Paws and Effect Page 22

  “Love isn’t an obligation,” I said. “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. Lao Tzu said that.”

  John took several steps closer to me so he was less than an arm’s length away from Hope. “Want me to shoot her?” he asked. His eyes never left my face but I knew he was directing the question at Hope.

  “It won’t change anything,” she said.

  My heart pounded in my ears and my chest was so tight I couldn’t breathe. The gun was level with my head. If John decided to pull the trigger anyway I was dead. Then, finally, he lowered his arm.

  And Hope made her move.

  John had seen it coming. Somehow he’d seen it coming. The hand holding the gun arced sideways and caught her on the side of her head. She staggered and he kicked her right leg out from under her. Her arms flailed in the air as she tried to get her balance but her foot caught in a protruding tree root and she went down. I lunged to catch her but I was too late.

  I bent over Hope. Her eyes were closed and there was blood in her hair on the right side of her head. I felt for a pulse, grateful to feel her heart pounding even faster than mine. I reached in my pocket, pulled out a couple of Kleenex and pressed them against the gash on Hope’s head.

  “Get her up,” John ordered.

  “She’s unconscious,” I said, not looking at him. I was so angry I was afraid I’d do something stupid and get us both shot. Every minute longer was another minute I could use to figure a way out of this.

  “Then carry her or drag her. I don’t care.” He spit out each word.

  My anger boiled over. “Neither one of those is going to happen,” I snapped. If he hadn’t had the gun I would have hit him. “So either you wait until she comes to or shoot us, because those are the only two choices you have. And if you shoot a police officer they will hunt you down like a rabid dog until someone puts a bullet in your head.” I was breathing hard and I could feel flecks of spit on my lips.

  Hope’s eyes fluttered and opened. “Way to build a rapport, Kathleen,” she rasped.

  Rain had soaked the tissues pressed to her head. I took my hand away. It didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore but the skin was already swelling and darkening.

  I helped Hope sit up slowly. Her eyes rolled and for a moment I thought she was going to pass out again.

  “Move,” John barked.

  “Wait,” I retorted.

  “I’m all right,” Hope said. “Give me a hand.”

  I helped her get to her feet. She grimaced as she put weight down on that right foot. “Let me look,” I said. I bent down and rolled up the bottom of her jeans. Her ankle was already swelling. I probed carefully with my fingers and Hope sucked in a sharp breath.

  I stood up and wiped my hands on my wet jeans, which really didn’t do any good. I looked at John. “Her ankle might be broken. It’s sprained at least. She can’t walk. Just leave us here and go.”

  “I can walk, Kathleen,” Hope said. “Let it go.” There was warning in her eyes.

  “Let me help you,” I said. I put my arm across her back, taking as much of her weight as I could, and we started moving again.

  It was slow going. The rain continued to fall and the ground was slippery and uneven. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and not letting Hope fall. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. I glanced over at her. She was gritting her teeth and pain was etched in the lines on her face.

  She caught me watching her. “Hunt you down like a rabid dog?” she whispered, and her mouth pulled into a semblance of a smile.

  “Best I could do in the moment,” I said.

  “If you get a chance to get away—” she began.

  “—I’m taking you with me,” I finished.

  “You two planning some way to best me?” John was right behind us, so close I fancied I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, which in reality was impossible because I had my hood up.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Hope pressed her lips together. “You’re so bad at this,” she said.

  “You set Marcus up,” I said. I wasn’t trying to stall. I needed to hear John confirm everything. I needed to stay angry so we’d stay alive.

  “Yes, I set Marcus up.” John’s voice was smug.

  “You hacked his phone. You made it look as though he’d sent those texts to Dani.”

  “And they say the Internet is a waste of time,” he said.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What I don’t get is how you planted the key chain?”

  He laughed but there was nothing humorous about the sound. “That was just a spur of the moment thing. The drive-in logo broke off my keys. Then I realized I could leave it there and all I had to do was get one from Travis or Marcus to replace mine and send the police in another direction. That night at Marcus’s house when I used his bathroom I saw his keys on his dresser. Since he had taken Dani away from me again, it just seemed like poetic justice.”

  I didn’t say anything. It was clear something was broken in him.

  We kept walking. I lost all concept of time. We could have been moving for five minutes or two hours. Hope’s face was pale and wan and the rain had washed a trail of blood from her hair down the side of her face. Not only was I fairly sure she had a broken ankle, I thought she had a concussion, too.

  I looked around, trying to get my bearings. We were on Ruby’s property, I realized finally, not that far from the old camp, which meant we weren’t that far from Wisteria Hill. The thought gave me hope. I shifted a bit more of Hope’s weight onto me.

  “Where are we going?” I said. I could feel John, still no more than a step behind us.

  Ding, dong, bell,

  Pussy’s in the well.

  Who put her in?

  Little Johnny Flynn.

  He recited the children’s nursery rhyme in a singsong voice.

  A well? Was there a well somewhere on this land? All I could think of was a dark, cold, small space. I bit down hard on my tongue so I wouldn’t vomit. Or scream. I was claustrophobic.

