In the Woods (21 page)

Bob and Pete kept their distance from the guys abducting the women. They walked a parallel path, off the main trail, far enough that they could turn and high-tail it away if they were seen. When they got to the chain-link fence, though, they had to stop and think.

‘I don’t know,’ Pete said. ‘We’re outnumbered. Maybe we should go get the cops.’

‘The cops.’ Bob sat beside a tree, resting his leg. ‘And what do you think will happen when the cops see our burns?’

‘We can call them. On the phone. Nobody’d have to see us.’

‘Great. Except we don’t have phones. Besides, what happens when they come out here and find our stuff?’

‘We don’t know for sure that our stuff is here.’

‘You’re right. It probably just got up and walked back to the Impala.’

Pete’s eyes blinked rapidly. ‘So? Even if the cops find our stuff, they can’t trace it back to us. I think we’re okay—’

‘Our fingerprints are all over everything.’

‘So?’

‘So I had a DUI, remember?’

‘So wasn’t that expunged?’

‘My fingerprints might still be in the fucking system. It’s not a risk I want to take.’ Bob was fuming. ‘Anyway, we have to go look for our stuff. Give me your sweatshirt.’ Bob took his fleece off, grimacing as he aggravated his burned hands. He covered the barbed wire with the jacket, took Pete’s sweatshirt and padded a few more sections. ‘Okay.’ He stretched his arms. ‘Give me a boost.’

Pete stooped so Bob could stand on his shoulders, nearly screamed when Bob’s boot scraped a singed patch on his neck. Nearly caved under Bob’s weight. But he didn’t, and with some effort, Bob made it over the fence, rolling onto the ground without a scratch.

Pete didn’t have the benefit of a boost. He had to climb the fence, finding footholds in chain link, avoiding barbs. He slipped, tearing his jersey on the barbs, began climbing again. Slipped again, grimacing as his raw flesh hit the ground.

‘Fuck, Bob. I can’t do this.’

‘Hold on.’ Bob lay low on the ground, thinking. Saw the KEEP OUT sign. Maybe Pete could take that off the fence, prop it against the wire and step onto it, leveraging himself to get height.

Pete tried. He tugged at the sign until the boards came loose. It was a flat panel, but backed by two by fours. He leaned it against the fence, put his left toes on top of the sign and leaped upward, grabbing Bob’s fleece, vaulting over the barbed wire. Almost making it. Tumbling back down.

On the fourth try, he cleared the top of the fence, but his left leg dragged, scraping the barbs. Sharp metal ripped through the fabric of his pants, tearing at his flesh. Pete yelped as he fell to the ground beside Bob. He lay moaning, his burns raging, his leg bleeding.

‘Shh!’ Bob lay on his stomach. ‘Quiet.’

Pete managed to be silent, but his body screamed.

‘You okay?’ Bob leaned over, looking at his leg. ‘Shit. It’s just a scratch. Your pants are trashed, though.’ He got up, retrieved the sweatshirt and fleece. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Can’t,’ Pete breathed. He sat up, saw red trickling down his calf.

‘Dammit.’ Bob looked him over, sighed, gazed at the burns on his hands. ‘Okay, sit. Pull up your shirt.’ He tore strips off Pete’s jersey, tied them around the cut on Pete’s leg. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Not deep. Just a scratch.’ He looked at Pete. ‘Ready?’

Pete’s body reverberated from the shock of landing on hard earth. He was burned, cut, chilly and ragged. But he pulled himself to his feet and together, holding the fleece and the sweatshirt, they ambled ahead, noting a tall mound of dirt and rock ahead. And, to its right, a ramshackle shed.

When Angela regained consciousness, she was different. Out of touch. Disoriented. She talked to shadows. She often made no sense.

Harper helped Angela settle onto one of three cots that lined the walls of the bunker, examined the bloody bump on her head, realized she could do nothing for it, and tugged her boots off. Angela’s ankle resembled a purple inflated balloon.

‘Stretch out here,’ Harper told her. ‘Elevate your ankle.’

Angela didn’t resist. But she didn’t answer, either. Her eyes swam, watery and unfocused. Maybe she had a concussion. Maybe worse – a fractured skull? Internal bleeding? Harper had no idea. She touched Angela’s forehead; it felt warm, inflamed. Angela rambled, talking about – or maybe to – Phil.

