thirty-one

I’m overreacting. The hatch must be stuck. I push and I pry and I shake the hatch, fingernails digging into the wood to get a grip. I don’t want to believe that someone has locked me down here.

Wasn’t I trapped in another subterranean tunnel just a few hours ago?

Except there hadn’t been any serious attempt to keep me down in that mine shaft. The dogs’ killer hadn’t even pulled up the rope.

I take my knife and work on pushing it around the perimeter to see where the hatch might be catching. There are a few places where it won’t go in because the wood is too swollen.

The hatch creaks. And I’m not touching it.

I go still and watch, ready to drop at the first sign of the hatch lifting. It doesn’t move. I hear a whisper behind me, but I know that’s just the copperhead.

Just the copperhead.

I check my phone. The one bar wavers.

The hatch creaks again.

Screw this. My captor knows where I am, and going quiet isn’t going to convince him I’ve somehow found a back exit.

He’s playing with me. Cat with a mouse. Just like in the forest with Lennon. Just like in the mine tunnel. Yes, this could be McCall, but the way he’s toying with me says otherwise. It says it’s the guy who killed the dogs. The guy who’s been stalking me.

I slam both fists against the hatch. “Hey! You! Open up.”

Silence. I pound my fists on the wood.

“You want to scare me? How about facing me? Open up and face me.”

After a minute of silence, I start to feel foolish. Am I sure someone’s there? All I heard was a creak. Wood does creak.

“Hello?” I call.

When my phone rings, I jump and answer.

“It’s Jude. Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine.”

“I want to talk. Tomorrow over breakfast, maybe? Unless you’re still up.” He pauses. “The sooner the better, but if you’ve gone to bed…”

I look around. Uh, not exactly.

“There’s no evidence Lennon got a call from Edie in the past week,” he blurts. “That’s why I cut dinner short and told you to stay out of it. His full week of calls is on the phone, and he didn’t get any that could have been from her. Which doesn’t mean she couldn’t have contacted him another way. I just…I…” He inhales. “Are you still up? I could swing by.”

“I found a body.”

Silence. Then, “Sorry,” he says. “It must be a bad connection. It sounded like you said—”

“Body, yes. I found a dead body. It’s not Lennon or Edie. I was hunting for them and found a corpse in an underground storage pit and now I can’t get out.”

“What?”

“The hatch closed, and I can’t open it. I don’t think I’ve been locked in here, but I should still call the police—”

“Winter? Just tell me where you are.”

I do. He hangs up as soon as I start telling him I’m fine. When the line goes dead, I call the sheriff’s office. No one answers. I hang up. I redial. Still no response, which is not unexpected. The night dispatcher—Deputy Slate’s wife—doesn’t answer unless someone is free to actually dispatch. This makes perfect sense to her.

I send Jude a text message with more detailed directions, followed by a second one with warnings about the possible traps he could encounter. He replies with a simple “Got it.” Then I push on the hatch. It moves but not enough to even peer out.

Ten minutes pass in complete silence. No whisper from the snake. No creak from the hatch. Maybe it wasn’t even that creaking, but the wind in—

The hatch moves. My fingers are against it and it shifts down and then, after a moment, rises again.

As if someone put his foot on it and then took it off again.

I push, sudden and hard. Nothing. Then, when I still have my hands against the wood, it moves up and then down, just that little bit.

I pound my fists against it. “Open this damn thing and face me.”

I hear something between my pounding fists.

Laughter.

Just a chuckle, almost too low to catch, and then it’s gone and I’m not sure I heard it at all.

No, I heard it. He wants me to be unsure. Wants me to question.

I pound on the hatch and then stop abruptly, hoping to catch that laugh.

Nothing.

I put my ear up to the hatch and listen. I can pick up the faint whistle of the wind, but there’s no mistaking it for anything else. Then I hear an owl. A great horned owl.

I keep listening with my hands pressed against the hatch, waiting for that telltale push-and-release. Two minutes tick past. I bang my fist against the hatch, an offhand bang, more frustration than intent.

The hatch pops up and then falls shut with a thump.

Slammed shut? Or falling shut as my hand withdrew?

I press my fingers to the wood and flex them.

The hatch rises effortlessly as my fingers extend.

With one hand against the hatch, I flick open my switchblade. Then I slowly raise the hatch. I get it halfway up and shove as hard as I can, letting it fly open with a crack.

I pause, listening hard. Then I shift so I’m holding the hatch aloft with my shoulder, both hands steadying my knife as I scan the area.

There’s no one there. Not right there anyway. Not close enough for me to see over the long grass.

I rise, my head swiveling, ears trained for any sound.

The owl hoots. The wind whispers through the grass. Then a twig cracks underfoot. A deliberate crack. A shoe poised over a stick and then crunching down.

I hear that and tears spring to my eyes. Angry tears. Enraged and frustrated tears.

He’s baiting me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing that won’t put me in serious danger. Like Lennon I already tried to confront him—did something foolhardy in hopes of…of I don’t know what. Just getting him to reveal himself. To say something. To show his face. To act.

