The Babysitter Page 5

  But my mind felt foggy.

  My body was numb.

  Maybe this was what they meant when they talked about shock.

  Maybe I was in shock now that everything had been brought to light.

  All I knew was that I moved down the street, following the high, looming sign for a motel. I would never get into a reputable place with no ID, no credit card. But seedy roadside motels weren't nearly as particular.

  Half an hour later, I was walking through a door facing the parking lot, finding bright, blood red curtains on the window, a brown and black paisley comforter on the bed that likely hadn't been washed since Clinton was in office, wood paneled walls, and a heinous green carpet splattered with suspicious old stains.

  The bathroom was no better, full of chipped tile and grout that was in desperate need of bleach.

  The only comforting thing was the fact that the towels felt rough from washing, smelled strongly of too much bleach use.

  I took both of them, laying them out on the bed, climbing up, settling on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  Eventually, at some point, unconsciousness claimed me.

  Maybe I had been blocking the thoughts.

  Maybe my brain had decided to protect my conscious mind from it, saved me the pain.

  But, in sleep, it seemed to have less control.

  It let go.

  It let them come.

  Eyes.

  The eyes came to me first. Bright, icy blue, with black and dark blue starbursts shooting outward from the pupil.

  Bright, but dead.

  Dead eyes.

  Staring down at me, squinting small with some effort.

  There was a roaring, whooshing sound in my ears, deafening.

  I could feel something foreign, something like liquid contentment coursing through my veins, something strange, unnatural. Too good, too strong, too much.

  Something else was wrong too.

  I was hot.

  Boiling.

  Like a fever.

  Sweat trickled down my back, my chest, it dampened the hair closest to my scalp.

  Everything felt itchy.

  The brush of the shirt I was wearing felt rough, uncomfortable.

  Like my skin was over-sensitive.

  There was an urge to claw it off.

  The white t-shirt I had on. It was several sizes too big. It couldn't have been mine. I like an oversized, comfy shirt as much as the next girl, but this was a men's shirt - coming to my knees like a dress, so wide that you couldn't see my shape at all beneath.

  Not mine.

  Someone else's.

  Someone, I figured, who had a set of icy blue eyes with no life at all in them.

  But I couldn't seem to focus on that.

  All that mattered was the heat, the way it slipped up every inch of me, raked me with its blistering fingertips. My fingers clawed up at the throat of the tee, sure it was choking me, cutting off my air.

  But as I struggled to cool down, to breathe, angry fists met my face. Exploding sparks of pain, blinding, overpowering.

  I threw myself over, scrambling, fingers clawing at dirt, sticks, leaves, brambles. More pain, the slicing of my palms, knees.

  The tightening around my throat intensified, cutting off all air for a horrifying moment before it released suddenly.

  No.

  Before my necklace broke.

  I shot up. Awake, heart thudding in my chest, a cold sweat making the lavender scrubs stick to my skin as my hand slapped down onto my chest, finding something missing I wasn't sure how I had overlooked before.

  Maybe because it was essentially a part of me.

  I didn't ever take it off.

  Looking for it would be like looking for your own foot. You knew it was there. You didn't think to check for it.

  But it was gone.

  A simple silver ring on a chain.

  It wasn't worth much, not really. No one would want it but me. But I did. I wanted it.

  No.

  I didn't just want it.

  I had to get it back.

  I shot off the bed, slipping my feet back into the borrowed bright yellow flip-flops. The tab was threatening to break through the flimsy foam, worn down by the owner who had somehow forgotten them.

  But they would do.

  I didn't even remember grabbing the key or sliding the lock or tucking the money away.

  Because, in the moment, the only thing I could seem to focus on was the loss, the part of me in the woods, the one precious item I had that someone had ripped from me, tossed to the forest floor like it was garbage.

  Much like me.

  I didn't process the fact that it was a walk that could take half a day, even if I walked in a straight line, even if I knew where I was going.

  All I knew was I had to go, had to get into the woods again.

  Sometime later, I made my way into them, feeling them somehow both opening their arms to me, then closing around me at the same time.

  It was both comforting and terrifying.

  But my mind didn't think about things it should have been considering.

  Bears.

  Coyotes.

  Tripping over a tree limb, slamming my head into a stump, and dying where no one would ever find me.

  Or even things like, with darkness getting closer and closer, it would be impossible even to see the necklace. Even if - by a very off-chance - I was anywhere near where I lost it.

  I couldn't claim to know how many acres of land the Pine Barrens covered, but even if it was only fifty or a hundred - and I was pretty sure it was infinitely larger than that - there was only a very small chance I could find it. Even in good light.

  The thoughts wouldn't seem to stick, though. Wouldn't let me choose prudence, wouldn't make me turn around, go back to the motel, come back in the daylight when I had time to search. Preferably with some kind of way to mark my path, so I didn't get lost forever once I stepped inside.

  I didn't know how long I walked, when the darkness blinded me entirely save for the faint glow of moonlight overhead.