Harper sat on another of the cots under the cell’s one dim light bulb, assuring herself that Angela would be all right. That they both would. That she’d find a way for them to escape. That help would arrive. But her mind was reeling. She needed to slow down, collect her thoughts, orient herself. Make a plan. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Saw the Bog Man pulling off his mask. Damn.

Angela moaned, uttered unintelligible syllables involving Phil. Probably she missed him, couldn’t accept that her husband was gone. Harper couldn’t imagine it. She thought of Hank, felt a pang. Bit her lip. No, she wouldn’t think of Hank. Or of Chloe. She needed to focus.

Okay. Focus. She sat straight, surveying her surroundings. They were underground, locked in a dank concrete room that looked like a bomb shelter. It had three cots, one blanket and a portable toilet. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling, an air vent over one of the cots, a steel door in one of the walls. She got up, tried to open it, but it was locked.

Angela wailed. Her eyes were closed. ‘Phil?’ she asked.

Harper went to her, took her hand to reassure her. Did some addition, estimated that they were at least twenty feet underground. She studied the trapdoor, the vent, the walls. Felt buried. Her chest tightened. Oh God. She and Angela were stuck in a hidden tomb, a windowless, lightless chamber under a concealed trapdoor that no one might ever find.

Calm down, she told herself. Surely, Hiram and his friends would release them. Why wouldn’t they? What could they achieve by keeping them prisoner? Nothing. Unless they were taking hostages. But why would they do that? She had to stop thinking the worst, had to remain positive. Hiram and the others wouldn’t leave them there indefinitely.

Harper shivered. Watched the walls. If not indefinitely, how long would they leave them there? Why had they kidnapped them in the first place?

Angela sprawled on the cot, mumbling Phil’s name. Saying something about his shooting.

‘Angela.’ Harper held onto her hand but Angela seemed not to notice her. She gave Angela’s shoulder a gentle shake.

Angela looked at her vaguely. Stopped talking.

‘Angela, listen. We’re going to be all right. We’ll get out of here. My husband will come for us. I left a trail—’

Angela’s gaze drifted away, and she began mumbling again. Telling Phil something or other.

‘Angela? Listen. Can you understand what I’m saying?’ Harper tried again, but when Angela didn’t respond, she gave up. She was talking mostly for her own sake, anyway. Giving herself a pep talk, reminding herself to stay hopeful. After all, it wouldn’t be long until help arrived. Hank would find her trail. He’d follow it with Ranger Daniels and Captain Slader and the state cops. He’d rescue her and Angela, and take them home.

Unless the squirrels had grabbed the tissues for their nests and falling leaves had covered the ibuprofen capsules …

‘Stan!’ Angela yelled. Her eyes opened wide, and closed again.

Harper leaned back against the concrete, trying to remain calm. Think, she told herself.

Fine, so what was she supposed to think about? She chewed her lip and thought back, replaying events. Piecing them together. Tried to figure out why she and Angela had been kidnapped – and why that guy had been running through the woods dressed like the Bog Man. Wait – were these the people who’d shot Phil and that guy from the gas company? Had they set off the explosions? Harper stood, ran a hand through her hair. Nothing made sense. What could they hope to accomplish with all that violence?

Harper sat again, leaned back against the hard cold wall. She closed her eyes, saw Chloe’s smile. Felt a welling of tears. Tightened her body, refusing them. Things were not dire. Hank would come for them, was probably on his way. Would appear any moment. Meantime, she had to stay strong.

She sat still, watching Angela.

‘Angela?’ she tried one more time. ‘Angela, are you awake? Because we have to talk about what we’re going to do.’

‘Phil?’ Angela asked. Then, breathlessly but clearly, she said, ‘Go away. You’re dead.’

Angela was delirious. Harper sat back, looked at the ceiling, the steel door, the blank concrete walls. Whatever was happening, she’d have to face it on her own. Her hand slipped into her vest pocket, felt around, and grabbed onto her lemon.

The sector chief had shut off his radio to quiet the endlessly blurting messages. He sat at the counter of the snack bar, drinking coffee and contemplating the torrent of events that were careening toward him, a tsunami rising up overhead, ready to strike havoc. His people had no idea how to deal with the forces amassing around them. They were out of control, delusional, believing they could win out against the gas company, let alone the government. He chewed a jelly donut, acting casual, taking in the scene.

