Page 58 of Cold, Cold Bones

The figure was nowhere to be seen. Not surprising. He had home-court advantage and had used it well.

Was it Smith? If so, why had he run? If not Smith, then who?

Above me, a bird trilled some avian warning. Or maybe he’d spotted a buddy.

Suddenly, twenty yards up, I made out an elbow or shoulder disrupting the outline of the bark shielding it.

Sudden thought. Could the guy be armed? Was he waiting for me to present an easier shot?

Screw it.

I jumped down and, using trees for cover, wove forward, trying to keep my quarry in sight. That proved impossible. Setting a course toward the place where I’d last seen him, I followed the path of least resistance through the brambles.

I’d gone almost fifty yards when a mittened hand wrapped my face from behind. My hair was yanked down sharply, and my jaw shot skyward. Something popped in my neck.

The hand reeled me in. I heard heavy breathing close to my ear. Took in a skunky smell, like sweat and rancid fat.

My heart raced and blood pounded in my ears.

The hand let go. Another joined it and both shoved violently on my back. I threw my arms out to break my fall, but the downward momentum was too great. I hit a rock, scraping my cheek and forehead and rattling my brain. Black spots danced in my vision.

As I attempted to push up, a boot slammed my spine, sending me flat once more. I could see only pine needles and breathe their scent and dust.

Eyes watering, I rolled to my side and again tried rising onto all fours.

Another pile-driving kick sent me back into the needles. Air exploded from my mouth. I struggled to turn my head. To breathe.

Finally, I managed to sit up. All was quiet. I was alone.

Minutes passed as my paralyzed lungs relaxed.

I gulped oxygen.

When I got back to the bunker, Slidell was still inside the first bus. Hearing my footsteps, he turned, prepared to lambast me for leaving the car. Stunned, he paused to look me over. To take in my bleeding cheek and chin and one swollen eye.

Instead of bellowing, Slidell tugged a hanky from his pocket and gestured at my face. Hand still shaky, I reached for his offering. Locating a reasonably clean section, I folded the dingy square of polyester and held it against the abrasions.

“You OK?” Casually shifting to block a doorway leading into the next bus.

I nodded.

“What the fuck happened?”

I explained my little romp in the woods.

“Any idea who?”

“No.”

“Smith ain’t here.”

“Is anyone?”

“No.”

Why wasn’t Slidell chastising me?

“It was probably one of these fuckwad preppers who scrambled you.”