  But my calves and thighs were screaming from exhaustion. The cheap plastic foot straps scratching bloody blisters into the tops of my feet, the cold creeping into every last inch of me until no amount of movement, of rubbing my cold flesh could bring any relief, until my teeth started to chatter.

  I turned backward, seeing no more than fifteen feet behind me.

  No way to know where I had come from, how to get back.

  My back braced against a tree, my body curling downward into itself as a long, agonized scream ripped from somewhere deep, clawing its way out, creating a giant, gaping crack inside where all the fear, all the hurt, all the uncertainty came pouring out at once. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Taking over every part of me.

  The screams became sobs that felt like they might never end, that racked my body with their intensity.

  And that was all there was.

  The pain.

  I was trapped in it, drowning in it, sure I would never surface again.

  THREE

  Ranger

  I worked hard never to feel it again.

  The thing that ripped me away from the world in the first place, the thing that plagued me in my dreams, but I worked hard to keep it away during the long days through hard labor, through keeping my animals alive and happy, updating the house, felling trees for next winter's firewood, planting, weeding.

  If I was tired enough, I could keep it at bay.

  But as much as I told myself there was no reason to feel it, there it was regardless.

  Guilt.

  It welled up in my gut and spilled over the moment I pulled up to the hospital and watched her walk away.

  With Miller.

  A complete stranger.

  I mean, not that she knew me either. But she knew me better than Miller at least.

  But Miller was a woman.

  I couldn't claim to know about such things, but I imagined that - with
what she was going to go through - she would prefer being with a woman, not some growling man from the woods.

  I got updates from Miller as I drove back to hang with Gunn.

  Inconclusive kit.

  Not that it meant anything.

  If she was drugged - and she was. I just had to sit with her for a few minutes to decide she wasn't an addict. So if she was drugged, and someone had taken advantage of her, there might not have been so much trauma.

  But there were bruises on her thighs that had no other explanation.

  My stomach churned as I mucked out the stalls in the paddocks.

  I was no therapist.

  I was no friend to her.

  But I found myself wishing I could have been there.

  Though, to be fair, all I'd probably do would be fuck things up.

  "I know, bud," I murmured to the low whimper at my side.

  Captain had made no secret of his disappointment with me since the moment I made it back to the house, throwing myself into the neglected morning chores. He refused to leave my side, sighing heavily, whining, grumbling when I didn't acknowledge his distress. He'd even pulled the bandages out of the rubbish pile, carrying them around like a security blanket.

  I didn't have the heart to take them away.

  My phone vibrated in my back pocket. Typically, the thing died, and I didn't remember to charge it for days at a time, always left it on a table or in a cabinet somewhere.

  But it was in my pocket that day.

  I tried to convince myself that it was because I was keeping an eye for any updates. Gunn and Miller had decided to stay in town for the night at a hotel just to make sure nothing came of the investigation the next day, that they didn't intend to rip apart the woods.

  It was unlikely. We all knew that. For the most part, rape kits piled up, untested, refusing justice to thousands of women every year. No one was tearing through the woods because one woman was abused.

  Yet another flaw in the system.

  Yet another reason I disliked most people.

  And a society that allowed that to happen.

  Stabbing the pitchfork into the pile in the wheelbarrow, I swiped the sleeve of my shirt across my forehead before reaching for the phone, finding a text from Miller.

  I feel like she shouldn't be alone.

  - She asked you to leave. What can you do?

  It's just... she kept zoning out. I don't know if she's in the best place mentally. And she said she didn't have anyone to call.

  - You did what you could.

  And so had I, I tried to convince myself.

  It wasn't my business if she was alone. It wasn't my place to barge into her life, make sure she was in a mentally sound state.

  I mean, for fuck's sake, how was I even qualified for such a job? Most people wouldn't consider me mentally sound.

  Two unstable people put together didn't somehow magically create stability.

  She was better off.

  With the hospital staff.

  With the police.

  Without me.

  What advice could I give her? Build yourself a house, fill it with animals, bury yourself so deep that nothing and no one could ever get close to you again, ever hurt you again?

  I couldn't figure it was what someone needed, what was healthy.

  She needed someone to show her how to process it all, work through it, get back to her life, trust herself, trust other people again.

  And me, well, I didn't know dick about any of that.

  "Christ, Cap," I grumbled when he let out the most pathetic, long-suffering sigh. "You knew her for a couple hours."

  For that matter, so did I.

  And yet...

  And yet.

  I shook my head, tucking my phone away, forcing my focus back to work.

  Mucking, feeding, watering, milking, composting, working on getting the gardening beds ready for seeds, heading into the greenhouse to collect some lettuce, berries, carrots, and peppers.

  I pretended as I went about making dinner, putting food into the dehydrator, sweeping up the endless dog hair, listening to Cap rolling around in the guest bed, looking for traces of the scent of a woman whose name I didn't even know, that I wasn't thinking about her. That I put her out of my mind.

  But when all the tasks were done, when there was nothing to do but sprawl out in bed, staring at the ceiling, there was no denying that the thoughts were there. That I made no attempt at all to push them away.

