Her mother never raised her voice. Ever. Not even when Letti was a child. So hearing it now felt like a slap. Letti recovered quickly, turning around in her seat to look at her.
“What’s the problem, Florence?”
“There’s something out there,” Florence said.
“JD has never been in the woods before. It’s probably a rabbit. Or a deer.”
“Or a bear.” Florence looked solemn.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Indulge an old woman. Turn off the car and the headlights for a minute.”
Letti sighed. “Florence...”
“Please. What can it hurt?”
Kelly leaned forward. “What if it’s that guy with the gun, Mom?”
“We’re a long way from him, Kelly.”
“What if it is a bear?”
“Then hopefully he’ll help us get unstuck.”
No one laughed. Sighing, Letti flipped off the ignition and killed the lights.
It seemed even darker now. Darker, and unnaturally quiet. Letti couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
Then a light came on in the backseat.
Kelly. Holding up her iPod, its screen bright white.
“Turn that off, dear. With no light, our eyes can adjust to the darkness.”
Dear? Florence never called me dear.
Letti chided herself. She wasn’t in competition with her daughter.
The light went off. Everyone waited. Letti wasn’t scared. She never got scared. It was a useless emotion, like guilt, and worry. Even if there was a bear out there, the thing to do was deal with it, not hide from it like frightened children.
“Have we waited long enough, Florence?”
“Shh. I hear something.”
“What?”
“Right next to the car.”
Letti felt the gooseflesh rise on her arms.
“Are the doors locked?” Florence whispered.
Against all common sense, Letti lowered her voice as well. “Why? A bear is going to pull open the door?”
“I don’t think it’s a bear,” Florence said. “I think it’s something else.”
Letti found the lock button, flicked it twice to make sure. Then she pressed her face to the window, trying to peer outside. Slowly, her eyes began to adapt, and she could see her breath fogging up the glass.
Letti wiped it off with her palm.
It didn’t wipe off.
She rubbed harder, her flesh squeaking on the window.
The condensation stayed there. And as she squinted at it, she watched the fog get bigger.
Hold on... it’s not on the inside.
It’s on the outside.
Someone has their face against my window.
JD went crazy, jumping fully on top of Letti, his claws digging into her thighs, barking and scratching at the glass in full-on attack mode. Letti’s face was buried in his muzzle, fur getting up her nose. She gave the dog a rough shove, turned the ignition, threw it into gear, and jammed on the accelerator.
The engine whined, then the wheels found purchase and the Audi lurched forward, climbing out of the ditch, bouncing its occupants against the ceiling, JD falling into the passenger seat. Letti cut the wheel hard to the right so the rear didn’t get stuck, and all four tires bit into the dirt as she fishtailed. She flipped on the brights, gasping as something darted behind a tree only a few feet away from them.
A man?
Pretty big for a man.
“Mom!”
Letti saw it too; a tree, dead ahead. She wrestled with the wheel, guiding the Audi back onto the trail, the tree trunk banging against the side mirror and shearing it off.
Twenty yards later, the woods suddenly opened up into a clearing. Letti hit the brakes, skidding to avoid smashing into the front porch of the large house that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Then there was a massive BANG! as the front tire popped.
# # #
After five miles of driving, the stench of blood began to make Deb sick, and she pulled the Vette over on the side of the road to clean up.
“I have bottled water, some towels, in the trunk,” she said, the first words spoken since they’d left the butchered deer. “I also have some plastic garbage bags.”
“You come equipped,” Mal said.
“It’s a triathlete thing. Never know when you’ll be swimming, or have to hydrate.”
They got out of the car, walked around to the rear. Mal pulled out his suitcase, and Deb pulled hers. She was thinking the same thing he probably was; in the darkness, the only way to change clothes was next to the light from the trunk. She watched him struggle for a moment with what to do, and then she pulled her bloody tee shirt up over her head, revealing her neon sports bra.
“Would you like some privacy?” he asked.
Deb loosened the drawstring on her sweatpants. “I wear a bikini when I compete. There’s nothing you’ll see here that you won’t see there.”
She rested her butt against the bumper, then tugged down her pants. Removing them from her legs was awkward, but Deb favored flared cuffs, making the process easier. When she was finished, she stood in her bra and panties, expecting Mal to be staring at her prosthetic legs.
Instead, Deb caught him staring at her breasts, which made her feel wonderfully normal. She tried not to smirk, reaching into the trunk for a water bottle and a towel as he began to unbutton his shirt. Deb cleaned herself off as best she could. When she glanced at Mal again, he was in his boxer briefs. It was obvious he worked out.
“Can you toss me a water bottle?”
Deb thought, staring at his chiseled abs, about asking him if he needed help. But that was totally inappropriate, especially after what they’d just been through. Instead, she went with something banal.
“Do you run?”
“Yeah. Not like you, though. Never competed in anything. After five miles I feel like puking.”
“Everyone feels like puking after five miles. It’s called hitting the wall. You have to run through it.”
“That’s why you’re the athlete, and I’m the reporter. Once I hit the wall, I curl up and start crying.”
“I do that too. But only after the race.”
Deb took a long pull from the water bottle, then dumped the remainder on her prosthetics. Her cosmetic legs, as opposed to her sports legs, were flesh-colored and shaped like real calves, the outer skin latex. Inside each was a titanium bar, which attached to a complicated spring/joint mechanism that functioned as ankles. Her high-top Nikes were specially made to snap onto the ends. Every so often, Deb toyed with the idea of getting a custom pair of stiletto boots. She missed high heels. But walking was enough of a challenge without an extra three inches.
Except for the flesh-colored Velcro straps just below her knees where the prosthetics began, the legs looked real, even close up. But they got dirty very easily, and were a pain to clean. The dried-on blood was proving especially tough, and Deb was worried if she rubbed too hard, she’d rip the latex.
“Maybe this will help.” Mal tugged a bottle out of his suitcase and held it up. Grey Goose vodka.
“Apparently you come equipped, too.”
“I travel a lot, and hate paying twelve dollars for martinis at the hotel bar.”
“I’m not sure getting drunk will help get the blood stains out.”
He shook his head and walked over, kneeling down between Deb’s legs. “Do you mind?” he asked.
Deb didn’t mind at all. She watched as he poured some alcohol onto a clean part of his towel, and then rubbed her prosthetics with it. For the briefest of moments, Deb could almost feel his touch on her missing legs, her brain linking his actions with remembered sensations. She shivered, and told herself it was because of the night breeze and not anything else.