Nowhere Wild (10 page)

This time, she would heed the warning. She would run. But first she needed new slings and extra moccasins. She had to pack supplies for the trip: extra food, extra clothing, and whatever tools she'd need to survive—out there—alone—for days, if not weeks. She gathered these things while Rick was gone, wrapped them in a piece of heavy plastic she hoped Rick wouldn't miss, and hid them in a big, hollowed-out maple tree to the east of the cabin.

There were some things she wouldn't be able to hide prior to running. Rick's flint and striker. She needed that. She needed a water bottle and her knife. She couldn't go anywhere without her sleeping bag. A pot for boiling water was essential. Rick would notice the instant any of these things weren't in their regular places, and she could not forget what had happened to Bill.

Even dead, Bill was the key to Izzy's escape. Rick had kept Bill's canoe. It was half the size of the aluminum behemoth stored behind the cabin. That small canoe would allow her to cross the lake.

Getting across the lake wouldn't be easy, but it wasn't the only difficult part of her plan. When Rick wasn't using the canoe—which was rarely—he kept it out of sight behind the cabin, covered by an old tarp. Izzy had tried to move it twice. While Rick was able to shoulder it without breaking a sweat, Izzy was only able to slide it across the ground. Dragging a canoe across the forest floor made
a lot of noise, and if Rick was anywhere nearby, he would come running.

And that was the other problem. When he wasn't using the canoe for fishing or salvage trips, he rarely strayed far from her little prison. In fact, he stayed closer than ever. He spent the rainy days putting together new gizmos and gadgets that made the cabin feel all the more permanent. He built a more substantial smokehouse. He found a hand pump at a nearby deserted cabin, and combined it with a length of garden hose and a deep pot. Just like that, they had running water and a kitchen sink—a sink she would be stuck at for the rest of her life, if Rick had his way.

In her mind, she mapped her path from one part of the cabin to another, gathering her supplies and adding the ones stored in the hollow tree. She'd drag the canoe to the shore and hop in. Her skills at handling a canoe weren't great, but she was a quick learner. As long as she was out of sight by the time Rick returned, she'd be fine. In theory.

Still, there were daunting challenges. Rick never left the cabin without the compass, and it was the only one they had. She stole glances at the maps when he was gone. She didn't know for certain exactly where they were. Rick had never told her the name of the lake. Some features stood out to her and matched one that seemed to fit: a large, long lake that ran east to west, with a spit of land that looked like a nose to the east of the cabin. Across the lake and slightly to the west, a river entered from the southwest. That river would take her to civilization. She didn't have to get all the way back to Thompson—not on her own. She traced a route to Laroque following the river. If, once across the lake, she always walked up the rivers and clockwise around the next lake, she knew she would end up in Laroque. Of course, it wouldn't be that simple. There were dozens of rivers entering each lake. She'd have to pick the right one.
She'd have to work her way through the dense summer forest, too, but once across the lake it would just be a matter of will, and she had plenty of that.

Without a true calendar, Izzy relied on guesswork to calculate the start of summer. The longest day of the year should have been the perfect time to run, but a weeklong string of cold showers dropped into the region, leaving the rivers high and Izzy's spirits as drenched as the surrounding landscape. With the wet weather came the blackflies, thick as tire smoke and impossible to endure without full skin protection.

Rick grumbled through every meal, and, if stuck inside due to the weather, napped often, ate little, and talked even less. Izzy nervously awaited a good stretch of weather, if only to push him out of the cabin for a moment's peace.

She counted the days through late June. Rick hovered close, never leaving for more than a couple of hours.

“The fish are biting today!” he said each morning. He spent every day in the canoe within sight of the cabin. At the end of each day, they crammed the smoker full with more drying fish. By the end of June, every shelf in the cabin overflowed with food, to the point that catching more than they could eat in a day was almost a waste.

“Damn wolverine's back.” Rick came in one morning near the end of the month. “Sneaky bastard ate right through the smokehouse wall last night. Knocked all the racks down. Made one hell of a mess.” He reached above the door and grabbed the rifle.

“You going looking for it?” Izzy's hopes surged. The weather was good, the day young. Her legs and arms were fresh and ready to paddle. If Rick was gone for even a few hours, that would give her enough of a head start.

“I'm going to go kill it, is what I'm going to do,” he said.

“You sound pretty sure this time,” she said with a bit of a smirk.

“Saw the bastard running off with a whole stringer of fish. Followed it to that big ol' hollowed-out maple off to the east. If I can get back there fast enough, I'll take that sucker out, even if I have to chop that damn tree down.” He picked up the ax from the corner. Izzy cussed to herself. She needed him to head west, not east. Her supplies were to the east. And then it dawned on her. There were lots of maple trees around the cabin, but not many Rick would describe as big and old and hollow. She swore again, this time aloud.

