Walking After Midnight (31 page)

Steve splashed into the icy water, yanking Summer after him. She slipped on the smooth brown stones that covered the creekbed, and went down on one knee, disturbing a school of minnows, which scattered.

„Ouch!“ A rock jabbed into Summer’s knee, but she had no time to suffer properly. Steve was already hauling her upright.

„Why do we have to run through a creek?“ Summer wailed as she rubbed her damaged kneecap. The way it felt at that moment, she would never be able to walk again, much less run.

„Because dogs can’t track through water.“ Steve paused for about two seconds, just long enough to glance down at her leg and ascertain that she was not seriously injured. „I don’t think.“

„Oh, great.
You don’t think.
That’s reassuring. I hope you’re right.“

Without bothering to reply, Steve jerked her into motion again. With the surefootedness of a goat, he bounded through the ankle-deep water. Slip-sliding, cursing, and praying with every step, Summer splashed precariously after him.

The sounds of the dogs grew fainter.

Finally, about the time Summer’s lungs and heart threatened to burst, Steve clambered out of the creek and collapsed facedown on the ivy-covered bank. Summer, falling on her stomach beside him, fought to breathe.

Muffy, lying on her side like a creature exhausted when she hadn’t run so much as a step, even had the temerity to pant.

Summer didn’t have the strength to do more than glare at the pampered pooch.

„Catch your breath. We can’t stop long,“ Steve advised her, drawing in deep lungfuls of air.

„Where are we going? Are we still heading to your fishing camp?“

Steve shook his head. „That was Plan A, and it’s scrapped. If the police are going to scour these hills with dogs, they’ll find it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Now we’re on to Plan B.“

„What’s Plan B?“ Summer asked with deep misgiving.

Exhausted as he was, Steve managed a brief grin. „I’m working on it, okay? Let’s go!“

Summer groaned, but he was inexorable. He was on his feet again, dragging her up with him, making her run even though her legs were still shaky from the last marathon. The sun was at their backs as they raced downward through the forest. It was just beginning to dip beneath the majestic purple peaks. At any other moment, Summer would have been most appreciative of the hot magenta and neon orange pinwheels swirling across the western third of the sky. Under the circumstances, she spared the dazzling beauty of the heavens only a cursory glance – and hoped.

Could dogs continue to track in the dark? Surely even dogs had to rest sometime.

A dirt bike roared toward them from the east. It literally flew into sight, jumping over the top of a hill and skittering semi-sideways down the slippery mountainside. A lone man was aboard, a young-looking man in jeans and a leather jacket.

Steve slowed, and Summer slowed with him.

„What now?“ she gasped, ready by this time to see a bad guy behind every tree.

Steve looked at her, grinned, and let go of her hand.

„Plan B,“ he said, and jogged toward the oncoming motorcycle.

It skidded to a flourishing halt in front of him, and the driver climbed off. Summer watched warily as he propped the bike on its kickstand, turned off the engine, took off his helmet, and clapped Steve on the back. He even patted Muffy on the head.

He knew Steve. He was friendly. How on earth…?

Summer approached with caution. In her experience, if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. And an ally arriving out of nowhere certainly seemed too good to be true.

Steve was grinning as he turned to beckon her in. The man beside him was more sober-faced. He was about Steve’s age and height, but leaner. His complexion was swarthy, and his hair was as black as oil and straight. Summer realized that he was Native American.

„This is Renfro. Renfro, Summer. Here, put this on.“

Renfro nodded at Summer as Steve passed her a bright yellow helmet that he unstrapped from the rear of the bike, then turned worried eyes on Steve. „Leave the dog with me.“

Steve, putting on the helmet that Renfro had worn, shook his head. „Nah. There’s half the state and a pack of dogs besides chasing us. They catch you with the dog, they’ll know you helped us. That wouldn’t be good for your health.“

„I’m not worried.“ Renfro was strapping the gym bag and tire iron on the back of the bike.

