After Darkness Fell (11 page)

Keeping the flashlight beam ahead of me, I moved quickly through the thick brush, back to the house. Fields was there—I could feel it in my bones. If I was lucky, I’d find her sitting at the kitchen table, sipping beer or Jim Beam. There would be sandwiches made, and the smell of coffee would be strong. When I walked in, she’d give me her usual coy smile and say, “And where have
you
been?” I’d laugh, hold up her pistol, and ask if she forgot something. She’d redden and laugh in embarrassment. I’d sit down beside her and pour myself a drink. Then I’d ask her about her walk, and everything would be okay again.

I reached the clearing about ten minutes later. I couldn’t see any lights coming from the house, but that didn’t tell me anything. We’d been careful about that since we’d moved here. Using lights at night could be seen for miles and would attract roaming predators. If Fields was in the bathroom, she could have taken a small kerosene lamp with her and placed it on the sink. The blinds and heavy drapes in the window would hide the light. From the outside, you couldn’t see anything.

I hurried down the hill and ran across the concrete stoop, stopping abruptly when I caught sight of the padlock securing the back door. Heavy chills overtook me, and I nearly dropped her gun as well as the flashlight.

Fields hadn’t come back to the house.

She was still out there somewhere, unarmed and helpless.

***

My thoughts raced as I struggled to keep my wits about me. I knew I’d be of no use to Fields or myself if I just gave up. I forced myself to ignore the cold wave of panic threatening to wash over me.

I had to find her and bring her back.

First off, I had to unlock the door and go inside. There were things I needed to take with me when I looked for Fields. These things were inside the house.

I shoved my left hand inside the pocket of my jeans. No keys. The other pocket, perhaps? This would require me to use my other hand, which held Fields’ .38.

Clear your head and switch the gun
.
It couldn’t be simpler
.

After a few awkward moments of blackness, I let my head clear. I placed the pistol in my left hand and used my right to search the other pocket. I began staring at the .38 and suddenly lost track of what I was doing.

Idiot. Focus. Get the damned keys, unlock the door and get your ass inside
.

Then what? What was I supposed to do when I went inside?

Grab whatever you’ll need to take with you to go find Fields, dammit
!

After taking another deep breath, I was finally able to focus long enough to pull the keys out of my pocket and open the door.

The kitchen, of course, was empty, the soft, steady hum from the fridge reminding me that the home generator was up and running. The room was dark except for the three small nightlights I kept plugged in, which cast hazy yellow halos on the floor near the hall and dining room doorways.

I stood glaring at the darkness, longing to hear her voice or smell the perfume of her hair. It hadn’t been that long since Fields had stood right here just moments before she’d left the house to go on her walk.

The hum of the fridge intensified the silence, making me feel even more alone. For a moment I thought that if I flicked on the flashlight, her image would materialize on the other side of the table.

I tried, but of course it didn’t work. The dark emptiness continued mocking me.

I wanted to scramble down the hall, into the living room, and collapse on the sofa. I wanted to lie there on my side in fetal position, safe and warm and at a safe distance from the nightmares. I wanted to close my eyes and dream about Fields and me doing all the things we’d done since we’d arrived at the farm an eternity ago, when Reed and Uncle Joe were still in our lives. In my dream, Fields and I would be together again, and our fears would never...

Moss, stop all this crap and start looking!

I stiffened. Was that her voice I’d just heard? Or was it my own?

Or was it my conscience telling me to stop the self-pity and start acting like myself again?

This wasn’t me at all. If Fields came through that door right now, she wouldn’t believe what she saw. If I saw my own reflection, I wouldn’t believe it either. I didn’t feel anything like the man who twenty years earlier hunted down suicide bombers, slave traders and Mexican drug runners. I’d been stabbed and shot, and had stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I cared to remember.

Right now I didn’t think I could cope with much of anything.

I felt useless and invisible, like a stick of old furniture no one wanted anymore.

I’d come a long way in the last couple of hours.

Fields told me I handled things too easily. Reed had said the same thing just a few months before that. Emergency situations were second nature for me. When a crisis arose, I reacted with the speed and efficiency of a highly-tuned machine. I reacted coldly and economically, my gun out and ready. In an instant, someone was dead, the emergency successfully abated.

If only Fields or Reed could see me standing in the kitchen doorway, gawking stupidly at the darkness, teetering on the brink of hysterics...

Moss, stop this
!

Was it her voice again?

It didn’t matter whose voice it was. I had to somehow regain my composure, pull myself together and focus. I had to do what I was trained to do, what I’d done in the military and what I’d been doing the last six months.

Surviving. Picking up the pieces. Shrugging off my wounds and tending to business.

I had to become a soldier again. That same cold-blooded killer I’d been when I was a foolish kid who took dangerous chances because I’d thought I was invincible, and would live forever.

But now I was no longer a kid, had seen death in all its forms, and knew I wouldn’t live forever. The love of my life had just vanished, and my gut told me it wasn’t her idea.

Fields had been taken. Kidnapped. On our own property.

Someone had snuck up to her, overpowered her and taken her away.

Fired up and shaking with rage, I felt my former self coming back quickly. I knew right then that I’d been a dickhead for showing weakness. Fields depended on me and I wouldn’t let her down. We were a team, and when one of the team was attacked, the other burst into action.

I slammed the kitchen door behind me. With the aid of the flashlight, I immediately set about gathering a few things. I had no idea how long my search would take or how long I’d be gone, but I was reasonably sure I’d be hunting for Fields through the night. But how long would it take before I’d covered the entire 88 acres? How long would it be before I picked up her trail?

I knew right then that it didn’t matter.

I was going to find her and didn’t care how long it took.

