sounded like the beast I’d heard from the trailer—but it was a friendlier bark.
“Help! Help me, please! Hello?” I yelled, running for the brush and the white trees.
I was about twenty feet into the stand, crashing through the brush, when through the tangle of vines and twigs I saw Day-Glo orange.
A moment later I recognized the bright orange color as two hunting vests—and hope leapt in my heart in a way I had never felt.
Chapter 24
They were grouse hunters. Joe Walke, a tall, heavyset, bearded man with glasses, and his granddaughter Rosalind, who looked no older than fourteen.
The beeping came from the pointing collar of their English setter, Roxie, a floppy pooch with brown, black, and white fur. Roxie would be let off the leash into the woods to find the grouse and, when she did, would assume a pointing position—triggering the electronic beeping of the collar.
But I learned that later. When I first saw the older man and his granddaughter, they were pointing shotguns at me as I burst out of the bush, handcuffed and covered in filth and blood.
“Please help me! A bunch of men are trying to kill me!” I yelled.
While I panted in terror, trying to speak, Mr. Walke lowered the gun and came over. He calmly sat me down and washed out my head cut with a bottle of water from his pack.
“It’s okay, son. Slowly now. What’s really going on? Are you a fugitive of some sort? Why are you wearing handcuffs?”
I shook my head at him violently.
“There’s no time. A phone. Do you have a phone?”
“She has one, but I make her leave it back at the vehicle. Breaks her concentration,” Walke said, smiling.
He had a good and gentle whiskered face.
“Wouldn’t work, anyway. Not out here. No bars,” said Rosalind, a scrawny tomboyish girl with short, sandy hair and freckles.
“I’m a police officer,” I finally managed to get out. “From New York City. I was just attacked by two men up at that shooting range on top of the mountain who I was trying to question. I managed to escape, but they have friends who are right this very second trying to find me. If they do, they will kill me and you. These guys are soldiers, professional killers. We need to leave this place now.”
“Don’t believe him, Grandpa. He’s lying,” Rosalind said, shaking her head. “Leave him. He’s a bad man. Let’s just get out of here and call the cops.”
“At that shooting range, huh?” Walke said, nodding as he looked back up the hill. “I knew those fellas seemed fishy.”
“You don’t believe him, Grandpa, do you?” Rosalind said.
“Yes, I do,” Walke said, helping me up. “Let’s get back to the ATVs.”
I sat in front of Walke on his Honda ATV, cradled in his arms like a baby in a basket, as we skirted the swampland back to the pickup he had parked four miles away.
As the woods flew away behind us, I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky I was. About God answering my prayers. When we arrived at the blue truck and Mr. Walke cut the chain of the cuffs with a pair of side cutters he took from the toolbox, I was seriously thinking about hugging him.
We’d gotten both ATVs back into the bed of the truck and had just started the engine when we heard it. It was a distant sound, almost pleasant at first like a lawn mower, but then we could hear its trilling. It was a helicopter, flying low and fast over the swamp.
“That them?” Mr. Walke said.
I nodded.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Grandpa, what have you gotten us into now? Grandma is gonna kill you,” Rosalind said, sitting beside me with Roxie in her lap.
Joe Walke dropped the truck into drive and dropped the hammer.
“What else is new, child?” he said, as we bumped and skidded off down the old dirt logging road.
Chapter 25
The whizzing rotors of the black MH-6 chopper that Haber called the Black Egg of Death slammed at the air above as they followed the slope of the hill down. Like a skier coasting down a ramp, the wasplike
“Help! Help me, please! Hello?” I yelled, running for the brush and the white trees.
I was about twenty feet into the stand, crashing through the brush, when through the tangle of vines and twigs I saw Day-Glo orange.
A moment later I recognized the bright orange color as two hunting vests—and hope leapt in my heart in a way I had never felt.
Chapter 24
They were grouse hunters. Joe Walke, a tall, heavyset, bearded man with glasses, and his granddaughter Rosalind, who looked no older than fourteen.
The beeping came from the pointing collar of their English setter, Roxie, a floppy pooch with brown, black, and white fur. Roxie would be let off the leash into the woods to find the grouse and, when she did, would assume a pointing position—triggering the electronic beeping of the collar.
But I learned that later. When I first saw the older man and his granddaughter, they were pointing shotguns at me as I burst out of the bush, handcuffed and covered in filth and blood.
“Please help me! A bunch of men are trying to kill me!” I yelled.
While I panted in terror, trying to speak, Mr. Walke lowered the gun and came over. He calmly sat me down and washed out my head cut with a bottle of water from his pack.
“It’s okay, son. Slowly now. What’s really going on? Are you a fugitive of some sort? Why are you wearing handcuffs?”
I shook my head at him violently.
“There’s no time. A phone. Do you have a phone?”
“She has one, but I make her leave it back at the vehicle. Breaks her concentration,” Walke said, smiling.
He had a good and gentle whiskered face.
“Wouldn’t work, anyway. Not out here. No bars,” said Rosalind, a scrawny tomboyish girl with short, sandy hair and freckles.
“I’m a police officer,” I finally managed to get out. “From New York City. I was just attacked by two men up at that shooting range on top of the mountain who I was trying to question. I managed to escape, but they have friends who are right this very second trying to find me. If they do, they will kill me and you. These guys are soldiers, professional killers. We need to leave this place now.”
“Don’t believe him, Grandpa. He’s lying,” Rosalind said, shaking her head. “Leave him. He’s a bad man. Let’s just get out of here and call the cops.”
“At that shooting range, huh?” Walke said, nodding as he looked back up the hill. “I knew those fellas seemed fishy.”
“You don’t believe him, Grandpa, do you?” Rosalind said.
“Yes, I do,” Walke said, helping me up. “Let’s get back to the ATVs.”
I sat in front of Walke on his Honda ATV, cradled in his arms like a baby in a basket, as we skirted the swampland back to the pickup he had parked four miles away.
As the woods flew away behind us, I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky I was. About God answering my prayers. When we arrived at the blue truck and Mr. Walke cut the chain of the cuffs with a pair of side cutters he took from the toolbox, I was seriously thinking about hugging him.
We’d gotten both ATVs back into the bed of the truck and had just started the engine when we heard it. It was a distant sound, almost pleasant at first like a lawn mower, but then we could hear its trilling. It was a helicopter, flying low and fast over the swamp.
“That them?” Mr. Walke said.
I nodded.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Grandpa, what have you gotten us into now? Grandma is gonna kill you,” Rosalind said, sitting beside me with Roxie in her lap.
Joe Walke dropped the truck into drive and dropped the hammer.
“What else is new, child?” he said, as we bumped and skidded off down the old dirt logging road.
Chapter 25
The whizzing rotors of the black MH-6 chopper that Haber called the Black Egg of Death slammed at the air above as they followed the slope of the hill down. Like a skier coasting down a ramp, the wasplike
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