55

In the primordial darkness, the truck’s headlights bored a tunnel through the never-ending ocean of trees. To Cheryl, it seemed as if they were lightyears from civilization. Even the roads had long since ceased being paved and had names like St. Croix Road instead of route numbers. She stared through the windshield, trying to ignore the smears left by flying insects smashing against the glass and splotches of mud from driving through huge puddles at too high a speed. As Fischer drove, Cheryl’s spirits sank lower and lower. She tried to remember how long it had been since she had seen another vehicle. Even if she were to escape, she would be who knew how deep into the wilderness and would surely starve or be attacked by a wild animal.

They rumbled across a narrow wooden bridge and turned along the small stream they had just crossed. They followed the road around a sharp turn and immediately stopped. In the middle of the road, looking as if he had been disturbed, was the largest moose she had ever seen. Its huge flat antlers were majestic; its eyes shone brightly in the headlamps, and it towered over the truck. The animal seemed to resent their presence and stood in the middle of the gravel and hard-pan lane as if he owned it. “What do we do now?” she whispered as if she were afraid it would overhear her and take umbrage with their presence.

“I guess we wait for him to move on. Hell, I don’t know. I’m a fisherman, not a hunter.”

They sat staring through the dirty glass until the moose decided they were not a threat or of interest and sauntered away into the darkness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal so large—” Cheryl said, her voice still hushed, “at least not outside of a zoo.”

Fischer ignored her comment and started down the road. “We should be there in an hour.”

“Where is there?”

He looked at her in such a manner that she felt as if she were a child. “Where we’re going, that’s where . . . now shut up and enjoy the ride, or I’ll gag you, tie you up, and throw you in the back.”

_________________

The moon had come out, illuminating the openings between the trees, and shadows seemed to be in command of the woods. As they drove, shafts of light would rip through gaps in the foliage where the trees had been thinned, allowing Cheryl to see little more than if it were still a moonless night. They crossed yet another bridge—this one looked like a large metal culvert. She saw a shaft of moonlight illuminate the road and in the headlights she saw a sign announcing they were turning onto Main Street. Suddenly they turned along some railroad tracks. Across the rail bed she saw several buildings that appeared to be vacant. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Howe Brook.”

“That’s it, Howe Brook?”

“Look at it. Do you see anything worth talking about?”

“You have family living here?”

“Two sisters—they’re throwbacks to the hippies. They won’t eat nothing that ain’t organic, and they try to live off the land. Last time I was here, they didn’t even have indoor plumbing, let alone electricity. Couple of crazy fuckin’ women . . .”

Cheryl stared at him and wondered just how eccentric his sisters were—especially if he considered them to be crazy.

He turned onto a narrow track and followed the ruts until several cabins came into sight. The first lodge on the right was the only one with lights on inside, and he stopped the truck in front, got out, and walked around to open Cheryl’s door. He led her to the porch that ran across the front of the rustic structure and banged on the threshold.

A voice from inside called, “Who’s there?”

“Willard,” he answered.

The door opened, and a gray-haired woman appeared in the threshold with a shotgun in her left hand. The stock rested across her forearm and was wedged into her armpit. She stared into the darkness, squinting her eyes as she tried to identify the visitor. She stared at him. “My brother, Willard?”

“Hey, Ernestine.”

She lowered the shotgun and stepped back. “I been hearing all sorts of stuff about you. What you been up to?” She noticed Cheryl standing beside him. “Who’s she?”

“That’s Cheryl, my wife.”

“The hell you say . . . ?”

“Where’s Maddie?”

The old woman pointed into the bright moonlight toward a massive oak tree. “There. She’s been dead for more than five years.”