  I don't know how long I stayed like that, rolling things over and over in my head.

  But at some point, Cap padded in, watching me with anxious eyes.

  "Fine. Come on," I offered, patting the bed.

  As a general rule, I didn't let dogs in the bed, not even Duggie - a small Jack Russell who wouldn't steal too much space. Because if you let one up, they all wanted to come up. The next thing you know, the dogs are on the bed, and your ass is sleeping on the couch.

  It was a generous offer.

  That he refused, letting out a whining noise, looking back over his shoulder.

  On a sigh, figuring he needed a trip outside, I knifed up, slipped my feet into shoes, and followed him through the house, his tail waggling hard side to side, his ears perked up.

  When I got the door open, he flew out, knocking me into the doorjamb as he went.

  He bounded out to the edge of the clearing before turning back, eyes pinning at me, letting out a cry.

  My head lifted, listening, but I heard nothing. That said, of course, he had much better hearing than I did.

  As a whole, the dogs didn't alert me to little bullshit - animals whining in the woods or something. They did, however, alarm me when they smelled foxes too close by, when the animals were at risk. Or if they heard something out of place. Like the partying or such.

  On a sigh, figuring sleep would be elusive for another night, I grabbed a flashlight and a gun, then came back out, finding Captain nearly shaking in his eagerness to get going.

  "Alright, bud. Let's go," I agreed as I caught up to him. At the words, he sped into the tree line, running faster than I had ever seen him before.

  Within fifteen minutes, I could feel the sweat start to slick my skin under my shirt even with the chill in the early spring air. That was the pace he was setting, his ears perked up, his tongue hanging out.

  Maybe I should have guessed.

  But, really, there was no reason to think it, to assume she was anything other than in a motel room, or back in her own place, safe, recovering, maybe the sting of her pangs eased by prescribed pharmaceuticals.

  Certainly, there was absolutely no reason whatsoever to imagine she might be back in the woods.

  Hell, I figured she would avoid any dense collection of trees for a good, long while, maybe only heading back in after some therapy, after she removed the natural fear she would feel about the forest after what had happened to her within one.

  I heard nothing.

  Not even when something renewed Cap's vigor, a sound, a smell, something, making him charge faster, scraping his sides against low hanging branches, unfazed by the pain, the little trickle of blood he would normally stop to lap up.

  But then, suddenly, mingled with the sounds of my and Captain's ragged breathing, his paws, my feet on the dry ground, the wind in the trees, the intermittent chirping of crickets or hoots of an owl, I heard it.

  Low, quiet crying.

  I still didn't think it was her.

  My first thoughts were of anger.

  At the world, at the evils it held that had two innocent women crying in my woods in the same week.

  Captain disappeared behind a circle of trees, and I couldn't hear his feet anymore.

  I tore through a second later, seeing his bright body clearly in the glow of the moonlight, head ducked down, licking, whimpering.

  I raised the flashlight, catching feet.

  One wore a filthy yellow flip-flop, the other bare, bloodied from - I imagined - the other, discarded
flip-flop. The light ran up light purple medical scrubs, over shapely legs, butt, a few inches of exposed back.

  The woman was curled up on her side on the ground, knees tucked to chest, hands covering her face.

  There was a tug of familiarity at her blonde hair, something quickly pushed away. A ton of women had blonde hair. It didn't mean anything.

  And, I thought with a bit of a head shake, Cap had taken up as the savior for all women in need, apparently.

  But then his snout nudged at her hands, wanting to lick the salty tears on her face.

  And then I realized.

  He wasn't just any woman's savior. He was this woman's savior.

  The bruises on her face looked darker than they had when I had dropped her almost a day ago.

  Her eyes were shut, but swollen, puffy from crying.

  Dropping down to a crouch, my hands moved out, lifting her shirt, looking for new injuries. In my head, the only reason she might be back in the woods was if the person who had taken her in the first place had suddenly found her, tried to finish the job.

  But there was nothing.

  No new injuries save for her feet from her shitty shoes.

  Even with my hands running over her, she didn't shrink away, didn't fight, didn't even open her eyes.

  Stomach tightening, I tucked the gun into my back pocket, stuffed the flashlight under my arm, and reached out, arms going under her back and knees, pulling her up as carefully as I could, not wanting the stitches to pull.

  Getting to my feet, I held her close to my chest, looking down at Captain.

  "Lead us home, bud," I demanded as her head turned into my shirt.

  She still didn't open her eyes, but tears left trails down her cheeks, slow, but insistent, the entire walk back to the cabin, enough to soak through the chest of my shirt.

  It took twice as long to get back home, and by the time we did, the fire had banked itself, lending a deep chill to the house.

  Flustered, and I couldn't recall a single time that word applied to me, I placed her down on the couch, pulling down a heavy blanket, then setting to getting it roaring again.

  The first aid kit came back out, helping me clean out her feet before wrapping them, then slipping on a pair of my socks to warm them. Captain slid down onto the floor beside the couch, anxiously turning up his head to look at her until, a long time later, the tears finally ceased, allowing him to ease into sleep.