Novels2020-Gorge by Carlson Katherine

Author:Carlson, Katherine [Carlson, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, American Suspense, Psychological Suspense, Domestic Thriller
Published: 2020-05-17T00:00:00+00:00

31

I stare down at the Mustang’s tire prints.

More valuable than almost anything. I’ll follow the tread marks all the way back to the bus depot. I can do it—no problem.

You walked miles to the convalescent home. You can walk many more back to Greyhound.

I take a small, cautious sip of Mountain Dew. No idea when I’ll taste water again. I’m not hungry at all, so my minor stock of sustenance remains safe for now.

Think!

“Essential to safeguard against blisters.” I undo my shoelaces, remove my boots, and massage my feet. My Timberland waterproofs are too damn new. I fish out my extra pair of socks and pull them over my black anklets. Two pairs might minimize friction. Sores on my toes and heels will bring me down. My sister wore the wrong boots on a high school field trip and ended with an open wound that resembled a goopy burn. I tie my kicks tight and prepare for a marathon. My feet are snug—ankles secure.

It feels good to be walking. It helps crystallize my options until one thing becomes undeniable: I’d rather work my way through the trees than be anywhere near such a venomous prick. The clarity lights a fire under my ass and quickens my pace.

You did not ask for THIS situation, Marty. You shared a farfetched fantasy with a heartless asshole. That is all.

“I’m not so sure.”

I need to calm myself and decipher my new setting. Simple as that. The sky is a vast stretch of uninterrupted blue. A wide-wingspan bird circles above me, too high to identify. The air is mild—warm, even. So far, the surroundings are benign, but lots of unpleasant things can materialize at any moment.

“You need to hustle, Marty.” I stand and face the direction we came. Sporadic patches of earth glisten with residual mud, remnants of a recent shower. I parallel the tracks, walking toward the sun—it’s lower than it was when I noticed the bird. I must be moving somewhat west.

The tracks dissolve into the tangled underbrush. I scan for broken logs and branches—any signs indicating where the Mustang broke its rough trail. I study the ground with somber focus, knowing full well if I lose the trajectory, I’m up shit creek. The tiny tape recorder is in the right pocket of my hoodie. I rewind it and press play. I hear myself noting all the details leading out of town—highway number, flagging tape, tree species. Near the end of the recording, Logan sounds deranged.

The chills race up and down my back, burrowing like ticks. If he comes back for me, I won’t be around. I try to step on grassy bits where my prints won’t be as noticeable. I listen again for the sound of his car—maybe he’s moving on foot, too. To my right, tiny lime-colored leaves stir ever so slightly.

What will I do when the day becomes night?

I don’t want to be here when it turns dark. It will be impossible to see anything. The flashlight will only shrink my view, rendering the landscape more ominous.

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