake were usually from a mile to three miles apart. I turned right, toward the lake. If I kept the sound of the highway behind me and walked toward the sound of the surf, I’d be headed due west. I’d eventually hit Lake Shore Drive. The route I’d picked meant I was going to head directly into the wind, but I couldn’t help that.
It was getting colder, and the wind cut right through my T-shirt. But I’d be warmer if I kept moving.
I did it. I will say it wasn’t easy. Walking through the woods as it gets darker and darker is not fun. But I kept moving toward the sound of the surf.
The terrain in west Michigan isn’t hilly. Of course, there were gullies and rises and trees and vines and other stuff I don’t want to think about. But I kept moving, with the wind in my face and headed toward the sound of the surf.
Once I fell, slid down a slope, and wound up with my feet in a creek. But it was a sneaker day, so I didn’t lose my shoes. I squished up the other side of the creek bank. And when I got to the top, I could hear the lake again. The blessed, beautiful lake. I walked on toward it, placing each foot down carefully to be sure I had a firm place to step before I put any weight on it. A twisted ankle could be fatal.
My teeth were chattering, even before I fell in the creek, and I got colder and colder as I walked. The temptation to step behind a tree and huddle down out of the wind was great. I sure wished I had that khaki jacket I’d abandoned. But that couldn’t be helped. I gritted my teeth and kept on walking west. Toward the lake.
The Texas ancestors kept at me. “Come on, baby girl. We fought drought and Comanches and built that little town on the prairie. We didn’t do it by giving in. Keep on. One foot in front of the other. Head west. You come from tough stock.”
The Dutch side of the family began to lecture me, too. “If you come from tough Texas stock, Susanna Lee, you come from tough Dutch stock, too. Do you think we had it easy? Leaving a civilized country to settle in the wilds? To be drafted into service in the Civil War when we didn’t even speak English? To try to be a skilled woodworker in a place where people built their furniture from logs with the bark still on? To face winters as cold as Holland’s without a warm house, without a tile stove? We didn’t fear the cold. We kept going. Of course you’re cold, but you’re a healthy young woman. You’ll get to Lake Shore Drive before you get pneumonia.”
My first ray of hope arrived when I came to a house. I could see its roof—a straight line where everything else was curved. I burst out of the woods and into a yard.
But there were no lights on and when I walked up to it, I saw—actually felt—that the windows were covered with shutters. It was a summer cottage and was closed for the winter.
At least it would have a drive, a driveway or lane I could follow to Lake Shore Drive. But I circled the house, and I couldn’t find the drive. It was too dark to see it.
I almost decided to break into the cottage and wait for morning. But the shutters were nailed on tight, and I didn’t have as much as a stick to pry them off.
I listened for the surf, faced west, and slogged on. I climbed up rises and slid down the other side. My wet socks squished inside my wet shoes. I kept the wind in my face and listened for the surf.
And finally, I saw a light.
It was off to my left. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. Then it reappeared. I realized it was a stationary light; the blowing branches were making it appear and disappear. I turned toward the light.
I took one more fall, stumbling over a fallen branch and landing on my knees. Then the brush thinned out. I stepped onto sand, then onto asphalt. I had reached Lake Shore Drive.
I threw my head back and yelled. Or I tried to yell. The “Yeehaw!” I had thought would be a victory cry came out as a meek little croak. But I was standing on a paved road. If my feet hadn’t been so cold, I would have danced.
I stood there, looking across the road and down about fifty yards to a row of Asian-looking lanterns on top of a wall. I had not only reached Lake Shore Drive, I knew where I was. I was about two miles south of Aunt Nettie’s house, across from the Hart compound. I even knew who lived there. Timothy Hart. I felt sure he’d let me use his phone.
For the first time, I began to cry. Rescue was within sight.
I limped toward Timothy Hart’s house, breathing a prayer. “Please, God, don’t let Timothy be drunk.”
