Heartbreaker (14 page)

She was afraid to die.

Death had gone. Theresa felt his absence. He was not in the cabin any longer. And he had taken his demons with him.

She hoped. No, she prayed.

As she reached the trapdoor she hesitated. Her breath rasped painfully in her throat. Tears made scalding tracks down her face. Fear almost paralyzed her. For a long, agonizing moment she huddled beneath the opening, listening.

What if Death was waiting for her up there after all?

She had to take the chance. If she didn’t, she knew that she would die here in this cold, clammy root cellar. She would die of thirst, or starvation—or Death would get her.

If he was gone one thing was certain: Sooner or later he would be back.

Looking in the cellar again.

Holding Elijah against her shoulder, Theresa gathered her courage.

“Into your hands, Lord,” she whispered finally, and giving herself up to His protection she climbed up on the crate that stood almost directly under the door. Crouching, she stared one more time up into the orangey glow.

Shadows chased each other across the plank ceiling in the room overhead. Shelves of canned goods she and her mother had put by for the winter looked eerily normal. The top of the aperture one passed through to get to the main room was adorned with a cobweb in the upper right corner. All glowed in the reflected light of the fire.

Hell as a keeping room.

Theresa stood up, her head thrusting into the open. For an instant she waited, tense and quivering, like a hunting dog scenting the air.

An oppressive silence greeted her, along with warm air redolent of burning wood and cinnamon and pine. The smell reminded her sharply, painfully, of her family.

What had become of them all? So many! Mother and Daddy, and the little girls. And her brothers.

Surely they could not all be dead?

She couldn’t think about them now. Or Elijah.

But she could not bring herself to let Elijah go.

Strain though she might, Theresa heard nothing besides the cheery popping of the fire.

Taking a deep breath, she scrambled through the opening. She got to her feet, weak and dizzy, but she had no time to dwell on these physical shortcomings. She had to go, she had to try to escape, even if her chance of survival was slim.

A fearful glance around told her that the main room was empty. The door to the outside stood wide open.

It beckoned her. Though it might be a trap.

Even as she considered the possibility Theresa was running, running for the door, bursting out of the cabin into the night, welcoming the cold fresh air that hit her in the face because it meant she was free, free—

There they were: Death and his henchmen. They were moving away from her, very fast, toward the tall black wall that was the forest. If any one of them even glanced behind, she would be spotted. Theresa had no illusions that she could outrun them. They would be upon her like a pack of wolves, tearing her to shreds.

She dropped like a combat soldier in the face of enemy fire, belly-crawling through the tall weeds, dragging Elijah’s limp body with her. Rocks and sharp sticks and thistles tore through her nightgown and ripped at her skin, but Theresa barely felt the pain. Every atom of her being was focused on making it across the open ground to the shelter of the abandoned silver mine carved out of the mountain more than a century before.

In there she would be safe—if any place in the world was safe, now that Death was loose among them.

Theresa had only about a hundred yards to go when her reaching hand touched flesh—cold, inanimate flesh. She glanced up and froze. Just inches to her right her cousin Zach lay dead. She was touching his cheek.

His eyes, hazel like her own, were open and staring, sightless. His skin was utterly white. Discolored rings had formed around his eyes.

His mouth was open too. A tiny trickle of blood—dried now—ran from one corner.

He was wearing his prized Orlando Magic jacket and the Nike high-tops he’d cadged from Theresa’s oldest brother James.

His throat had been slit.

The dampness permeating the ground was mixed with his blood. She had crawled through it.

Theresa felt the gorge rise in her throat. Stomach convulsing, she vomited until there was nothing left inside her. Then, blindly, forgetting everything in the face of this newest horror, she lurched to her feet. Clutching Elijah close, she ran stumbling toward the entrance to the mine.

That she made it was nothing short of a miracle. The black gulf of the mine swallowed her up; her running feet echoed wildly, bouncing off the chiseled walls. She ran until she could run no farther.

Finally she collapsed in a sobbing, shivering heap, cradling Elijah like a rag doll on her lap.