„Thanks anyway, buddy. And thanks for coming. I owe you.“

„Big time.“ Renfro smiled then, flashing even white teeth as he finished his self-appointed task. „As usual.“

Steve laughed. „How will you get back?“

Renfro shrugged. „Walk. Thumb a ride. Catch a bus. Call my dad. I’ll manage.“

„If you run into the posse hunting us…“

„They won’t bother me. I’m hiking through the forest. What’s to bother? If the dogs attack me, maybe I can sue.“ He said it hopefully, with a wide grin. Summer realized that it was meant for a joke. She smiled.

„You have your helmet on?“ Steve turned to look at her critically, tugging on the strap beneath her chin to make sure it was tight. His helmet was in place. She almost missed the Bulls cap, which he had tucked into the gym bag.

„Oh, I almost forgot.“ Renfro dug in the pocket of his jeans and brought forth some folded bills. „Forty dollars. It’s all I had in the shop.“

„Thanks, man.“ Steve accepted the money, stuffed it in his own back pocket. „Take care.“

„You too.“

Steve kicked up the stand, straddled the bike, and motioned for Summer to join him.

„What about Muffy?“ She looked down at the hairball at her feet.

„You’ll have to hold her. Try to keep her out of sight. Maybe you can stick her under your shirt.“

Summer picked up Muffy, lifted the hem of her T-shirt, and tucked the litde dog inside. Then she climbed awkwardly aboard the motorcycle. It was about the size of an adult’s bicycle, but thicker. There were pegs for her feet, she discovered, and a metal bar against which she could rest her back.

Perched on the narrow black vinyl seat, she felt about as secure as a cat on a high wire.

Renfro grinned broadly, surveying them. „You look like the all-American family. Dad, Mom, baby-to-be“ – he patted the bulge in the tummy area of Summer’s T-shirt that was Muffy – „on a Yamaha. Maybe they’ll use you in an ad.“

„See ya, Renfro.“ Steve kicked the starter. The bike roared. Renfro waved, and they were off.

Summer had never experienced such a bone-ratding ride in her life.

If she could have, Summer would have clung to Steve with all her strength as they careened over the uneven ground. But Muffy, who was not taking kindly to this new mode of transportation, was between them. She needed one arm just to hang on to Muffy. The other she clamped around Steve’s waist.

They went up and then down the mountain, heading north rather than continuing in the easterly direction they had been traveling on foot. The bike skittered sideways on wet leaves and unseen rocks and roots so many times that Summer got used to feeling they were going to hit the dirt at any minute. Twice, when they came over a hill, she was treated to beautiful vistas of mountains rolling away into the distance, each crowned with its own halo of clouds. The scenery was straight out of a movie. The dangers were more real. Steep, heavily forested slopes ended without warning in craggy precipices. Sometimes the ground just seemed to stop, falling away in breathtaking drops of hundreds and even thousands of feet.

So far, Steve had managed to avoid taking them over any of those drops. But Summer wasn’t optimistic. Lately, she’d felt like a character on the old television show
Hee Haw:
If it weren’t for bad luck, she’d have no luck at all.

Beyond fear finally, Summer screwed up her eyes against the wind, held Muffy close, and hung on for dear life as they dodged trees and rocks and roots at speeds she was sure neared seventy miles an hour. Early on, she realized there was nothing she could do to make her precarious perch any safer. Her life, and Muffy’s, were in Steve’s hands. She could only pray that he knew what he was doing – and that they would not zoom over a rise and find themselves sailing over a cliff.

Surprise, surprise.

Around them the world was growing darker. Lengthening shadows lay across the ground like prison bars. They crested another rise. The back tire came off the ground. In the distance, where Summer’s eyes fixed in sheer self-defense, mountains rose out of darkening air.

Without warning the bike shot into the sky like a bucking bronco. This time, both wheels left the earth. Summer screeched, clamped both arms around Steve’s middle – Muffy, squashed between her stomach and Steve’s back, couldn’t have gotten free if she’d wanted to – and shut her eyes. When the bike landed, bouncing, they were on pavement, racing uphill.