  “Stop!” John ordered. We stopped walking. Hope sagged and I lost my grip on her. She dropped to the ground. I bent down to help her up.

  “Leave her,” he said.

  I turned to look at him. I wasn’t a violent person. I believed that words were better for solving problems that fists, but in that moment if John Keller hadn’t had a gun I would have taken a swing at him and not lost a moment’s sleep.

  He was using one foot to scrape wet leaves off of something on the forest floor. It was some kind of plank square: the cover to the well, I was guessing, based on the weathering of the wood.

  An iron ring was bolted to the middle of the wooden cover. Eyes and gun on Hope and me, John bent down and pulled the cover up. I smelled dampness and dirt and must.

  Panic rolled over me like a wave. I squeezed my hands into tight fists. Roma will come home, I told myself. She’ll find the car and Hercules. Someone will find us.

  I made myself look at John and fought to keep the panic from carrying me away. We were going to get out of this.

  He laughed. The ugly sound wrapped around the trees.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Your stupid Pollyanna optimism,” he said. “You still think you’re going to get out of this.”

  I bent down and helped Hope to her feet again. Her skin was even grayer, if that was possible.

  “I know where the two of you parked,” John said. “The lake is very deep, you know.”

  I bit down on my lip so hard I drew blood. Hercules could get out of Hope’s car. He didn’t like the rain but he knew the property. He’ll be safe, I said silently. And we will get out of here.

  John grabbed Hope’s arm, pulling her away from me. She staggered and he took advantage of her moment
um, pushing her down into the open hole. On instinct she grabbed at the ground, her hands clawing the mud, looking for something to hold on to. All she got were handfuls of wet leaves and pine needles. She fell back into the darkness.

  “Now you,” John said, pointing the gun at me. I had a fleeting thought that being shot would be better than climbing down into that dark, tight hole. But Hope was already down there and I couldn’t leave her there alone.

  I walked to the edge and sat down, dangling my legs in the hole. I couldn’t see Hope and I had no idea how far she had fallen, how far I would fall. Was she already dead? Had the fall broken her neck? Would the same happen to me? I flashed to my father as Henry the Fifth in Shakespeare’s play of the same name as Henry spoke to his army. I could hear my father’s voice in my head and I whispered the words along with it: “Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage.” And then I jumped.

  16

  I landed on some kind of wooden platform twelve, maybe fifteen, feet down. The fall knocked the wind out of me and I lay there, trying to get my breath. Above us John pulled the wooden cover over the hole. I stifled a scream. It came out like a whimper.

  I’d never been in a place so dark. I put a hand out and felt packed earth. It felt as though the ground itself was pushing back. Tears rolled down my face—or maybe it was rain dripping from my hair. I felt around slowly, carefully, for Hope, Please don’t let her be dead running on repeat in my head. My hand touched something that felt like fur. I yanked it back and did let out a small scream. I heard a moan behind me. “Hope?” I said stretching out my trembling arm.

  My hand connected with her shoulder. “Kathleen?” she managed to gasp out.

  “Yes,” I said. I found her other shoulder and helped pull her into a sitting position. She leaned against me. “We’re going to get out of here,” I said. “I just need a minute to think.”

  I looked up over my head. The air was stale but there were small spaces between the planks that made up the well cover. We were getting some air. We could breathe as long as the smell from whatever was decomposing down here didn’t overcome us.

  “How far down?” Hope asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Fifteen feet, maybe less. This isn’t a well. It’s a spring or something. I’m guessing it’s been partly filled with gravel. We can get out. It’s not that deep.”

  She didn’t answer me. I shook her gently. She groaned.

  What had I learned about head injuries in first aid? “You have to stay awake,” I said, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “I’m going to get us out of here but your job is to stay awake.”

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. Her voice was weak but she was with me for now.

  I touched the wall of the well. Please God, let it be dirt and not brick, I thought.

  Dirt.

  Yes.

  The dirt was packed hard and dense with twisted tree roots, but maybe, just maybe I could scrape out enough of a handhold to make it to the top. I felt for a spot about waist-height and tried to make a hole using just my hands. The earth felt like a mix of rocks and clay compacted together, with the tree roots surrounding it all like a net or a web.

  “We’re trapped,” Hope whispered.

  I choked off a sob and dropped back down beside her. I swiped away the tears that were running down my face with one dirty hand. “No!” I said. “We are not dying down here. We’re getting out and getting Hercules and I’m going to punch John Keller right in the nose and I’m going to like it. And then I’m going to have a bath and a whole pan of brownies.”

  Hope made a strangled sound and for a moment I thought she was choking. Then I realized she was laughing. “You are . . . Pollyanna,” she said.

  I sniffed and swiped at my eyes again. “Pippi Longstocking,” I said. “That’s who I wanted to be when I was a kid.”

  “Who . . .” Hope’s voice trailed off.

  “She’s the main character in a series of children’s books. You’ll like them. When we get out of here I’ll check them all out for you.”

  She didn’t answer. I nudged her shoulder again. “You have to stay awake, Hope,” I said.

