I tore into a piece of beef jerky and heard something moving behind me in the woods. Grabbing my night-vision goggles, I slowly walked the perimeter of the clearing, listening closely for any sounds in the forest beyond my camp. There was the snap of a broken twig and then another, but the sounds indicated that my unwanted guest was rapidly retreating.
What the hell was that about?
“Cipher, you there?”
Kitten’s voice on our two-way radio startled me out of my thoughts. “I’m here, babe. How’s things?”
“Fine. Missing you.”
“I’m missing you too. What’d you have for dinner?”
“Hot dogs and baked beans.”
“Sounds good.”
“It was all right. Have you found the midwife yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ve made some good progress. Hoping to pick up the trail tomorrow.”
There was no trail to speak of, not yet, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I also decided not to mention the mysterious (and somewhat ominous) presence in the woods.
“Are you being careful out there?” he asked.
“You betcha. How’re things campside? Got any news for me?”
“Macon has gas and he’s farting like crazy…” I heard laughter in the background and felt a stab of homesickness. “We’re voting him off the island.”
“I don’t blame you. Hey, if you don’t hear from me tomorrow it’s because I’ve gone out of range.”
“You’ll check in as soon as you can though, right?”
“I will. Since I’m not there to tuck you in, I wanted to tell you good night and sweet dreams.”
“Thank you. Sweet dreams to you too.”
I smiled, lovesick to my core, and stared at the fire, imagining them all huddled around a fire of their own, talking shit and trading jokes. Then my two-way cackled to life and Macon said with a sickly-sweet drawl, “Sweet dreams, Cipher,” followed by his raucous laughter.
I shook my head. Assholes.
* * *
I was packedup and on the trail at first light, following the triangular route I’d set with the site of the attack at its center. If the midwife was injured, she couldn’t have made it more than a few miles in any direction, but Larry had said they were traveling with pack horses, and neither of the animals had been found, even after following their tracks. On horseback, she could have gotten a lot farther.
During the afternoon on the second day of my search, I found what may have been a lead, a splatter of blood to the side of a game trail, and just ahead of it, what looked like a partial bloody handprint on a pine tree. The blood was dried, but fairly recently and not yet flaking underneath my fingernail. If the handprint belonged to my missing person, then she was definitely hurt and bleeding badly. I followed the game trail, looking for any other signs of distress, and just when I thought I’d lost track, I noticed a couple broken twigs off to one side where the victim must have veered off the trail. From there, the path was erratic, zig-zagging back and forth as if running away from an attacker.
Deeper into the woods I traveled, until the sun began to set over the pines. My favorite color, I thought fondly. A close second was Kitten’s eyes, but I’d keep that one to myself. I was just deciding where to make camp for the night when I smelled smoke, carried by the wind. I turned toward its source and sniffed the air. Was that the crackle and hiss of burning wood? Did the fire belong to a camp of raiders, or was it my own missing person? Donning the night vision goggles again, I cautiously made my way toward the scent. I sensed that my former pursuer had not given up, but may in fact be closing in.
A few minutes later, I spied the source of the fire in a small clearing surrounded on multiple sides by old-growth trees, and sitting with her back against one of those sturdy tree trunks was a woman who matched Larry’s description. Her tank top was stained with sweat, and it looked as if her shirt or some other fabric had been torn and used as a bandage that wound tightly around her midsection. The makeshift bandages had soaked through with blood, and there was more of it on the waistband of her cargo pants. The woman looked feverish and unwell, with beads of sweat on her forehead and a waxy complexion.
Even more unusual than the injured woman was the horse hovering nearby, not tied to anything, nor weighed down by a pack or saddle. It seemed reluctant to leave the circle of light provided by the fire, unusual behavior for a horse.
“Hello,” I called, still poised on the edge of her campsite. I didn’t want to startle her or cause her to act reflexively. My gun was holstered as were my knives, though I was ready should I need them.
“Hello,” she said in a parched and raspy voice. “You have water?”
I approached slowly to where she was sitting and passed my container over to her. Seeing that her one hand was attempting to apply pressure to her wound, I unscrewed the lid and offered it again. Avoiding the rim, she poured a little into her mouth, taking small swallows and wincing from the pain it caused her. She then offered the bottle back to me.
“Keep it,” I said, grateful for Kitten’s insistence that I take two. “I’ve got another one.”