I didn’t think Timothy would be dangerous, drunk or sober, but approaching the house of a drunk in the dark just didn’t seem like a good idea. He might have passed out, for one thing.
But I climbed through the gate, and when I looked at Timothy’s little farmhouse, I saw a light in the living room and Timothy walked in front of the window. I couldn’t run, but I still made pretty good time getting up those front steps and pounding on the door. And Timothy Hart answered the door, white mustache neat as ever, every beautiful white hair in place. He looked every inch the distinguished older gent. And he was sober.
“Lee! What’s happened?”
I fell on his neck. “Oh, Timothy, someone tried to kill me and I had to run through the woods! I’m freezing to death! Can I come in and take off my shoes and call for help?”
After Timothy finished gaping, he took care of me like a baby. When my fingers were too stiff to untie my wet shoelaces, he took my shoes off for me. He brought me a blanket and wrapped me up. He gave me hot coffee. I accepted all that, but I drew the line at a hot bath.
“I’ll wait until I get home,” I said. “Can I use your phone?”
“Of course. You should call the police.”
“First I’ll call Joe.”
Timothy patted my shoulder and handed me the telephone. Joe answered his cell phone on the second ring. I began to pour out the whole story. I was sobbing, but I didn’t even know it until Timothy handed me a box of tissues.
Then I realized Joe had been trying to say something. I stopped and let him speak. “Where are you?”
“At Timothy Hart’s.”
“But you said the rifle shots were fired over by Gray Gables.”
“Yes. I ran through the woods.”
“Through the woods? That’s at least two miles.”
“Well, I took my time!” I looked at a grandfather clock in the corner of Timothy’s living room. It was nearly seven o’clock. “I was running through the woods for two hours!”
“My god, woman!” Joe took a deep breath. “Have you called the cops?”
“Not yet.” I sobbed. “I just wanted to talk to you!”
“Listen, don’t move. Don’t call anybody. Don’t do anything. Stay there. I’ll call the chief. Then I’ll be there.”
I barely had time to use Timothy’s bathroom before Joe’s truck pulled up outside. I hadn’t washed my face; I wanted to look as if I’d had a bad experience. Right that moment I wanted sympathy more than I wanted admiration, and I’m delighted to say that Joe provided it. He had called Aunt Nettie, so she arrived as well, and both of them petted me and gave me all the sympathy I could wish for. I was hugged so hard my ribs were sore for a week. However, neither Chief Hogan Jones nor any of his minions came.
“I thought you were going to call the chief,” I said.
“I did,” Joe said. “He was in Holland having dinner with VanDam. They’ll be here in a minute.”
I was almost sorry when they did show up, because I had to tell the whole story in an orderly fashion. It took a while to get my thoughts together.
VanDam and Hogan Jones both pressed me on the dark figure I had seen near the van.
“I wish I could tell you something,” I said. “It was just a dark figure. Somebody in a hooded jacket or maybe just a sweatshirt. It might not have even been the guy with the rifle. It might have been one of the neighbors over there trying to find out what was going on.”
Hogan shook his head. “I don’t think so. At least nobody has reported a wrecked or abandoned van over there. It wasn’t found until I sent a car over to check.”
“I guess my van’s a total loss.”
Hogan patted my hand. “It may be, Lee. But you’re not.”
He meant the remark to be comforting, but it sent me into another fit of shivering. I pulled Timothy’s blanket tight and turned to Joe for a hug. But the chief motioned, and Joe got up. He, Hogan, and VanDam retired to Timothy’s kitchen for a conference.
In a moment they came back. Hogan pulled a kitchen chair up close to me, so he could look straight into my face. Joe sat down beside me, and VanDam loomed behind Hogan. I expected Hogan to say, “Here’s the plan.”
But he didn’t. He said, “Okay, Lee. We don’t know who fired those shots at you, but it’s very likely it was the same person who tried to shoot Aubrey Andrews Armstrong.”
“That makes sense. How many mad riflemen can we have in a town the size of Warner Pier?”
“But we know a little more about him now. He’s a local.”