Page 109 of The Witch's Orchard
I think of my granny’s words in my dream.
Every apple has a little poison in it.
I listen to the sound of my feet pitter-patter over the trail and grass and mud.
Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Pit-pat.
So much of investigating is just walking around in the dark, shaking trees, hoping you don’t get plonked in the head by whatever falls out. I wonder, as I run and my breath comes out in rasping gasps, whether I’ve shaken enough trees. Whether I’ve shaken the right ones.
Pit-pat. Pit-pat.
And I wonder whether I got Molly killed. And I think I must have. And I hope I’m not just out here spinning my wheels and—
BANG!
“Shit!” I hiss, as a shot whizzes past me. There’s a sudden, scalding heat in my side.
It didn’t just go by me. I’m hit.
I’m on the edge of the gorge and I drop to my butt and go skidding down the bank, in the mud.
BANG! BANG!
The shots zip over my head. One chunks into the bank and sends mud and hard-packed dirt flying. It’s a high-caliber hunting rifle being shot from some distance. Even if I could stand still long enough to spot the shooter, my two-and-three-quarter-inch barrel isn’t going to do a thing against it. I scramble to my feet and sprint farther into the gorge, following the line of the creek. I scan the mountainside as I run but see no sign of the shooter within the fall trees. It’s all just brown and red and gold sheathed in silver fog.
BANG!
This one’s far over my head, and I think the shooter’s lost me. Still, I bound over the creek and up the opposite bank and into the circle of stones, holding my side with my hand as I go.
BANG!
The noise rattles around me in a weird, distorted way. Crows fly up from the forest and flap, calling and crying and screaming into the sky.
I cough, and my cough echoes and I know I have to move. The stones might provide some level of cover, but the echoing amplification of the circle will only give away my position.
I dart out of the circle and, quiet as I can, I run up the mountainside, following the trail to Susan McKinney’s cabin. If she’s the one behind everything, I guess I’m screwed, but out in the open, I’m as good as dead.
THIRTY-SIX
THE DOOR TO SUSAN’Scabin is unlocked, and I throw myself inside.
“Susan?” I call. But there’s no answer. “Susan?”
Holding a hand to my side, I lay my gun on the table, pull out my cell phone with the other, and dial 911. But I get nothing. This deep in the woods, there’s no signal.
“Shit.”
“Susan!” I shout. But she isn’t here. The house is empty.
I go to her sink and find a clean cloth, press it to my side.
“Shit,” I breathe. I look around the house. Does she have a landline? She must, I think. The shots have stopped, but it doesn’t mean the shooter isn’t just following me, waiting until I step outside to try again.
My breath comes in hot, rasping gasps. I cough. And the pressure from coughing makes the blood from my side come faster. I hold the cloth tight.
And then there are steps on the porch.
I drop my phone, pick up my gun, and aim straight at the door.
