Page 97 of Outsider

“Go through the pasture. Up the hill. Cut north at the big cottonwood.” He seems to struggle with something for a moment. “Katie, those woods are thick. It’s dark. I can take you as far as the tree.”

I look at him, torn, rushed, afraid. I shake my head. “These men are dangerous. Take the children to the attic. Barricade the door. Don’t let anyone in.”

The zip tie securing my wrists snaps open. “Your datt next,” I tell Sammy, and then I’m on my feet, striding toward the kitchen. “Hurry!”

I reach the mudroom. Through the window I see the woodshed engulfed, flames leaping thirty feet into the air. No sign of Bertrand or Mercer, but it’s too dark to see much. I don’t know where Gina is. I yank my coat off the hook. Shove my feet into my boots. I’ve just grabbed my .38 when the door bursts open.

I catch a glimpse of Bertrand rushing inside, eyes on me, lips peeled back, teeth clenched. Gun leading the way. “Drop it!” he shouts.

Stumbling back, I fire my .38 three times. The angle is bad. My aim is off. Cursing, he lunges back outside, disappears from view. The door slams. Ears ringing, I pivot and sprint to the kitchen. I’m midway through when a gunshot splits the air. The woodwork explodes a foot from my face, slivers of wood gouging my cheek. Turning, I catch a glimpse of Bertrand in the mudroom, and I race into the living room.

Adam and the children are gone. An instant of relief. Then I hear Bertrand behind me. Boots pounding. “Stop!”

Expecting a bullet in my back, I dart to the front door, yank it open. Outside, I spin, raise the .38, fire my final three shots.

Bertrand reels backward, takes cover in the kitchen.

“Katie.”

I drop the .38 into my pocket, spin to see Adam emerge from the shadows, expression frightened, a muzzle-loader in his hands.

“Where are the children?” I ask.

“Basement.” He places the strap of a leather pouch over my head, thrusts the long gun at me. “God be with you.”

Our eyes hold for the span of a heartbeat. A crush of emotion passes between us. “You, too.”

He backs away and melts into the darkness.

Hefting the muzzle-loader, I dart across the porch, leap down the steps, and then I’m sprinting across the yard, struggling through deep snow. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the orange glow of flames at the back of the house. No sign of either man.

Where the hell is Gina?

At the edge of the yard, I vault the rail fence, plunge into a drift on the other side. I trudge through, the muzzle-loader heavy in my hands, hampering my progress. Moving as fast as physically possible, I start across the pasture. A glance over my shoulder reveals the flicker of a flashlight beam in the front yard. Bertrand, looking for tracks.

Feeling exposed, I run full out, plow through another drift, nearly lose my footing, right myself just in time. I’m moving too fast for caution. If I fall, I’ll lose precious seconds. If he spots me, there’s no doubt he’ll cut me down. I find my stride, focus on putting one foot in front of the other, doing my best to avoid deep snow.

There’s just enough moonlight for me to see. That I’m armed with a muzzle-loader presents a multitude of problems. It’s a single-shot weapon that can’t be loaded on the fly. But if I can stop for thirty or forty seconds, I can probably get it done.

I trip on something hidden beneath the snow, go down hard. Snow in my mouth. My eyes. Hair. Every sense humming. I scramble to my feet, spitting, keep moving. Blind and exhausted. Fear pushing me. Panic nipping at my heels.

I reach the base of the hill, start up the incline. I reach an area where the wind has scoured away the snow. It’s easier going; I should have been able to pick up the pace, but the terrain is steep and within minutes, I’m gasping for breath, the muzzle-loader weighing me down, my quadriceps screaming.

Gunshots ring out. No cover, so I drop to my knees, hunker down. Another shot scorches the air. In the dim moonlight, I see a dark figure silhouetted against the snow, crossing the field I just traversed. Two hundred and fifty yards away. Barely visible. Bertrand found my tracks.

I unloop the leather strap from around my neck, jam my hand inside the bag and feel around. I find three balls. A powder horn. Ticking. The rifle is an old flintlock. I’ve only fired one a handful of times, never loaded one. But I saw my datt and brother do it a hundred times when I was a kid.

Keeping an eye on Bertrand, I jam the butt into the snow, hold it in place between my knees. I yank the powder horn from the bag, set it on the snow. I go back in for a ticking patch and ball.

Another gunshot zings. I duck instinctively, then get to my feet. Holding the muzzle away from my face, I grab the powder horn, thumb off the lid, and dump powder into the barrel. Too dark to judge the amount. My hands are shaking so violently, I spill more than I get into the muzzle. Next, I lay the ticking over the opening, set the ball on top. Sliding out the ramrod, I jam it into the hole and seat both.

I lift the rifle, place the butt against my shoulder. Finger inside the guard, I set my eye to the sight, catch a glimpse of movement. A shadow against snow. Too dark to see. Pulling in a deep breath, I let it out slowly, try to settle, squeeze the trigger.

The rifle kicks hard. The explosion deafens me. I lower the gun, snatch up the bag, throw the strap over my head. Gripping the rifle with both hands, I launch myself into a dead run. I work my way up the hill, reach the bare-branched cottonwood, lungs on fire, legs screaming. I cut right, approach the tree line at an angle. Thirty yards to go. Twenty. I search for the mouth of a path, but it’s too dark to see. At the edge of the forest, I spin, scan the hillside below. Sure enough, I can just make out the dark shape against the snow-covered surface. Bertrand is less than two hundred yards away now. Gaining ground. Too close. If I weren’t standing in the shadows of the trees, I’d be in plain sight. I turn and run.

The forest is an obstacle course of bramble and deadfall. Less moonlight reflecting off the snow. For several minutes, the only sound comes from my labored breaths. The squeak and thud of my footfalls. The pound of fear in my brain. Despite the physical activity, I’m cold, my hands and feet aching.

I spot the tracks an instant before I run over them. I stop, fear skittering through me. They lead northeast, deeper into the woods. Same direction I need to go. Whose are they?