There were more memories where that one came from, and for a time, in fact, I had the uncanny feeling that Subotin might actually lead me back to our old cabin. But then he turned into a side road which climbed up a ridge of these hills and then dove down into a narrow valley on the far side. There were no houses here, and few cabins, and on these steep slopes the maples and oaks gave way to spruce and pine. I remembered that a stream flowed along the floor of this valley, and soon I could see it flashing beyond the cold dark trees. The road, fighting to keep its grip on the sharp grade of the ravine, writhed like a snake. I didn't mind: because of the curves, I could stay right on Subotin's tail yet remain out of sight. He kept his speed down, which also made things easier, and it was clear he was unfamiliar with the road, for he had a map open on his dash, and he slowed at each sign. We kept on like this for seven or eight miles. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew quick spattering showers from the trees, and leaves, spinning down, stuck to the car's hood and jammed under the wipers. At length, as I knew it was going to, the road swung sharp right and passed over the stream. One Truck on Bridge read a sign, and, perhaps a little timorously, Subotin slowed right down as he crossed. I let him get clear, then followed. I knew it would be hard to lose him now, there were so few turnoffs. For another two miles, the road would keep the stream on its left, then climb the slope of the ridge and continue on the far side. If I remembered correctly (for us, on the way to the cabin, it had always been the wrong way around), it would eventually reach Evansville and actually pass by the steps of Father Delaney's little frame church… though that, needless to say, wasn't where Subotin was going. Just as the road began climbing, he slowed, and a hundred yards on turned down a narrow dirt side road. I didn't follow. Continuing past the intersection, I pulled over and stopped.
I twisted back in my seat and looked over my shoulder.
He'd probably made a wrong turn: I was almost sure the side road was a dead end.
I waited, rain dripping from the oaks overhead with a slow plop-plop on the roof of the car. Five minutes passed. When there was still no sign of him, I began to get nervous and put the car back into gear. But then I stopped myself. If I was right, if the road was a dead end, that meant his destination must lie along it; a car would only give me away.
I decided to walk.
Killing the engine produced an edgy, unnatural silence which made me ease the door shut, and as I walked back to the intersection, the quick squawk of a jay in the woods made me jump. The air, even at this slight elevation, was already cooler than it had been in Harrisburg; my breath misted, and I thrust my hands into my pockets. I came up to the side road. Narrow, unpaved, it split off from the main road in a "Y"; Subotin might well have turned down it while thinking he was going straight on. I hesitated. But there was no sign of him. For a hundred yards, the road ran straight downhill and I had an unobstructed view. Reluctantly, I started ahead. After the first straight stretch, there was a slight curve; then another, much sharper. Now the woods closed in on all sides and the air took on a gray, misty gloom. A mourning dove, crouched in the ditch, lifted away with a soft whirring of wings; jays and chickadees, flushed ahead of me, chirped and complained. I walked slowly, stopping to listen every few yards. Ten minutes passed and I still didn't see him. I began to worry now that I'd made a real blunder — he might be miles away — but there was nothing to do except go on. Then, a moment later, I saw my first sign of man — a tattered No Hunting poster matted on a tree trunk — and shortly thereafter, another: a crudely hand-painted sign erected at the side of the road. No Exit it read… So I'd been right. It made me even more cautious, but I kept going, and finally, a quarter mile on, I saw the car. It had been run up a narrow track leading into the woods, on the right-hand side of the road.
For thirty seconds, I stood stock-still; the car, masked by the trees, almost seemed like a predator waiting to pounce. But Subotin couldn't have seen me; if he had, I'd probably be dead. Cautiously, I walked up to the track. Which is all it was: two tire ruts leading into the woods. If he'd run the car up just another few yards, he could have hidden it completely from the road, but no doubt he'd been afraid of getting stuck in the wet, spongy ground. Moving forward, I peered in the car's windows… and saw, on the back seat, one of those canvas rifle holders. Empty…
I didn't like this at all. Where was he? What in hell was he doing here? I looked up the track, and the dark, wet trunks of the pines stared Impassively back, giving nothing away. I waited. I knew I was going ahead, but I needed a moment to let the idea sink in. Then — without comment, as it were — I simply started forward. I walked briskly; in that soft ground, my steps were silent, but there was little point to concealment. The track was very narrow; if he was hiding along it, he'd certainly see me. Still, every twenty yards or so I stopped and listened; it was just possible, if I had any warning at all, that I could throw myself into the bush and get away — it was so thick and dark. But I heard nothing. Just the occasional chirp of a bird, the trickling of water, the soft tread of my steps. I kept on. Conceivably, I thought, the track was the remains of an old logging road, or might lead to a hunting camp. It was probably five miles to my family's old place. If you imagined the side road continuing, you'd end up—
I stopped dead.
Ahead, the track widened and the gloom lightened.
After six paces, I could see that the track opened out into a clearing fringed with birches. Something gleamed there, in the shadows. I knelt down. Looking beneath the spreading branches of the pines, I could see the front bumper, and about half the hood, of a pickup truck. In the half-light, I couldn't be sure of the color; maybe dark green or dark blue.
I stood up. I knew it would be suicidal to go on. Subotin had to be there. Waiting. With a rifle… I turned and hurriedly retraced my steps. Then, when the track had curved enough to take me out of sight of the clearing, I paused to consider. What was happening? Was I doing the right thing? But I knew I was. I'm not a coward; but then I'm not an idiot either. It was possible that Subotin had merely come here to meet with someone, or perhaps to join them, but the more likely explanation was far more menacing: he was lying in ambush. He was, no doubt, expecting someone to come into the clearing from the opposite direction; but as soon as I did so, I'd be a dead man.
What should I do?
I couldn't just leave. I remembered all too clearly how Berri had paid for my dithering. Worse, some of my previous speculations now reversed. Could May be in there? Probably Subotin had been looking for her at the Alva. Had he come here because this was where he thought she would be?
But questions like that were unanswerable, and I let intuition take over. Backpedaling another fifty yards, I found a gap in the trees and stepped into it; then, at right angles to the track, I began working my way into the woods. Within a minute, I was soaked. Every step brought a shower down from above, and the ferns and bushes on the forest floor tugged at my legs like seaweed. I blundered on. Then, when I judged I was two or three hundred yards into the woods, I changed direction, striking out parallel to the track. My intention, of course, was to skirt the clearing and cut in behind it; and the problem lay in judging when I'd gone far enough. Now I got a break. Pausing to catch my breath, I heard the rush of a stream — a constant whispering behind the steady drip of the leaves — and a few minutes later, working away to my right, I came to its bank. It was a tributary of the creek that the highway had crossed. In the spring, during the runoff, it would have been impressive, deep and swift, but now there was just a thin trickle of black water to meander along the bottom of its bed. But it was precisely this that I now took advantage of, for the streambed, exposed, was as good as a path. And it ran the right way. I scrambled down from the bank. The bed was gravel and hard-packed mud; I could stride along. Only when it curved sharply, and the banks constricted, did I have to leave it. In twenty minutes or so, I must have gone the better part of a mile. Then, on the bank above me, I saw a path.