„You’re going to kill us!“ she screamed in Steve’s ear.

„This is fun!“ he roared back.

Fun. Of course, to him, it would be.
I feel the need / the need for speed…
He was suffering from Top Gun-itis again.

„Is it even legal to ride this thing on the road?“ Summer yelled.

„Hey, this baby swings both ways: on-road or off.“

Whatever that meant. Summer decided not to worry about it. Men and their macho toys were beyond her understanding at the moment.

It was a two-lane highway, and judging from the mist that crept across it, they were very high now in the mountains. Summer shivered, but not from fear, or the eeriness of her surroundings. Her shorts and T-shirt offered scant protection against the rushing air. She was growing thoroughly chilled.

But they seemed to have eluded their pursuers, at least temporarily. There were other vehicles on the road, a few cars, some campers. Vacationers all. No cops. No bad guys. With their helmets on, riding a motorcycle none of their pursuers knew they had, Summer thought – hoped – that she and Steve were to all intents and purposes invisible. Just two more tourists, vacationing in the mountains.

„Where are we going?“ Summer screamed. The wind blew her question back in her face.

„I don’t know. Maybe Mexico,“ Steve yelled back.

Mexico? She didn’t want to go to Mexico! Anyway, they were heading north, not south!

She opened her mouth to tell him so, and promptly swallowed a bug. Gagging, spitting, she decided to hold her peace until they stopped.

Surely they would stop soon. The constant vibration was making her butt numb. She shifted on her narrow seat, but that brought no relief.

Ridiculous, when one was running for one’s life, to worry about minor discomforts, Summer knew. But she couldn’t seem to help it: her butt was numb and her legs were cramped and her feet were going to sleep and she was freezing. The wind in her face never stopped. Cold and bug-laden, it beat against her skin, numbing that, too.

And she was hungry. Starving, actually. As a diet, running for one’s life was proving drastic but effective. Maybe she could make an infomercial and market it and get rich.

A green sign by the side of the road read
A
PPALACHIAN TRAIL.
Below it, a small brown woodchuck stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air. Ahead, as far as the eye could see, stretched miles of blue-green forest and dozens of mountain peaks, rising up out of the mist one after the other. The vista was beautiful, glorious – Summer realized that she was seeing the Smokies in all their natural splendor.

Her instinctive mental response to that edifying bit of knowledge was, Yippee.

As night descended, the traffic thinned out. Glancing behind her, Summer watched the twin white dots of car lights heading down the mountain. Except for an ancient blue camper just in front of them, they were alone on the mountain top.

Streaking through the dark, clinging like a monkey to a man she hadn’t even met three days before, Summer was assaulted by a sudden pang of homesickness. She missed her mother. She missed her sisters. She missed her nieces and nephews. She even missed her brothers-in-law, with whom she didn’t always see eye to eye. What she wouldn’t give to be safe in her own house, warm and cozy and well fed, with all of this just a terrible nightmare from which she would soon awaken!

She was suddenly, searingly conscious of the man to whom she clung. Would she really wish Steve Calhoun to be nothing more than a figment of her dreams? If she could, with a wave of her hands, make him vanish along with the situation he had gotten her into, would she?

The answer was disturbing: no. She might wish away the circumstances, but not the man.

It occurred to her, in the near meditative state brought on by cold and wind and discomfort and unceasing vibration, to wonder why she wouldn’t wish away a man who had kidnapped her, terrorized her, brutalized her, and exposed her to numerous threats to life and limb, and who might still easily be the death of her. He was not her type at all. She wasn’t one hundred percent positive what her type was, but she was positive that he wasn’t it.

He wasn’t even handsome, for goodness’ sake. Lem, with all his faults, was at least handsome. Steve Calhoun was rude and crude, liked violence and speed and danger, made jokes at her expense, admitted to a (supposedly former) drinking problem, and was hung up on a ghost. He was also notorious, unemployed, wanted by the police, and on the run for his life.