There was no sign of the cat. Softly Florie Mae called her, coaxing her. She was looking along the crest of the hill for Nugget or for Martha and Idola when she fixed on a pile of dead leaves just beyond the gravel. Dark red-brown maple leaves from last fall, left wet and rotting, pushed away in a heap during the work of the tractor.
Stepping closer, and kneeling, she lifted a handful of leaves to which clung a dirty scrap of cloth. It was stained dark, but she could see the print of tiny daisies. Beneath where the scrap had lain, she glimpsed a tiny cloth hand.
Digging into the dark, wet leaves, she picked out Rebecca's doll, wet and soiled. Rebecca's little cloth doll, its little faded, daisy-print dress stained dark from the leaves. Rebecca's doll. The doll that had sat on Rebecca's bed as a child, the doll Granny had made for her when she was a little girl, Rebecca's good luck doll. The doll that since Rebecca bought her first car she'd carried on her dashboard, the doll Rebecca said would always ride with her.
Dark, wet leaves still stuck to the doll's dress. Picking them away, she looked closely at the marks they left—but there were darker stains, too. She drew her finger across these.
Even though the cloth was wet, those marks were stiff and hard. When she put her face to the doll, the stains stunk like spoiled meat.
Dropping the doll, she backed away, stood staring down where it lay on the fresh gravel—but then she snatched it up again and stuffed it in her pocket. Afraid someone was there, afraid someone had seen her find Rebecca's doll.
She stood there on the gravel wanting to be sick. Wanting to run, to get away. For the first time in her life she realized how lonely the woods were. She longed to go back to her truck, lock herself in, and lie down on the seat, she was that faint and sick. She stood for a long moment with her head down, trying to breathe slower; cold with fear, wanting only to be away from there.
When she looked up, Rebecca's cat was there.
The cat Martha and Idola must have walked up here to find. Had they not been able to catch her? Nugget sat on the gravel pile watching with grave golden eyes, the gold spot on her side round and bright.
Florie Mae approached quietly talking softly to her. Nugget looked at her pleasantly enough, but she backed away, evading her when she followed, staring back at her but circling away. Letting her get within a few feet, then moving off again. Playing some solemn cat's game with Florie Mae, just where the doll had lain. A game Florie Mae did not understand—did not want to understand.
Where were Martha and Idola? Looking up past the cat, she searched the woods beyond the cut trees, looked all among the shadows.
When she saw no one, she tried again to cajole Nugget. The cat wouldn't let her get close, she kept moving away leading her round and round on the fresh gravel.
Feeling totally cold inside, strange and still inside, Florie Mae left the cat at last, walking slowly up the new road, staying on the carpet of pine needles. Trying to make no sound, she was drawn ahead as if strings pulled her. Moving along above the lake she looked down at the dark, gleaming water, its ripples bitter green beneath the shadow of the land; and its chill breath rose up to her. And when she looked up at the woods that towered over her, she felt no sense of peace, none of the calm she most always knew in the woods' still loneliness. Now, their dark silence only turned her colder. And she kept thinking about the cat back there, circling and circling on the new gravel.
She had rounded two bends of the steep promontory when she caught her breath and drew back. A car was parked on the lip of the cliff, out of sight from the backhoe and the roadwork.
Well, but that car had been there forever, rusting among the blackberry tangles. A half-wrecked old Dodge sedan, the left front fender missing, the body thick with rust, the driver's window shattered in a thousand spidery cracks, the backseat decorated with rusted beer cans.
But now it did not stand in the bushes, it had been moved to the lip of the cliff, its front wheels chinked with rocks to keep it from dropping straight down the cliff into Goose Lake.
If you were to pull out the rocks and give it a push, it would be gone, thundering down into the lake with a splash as loud as when, last summer, she'd heard a pine tree fall. Gave way where its roots were bared at the cliff's edge and crashed down and down into a hundred feet of dark water. Remembering that fall, she felt danger stab through her.
Touching the doll in her pocket, she studied the woods above her. Nothing stirred, no shadow moved. Who would pull that old car out of the tangles and set it just so, at the cliff's edge?
Only when she looked back at the car did she see the gun, a dark, old fashioned shotgun lying in the dirt at the far side of the car, nearly hidden from her.
Stepping around the car she snatched it up. She looked around again, then broke it open to see if it was loaded. She was scared enough to use it, scared enough to shoot someone if she had to.
There was no shell in either chamber. From the stink of it, it had recently been fired. Quiet and afraid, still holding the gun, she approached the car.
She could hardly see in for dirt. Something pale lay across the front seat. Dropping the gun, she snatched open the door, staring in at the two bodies sprawled together flung across the seat and jammed beneath the steering wheel. Idola lay half under Martha, Martha's long black hair across both girls' shoulders, their arms and legs tangled together and dangling over the seat—as if they had been tossed into the car like sticks of firewood. Idola's curly red hair was still neatly tied back, but her face was bruised red and purple across her cheek and nose.
Florie Mae reached out a shaking hand. Idola's skin was warm, and when she took Idola's wrist she could feel her pulse, faint and weak, but beating. Putting her face to Martha's, avoiding her bloody wounds, she could feel her breathing. Florie Mae's heart was pounding so hard and fast she could hardly breathe her ownself. Grabbing Martha under her arms, she was trying to pull her out when she heard someone coming down the hill, someone heavy dropping down from the top of the hill in giant steps tearing the undergrowth.
She tried to get Martha out but couldn't budge her or Idola, the way they were wedged together. He was coming fast, was halfway down, a dark-coated figure running in the forest's shadow. She looked up through the shadows into his face, caught her breath and spun away, running.
She ran as she had never run, sick with shock. Knowing he would grab her. He made no sound. She could barely hear him running now, on the damp pine needles.
"Florie Mae, wait."
She ran full of fear, riddled with guilt for leaving them there. Cold with terror for her unborn baby. She fled around the curve of the hill, hit the gravel road and across it, pounding the forest floor racing for the house faster than she knew she could run; but he was gaining. She imagined his hands on her ...
"Florie Mae! Whatever happened isn't... Florie Mae, wait! We can talk. We need to talk."
She ran cold with terror, his voice sickening her. What kind of fool did he think she was? His footsteps pounded, gaining on her. "Florie Mae, it's all right, it'll be all right." She didn't dare look back. Any second he would grab her. He was so close she could hear him breathing. Her own breath burned like lime dust in her lungs.
"Wait, don't run. It's all right!" He hit the gravel behind her as she dove for Martha's truck, the closest truck, swinging into the camper banging her knees on the metal, jerking the tailgate closed. She was snatching for the upper door when he grabbed it, pulling it from her hands. She rolled to the back of the camper, pressing against the cage, looking frantically for a weapon, for maybe a wrench, anything among the clutter.
The second she touched the cage, the tomcat hit the wire, screaming. Its claws slashed through the wire mesh, raking her arm as Grady lunged in, reaching for her. "Wait, Florie Mae. It's all right. Believe me, it's all right."