Necessity

No choice but to spend two valuable minutes kicking leaves and twigs across the tracks left by the Jeep.

Only when she’s satisfied by the look of it does she hike away.

Hauling Ellen back through damp tangles under the trees she remembers the revolver but to hell with it. Not worth the bother to go back for it. There may not be time anyway.

That grinding noise. Is that the Bronco? Christ …

She swings around and peers back through the tangle, walking backward, feeling her way with one foot and then the other. She hears the Bronco slow down at the mailbox.

She can see a corner of the barn through there. Not the road, though.

It’s stopping. The damn Bronco is stopping.

Easy now. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

It’s starting up again. Going on along the road.

Thank God!

She soothes the baby, whispering to her, stroking her tiny forehead.

“Give them a couple minutes, darling,” she murmurs. “Then we’ll be on our way.”

Oh Jesus. Oh Christ. It’s coming back!

60 She hears it back up and change gears and come forward into the lane. She hears it stop somewhere just beyond the barn.

Bastards.

The sudden silence. Terrifying. She holds her hand near the baby’s mouth, ready to clamp down if she must.

Does she hear voices or is it just her overstimulated imaginings?

That sagging corner of the barn—

If they come around there they’ll be able to see her.

Come on, fool. Get out of here.

She pokes a toe back behind her and all of a sudden the wet earth gives way and she’s sliding helplessly …

Oh!

Slithering. Out of control on this slick muck.

What—?

Don’t panic it can’t be far.…

Instinct brings the baby protectively against her chest, arms shielding Ellen from the twigs and stones. But it’s a quick soft slide: a few feet of mud and her scrambling feet find purchase against polished stones.

She looks over her shoulder. The stream has parted around her boots. She’s got her feet in the water. It’s only six inches deep.

She hears, very loud, the snapping scrape of wood on earth and she knows instantly what it is: they’re opening the barn door.

It’ll take them five seconds to absorb what they’re looking at—the Jeep in the barn—and a few more seconds to realize she’s on foot and then they’ll start looking for her footprints and in this God-forsaken mud it won’t take them any time at all.…

She takes three paces upstream, turning rocks over with her boot toes, making a plainly visible swath. Then she turns, crouching, and moves downstream on careful feet, dislodging nothing, clutching the baby, murmuring in Ellen’s ear: “Old Injun trick, kid, you betchum.” Not for nothing did she sit through those awful Westerns with Daddy in the PX theaters.

She giggles.…

Hey. Calm down, Little Beaver, this ain’t no time to go all hysterical on me.

She ducks under a fallen trunk that lies jammed across the gully; she eels past the clutching arms of a bushy thicket, letting it slide back into place behind her.

Careful you don’t turn an ankle on these stones.

The stream bends around the exposed roots of a big maple. She picks her way over them, staying in the water, moving downstream as fast as she can, stopping at intervals to turn her head sideways so as to catch the breeze from behind her on the flat of her eardrum.

It’s been a while now since she’s heard their voices. Have they lost the track? Or are they right behind her, creeping up?

Don’t speculate. Don’t think at all. Just move. Keep going …

Ten minutes? Half an hour? There’s no way to measure time. Her ankles are weakening; were it not for the support of the boots she’d have caved in by now. Can’t walk on these Goddamn stones any longer. This is just going to have to be far enough.

She climbs out of the stream and leans against the bole of a tall tree, propped on one shoulder, looking back the way she just came.

“Do you think it fooled them, little girl? Think we’ve got a chance?”

Who knows. All we can do is play it out.

She finds a place deep in the woods—a fallen log to sit on. Changing the baby’s diaper, feeding her unwarmed milk, she listens to the forest.

“Just stick with your momma, kid,” she says drily, “and we’ll see what other nifty kinds of trouble we can get you into. If you want a dull peaceful life you picked the wrong momma.”

61 With the baby balanced on her shoulder she trudges across the back of somebody’s cornfield.

Just make it to that far corner; then we can rest again.

Everything hurts. Everything.

The baby lies across her shoulder like velvet. No complaints now; no stirrings. Poor kid’s exhausted.

I understand, Ellen. I know how it is. It’s always harder to be a passenger than to be a driver.

Feels like a blister coming up on the left heel. Damn. All we need. Well what did you expect, feet all soaking wet and everything?

One foot and then the other. That’s it. Just put one foot down and then put the other foot down. One foot at a time. We’ll get there.

How far do you suppose we’ve walked? Time’s it? Takes too much energy to shift things around so I can look at the watch; take a guess by the sun shadows.

Probably somewhere between four and six. Split the difference. Say it’s five. I don’t believe less than nine hours ago Charlie and I were making love.

Charlie. I wonder what happened to the airplane and the helicopter. Haven’t noticed them since God knows how long ago. No sign of them now.

Hell with them. Come on. Almost to the corner now.

Nasty rip in the sleeve of this blouse from those thorns back there. Cheek feels all scratched from the thickets. Burrs in my hair, what’ll you bet. I must look a sight.

Well this ain’t no beauty contest, honey.

This is the corner. We can sit down now. Jesus—it feels as if I’ve got drill bits in my joints. God, that hurts!

Now then. What’s the plan?

Are they back there? Tracking?

Maybe. Maybe not. You can’t do anything about it so quit thinking about it.

Can’t be too far to the Interstate. Keep walking east you’re bound to find it.

What then?

God knows. Worry about it when we get there. One thing at a time. Too tired to think.

Let’s see what we’ve got in here, kid. You want Gerber’s applesauce or Gerber’s apricot? Where’s the Goddamn plastic spoon?

Here, quit making such a mess all over your face. You handle the mouth, let me handle the spoon, all right? Try to get the food inside the mouth, right? That’s the idea.

Now stop looking at me like that. Like I’m taking food out of the mouths of babes. In the first place the damn things are too heavy to go on carrying. And in the second place Momma needs nourishment too, you know. One jar of Gerber’s apricot isn’t going to make that much difference in your life, kid, take my word for it.

God, it tastes good. I think I’m going to start eating baby food for a regular diet. If we ever get out of this mess alive.

62 She finds a narrow blacktop road and walks east on the shoulder. Every time she hears the rumor of an approaching vehicle she takes cover off the road.