I picked up two cans of tuna, some beef jerky and three small bottles of water. I found a metal flask and got a pint of bourbon from the cupboard. I filled the flask and grabbed a hunting knife from the top of the dresser. From the medicine cabinet in the bathroom across the hall from the kitchen, I grabbed a small first-aid kit. From my grandmother’s sewing stuff in a kitchen drawer I picked up a small emergency kit containing needles and thread. I put everything on the kitchen table and went upstairs to look for the small black backpack I’d found a few weeks ago in an abandoned store in Bakerstown.

Satisfied I’d found everything I needed, I loaded the backpack.

Since I didn’t know what I faced, I decided that the best ammo would be the standard .22. It was small and light, and also good for long range shooting. For closer, more effective work, I’d need a lighter weapon with a larger caliber. For extremely close work, I decided on a gun small enough to fit in my pants pocket.

I grabbed Fields’ .38 Ladysmith and clipped it and its pancake holster onto my belt in the small of my back. I also selected the tiny .22 Beretta Bobcat, and the .22 Ruger Mark II target pistol with a 6-inch slab barrel and shoulder holster. I shrugged into the holster, adjusting the strap until I barely felt it over my sweatshirt. I found two extra mags for the Beretta, two for the Ruger, four speed loaders for the .38, and loaded them into the backpack. Then I picked up a box containing a thousand rounds of .22 long rifle ammo and packed that as well.

I slipped on an ammo belt I’d picked up at a local sporting goods store. The belt contained pouches for four mags, two pouches for knives and a larger one for loose ammo. I filled the pouches with two speed loaders and two penknives and dumped about forty rounds of .22 mini mag ammo into the pouch.

This done, I went down to the cellar to turn off the generator, came back upstairs and put on my lightweight jacket. I found three penlights, put two in my breast pocket, one in the backpack, and zipped everything shut. I shrugged into the backpack and adjusted the straps, positioning it high on my back so it didn’t interfere with the Ruger under my jacket.

Less than half an hour after I’d entered the house, I went back outside, locked the door and rushed over to the small rock garden that sat at the foot of the hill, about fifty feet from the kitchen door. Several weeks ago, I’d placed a small plastic Tupperware container beneath one of the rocks. The container held a set of spare keys to the house, garage and vehicles, as well as a small .38 snub nosed revolver loaded with six hollowpoint rounds. Using light from a pocket flashlight, I put the keys in the container, snapped the lid shut and dropped it in its shallow dirt bed. After covering it with dirt, I rolled the rock back over it.

Straightening, I flicked off the flashlight and hung it from a ring fixed to my ammo belt. I grabbed a penlight from the pocket of my jacket and used it to guide my way down the concrete walk. When I reached the driveway, I faced the top of the hill and took a deep breath.

Before setting out, I said in a soft voice, “Fields, I don’t know what happened tonight or where you are, but I’ll find you. I’ll find you if it’s the last thing I ever do, and I promise that if anyone hurt you in any way, they’ll pay dearly.”

My anger surged within me, but I fought it down, knowing this wasn’t the right time to let it out.

I had more important things on my agenda.

***

My eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Flicking off the penlight, I climbed the hill that went past the garage, and in just a few minutes reached the clearing leading to the woods that made up a third of my grandparents’ 88-acre farm. The huge black fortress of pines and buckeyes looming a hundred yards straight ahead resembled a shapeless demon waiting to devour me. I hesitated, nearly stumbling, but kept my focus on the narrow winding trail cutting through its center.

I kept the long-barreled Ruger in my right hand as I crept silently over the tall brush, my ears pricked for the slightest disturbance in the eerie silence of the night. The whispering of the wind through the trees and the distant hooting of an owl barely penetrated the cool stillness.

As I approached the harsh underbrush leading into the woods, I slowed my pace and kept the beam of the penlight directly in front of me. Before venturing on, I studied the solid black mass of the trees towering above me and let my eyes acclimate. Alert for sudden glints, as well as rustling sounds, I resumed walking. The Ruger was perfect for this type of work. It was light yet sturdy; its long slab barrel could be used as a club if I was unable to shoot in time.

Soon I was among the trees. The clearness of the night turned black and cold, and my visibility diminished drastically. I slowed my pace, scanning all around me and turning around frequently to make sure no one was sneaking up to me. I wanted to call out for Fields but knew that would be dangerous. I wanted to believe she wasn’t far, but had to consider the facts. If she’d fallen and twisted an ankle, I would have already found her. This alone told me she might have become victim of foul play. She could have been knocked unconscious and carried or dragged away. At this moment, while I searched for her, she could be imprisoned in some psycho’s basement a mere mile away ... and who knew what could be happening.

Stop this! It will only frustrate you and take your attention away from your mission
.

I stopped moving and spent the next couple of minutes taking deep breaths to calm myself. I was going to find her. No matter what happened, I was going to find Fields, and she was going to be okay.

Feeling more confident, I began moving again.

About twenty minutes later, just as I was about to reach the general area near where I’d found her Ladysmith, the toe of my tennis shoe bumped something protruding from the weeds. I fell forward and landed on my right side. In an instant I rolled onto my back, the Ruger up and ready as I feverishly scanned my surroundings.

I remained on my back, the Ruger in my right hand, the penlight in my left, sliding the slender white beam carefully over both sides of the trail as I listened for movement. I heard nothing. I stayed there, alert for rustling, soft footsteps—anything that would warn me someone was coming.

The silence continued.

I sat up and stuck the penlight between my teeth. Then I grabbed the pocket flashlight from my ammo belt and began exploring the area more thoroughly.

I quickly discovered that I’d tripped on an exposed root.