The Wildman (32 page)

He would resist to the end.

Ducking low, he moved through the brush toward the shoreline. This far from the campgrounds, there was no beach, just a jumble of granite boulders and scrub brush that ringed the island. He had no idea how far it was to the tip of the island, and disappointment filled his heart when he thought that the boat most likely had already blown past the island and was far from shore. But he moved forward with grim determination, positive that even if he was trapped on the tip of the island, he would fight like a cornered rat to the last ounce of strength remaining in him.

* * *

Trees and bushes whipped past him in the darkness, swatting his face and hands like stinging lashes. Before long, his face was bleeding from dozens of tiny slices. The blood mixed with sweat as it streamed down his face and neck. He licked his lips and tasted the coppery tang of blood. Up ahead, he could hear the rushing waves as they crashed against the shore. He knew he was close to “The Pulpit.”

Behind him, he could also feel Ben’s presence closing the distance between them. The night vibrated with dark energy that, Jeff feared, would soon drag him under, no matter how hard he fought back. He jolted to a stop when he suddenly broke out of the forest and saw the hulking silhouette of “The Pulpit” looming black against the night.

And there, on the shore, washed up and lying among the rocks like it had been placed there especially for him, was the boat.

Jeff couldn’t believe his eyes.

The boat rocked violently back and forth, making loud grinding against the rocks as waves battered against it. White collars of foam flew high into the air and were whisked away by the wind. The boat was rapidly filling with water, but Jeff was confident it would float. He listened for a moment and heard Ben coming up steadily behind him.

The rocks on the shore were wet and slick as Jeff scrambled down to the boat. Ice-cold water numbed him when he waded out into it, but he ignored the shock as he struggled to push the boat off the rocks and into the open water. He turned it around so the bow was heading into the wind and surf.

And there, lying on the floor of the boat athwart the seats, was a single oar.

“
Thank you, Evan,” he whispered to the sky as he gripped the gunwales and heaved himself up into the boat. He groaned as he collapsed onto the floor and for a while just lay, breathing deeply and shivering as he stared up at the
sky.

I’m not going to make it,
he th
ought, and as if in answer, a gunshot suddenly rang out in the night.

A bullet clipped the side of the boat just as a second shot sounded and sent splinters of wood flying. Jeff heaved himself off the boat’s floor. He had no idea if he had been hit or not. He was in such a state of shock that, for all he knew, the bullet could have passed clean through him without him feeling it.

“
You won’t make it, you son of a bitch!”

Ben’s voice was almost lost beneath the roaring wind and waves that crashed against side of the boat.

Jeff looked back at the shore. After a moment, he saw a dark figure scrambling up onto “The Pulpit.” The boat rocked wildly from side to side in the surf, less than fifty feet from the rock. If Ben got up there in time, he’d have a clear shot at him.

Jeff slipped the oar into the oarlock while looking around for the other oar, but it was nowhere in sight. It must have fallen overboard when Evan was shot. Jeff grabbed the oar from the oarlock and, sitting close to the port side, started using it like a canoe paddle.

It was difficult if not impossible to paddle into the wind. He could only imagine what kind of target he presented to Ben. Looking frantically over his shoulder, he saw Ben perched on “The Pulpit.” He cringed as he waited to see the gun flash and feel the hot sting of the bullet when it hit him an instant before the report of the pistol rolled through the night.

When it didn’t come, he wanted to believe Ben had run out of ammunition or couldn’t see him, but then, from the top of the rock, a bright flash cut through the mist. The bullet hit the water less than three feet from the boat, followed by the report of the gun.

Jeff dropped to the floor of the boat, but he quickly realized that had been a mistake. As soon as he stopped paddling, the boat turned in the wind and started drifting back toward the island. He would have to risk getting a bullet in the back if he was going to paddle away from here.

With his jaw set in grim determination, he strained at the oar, moving it from one side of the boat to the other to keep moving in as straight a line as possible toward the mainland. He had no idea where the dock and paunch ramp were. His only concern was to get out of range. Then he worry about finding the dock and his car, and driving to the nearest town to report what had happened.

* * *

The wind was hard and cold, blowing straight into his face and cutting like a thousand tiny razors. Water slopped up over the sides of the boat. At least three inches sloshed around on the floor, soaking Jeff up to the ankles. He was so numbed by the cold and exhaustion he hardly noticed it.

Even once the fog closed in and he was out of sight of the island, he couldn’t stop thinking that he was going to die tonight no matter what he did. If Ben didn’t shoot him, the cold was going to kill him. He hoped dying of hypothermia—if it came to that—would be as pleasant toward the end as he’d heard it was.

That, or maybe he’d drown.

That’s what he should do.

Why not just say fuck it and drop over the side of the boat and sink? From everything he had heard and read from people who had almost drowned, there was an unbelievable feeling of relaxation toward the end. Once your lungs were filled with water and the lights dimmed in your oxygen-starved brain, it was supposed to be downright euphoric.

With thoughts like this sifting through his mind, Jeff kept paddling, shifting the oar awkwardly from one side of the boat to the other as he cringed, waiting for a bullet to hit him.

You never hear the shot that kills you.

At least there was that mercy.

Ben did fire several more times, but either he missed by quite a distance or else the wind and waves were too loud for Jeff to hear how close the bullets came. Looking back, he saw another couple of faint muzzle flashes through the mist, but the sound of the gun was all but lost beneath the howling wind.

“
I just might make it … I just might make it,” he kept saying as he strained on the oar.

He could no longer feel hands, and his neck and shoulders felt as though cold iron rods had pierced them. His teeth chattered loudly no matter how hard he tried to clench his jaw to stop them.

