Page 26

I shot awake, sweaty and confused, my breath coming in greedy gasps. My eyes scanned the camper, my mind convinced something was wrong, but the only problem was the slightly feverish federal agent lying next to me. My hands were cold from poking out of the blanket as we slept, so I bent over him carefully and pressed my lips to his forehead. Too warm. Definitely too warm.

I’d known infection was a possibility, but I hadn’t thought it could take hold so quickly, and I sure as hell didn’t have a pharmacy in Gramps’ medical kit to pull some antibiotics from. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the fact that he needed them ASAP.

My mental wheels spun as I tried to figure out a solution.

“Did it get colder in here?” Dawson asked, his sleepy voice pulling me from my growing panic.

“No. I think you have a fever...probably from infection setting in.”

“I hear a gunshot wound can do that to you.”

“I need to clean it again,” I said, climbing over him carefully to get off the bed. “I’m going to go get that damn firewood now so I can boil some water.”

“I’m not in labor, Danners.”

“Would you prefer I clean it with the murky creek water instead?’ He cast me a sideward glance, and I did my best to ignore the apparent lack of heat behind it. He knew he had an infection. He knew things were grim. He was making jokes for my benefit—possibly his, too. “I shouldn’t be long, provided I can find branches that are dry enough to burn and some dry grass.”

His gaze never left me as I rushed around the tiny space to grab everything I’d need. Once I had a bucket, matches, an old flashlight that actually worked (rather than risk a burner phone), and a holey flannel coat I’d found when I raided the closet, I headed for the door. “I’ll be right back—”

“Wait,” he called out. I stopped short. “Does Gramps have any guns here?”

I didn’t need to ask why.

Without answering, I walked past the closet and pulled up the ugly orange carpet runner to expose a hidden door in the floor. I yanked on the handle, and the retrofitted metal door squeaked its protest as the hinges slowly obeyed. It fell on top of the peeled-back carpet, exposing the ground below. Leaning over the hole big enough to climb through, I reached down and began patting the underside of the camper where Gramps strapped his rifles. Gram and my mom had made it very clear when I was young that I couldn’t go anywhere near that place if the guns were somewhere I could get hold of them. But as I searched and searched, my fingers found nothing but the smooth metal undercarriage.

“No…I don’t think they’re here. He hasn’t used this place for a long time. They must all be in the safe in his bedroom.” Dawson took a deep breath, then swung his legs off the bed and stood. “What in the hell are you doing?” I screeched, slamming the door closed and nearly tripping over the rolled-up carpet as I ran over to him. “You need to lie down—”

He reached past me for his coat and pulled out a gun. “Take this.”

“Dawson—”

“That’s not a request.” I opened my mouth to argue, then forced it shut. “Who knows what’s lurking in these woods,” he continued, holding the sidearm out to me, butt first. “It’s fully loaded. Remember to flip the safety off before you shoot—”

“Shoot what? A rabid coon? A sleepy bear who hasn’t stumbled into hibernation yet?”

“Just take it,” he snapped. Then he wavered on his feet, and I snatched the gun from his hand and crammed it into my waistband so I could steady him. His hazel stare found mine, and even in his weakened state, I finally saw a flicker of that fire deep within them. “Be careful.”

“I will. I should only be a few minutes, I promise.” His eyes narrowed the second I uttered that word. “Sorry,” I blurted out. “I don’t promise. Absolutely no promising going on. Now lie down.”

He climbed back onto the bed, careful not to use his bad arm, and I force-fed him some water and two bites of a snack cake. Once I had him tucked back in, I grabbed my supplies and rushed out into the cold night.

Wind whipped through the trees, sending a haunting howl through the hills. The loud knock of a tree trunk startled me, and I was glad the gun hadn’t been in my hand when it did, or I’d have gone full-scale Annie Oakley on it, which was exactly what we didn’t need. I took a deep breath to calm my shit, then rounded the camper to head past the hidden truck and deeper into the woods that would eventually open up as I hit the wide creek nearby. Along the way, I tossed sticks and larger branches into the bucket and dead grass and leaves into my pockets for kindling. It made for easier carrying, but I knew that once I had to dump the bucket and fill it with water, the trek back would be far more cumbersome.