T
HEY WERE BEATING THE FOREST
for them. Panting, heart pounding, Lynn could hear them coming, not too far away, being methodical now, spreading out. Whoever they were, they were human. And they had guns.

Bullets strafed the forest as she, Rory, and Jess darted through the trees. The sound of them smacking into the wood reminded Lynn of the sound a hand makes when it strikes flesh. The resulting rush of adrenaline gave her a speed she’d never suspected she possessed.

Jess too. Though he had to be hampered by carrying Rory, who was flung over his shoulder with scant regard for either her injured state or her comfort, he ran like a star quarterback, leaping and dodging while Lynn zigzagged desperately in his wake.

Despite the deadly rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire all around them, they were putting distance between themselves and their pursuers. Lynn started to think they just might be able to get away.

“Ugh!”

She watched, uncomprehending, as Jess went sprawling, He fell heavily to his knees, groaning, clutching at his right shoulder as he rolled onto his side, vines crashing down around him.

Rory, sent flying by Jess’s fall, lay prone in the undergrowth a few feet away. To Lynn’s relief she rolled over and sat up, blinking. After a glance at Rory, who appeared unhurt, Lynn rushed to Jess and dropped down beside him.

He was wriggling free of his backpack. Even through the shadows she could see that his face was a mask of pain.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, staring stupidly down at the stain blossoming on his right shoulder. A small black hole pierced the silky gray fabric of his jacket. Blood welled from it; the dark, wet circle on the front of his jacket grew larger even as she looked at it.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he grunted, pressing his hand against the stain. Lynn forgave him the sarcasm: The circumstances were dire, after all, and he was obviously hurting.

He lay on his back, breathing hard, his knees raised and bent. Vines were wrapped around his legs; his head crushed a small, moss-covered bush.

Rory crawled over to kneel beside Lynn. After a quick exchange of glances they both focused on Jess.

Bullets sprayed through the air over their heads, smacking into trees both near and far. Lynn threw her arms around Rory, bearing her down, bending protectively over her. Dislodged droplets from the earlier downpour showered them like rain.

The gunfire stopped. In its place Lynn could hear voices, though she couldn’t distinguish the words. Their pursuers were growing dangerously close, she realized as she straightened.

Fear threatened to close her throat. She struggled to draw breath. Rory, sitting cross-legged now, clutched her mother’s arm, looking as scared as Lynn felt. Jess stared up at both of them, white-faced.

“You and Rory run,” he said.

Lynn glanced at her daughter. Rory’s lips were trembling. Her eyes were enormous with fear. The bruising on her head was dark and ugly. For her daughter’s sake Lynn was prepared to take to her heels, to flee with Rory and leave Jess to his fate.

But she was deathly afraid that Rory couldn’t run fast or far enough.

“They’ll catch us,” she said, licking her lips.

Bullets sang in a wide arc around them. Shredded foliage fell. Lynn and Rory cowered, covering their heads. As the shooting stopped, Rory whimpered.

The sound galvanized Lynn. Whatever it took, she meant to save her daughter.

“We have to hide.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper as she scrambled into a crouching position, glancing around wildly. Their pursuers were crashing through the undergrowth toward them. It would not be long before they were upon them. Fleeing was not an option. Wounded as Jess was, he could not carry Rory and might not be able to run himself. Besides, the pursuers were too close. If they could not actually see the three of them take flight, they certainly would hear them.

Everywhere Lynn looked, moss, faintly shiny and phosphorescent in the gloom, lay in undulating waves over the undergrowth. To her left it formed a thick layer over a pyramid of dead wood.

Would the pursuers notice three more moss-covered logs among so many?

“There,” she said, pointing, grabbing Rory’s arm. “Get behind those logs and lie down.”

Rory stared at her stupidly.

“Move!” Lynn shoved her daughter toward the hiding place, then reached down to lend a hand to Jess.

“Go!” He brushed her hand aside as he rolled into a crouching position. “I’m right behind you. Go on.”

His voice sounded strained, but Lynn had no time to worry about him as she scrambled after Rory. A glance back showed that he was following at a crouching lope, his pack hooked over his uninjured shoulder.

