Read Online Turn to Stone by Brian Freeman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Freeman
Tags: Fiction
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he turned toward town, he looked down the road where it headed west away from Shawano into the open lands. Two hundred yards along the arrow-straight road, he saw the red moped. Mike Black was looking over his shoulder. He was looking right at Stride, waiting for him. The teenager cocked his arm and crooked his finger to beckon Stride closer, and then he drove off, making a right turn onto a lonely rural road.
Stride did what the boy wanted.
He followed.
8
They had the back roads to themselves. The forest pushed in from both sides like dense walls. Several times, bridges passed over the bends of the same frozen creek that made a white ribbon in the gully between the trees. Stride lost track of the turns they made, but Mike Black knew where he was going. The boy seemed at home here, and Stride understood the feeling. As a teenager himself, he’d explored the northlands surrounding Duluth until every road was like an old friend.
When the boy turned west on County Road A, Stride almost lost him. He waited for a flatbed truck to pass on its way into town, and when he finally turned, the moped had vanished. He accelerated to catch up, but a mile later, he realized that Mike had left the highway. He did a U-turn and slowly retraced his route, and that was when he spotted the moped parked in the long grass.
Stride pulled onto the shoulder and got out of his truck. He crossed the road and found himself at a rusted gate mounted onto posts made from tree stumps. The gate marked a break in the trees, but there was no road behind it, just matted indentations in the grass that led through a small field and disappeared into the woods.
He looked up. The late afternoon sun was gone, crowded out by dark clouds that shouldered across the sky, making the world gray. He couldn’t see into the trees. He was alone, but Mike’s footprints made a trail through the field. He walked around the fence posts and followed the path through dead thistles that were as high as his hips. The ground was uneven under his feet, and snow got inside his boots. At the fringe of the trees, he stopped, then plunged inside where the boy’s footprints continued.
The trail had been cleared wide enough for a truck, but Stride guessed it had been a long time since a vehicle was driven here. The forest had reclaimed it, sprouting weeds across the path and toppling thick limbs when the storms hit. Low, long branches bent over the trail, making a roof that blocked the sky. At times, Stride had to duck.
Mike Black had stopped where the trail opened into a clearing. Beyond the boy, Stride spotted the white aluminum of a large Wrangler camper that had been towed through the woods and anchored here. Mike stood at the fringe of the clearing, as if unwilling to get close to the trailer. He was smoking. He looked back at the sound of Stride’s footsteps, but he didn’t acknowledge him.
The teenager was at least a foot shorter than Stride. His clothes hung on his skinny frame. Most of his long black hair was shoved inside the collar of his jean jacket. His eyebrows looked oddly dark over his light blue eyes, and his nose and chin were both pointed and narrow. His thick lips were parted, as if he were about to whistle. He looked up and away, frozen, as if listening to music that Stride couldn’t hear.
“Do you feel it?” Mike murmured.
Stride heard wind snaking through the trees. He tasted snow blown like mist off the branches. A crow screeched in the treetops. It had gotten colder. “Feel what?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. “Nothing.”
“My name’s Stride.”
“I know who you are.” His voice sounded older than his age. He wasn’t a kid. “I know what you want, too.”
The camper was twenty yards away. It was a luxury model, white and gray with black stripes, but it had obviously been parked here for several seasons. Dirt crusted over the aluminum. Weeds grew around the tires. The clearing was overgrown, but he could see the remnants of a fire pit
Stride did what the boy wanted.
He followed.
8
They had the back roads to themselves. The forest pushed in from both sides like dense walls. Several times, bridges passed over the bends of the same frozen creek that made a white ribbon in the gully between the trees. Stride lost track of the turns they made, but Mike Black knew where he was going. The boy seemed at home here, and Stride understood the feeling. As a teenager himself, he’d explored the northlands surrounding Duluth until every road was like an old friend.
When the boy turned west on County Road A, Stride almost lost him. He waited for a flatbed truck to pass on its way into town, and when he finally turned, the moped had vanished. He accelerated to catch up, but a mile later, he realized that Mike had left the highway. He did a U-turn and slowly retraced his route, and that was when he spotted the moped parked in the long grass.
Stride pulled onto the shoulder and got out of his truck. He crossed the road and found himself at a rusted gate mounted onto posts made from tree stumps. The gate marked a break in the trees, but there was no road behind it, just matted indentations in the grass that led through a small field and disappeared into the woods.
He looked up. The late afternoon sun was gone, crowded out by dark clouds that shouldered across the sky, making the world gray. He couldn’t see into the trees. He was alone, but Mike’s footprints made a trail through the field. He walked around the fence posts and followed the path through dead thistles that were as high as his hips. The ground was uneven under his feet, and snow got inside his boots. At the fringe of the trees, he stopped, then plunged inside where the boy’s footprints continued.
The trail had been cleared wide enough for a truck, but Stride guessed it had been a long time since a vehicle was driven here. The forest had reclaimed it, sprouting weeds across the path and toppling thick limbs when the storms hit. Low, long branches bent over the trail, making a roof that blocked the sky. At times, Stride had to duck.
Mike Black had stopped where the trail opened into a clearing. Beyond the boy, Stride spotted the white aluminum of a large Wrangler camper that had been towed through the woods and anchored here. Mike stood at the fringe of the clearing, as if unwilling to get close to the trailer. He was smoking. He looked back at the sound of Stride’s footsteps, but he didn’t acknowledge him.
The teenager was at least a foot shorter than Stride. His clothes hung on his skinny frame. Most of his long black hair was shoved inside the collar of his jean jacket. His eyebrows looked oddly dark over his light blue eyes, and his nose and chin were both pointed and narrow. His thick lips were parted, as if he were about to whistle. He looked up and away, frozen, as if listening to music that Stride couldn’t hear.
“Do you feel it?” Mike murmured.
Stride heard wind snaking through the trees. He tasted snow blown like mist off the branches. A crow screeched in the treetops. It had gotten colder. “Feel what?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. “Nothing.”
“My name’s Stride.”
“I know who you are.” His voice sounded older than his age. He wasn’t a kid. “I know what you want, too.”
The camper was twenty yards away. It was a luxury model, white and gray with black stripes, but it had obviously been parked here for several seasons. Dirt crusted over the aluminum. Weeds grew around the tires. The clearing was overgrown, but he could see the remnants of a fire pit
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