Page 202 of Deliverance

When I bust in wearing nothing but jeans and T-shirt—not exactly subzero temperature attire—the old man behind the cash register almost jumps out of his skin, probably thinking I’m nuts.

Which isn’t far from the truth. I can’t remember the last time I was so inside-out with worry.

But the clerk—bless his soul—gives better directions than the GPS. As soon as I whip out the printout with the map and address, recognition settles onto his features.

He shows me exactly how to get to the cabin without getting lost.

“Here, at the fork”—his withered finger stubs the small dot on the paper—“take the lower road. The upper road is usually closed during a snowstorm. They’ll turn you around, mister.” He lifts his leathery face and gives me a long stare. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Not me.” I shake my head, my hands trembling as I scoop up the map.

“You need me to call the sheriff?”

I don’t know what to say to this. I already went to the police. Twice.

The man catches on quickly and drops the subject. “You got chains, mister? You can’t drive without them in this weather. They said on the news that the snow’s gonna be heavy.”

Boy, am I glad I didn’t buy another sports car and stuck with my Jeep. “I’ve got a four-wheel drive,” I tell the clerk. “Thank you for your help.”

He nods, understanding crossing his face as I rush out of the store.

In the end, the second property is a bust too. The house is empty. No lights, no tire tracks, no signs of life whatsoever.

Which leaves me with cabin number three, where I arrive at around two in the morning.

The long, narrow road that snakes past a wooded area and apparently serves as a driveway seems to go on for miles and does an amazing job of ensuring total isolation from the rest of the world.

The thought creeps me out and I desperately try to shake off my unease, but acres of woods and not a single person in sight have the opposite effect of calming.

Shaken, I cut my gaze to the top of my phone’s screen and check the reception.

One bar.

The Jeep continues to jostle down the path, its headlights jerking against the darkness, revealing more ground covered by thick underbrush and an impenetrable wall of trees as the road curves like a snake.

A blend of relief and horror hits me when I see soft lights behind the trunks up ahead. A sense of foreboding tingles across my skin.

As if I’m running out of time.

As if I’m not going to find her there.

I hit the gas and my Jeep roars and pushes forward, its tires spitting up clouds of dirt and snow.

My heartbeat accelerates, my pulse thrumming wildly against my throat.

In my head, I can visualize the vibrations of my artery while my raging blood pumps through it. Drew would probably turn my images into one of her eccentric pieces and some collector from Belgium or Saudi would pay tons of money to own the artwork.

The pines give way to a small clearing and the outline of the cabin comes into full view. It’s a rustic bungalow with a beat-up porch, and its red shingled roof is stark against the glittering white. There’s a small garage attached to the structure and a minivan parked next to it, the windshield covered by a thin layer of fresh snow.

The front door is wide open and the sight of it rattling on its hinges has my heart beating double-time.

The Jeep halts with a screech right in front of the cabin, the transmission screaming from long hours of abuse. I don’t bother to shut off the engine. Instead, I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and step outside into the freezing air.

I think about the guy and his girlfriend in the first cabin. Then I think about his shotgun and realize that I haven’t really thought this through.

You’ve got me, the animal roars from within, gritting its teeth and scratching its claws against the canvas of my skin, looking for a way out.

I follow the beaten path leading toward the porch and take the stairs, my fists at my sides, my pulse galloping, my gaze scanning the dark spots beneath my boots.

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