Rory was kneeling, her face a pale oval in the gloom, digging at the moss like a dog burying a bone. Lynn shoved her down on the ground face-first and began to pull fistfuls of moss over her. To her surprise and relief, the moss came away in great intact sheets.

Bullets whined overhead. Time was running out.

Lynn shed her own pack and threw herself down beside Rory, wriggling close, squirming beneath the moss. It was cold and damp under there, and it smelled of earth. Reaching for her pack, knowing she had to hide it too, she pulled it in near her head.

More moss landed on her legs and feet. At about the same instant that she realized Jess was piling moss over her and Rory, he lay down and wriggled beneath the moss that covered them like a blanket. He rolled almost on top of them, shielding their bodies with his, crushing them between the outermost log and the ground as he pulled layers of moss over himself. Something silver clutched in his fist caught her eye. Lynn realized that he had armed himself with their one weapon: his knife.

Not that a knife would be much use against rifles. Unless he could catch one of their pursuers off guard and up close.

A trickle of fresh air past her nose told Lynn that there were gaps in the moss layers that concealed them. She suspected that parts of herself and Rory and Jess were still visible. If
she
were looking at the lump that was the three of them, she doubted that she would mistake them for mossy logs for so much as an instant.

Thank God for the darkness, Lynn thought. It was their best hope.

More bullets whistling overhead made Lynn cringe. She clung to Rory. Jess sprawled atop them both.

Closer and closer at hand, foliage rustled violently as their pursuers crashed through it.

Raw fear pushed out every other emotion. Rory trembled in Lynn’s arms, her breathing shallow and frightened. Jess pushed them deeper into the thick mulch of rotting plants and pine needles. His weight made it hard for Lynn to breathe. Still, she welcomed the pressure of his body. He might provide only an illusion of protection, but an illusion was better than nothing at all.

Running feet thudded over the ground less than a yard from where they lay. Lynn felt Rory jerk spasmodically; she pressed her fingers against her daughter’s lips. Against her back she could feel Jess tense. The arm holding the knife went rigid.

If they were going to be discovered it would be now.

Closing her eyes tight, Lynn prayed.

The footsteps ran on by.

It was a few seconds before she remembered to breathe again.

For what seemed like hours they lay there, listening as their pursuers ranged through the forest in search of them. The occasional rattle of gunfire spoke perhaps of deer or other nocturnal creatures disturbed and fired upon by mistake. Once something, or someone, passed so close to their hiding place that Lynn could have reached out and grabbed its leg.

Human or animal she could not be certain, though she suspected the latter. All she knew was it was running. Something that every atom of her being urged her to do.

Except her mind. That warned her to stay still.

Rory trembled in her arms. Lynn discovered that she was shaking too. She hoped her daughter would not feel her tremors or know them for what they were if she did. If Rory knew how frightened her mother was, she would be doubly terrified.

It was a universal truth: Mothers were not supposed to be afraid.

Jess shifted. The knife blade sank into the earth near Lynn’s shoulder and the knife was left to stand alone. Jess’s arm wrapped around Lynn’s waist, holding her tight. His body was warm and strong against her back; his breath tickled her ear.

“We’re going to be all right,” he whispered, the words scarcely louder than a breath. Lynn realized that he, at least, had felt her tremors and was offering what comfort he could.

Against all reason, Lynn felt comforted. Gradually her tremors ceased.

Beyond their hiding place the forest grew quiet. Lynn could no longer hear their pursuers—or their guns. Maybe they’d gone—or maybe not. Maybe they were waiting, hoping that silence would lure out the prey.

Rory squirmed. Lynn realized that she must be uncomfortable and eased back a degree. Jess shifted too, rolling onto his back. The arm around Lynn’s waist slid away.

For a moment she felt almost bereft.

Jess quit moving. For a fraction of a second he lay like a stone. Then he pressed close again, pushing her and Rory down into the loam, reaching for the knife.

“Shh,” he said.

Instantly Lynn went as still as a rabbit at the sight of a hound.

A soft footstep, followed by another, then another, broke the silence. Someone was creeping through the undergrowth just beyond where they lay.