“Because you were looking for me. You wanted to turn me in.”
The man is clearly an addict. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say meth. The sores that cover him are common among methamphetamine users. As is his paranoia. And though his accusation isn’t entirely wrong, I intend to use his muddled mental state to my advantage.
“I don’t even know who you are,” I say.
“Then why were you out here?”
“I was hiking.”
“With this?” The girls gasp as he pulls my firearm out and waves it around. “If that’s true, why’d you have a gun?”
“For protection. Not that it did me any good.”
His yellowed eyes dart between me and the girls. I act like I just noticed them.
“Who are they? Where’d you get them?”
“They were trying to turn me in too. They made a big arrow so the cops would know where to find me.”
No wonder I never found the marker made by the woman who reported the raccoon. This man, in his paranoid state, thought that it had something to do with him. And that’s why he took the girls. I swallow a lump of guilt.
“They’re children,” I say.
He squints into the shadows where they huddle, taking a closer look. “No.”
“They can’t be more than sixteen.”
“Um.”
“Do you need help?”
“What?”
The question seems to take him by surprise. That’s what I need to do—keep him off balance and disoriented.
Softening my expression, I say, “You seem like a really nice guy.”
He nods.
“If you’re in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help.”
He sinks to the floor beside me. I need to get him to turn his back to the girls so they can keep working to free themselves.
“How?”
“Can you help me sit up?”
He gives me a wary look but shifts his weight so he can grab the pack. As he lifts it, pulling me into a sitting position, I stretch my fingers until they’re lightly touching his arm. Repulsion rises inside me at the feel of his clammy skin against mine, but I do my best to ignore it.
Forcing a smile, I say, “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
I refuse to glance at the girls. I can’t risk drawing attention to them—I’ll just have to hope that they’re using the opportunity to work on freeing themselves the rest of the way.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“They call me Worm.”
He looks like a worm. Painfully skinny, his body lax in a way that suggests he’s boneless, flesh slightly stickyto the touch. I tighten my muscles, bracing myself, resisting a shudder.