“Don't worry, darling. I'll get it. We'll be having wolverine stew tonight.”

“I'll come with you,” she offered, taking a few steps in the direction of the door.

“Naw. Stay here. Those things can get a might ornery when they're cornered. Wouldn't want you to get that pretty face hurt.” He pulled the door shut behind him as he ran out.

Izzy looked at her backpack, sitting innocently in the corner. She could fill that with supplies in minutes, and add a few extra pieces of leather and rawhide to make whatever she needed. Rick's pack was also in the corner. The maps were there. And clipped to the shoulder harness was the compass. She paused for the briefest of moments. She would have only a few minutes head start—so little time to load the canoe and drag it to the water. If Rick caught her, he would likely kill her. On the other hand, if he found that pouch and all her supplies in that tree, he'd probably do worse.

She stepped toward the corner where the backpacks lay. The first step was the hardest. Then her feet moved faster. She grabbed her pack and stole the compass from Rick's. The maps were carefully folded and sealed inside a plastic bag. A stack of meat was next. She crammed her sleeping bag into the center of the pack. There would be time for rolling it properly later.

A noise from outside stopped her in her tracks. For a moment, she thought Rick had already returned, but after a second she realized it was only a flock of geese passing overhead. She shook her head and forced herself to focus on her task.

The sound of a shot, then a second, cracked through the woods. This time, she didn't stop moving. She grabbed a roll of fishing line and a package of hooks, a spare dishcloth, and the lightest of their pans. Her poor packing meant that before she had even half of what she needed, the pack was already overflowing. She added the hatchet to the side of pack. Her panicked fingers fumbled with the straps. The hatchet fell to the floor, missing her toes by a fraction of an inch. She reviewed what she had stuffed into the nylon pack. Food.
Check
. Shelter. The plastic was in the tree. She grabbed the rolled up tent fly from the shelf. It would have to do.
Check
. Water? She grabbed a spare one-liter plastic bottle.
Check
. Fire? She grabbed the flint and striker.
Check
. Clothes? She had only the thin deerskin tunic on her back. Most of her city clothes had long since worn through. The parka, even at night, would be too warm and too much to carry. Knife. She grabbed the worn knife from the kitchen table.

An alarm went off in her mind. Rick would soon be back. She snapped the clasp on the pack closed, flung it over her shoulder, and raced for the door. Her mind buzzed with the plan. She would miss the moccasins and the slings the most. Those would be the first things she would make when she had time. She stopped as she reached the door. She hadn't packed any extra skins or leather to make a sling with, let alone enough to make moccasins with. Her stock of materials inside was desperately low. Most of it was out back, drying on the woodpile near the canoe.

She ducked out of the door and headed around the back. She flipped over the canoe, tossed her pack into it, and grabbed a full deerskin from the pile. A single skin could make five or six pairs of
moccasins—far more than she would need, but she'd worry about that later. She grabbed a paddle from next to the cabin and began to drag the canoe across the ground. The noise it made seemed like it would wake up the entire forest. She rounded the corner of the cabin, eyeing the lake to the south. She knew the exact path that she could quickly drag the canoe through. She'd envisioned this path a hundred times and had even cleared the few remaining sticks out of the way.

She had barely rounded the southwestern corner of the cabin when Rick's massive hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and yanked her backward.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he yelled as he wrenched her to the ground. Her legs flew out from under her. The impact with the forest floor rendered her unable to speak. The sun was directly behind him. His dark silhouette towered over her.

Izzy raised her hands to protect herself. The paddle was still clenched in her hand. Rick kicked out at it, nearly breaking her fingers. The paddle flew off into the leaves. Izzy screamed in pain and rolled away. Rick grabbed her by her hair and lifted her to her feet. He dropped a shredded piece of plastic by her feet—the plastic she had used to wrap the supplies she had hidden in the tree. Her spare slings fell to the side. He pulled the backpack from the canoe, then riffled through it with one hand while holding her at arm's length with the other.

“You little bitch.” He snatched the compass out of the pack. “I keep you alive for a whole bloody year, and this is how you repay me? You take my stuff?” He jerked her to the side so violently that she thought her neck was going to break.

“You want to run?” He tossed the pack behind him, grabbed the bottom hem of her tunic, and pulled it up and over her head, switching hands to keep ahold of her hair. The cool morning air
flowed around every inch of her naked body, and she shivered. Tears scorched her cheeks.

“You want to run?” he yelled again. “Run now!”

“I'm sorry, Rick,” she pleaded between sobs. She wrapped her hands around her body.

“Go—swim! Run!” He pointed south and swung the tunic over his shoulder. “You want to leave, now is your chance. See how far you make it before you freeze your ass off—how far you get before wolves pick up your scent. I say you don't last the night.” He let go of her hair. Izzy sank to her knees.

“No, Rick, I want to stay.” She crawled back toward him. He backed up a step and pushed her to the ground.