Yes, even to act. He could have pulled up that rope in the mine tunnel. Could have pulled up the ladder here. Could have stranded me below either time.

He’s taunting me.

I keep listening, but that single twig snap is all I get. Just enough to make me wonder if I really heard anything and then think I’m being paranoid and then be convinced of it and chastise myself.

Another crack. This one comes from the opposite direction, the quick snap of twigs underfoot. Then undergrowth crackles as someone pushes through, and I know that’s not the stalker.

Jude.

I quickly text him a message to be careful, and in the silence I hear his phone chirp, but he just keeps making his way toward me as he texts that he’s fine. I reply, warning him someone could be here. He doesn’t answer.

I watch him edging along the field, getting parallel to me before cutting across. When he’s as close as he can get, he steps away from the forest and slows, being even more cautious as he makes his way across the field. Then he’s close enough to talk, his voice carrying on the quiet night.

“You called the cops?” he says.

“What?”

“You keep looking for someone. I’m guessing you contacted the police. I was going to suggest you report it, whether they come for you or not.”

He didn’t check the second message. Damn him. I send another. As I hit the button, a shadow glides behind him, stretching from the forest. A dark figure. Ten feet away.

“Jude!” I shout as I break into a run. “Behind you!”

He turns and the figure withdraws, but not quickly enough. Intentionally not quick enough, pausing just enough to let Jude catch a glimpse—and charge after the retreating figure.

“No!” I yell. “Don’t—”

There’s a tremendous crack as Jude stumbles. I run to him, hearing that crack over and over. The sound of gunfire.

I don’t think. I don’t look for the shadowy figure. I just run to Jude.

When I reach him, he’s on all fours, breathing hard. His right leg is down in a hole. That’s what the crack was—his shoe breaking through the branches covering a stake trap.

“Don’t move!” I say.

I quickly look for the stalker, but he’s gone. Jude is crawling forward, slowly lifting his leg out of the trap.

“Did I say don’t move?” I snap as I jog to him, closing the gap.

“It’s fine. I didn’t fall in.”

“I don’t care. Stay—”

His knee slides on the dirt edge of the pit. He scrabbles wildly and I dive, snagging his jeans at the calf and stopping his foot an inch above the row of rusted nails lining the hole.

“Hold still,” I say.

I yank off my jacket and put it over the nails. As I do, I see blood on one, and I notice more oozing from a hole in the bottom of his shoe, where he touched down before hauling himself up.

“Are your tetanus shots up to date?” I ask.

“I’m steady. I won’t fall on them.”

I don’t tell him he already has, just say to slowly pull himself up. He follows my instructions. Once he’s free, I say, “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

He sighs. That trying-to-be-patient sigh. But he humors me, sitting down and tugging off his right shoe when I ask.

“I’m fine. See?” His lips purse as he pulls his foot up and sees the bottom, where blood soaks his white sock. “Huh.”

“Yes, huh.”

“I never even felt that.”

“You will. Any idea when you had your last tetanus shot?”

“I got a booster when I went into high school. How long does it last?”

“Ten years, but I recommend you double-check your records. Better to get another shot than lockjaw.”

I peel his sock down. Rust may have flaked from the nail, and I don’t want to make the wound worse. When I get the sock off, though, it’s only a gouge.

“Prognosis?” he says.

“In need of an actual doctor at some point, but the wound seems shallow.”

He opens his mouth to respond. Then his head jerks up as he peers into the forest.

“Someone was—”

“That’s what I texted you.” I explain about the hatch and what I heard in the forest, and then I back up to Marty’s body and my theories. My voice hitches when I talk about Marty, but I force myself past it. Deal with the circumstances first; grieve later.

“So it’s possible this McCall guy came to check on his victim after you talked to him. He finds you down there and tries to hold you hostage and then thinks better of it.”

“True, but—”

“But it seems more likely the same person who did the other stuff. I agree. Which means you’re being stalked.”

“And you got led into a trap for coming to help me.”

He shakes his head. “He didn’t lure me near that trap. I was coming to you. Coincidence, I think.” He peers into the forest. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“I saw a figure. I could say male, but I may be projecting my assumptions.”

“Okay. We’ll go back to that bunker and wait for the police….Wait, it wasn’t the cops you were looking for.”

“I tried. They weren’t answering. Here, hold on….”

I take out my phone, but he rises and waves for me to get into the field first. We walk maybe five steps in before he stops and says, “Okay, here we can see anyone coming.” He looks around and adds, “And anyone can get a clear shot at us.” He sighs with chagrin and a hint of annoyance, as if he really should be better at anticipating the dangers of psycho stalkers.

I motion for him to stand guard while I call.

“No one’s picking up,” I say.

“At 911?”

I shake my head. “We don’t have 911 here. It’s the sheriff’s department,” I explain. When he shakes his head, I say, “Yes, you really are in hillbilly country.”

He makes a face at the term and then waves for me to start walking. “We’ll stop at the station. If there’s no one there…”

“We’ll write them a Post-it note.” When he looks over, he sees I’m joking, and I continue with, “If no one’s there, we can contact the state police. Which won’t win me any points with the local cops, but it’s better than not reporting a dead body.”