MICHAEL HAD BEEN AWAKENED by the sound of a truck pulling into the woods, its exhaust system ruined years before. It belched smoke as it pulled in close to his location and stopped. He had heard the door of the truck open and shut and then saw movement through the trees. The man stalked the woods with the jittery movements of a spooked rabbit.
Michael was too far from his burial site to get a good look at the man who had walked into the clearing, but not too far to sense the ominous feeling the man brought with him. He watched as the figure had walked up to the clearing, saw the empty grave, turned tail and ran.
He heard the truck fire up and speed out of the woods, the dying, choking cough of its engine disappearing quickly as the forest returned to its unmolested state of quietness.
The mysterious stranger must have been part of the group that brought him out here yesterday. Judging by the man’s skittish behavior, Michael knew it wasn’t their leader. The panic with which the man ran from the site when he realized Michael was no longer buried proved that he must have been one of Haywood’s weaker minions.
Michael arose from his secluded spot on the riverbank, walked up the slope to the clearing, and looked down at the hole in the ground.
He had come so close to dying. Closer than he ever had before.
Yes, this was the closest he had come. By no right should he be standing now over his grave.
The man had come out to check the status of their previous night’s work. It would be naive to believe that the men who had done this to him would rest on their laurels and leave him to nature. They would be back, most definitely now that they would know he was no longer buried in the earth.
Michael looked down the path that led to where the truck had been parked. He slowly made his way toward the parking area, taking his time and readying himself to run back if another vehicle materialized. One never did.
He walked into the opening and let the morning light hit his skin. Its warming effects energized him and brought his attention to the soreness of his face. Looking around, he saw ruts crisscrossed in the mud in every direction. It would have taken an expert tracker to figure out how many vehicles had made so many tracks, but it appeared as if the entire community of Coldwater had ventured out to witness his burial. An entire community complicit in the deed.
He turned and walked back into the forest, back toward the river.
The man who had ventured out here would head down to Coldwater and come back with the others. Others with more fortitude.
They would search the woods for him.
They would not stop until they found him. Michael knew this instinctively. Men who would go to such lengths to bury a man so far from civilization would go to great lengths to make sure he stayed there.
Back at the relative safety of the riverbank, Michael weighed his options. Downstream was the easier path but most likely led to people, and people . . . well, he had no use for them anymore. He’d be running back into the embrace of murderers. Upstream would take him toward the north woods. With the cold fall air drifting in day by day, he wasn’t sure what would await him in that direction, but it would give him time to figure out where he was, and the downstream current supplied a quick escape route, should he run into anyone.
Michael waded in up to his waist and started trudging upstream. The dogs, because they most assuredly would bring dogs, would have trouble following him if he used the river. The water was bitter cold, but he braved it as he walked, the sun on his shoulders, and ice on his legs, and the water flowing about him as if he were a minor inconvenience on its journey to the south.