And it was exactly that: a scene. The campground had become a circus of outsiders. ATF agents were there to look into the bombings. State cops to assist in the shooting investigations. Pipeline people and gas company representatives to assess damage and find the perpetrators. TV reporters to question everyone and record everything. And a small horde of campers and hunters to find out what in God’s name was going on.

Same as he was.

Ranger Daniels was in the middle of it all. The cops pressed him to take them to the crime scenes and interview witnesses; the ATF and pipeline people wanted to go to the explosion sites. Reporters kept firing questions.

‘One thing at a time,’ Daniels bellowed. ‘We’ll get everything done, but only if you’ll all quiet down and let me bring you up to speed. I’ve been up all night, so I don’t have much patience. Bear with me.’

There were grumbles and mutterings, but everyone settled down. Penny, the waitress, was sweet on Daniels but flirted with everyone. She flashed a pink-lipped smile at the sector chief as she wandered around with a coffee pot, refilling cups.

‘First, I’ll address the explosions.’ Daniels pointed to a map on an easel. ‘Most importantly, no visible damage has been done to people, property or the pipeline. The first explosion occurred here, on the grounds of the old Hunting Lodge. It blew up septic tanks and a few trees. The second was here, right along the pipeline. It blew away the ground cover, exposing the pipeline, but it wasn’t strong enough to do anything else. Mostly, it made a big old hole in the ground.’

A news reporter called out, ‘So, no casualties?’

‘None that we know of.’

Someone started to ask something else, but the ranger raised his hands, cutting him off. ‘Hold your questions, please.’

More muttering.

The sector chief counted heads. Four ATF agents. Two state cops. Six media people. Five gas and pipeline officials. Including the police captain and the ranger, that made nineteen, not counting all the campers, hunters and hikers. Like it or not, Black Moshannon was in the spotlight. Unless he put the reins on hard and fast, his people wouldn’t get rid of outsiders; they’d do the opposite, attracting even more attention.

‘As to the two shooting victims.’

‘Do you think Al Rogers was shot by the bombers?’ A man from the pipeline company interrupted. ‘Because it doesn’t seem coincidental that a pipeline walker was shot the same day someone set a bomb off along his pipeline route.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Daniels began, ‘Captain Slader and I will get to that.’

‘And where’s his partner? Jim Kinsella?’ the man went on. ‘We haven’t been able to contact him. He doesn’t answer his radio.’

‘Maybe he got hurt in that second blast,’ an agent said.

‘Or maybe he’s the one who set it off,’ a reporter suggested.

The sector chief rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. He needed to check in, update his people, find out what they were up to. Make sure they’d lie low until the ATF and cops left.

Daniels was calling for order. Telling everybody that there was no reason to believe that Kinsella was involved. That, in fact, Kinsella had been extremely upset by his partner’s death and was eager to help Captain Slader with the investigation. He nodded to the captain.

Slader didn’t want any part of this circus. Didn’t want the state cops looking over his shoulder or the media misquoting him. But thanks to Daniels, everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to say something. He stood. ‘Jim Kinsella hasn’t been in touch since yesterday, but I’m sure we’ll locate him after the meeting.’

‘What about the second shooting?’ a female news reporter asked. ‘Was it related to the first?’

Damn. Now that he’d stood, everyone wanted to talk to him. ‘It doesn’t appear to be related. At this moment, it seems to be the result of a dispute between ex-spouses. We’ve taken a person of interest into Philipsburg for questioning.’

‘Name?’ the woman persisted.

‘I’m not ready to release his name,’ Slader said. ‘He’s not officially a suspect. But I can tell you that he had motive and opportunity.’

‘Any chance either shooting was accidental?’ a male reporter asked. ‘A hunter mistaking someone for a deer?’

‘Nothing has been ruled out.’

‘Was the same type of ammunition used in both shootings?’

‘Were the bodies found close together?’

‘Did the victims know each other?’

Slader raised his hands, warding off the questions. ‘We’ll have statements for the press after we have a chance to investigate.’ He turned toward Daniels, silently urging him to take over. Daniels watched him but didn’t respond. ‘Ranger Daniels.’ The captain felt his face getting red. ‘I think you can carry on now.’

‘We’d like to get to the sites now,’ an ATF agent said. The agents stood, ready for Daniels to escort them. The gas and pipeline officials stood as well. The media teams gathered their equipment, ready to follow.

‘Fine. We’ll head out. Meantime, Captain Slader will take the state police to the scene of the shootings.’