“Rick, please, let me stay. I won't do it again.” Leaves and dirt stuck to her arms and knees. The cool air sucked away more of her independence with each passing minute. Rick's hovering presence ripped away her will even more quickly. Her desperate sobs turned into a wail as he flipped her over onto her back with his foot, then pinned her down with his boot.

“You do it again, and I'll put a bullet through that pretty little head of yours.” He threw the tunic at her and picked up her pack. She cowered on the ground, weeping and shivering as the sound of his footsteps receded. The cabin door slammed. Once again, she was alone.

She slowly pulled the tunic over her head, stood, and limped past the canoe to the edge of the lake. A cold wind ruffled the water and shook her to her core.

There was no sign of a dead wolverine or fresh blood where they normally cleaned their kills. The wolverine had, it seemed, escaped once again.

Jake covered the remaining distance to the lake at a breakneck pace. The forest floor seemed almost manicured—like a city park instead of the bush he'd been fighting for so long. His spirits soared. He imagined putting his hands and feet into the lake's cool, clean water. He pictured catching a fish or two for dinner. He'd left the swamp behind, and now everything would be so much better. The corner had been turned. It was just a matter of time before he was safe.

A massive flock of geese passed overhead as he jogged, trumpeting his arrival, honking and calling out landing instructions to each other. Jake's hopes surged. One of those geese would feed him for days. The lake would provide everything he so badly needed, and a respite from the slog through the bush.

The blast of a single gunshot broke him from his reverie. The echo bounced among the trees before dissipating through the forest. Jake ducked, hunching his shoulders slightly before his secondary reactions took over. He stumbled and came to a stop. A second shot pierced the quiet of the woods.

Jake's head swam with the consequences of the shots. Shots could only mean one thing: people. He turned, searching for his bearings. All thoughts of his aches and pains withdrew from his mind. Somewhere, within earshot, rescue awaited. Jake only had to find it before that chance disappeared. His ears told him the sound
had originated from the southeast. He spun that way and began jogging.

“Hello?” he croaked, barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding of his heart. He relaxed, took a breath, and repeated the call, more loudly and forcefully. “Hello! Is anyone out there?” No response. He ceased jogging and listened again. Quiet greeted him. Another call was met with silence.

Jake wound his way between the closely packed trees. The ground had been cleared of deadfall, a sure sign of human presence. It had been the same around his winter cabin. He and Amos had picked up every stick within a kilometer the previous winter to keep the stove going.

Jake's heart raced. He scanned the woods. He sniffed the air. A faint tinge of wood smoke hung over the area. Living by campfires for so long made it difficult to sense, but it drifted by like a sheer curtain. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

A noise ahead—a familiar scraping noise. Jake's tightened throat wouldn't allow his words to escape past his lips. He raced forward ever faster. A dark, rectangular shadow emerged from the trees. Jake closed on it. An outhouse. Never before had he been so excited to see a latrine. He nearly jumped for joy.

What he saw next halted him in his tracks and nearly stopped his heart.

Ahead, next to a cabin, a girl dragged a red canoe. She was a blond, waiflike creature, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. Her face was dirty, her hair tangled and matted. She was scrawny, with a body like a feral cat, and wore a crudely made deerskin tunic and moccasins. Jake instantly recognized the canoe she was attempting to move. Jake had sat in that canoe, with its distinctive yellow stripe, a dozen times. If that canoe was here, then Bill Six Rivers was not far away. Jake's heart leaped.

The girl didn't look familiar, though. Bill's daughter, Cammie, had been much older when she died. And Bill, as far as Jake knew, had no other children—and definitely no blondes.

The girl pulled the canoe with all her might. She checked behind her as she pulled it, as if she were being chased. A moment later, Jake knew why. A large, older man caught up to her as she passed the corner of the cabin. He grabbed her with one hand and tossed her to the ground like a rag doll. The man began yelling. Jake couldn't decipher the words, but he knew that whatever they were, they weren't nice. The man grabbed her tunic and ripped it off her body. The girl screamed.

The air left Jake's lungs with a whoosh. His feet took root in the ground. The image of a bear tearing apart a fawn flashed in his mind. Whoever this man was, he was closer to animal than human.

The girl lay sobbing on the ground. She wrapped her arms around her head and pulled her legs close to her chest. The man continued to taunt and berate her. The girl screamed as he stepped on her. Jake's feet broke from their shackles and began to move. But the next sentence out of the man's mouth stopped Jake once again.

“You do it again and I'll put a bullet through that pretty little head of yours.” The man tossed the tunic at the girl and stormed off.

The girl struggled to replace her tunic, paused as though gathering her wits, then stood and walked toward the water. The canoe was left where it was.

Jake turned, slid behind the outhouse, and, making sure he kept the privy between him and the cabin, worked his way back into the woods.