He was nearly at the Nussbaum cabin when he heard the gunshot. Its thunder-crack chased him, the sound waves sent him sprawling out of the woods and tumbling onto the soft grass of the well-kept lawn.
He had to get up. There’d be another shot, any second now.
‘For heaven’s sake, Peter. Get up.’ His mother’s voice again, nagging him.
His mother? What was she doing here? She was dead, buried, in a cemetery far away in England. Why would she be at the Nussbaums’s cabin telling a friend of hers that Peter was being childish again, being frightened again for no reason?
He really was losing it now, going mad with the fear.
Struggling to his feet, he stumbled onto the cabin’s new cedar deck. As he got to the door a thin, white-faced woman slammed it shut with terrified force.
‘I’ve already called the sheriff,’ she shouted hysterically, ‘so you better get the hell out of here, whoever you are.’
Somewhere in the house a baby was crying, an older kid, too. The TV was on, full volume, playing a whiney, cheesy song from some obnoxious cartoon.
‘You hear me, buster – he’ll be here any minute, mister, and I ain’t kidding.’
Peter banged on the door. ‘The next cabin over. Somebody’s been shot. Get an ambulance. Tell them to hurry.’
He banged again. This woman wasn’t Mrs Nussbaum, the kindly old neighbour he remembered, but where else could he go?
‘Please? There are men with guns. Help us. Please.’
He slumped down on the deck and leaned against a rustic planter filled with bright red geraniums and blindingly yellow daisies. Beyond the nice lawn and flowers, beyond the locked door’s green welcome mat with a picture of a black bear on it, beyond the thick, dark cloak of pines and birch and brush and oak, somebody was dying. He knew it.
Somebody was screaming. He heard it. Etta.
God, help her. Please. God. Save them.
He listened for a few seconds. The lady was on the phone talking. Her voice was sweet and gentle, nothing like Mum’s. But he still found it soothing, calming. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear any sirens yet. How long would it take? Come on, lady, he thought. Stop rattling on.
Peter sat up, rubbed his head, slapped his face. Things around him were fading, as if someone, somewhere, were turning off the lights.
Come on, Peter.
He had to fight this exhaustion – take deep breaths, stay awake.
It was no use. Oblivion had found him. It was a huge bird hovering over him, using its sky-sized wingspan to make everything dark.