latch still in place. He must have squeezed through a hole in the back. But then again, why didn’t he escape back through this same hole?
Warily, I opened the door. Sergei rushed out to me, whimpering, squirming. “It’s okay, boy,” I said, patting his head. “We’re outta here, dog.” I snapped the leash to his collar.
I was about to close the door when I realized it had become quiet. The noisy ravens had disappeared from the trees. Only the large one sitting on the roof remained. He gave me a black beady stare, croaked as if wanting to tell me something, then unfolded his wings and lifted into the air.
He’d no sooner vanished then I smelled stale cigarette smoke from inside the shack. I froze, all nerve endings on full alert. The nail securing the latch to the doorframe was shiny and new, not old and rusty like the other nail-heads. Someone had been here. Was this what the raven had tried to tell me?
Sergei strained at the leash to go in. I hesitated. Half of me wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. The other half wanted to find out what was going on. Finally, curiosity took over. I stepped gingerly into the dark interior.
The smell of cigarette ash was strong, and so was the odour of kerosene. I stood a few feet inside and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Gradually, shapes that had no right to be there emerged from the greyness; a couple of white plastic chairs, a table with an oilcloth covering. A mattress draped in a ragged Hudson’s Bay blanket was shoved against a side wall. I was dumbfounded and scared. Someone had moved in. Who?
Sergei continued pulling. With one vigorous tug, his leash slipped through my fingers, and he vanished into the back of the room. I strained to see where he’d gone, but the light was too dim. However, I noticed a kerosene lamp on the table, so I lit it with a match from a nearby box.
Is this some kind of hideout? I asked myself, as I surveyed the room. Another chair, a couple of glasses beside a half-empty bottle of rye, even a rusty camp stove. A can of kerosene stood under the table next to an overturned garbage can whose rotting contents were strewn across the floor. I spied Sergei gnawing on what looked to be a chicken bone. Annoyed, I yanked him away and forced him to lie next to me.
My heart stopped at the sight of an ashtray overflowing with butts, but before I had a chance to absorb its warning, my attention was jerked to a noise outside. I waited. Silence except for water dripping onto the metal roof. Sergei still continued to lie unconcerned with his head flopped between his paws.
Suddenly, his head went up. He looked towards the back of the hut. Was someone out there? I peeked nervously out the back window but saw only a still and misty sugar bush.
As my gaze turned back inside, a glint of light caught my eye, and I found myself staring at Aunt Aggie’s wedding picture. It was wedged into the opening of a canvas sack, a sack filled with packets of twenties. I’d found Tommy’s stolen money.
Sergei began to growl. Terrified of making my presence known, I blew out the kerosene lamp and held the dog quiet. I remained rigid, barely breathing, while he squirmed under my hold. I waited. The dog relaxed.
It seemed a lifetime, but it probably wasn’t more than five minutes before I felt confident enough to admit my nerves had got the better of me. No one was outside. Just an animal stepping on a branch.
I took it as a warning, grabbed the sack and the dog and headed towards the door, but I’d stepped only a few feet outside when I felt a sudden whoosh of air against my ear, followed by a soft thwack in the nearby tree. Then the gun explosion filled my head. I fell to the ground as another shot boomed through the trees.
Sergei barked frantically at a spot of brilliant yellow about a hundred yards to the right. My worst nightmare! I bolted towards the open door as another shot bit into the timber wall. I flung the sack over my shoulder, scrambled inside with the dog and slammed the door behind us.
But the gaps in the log walls told me I was no safer there. This place was a sieve. As if to prove my point, a shot exploded through a window and sent shards of glass in every direction. Another tore a hole in the fragile caulking. I lay flat against the floor and searched frantically for something solid to hide behind. Another shot slammed against the outside wall. I didn’t know whether to force him to come get me or surrender now before Sergei or I got shot.
Suddenly a crashing thud echoed through the walls, followed by what sounded like a man’s voice hissing “Damn!” He’d fallen, no doubt tripped on some slippery deadfall. I took my chance, grabbed the sack and ran, letting the dog run free. The door banged behind me.
I sped deeper into the sugar bush. I thought my chances would be greater lost in the clutter of trees than racing down the open trail in the direct line of a bullet. I scrambled through the underbrush, weaving in and out of the thick protective trunks.
I almost tripped over a hidden stump but caught myself in time. Several yards later, I stumbled over a large branch and collapsed. For long agonizing seconds, I lay on the wet ground, gasping for breath. Surprisingly, the dog wasn’t with me. Then I heard through the mist the sound of shuffling leaves coming in my direction. Praying it was Sergei, I pushed myself up and without a backward glance raced deeper into the sugar bush.
A solid wall of spears stopped me. I’d reached the beginning of a spruce forest. The weather-honed tips of the interlocking branches prevented me from going forward. I had to turn. The problem was, in which direction?
Until now, my only concern had been to get out of firing range. Now I had to decide where to go. I knew my best chance for escape was my truck parked in front of the cottage. But I had no idea in which direction it lay.
I stared back the way I’d come. Nothing moved in the mist, but the swish of leaves grew louder. In my gut, I knew it wasn’t Sergei. I tried to remember if I had heard a gunshot after I’d run, but couldn’t. While my heart wanted me to return to the shack for Sergei, logic told me I’d be crazy.
Branches snapped. Running feet pounded on the ground. A dark shape loomed. I turned and ran.
I raced over the uneven terrain along the edge of the spruce forest. Jumped over fallen debris. Scrambled over rocks. The pounding behind me grew louder. I expected at any moment to hear a rifle ring out.
A shape lunged towards me! He’d found me! The brown shape leapt across my path. I stopped. It continued on its course. It took me several quaking seconds to acknowledge what my eyes had told me. A deer. I paused to catch my breath.
I tensed as I caught the sound of metal against metal. Thwap! Boom! The branch beside me broke. This time he’d found me! I turned, unsure of where next. Through the tangle of dead branches, I saw a retreating white tail. The deer! It was following a track through the spruce forest. I crashed through the thin break in the black web of branches and raced after it.
I scrambled along the narrow path, through a deer-wide tunnel of broken branches. A pointed end reached out to stab me. I smashed it with my arm. Another took me by surprise and I felt the pain of a scratch on my cheek. I held the money sack in front for protection and used it like a battering ram.
I glanced down at my red jacket and cursed. It made a perfect target. I wrenched it off and threw it to the ground. I continued along the tunnel, skidding over moss-covered rocks and decaying needles, dodged jutting spears. I could see no further than the next web of branches. Soon I realized I was going downhill. I hoped this meant I was heading toward the familiar beaver swamp. Once at the swamp, I could find my way to safety.
I’d no sooner raised my hopes than the crash of breaking branches dashed them. I glanced backwards.