  “I am,” she whispered after a moment.

  “I need something to dig with.” I felt around the wooden platform, trying to stay away from the spot where I’d touched whatever was rotting down here.

  There was water underneath us. Just as air was getting down to us through the spaces in the boards above us that water would come up through the spaces in the dirt and gravel below us. I had to get us out now. I had to find something to dig with. It occurred to me that if I took my sneaker off could I use the sole as a shovel. I wasn’t sure it would work.

  I untied my shoe and pulled it off. It was so wet a small stream of water poured out. “Okay, cross your fingers,” I said to Hope. I pressed the sneaker’s upper against the sole and dug at the well wall with it. The wet shoe slipped out of my hand and fell onto the wooden platform. I swore and bent down to retrieve it.

  “You said a bad word,” Hope rasped.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. My fingers brushed the dead whatever it was. I recoiled, felt around a little more and caught the end of a shoelace.

  Hope laughed, the same half-strangled sound as before. “You’re so . . . nice. Not like me.”

  I turned the shoe around and attacked the wall with the heel end. “You’re a nice person,” I said.

  “No,” she mumbled.

  The heel of the shoe didn’t work any better than the toe had. I beat on the wall in frustration. I was standing in water now, I realized. It was rising rapidly.

  “What’s wrong?” Hope asked, struggling to get to her feet. Her ankle wouldn’t hold her and she collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

  I made a grunt of frustration. “I was trying to use my shoe to dig with but it won’t work. The sole is too rubbery.”

  “You need . . . insoles,” she said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you wearing yours?”

  “Yes.” Her voice got a little stronger. “Yes.”

  I squatted down, felt for Hope’s leg and found her left foot. “I’m just going to take this shoe off,” I said. “I don’t want to take the other one off because your ankle is swelling and I’m afraid we won’t get it back on.”

  I stripped the insole out of Hope’s running shoe, picturing it in my mind because I couldn’t see it. The curve of metal was held between two pieces of leather. This might just work. I put Hope’s shoe in her hands. “Cross your fingers,” I said.

  She caught my fingers and gave them a squeeze. Her grip was weak. “Thank you,” she said.

  I stood up and attacked the wall with the heel end of the insert. Dirt fell onto my arm. “It’s working!”

  “Yay . . .” Hope’s voice petered out.

  I felt behind me with one hand. I touched the top of her head. “No, no, no. You have to stay awake. I can’t do this by myself.”

  “It’s . . . wet.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I’m going to get us out. Just don’t go to sleep on me.”

  I dug awkwardly with my makeshift trowel. It was slow going and it still felt like the ground was pushing back, trying to fold around us. I started to breathe hard. Were we running out of air? “Talk to me, please?” I asked, my voice as shaky as I suddenly felt.

  “You afraid of . . . the dark?” Hope said.

  I started to dig again.

  “Closed spaces,” I said, grunting with the effort it took to dig. I moved my foot, guessing there must be two inches of water at my feet now. Rain slid down my face. At least that’s what I told myself it was.

  I dug what I hoped was a good enough handhold and then reached farther up the wall and began digging again. And I kept talking to Hope, telling her stories, asking questions, trying not to le
t panic overwhelm me.

  Finally I had four steps etched into the wall, the last at the limit of my reach. I crouched down next to Hope. She was sitting in several inches of water. I felt for her arm and put my hands on her shoulders. “We’re going to get out of here,” I said. “I need you to stand up. I’m going to climb up and push the cover out of the way. Then I’m going to help you up. Right now I need you to stand up so I can show you where to put your hands and feet.”

  I helped her to her feet and had her feel the wall for the small indentations I made. They suddenly seemed very small.

  “When you run a marathon what do you tell yourself when you’re facing those last few miles?” I asked.

  “That . . . I’m . . . crazy.”

  I smiled even though she couldn’t see it in the darkness. “Okay, three crazy miles to go,” I said. “See you at the finish line.” I felt for my two handholds and put one foot in the bottom indentation I’d made. It slipped out but I kicked my foot in hard and the second time it held. The wall of the cistern was wet and slippery. I hugged it with my body, lifted my right arm and pulled myself up a little higher. Finally after what seemed like an eternity I was right below the wooden cover.

  I pushed up with one hand. The cover moved maybe a couple of inches and cold dirty water poured onto my face. I spit and shook my head and pushed again. The wooden square moved a little more this time. I took a deep breath and pushed one more time, groaning with the exertion, and this time the cover lifted and slipped to the side. There was just enough space for me to fit my hand, but that was enough. I pushed, the wood sliding over an inch at a time, but it moved. And finally there was enough space for me to get my arm up over the top. I felt around for the iron ring, grabbed it tightly and flung my other arm out of the hole, grabbing at the ground. For a moment I was suspended by one arm, my body weight pulling at my shoulder. Then I caught a tree root and held on for dear life. I kicked my legs out from the wall of the cistern and used the momentum I’d gained to push back against it when we reconnected, pulling with every last bit of my strength. And somehow I got the top half of my body up onto the wooden cover. I kicked my legs again, rolled hard to the right and I was out.