Drawn Into Darkness(57)

Bernie realized he had made a mistake, assuming they would want the Econo Lodge. The rich were different. “I don’t know,” he said with sober honesty.

“It’s just that it’s going to be hard to sleep, even in a cushy room,” Quinn added.

Bernie told them to try the Maypop Inn and wished them good night. Maybe the rich were not after all so different.

• • •

I awoke with a lurch as if a fire alarm had gone off, then lay looking up at splintery gray rafters and a tin roof, unable to think for a moment where I was or why my heart was pounding or why I felt immobile beneath a weight of dread, as if a leaden vulture were perched on my chest.

Something smelled quite skanky, and it was me.

Lack of proper hygiene or sanitation, I remembered. Fishing shack. Top bunk. Justin—Justin! Where was he? Stoat would kill him—

Stoat. Nightmare. Here.

When I turned my head, I expected I would see him sitting with his shotgun, leering at me.

I took a breath, and arranged my face in a mildly pleasant mask. Clenching my teeth behind slightly smiling lips, I turned as silently as I could to take a look, and instantly forgot all about facial expression. I gawked.

Stoat was sitting where I had expected, all right, but he was slumped forward with his arms and head lying beside his shotgun on the picnic table. That explained why he had let me alone for so long that it was daylight again. He had fallen asleep.

Or could he be dead?

At the thought, my dread gave way to deplorable, barbaric joy. I studied Stoat sprawling there, head turned so that the less injured side lay pressed against the table planks, and all I could see was the swollen side like a bumpy black mushroom hiding his mouth; I could not tell whether he was breathing. I watched his shoulders for several moments and still could not tell. But Stoat, dead—I should be so lucky. A more honest sense of my own karma told me that Stoat was just sleeping.

The shotgun lay under his forearm, inches from his right hand.

My leaden vulture had given way to Emily Dickinson’s feathered thing that sings. Maybe, just maybe, if I could secure the shotgun, I could live and take the van and get to the cops and they might find Justin. . . .

The thought of Justin gave me the nerve I needed. With great caution, as silently as possible, I started to move.

Of course I had to watch for snakes that might have settled in bed with me during the night. As if Stoat in the cabin were not snake enough.

And of course all my muscles ached, if only from sleeping in that despicable bunk, and various cuts on my hands and feet hurt, and so what? Ignoring all protests from my body, I had to get down from the top bunk without thumping to the floor. I did it by easing myself over the edge until I hung by my hands—something I had not done since phys ed class in college—and letting myself down slowly, easing my weight onto my bare feet. Finally I stood facing the bunk and listening.

I heard no reaction from Stoat.

My sense of balance felt uncertain, perhaps because of the heightened pulse pounding in my temples or perhaps because I hadn’t had enough to eat. With one hand on the top bunk’s bed rail for support, I turned around as silently as I could to look at Stoat, more than half expecting to see him sitting up and grinning at me. But he still slumped sprawling with his head on the table.

So far, so good.

Feeling a little more steady, I let go of the bed rail to stand on my own and take charge of my breathing. Slow, deep. Calm down. One step at a time.

Quite literally. I put one foot forward—not too far, half a step—then shifted my weight slowly to avoid making any sound, then paused like a bridesmaid in a wedding processional. I checked Stoat; he hadn’t moved. I listened as if something might be sneaking up on me. Then I skimmed my other foot forward and balanced with just my big toe on the floor, trying to remember where the creaky floorboards were so I could avoid them. Then I took another stealthy half step, and another—who would think a tiny cabin could seem so huge? By increments I crossed the floor, watching out for things that bit—spiders, scorpions, snakes—and even more, watching Stoat.

Closer, closer. I was close enough now to hear him breathing—

Damn. Breathing meant that the freaking pervert was alive.

But he seemed to be sound asleep. Zonked, conked, somnolent. I stood within arm’s reach of his shotgun, but on the wrong side of the table. The shotgun barrel projected over the edge of the plank surface toward me, easy to grasp, but if I failed to wrench the weapon away quickly enough, if he woke up and grabbed his end, he could still shoot me. Even if the gun went off by accident, buckshot was likely to get me.

I had to sneak around the table to stand right next to him before I dared to lunge for the gun.