A surge of panic filled him when he realized how much water had collected in the bottom of the boat. It was now halfway up to his knees and rising fast.

There must be a serious leak. Maybe a bullet hole was taking in water. Again, a surge of panic filled him. He had no idea how close he was to the shore. The wall of dense, luminous gray fog surrounded him. The only thing keeping him oriented was the water churning around his feet. If it weren’t for that, he would have free floating in a dimensionless, eternal darkness.

It was easy to imagine he was already dead. He could no longer feel any part of his body. He only kept paddling because his body was functioning on automatic. He realized he was crying. Tears streamed from his eyes, burning his face as the cold wind whipped his breath away. Exhaustion wrung out every
fiber of his being.

But I made it,
he told himself.
I got away!

He may not know where he was, but he was heading for the mainland. He suddenly panicked, thinking he may have lost his car keys and cell phone. He was only slightly reassured when he slapped his upper thigh and felt—or thought he felt—the bulge of the keys and phone in his pants pocket. He reached into his jacket pocket for the bottle of run and smiled grimly when he clutched the cold glass but then was crest-fallen to realize the bottle had broken. Rum as we
ll as rainwater soaked him. The jeans and socks he’d stashed under his jacket had fallen out at some point, but still, all he could think was—
I did it … I’m gonna make it, goddamn it
.

He tried to imagine what Ben would do next. As far as he knew,
Ben was trapped on the island and would have to stay there until the cops arrived in the morning.

How’s he going to explain those three bodies?

How’s he going to explain it when—and if—Evan’s body washes ashore with a bullet in it that matches Ben’s pistol?

It’s all over … and I won!

All he had to do was get to the shore and find his way back to his car. He doubted his cell phone would work after getting soaked, but he would drive to the nearest town with the car heater on full blast to thaw himself out.

And then he’d get some food. He couldn’t imagine how incredible a cup of coffee and hot bowl of soup was going to taste. He smacked his lips, luxuriating in anticipation of the sensations real food would give him.

And clean clothes … clean, dry clothes …

What would it feel like to put on something clean and dry after this?

He imagined the soft caress of clean cotton against his skin. Moaning softly, he raised his hand and caressed his cheek, thinking it was as soft as silk.

An icy tremor made his body shudder as he pictured all the comforts he would experience soo
n …
soon
… bu
t before he could sink any further in his delirium, the boat lurched to an abrupt stop. A harsh, grinding sound filled the night, rattling Jeff’s teeth as the sudden halt threw him forward. The oar fell from his hand into the water and drifted away out of sight as he pitched forward. He didn’t know he was falling until his head slammed against the side of the boat—hard. White stars sprayed across his vision as he dropped face-first into the water on the floor of the boat and lost consciousness.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Helping Hands

The hull of the boat buckled and boomed like thunder as it wedged between two large granite rocks in a small, shelter cove under a stand of tall pine trees.

Jeff was lying facedown on the floor of the boat, his body bent at the waist over one of the seats. One hand was hanging over the side of the boat, dangling like fish bait in the churning water. His face wasn’t completely submerged, but the waves kept rocking the boat from side to side, sloshing water over his face. Barely conscious, Jeff listened to himself snort and sputter, mistaking the sounds for gusts of wind, blowing overhead. He imagined the water was someone’s hand, repeatedly slapping him across the face. It was just enough to keep him from pitching all the way down into unconsciousn
ess.

Please … Just let me lie here for a while … so I can rest …

His mind was spiraling deeper into the darkness that waited to embrace him. If he could just get a little more comfortable, he thought, and if whoever was slapping him across the face would fuc
king
stop
it, the worst of the pain would pass, and he would be released.

The sound the boat made, crunching against the rocks, reminded him of someone grinding their teeth. He remembered how Evan had done that when they were kids, keeping everyone in the tent awake into the night with the sound.

But Evan … he’s dead now … right?

But this wasn’t someone grinding their teeth. It was too loud for that. It was something else … something he should be paying attention to because if he didn’t—

I don’t want to die.

—
if he didn’t, things were going to get a lot worse.

When a wave lifted the stern of the boat, he flopped forward, his face going under water again. A cold, stinging rush tingled the insides of his nose and throat. When he opened his mouth to tell whoever it was to
stop
grinding his teeth, icy water gushed into his throat, gagging him. Sputtering
and spitting out stagnant lake water, Jeff rolled over onto his left side, wedged open his eyes, and looked up at the sky.

A solid mass of black clouds unloaded a dense spray of water into his face. Still coughing and choking, he slapped his face with both hands and struggled to orient himself. Events from last night—

Was it really only last night?

—
rushed over him in brilliant flashes of terrifying images that seemed distant and unconnected to him, as if he were remembering events someone had told him.

An image of Tyler’s sightless eyes and pale, white face with a bib of blood spewing across his chest hovered in front of him … and Fred, sprawled face-down on the beach … and Mike being thrown back as the night exploded with a bright flash and an ear-shattering explosion … and trees … and darkness spinning against the night sky … and freezing wet … and stinging cold … and an insane run through the dark woods that were alive with strange sights and sounds and smells.

All of these images and more etched the night like acid, casting weird, shifting lights that threw sudden shadows, stark and terrifying.

Jeff saw Ben, his eyes blazing with fury, coming toward him like a snake, ready to strike, but suddenly he had the distinct impression he wasn’t looking at Ben. Drifting in the night, he saw other figures, fleeting and less distinct. Jimmy Foster stared at him with hollow eyes, cold and dead. He made a subtle gesture with both hands as though beckoning to Jeff, pleading for him to join him. He looked so sad … so terribly alone. He needed company on these cold, bleak, endless nights.