It only took about ten or fifteen minutes to make my way to the creek bed, and I didn’t waste any time. I emptied the bucket of firewood and scooped up as much water as I could carry without sloshing it all over myself on the return trip. The break in the trees allowed the full moon to shine through, its big face smiling down on me.

“Glad you have something to be happy about,” I muttered before tucking all the wood I could manage under my arm and grabbing the heavy bucket. With the flashlight in my other hand, I headed back toward the camper. The weak beam of light from the circa-1955 silver flashlight bounced as I walked, and I wondered if it was even worth the trouble.

As if the flashlight could hear my thoughts and was thoroughly offended by them, it faded slowly until there was nothing but me and the darkness that lay ahead.

“ Shit ,” I cursed under my breath, banging the ancient artifact against my thigh as though I could beat it into good behavior. “I should have brought the damn burner.” But when the vintage fixture didn’t spring to life, I merely sighed and tucked it into my other back pocket. “Rest in peace, old friend. You had a good run.”

Making my way back to the camper would take longer without the aid of the flashlight, unless I wanted to add a twisted ankle or broken arm to the growing list of shit working against us. Since I thought our tally was high enough, I walked carefully through the felled trees and brush and rocks, leaning against tree trunks for balance whenever possible. I shimmied over a particularly grand oak that had been uprooted by a storm, no doubt. Straddling it, feet dangling over either side, I hit a mossy patch, and my body lurched sideways. My bucket of water went flying, along with the wood, and I collapsed on the ground like a lump. I heard a metallic thumping sound, either the gun or the flashlight dislodging from my pants in the fall. Once I disentangled myself from the brush I landed in, I scrambled to see what I’d lost.

The dead flashlight was safe and secure.

Dawson’s gun was not.

“ Shit ! Shitshitshit…”

On hands and knees, I groped the ground like a horny teenager, awkwardly pawing at anything and everything in my path. And in the distance, I could hear the distinct sound of light footfalls in the leaves.

Maybe I’d have to deal with that fictional bear after all, or maybe Dawson had come looking for me because I was taking too long. I didn’t love either option, especially when neither encounter would end well if I didn’t find that gun.

The sound of crunching deadfall stopped, and I strained to listen as I searched for it as quietly as possible. How far could it have gone?

My fingertips finally grazed metal just as a faint light flashed in the distance. Dawson was apparently not only up, but the son of a bitch had managed to find a flashlight that actually worked. Even half-dead and exhausted, he could procure what he needed to trek through the woods to check on me.

How very Dawson of him.

I brushed off the gun, tucked it in my back pocket, and tried to hurry back to the camper, water and firewood forgotten as worry filled me while I ran over the reasons Dawson would come looking for me in my mind. I was pretty sure delirium from fever couldn’t have set in that fast, but I’d thought the same of infection, and it seemed like that hadn’t panned out. If he was deteriorating that rapidly, we were in even bigger trouble than I’d thought.

The light disappeared altogether and I stopped, leaning against a birch so I could listen for footsteps again—but none came. The wind whipped through the holler, and the way it cut through the trees sounded like hushed voices whispering in the night. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I pressed on, the chill of fear and old ghost stories driving me forward.

“Pull yourself together, Ky,” I mumbled, chiding myself for fearing the sounds of a place I’d spent so much of my childhood in. But even my admonishment and rational mind couldn’t assuage the feeling of dread clawing its way up my back.

As soundlessly as I could, I drew near to the camper, the rusted metal highlighted by the moonlight breaking through the trees. Dawson was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if I hadn’t imagined the whole thing; if my nerves and the noises of the spooky woods weren’t getting the best of me.

Then the sounds of shattering glass and shredding metal rent the air around me as a loud, repeated popping provided the beat behind their melody. I ducked behind a tree and hit the ground as stray bullets whizzed around me, then dared a look at the camper. The back of it was already riddled with holes, a polka-dotted effect that hadn’t been there seconds before, courtesy of the ammunition ripping through it at an alarming rate.

And all I could picture was Dawson lying on the bed, his body as riddled with holes as the back of the camper.