While Redding drives, Portman flips between trucker CB ham radio stations and the police scanner. We’re on the road less than fifteen minutes when a blue BMW is identified as abandoned at an interstate highway gas station about an hour away in the direction of Salt Lake. The plate number matches my own.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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39
JUNEAU
MY EYES HAVEN’T ADJUSTED TO THE DARKNESS. I am running blind through low scrub, with my pack thrown over one shoulder and my hands stretched in front of me in case I run into anything. But there is nothing to run into, just knee-high grasses slapping my jeans with a hissing swish, and occasional bushes crackling under my shoes.
I don’t dare look back. I’m certain they saw me under the bright lights of the Shell station, and this pastureland offers nowhere to hide. I see a dark wall rising slowly to meet me, and after a few minutes realize that I’m headed toward a tree line.
I hear shouts behind me and am glad for the waist-high barrier around the gas station’s parking lot. If it weren’t for that, Whit and his men could have driven off-road right after me. But from the sounds of it, they decided to follow on foot. The trees get closer, and my vision is clearer now that the fluorescent glare has worn off.
As I reach the first of the trees, I allow myself a split second to look back, and see two bulky forms lumbering across the pasture, vaguely in my direction, flashlight gleams bobbing up and down as they run. They haven’t seen me, or they would be headed directly my way. I take off through the trees, leaping over broken branches and bushes, headed in no particular direction besides away from them.
The trees turn out not to be woods, but rather clumps of evergreens separated by stretches of barren grassland. There is no good cover—I am exposed.
And then it happens: I step into some kind of hole, and my trapped foot remains stationary while the rest of me keeps going. I am blinded by a white blaze of pain.
Crouching, I use my fingers to pull the dirt away from my foot until it is free. Although I can barely see, I can feel that the hole is a big one. Fox or badger den, I think. Making a split-second decision, I grope around until my fingers touch a fallen branch, and I use it to dig out the tunnel. Driven by fear, I uncover the empty animal den in less than a minute and, dragging my injured foot behind me, gather the nearest sticks and branches.
I throw my pack in the three-foot hole and then lower myself down into it, lying on my side with my pack at my stomach, curling up fetal-style around it. Reaching up to my pile of evergreen branches, I sweep the stack over and around me until I—and the hole—am completely covered. And then I wait.
Now that I am motionless, my ankle throbs with pain. I want to touch it, to feel if something is broken, but I’m afraid that any movement will shift the branches and uncover my hiding spot. I bite my lip until I taste blood. Every crackle of leaves, every creaking branch is amplified in my ears as I listen for my pursuers. And what seems a mere moment after I am hidden, they arrive. One is close by—I hear the plodding of heavy boots. From a distance I hear the other one yell, “There’s no one out here. Like I said, she went the other way.”
The nearby footsteps stop, then shuffle around as the man sweeps the area with his flashlight. A ray of it pierces down through the pine needles into my den. But I am hidden well enough that he sees nothing, because his footsteps get fainter as he moves farther away.
I wonder where Whit is. Probably back at the car, letting his henchmen do his dirty work. Where did he even meet these people? What happened to the peace-loving dependable man I’ve known my whole life? For what possible reason would he have my entire clan kidnapped and imprisoned? And why can’t he just leave it at that? Why does he need me?
Acid rage burns inside my chest. I want to scream but clench my fists instead, so hard that my fingernails dig painfully into my palms.
I stay in the hole for as long as I can. Finally, when I get to the point where I am so chilled and in pain that I’d prefer capture to staying another minute in the ground, I lift my hand and sweep my cover away.
I sit up. Look around. No one is here but me and a surprised-looking squirrel, who begins chittering wildly as I lift myself up—scolding me for scaring him. I brush off the dirt and leaves and test my foot. It is painful, but I can put a tiny bit of pressure on it. I press gingerly around my ankle. The flesh is swollen, but not enormous like Nome’s when she got it caught in the emergency shelter’s trapdoor. “A light sprain,” Esther, our clan doctor, had said. But Nome couldn’t walk on hers, and I am at least able to hobble my way through the grasslands.