Alice Sharpe - Hidden Identity

It appeared they were traveling deeper and deeper into the forest. Every once in a while, Adam would slow down and check a compass, but as it got darker, even that ceased. At least the rain had quit; heavy, humid air filled her lungs.

As darkness claimed the underbelly of the woods, Adam switched on headlamps but then immediately turned them off.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He laughed softly. “What’s not wrong?”

“Why did you turn off the lights?”

“They’re too bright. I’m not positive how close we are to the highway. No need to advertise our location.”

“Then you think those men are still out there?” she said with a quivering voice and a strong reprimand to pull herself together.

“Yes, I do,” he said. He veered off the semi-road they’d been traveling and followed a gully of relatively clear land back behind a grove of small trees. When he finally applied the brakes and turned off the key, the quiet and stillness tucked itself around them like a heavy blanket. For a few seconds, they sat very still, as though waiting.

Waiting for what , she wondered. Waiting for whom?

“Do you see any lights anywhere?” he asked her at last, his voice little more than a whisper.

“No. I guess we aren’t that close to a highway after all.”

“I guess not. Let’s make camp.”

Camp meant lying down and, truthfully, that’s the only thing in the world she desired. Her body protested as she unwound herself from the front seat, aches and pains radiating to and fro, maybe the result of the crash she’d survived, maybe caused by the constant adjusting to the motion of the Jeep navigating roads that had seen much better days. Her left knee throbbed and she limped between the dark shadow of the Jeep and the darker shadow of a small tent. Adam had erected it with an apparent wave of his hand, and was now carrying rolled damp bedding, which he dumped inside. He soon handed her a flashlight and took one for himself but it was a few seconds before either one of them turned them on.

“It’s so bright,” she mumbled.

He turned his off.

“Do you have any tissues anywhere? I need to find a bush.”

He snatched a small tissue package from the pocket in the Jeep door and handed it to her. “Don’t go too far,” he cautioned, and stared down at her with a worried expression.

“I won’t.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, just tired,” she replied.

“Other than that, do you feel okay?”

“Kind of.”

“Where else do you hurt?”

“My knee.”

“No pain, you know, like inside, like internal bleeding or a ruptured something-or-other?”

She cocked her head. “No. What exactly are you asking?”

“You were in a terrible crash,” he said, studying her face. Then he shrugged as though dismissing his earlier concern. He switched his light back on as he retrieved an ice chest. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not seriously hurt,” he added over his shoulder. “You’ll tell me if any new pain develops or bleeding or...anything?”

“Who else am I going to tell?”

“I mean it,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll find you a doctor—”

“Let’s take it one day at a time,” she said. With that, she walked away from him, using the flashlight in spurts to make her way until she found a big downed tree and climbed over it to the far side for privacy.

Who exactly was Adam in relation to her? How did they know one another?

Or did they? What proof did she have that they knew each other, that her name was Chelsea Pierce, that one word he told her was true?

The answer was so obvious it was like a shout in a quiet room. None. No proof at all. Zero.

Her head began throbbing anew as she tried to recall every gesture, every nuance, every word that he’d said since the moment she opened her eyes after the crash. Nothing jumped out except the kiss. That had seemed spontaneous and real, but right that moment she was no judge of character, let alone motives.

But wait, how many times had he asked her how she felt, if she was bleeding, if she was in pain. Surely that meant concern on his part.

But why?

Was she being paranoid or prudent?

Either way, she vowed to also be cautious.

* * *

THOUGH THERE WAS a definite chill in the air, Adam decided against building a fire. He retied the tarp over the back of the Jeep to guard against curious night critters and early morning dew, stowed the ice chest inside the tent and shouldered the rifle. As he stood in the dark waiting for Chelsea, he grew increasingly concerned. Had she gotten lost or fainted, or was it something even worse? Had she discovered blood, was she losing their baby?

Or had someone found her, taken her, planning to use her to get to him once again...?

“Chelsea?” he called in a soft voice that he hoped would carry.

A light momentarily blinded him and he raised the rifle.

“It’s just me,” Chelsea said.

He lowered the firearm immediately. “Sorry. Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Her voice sounded terse and tense. Well, whose wouldn’t?

Once his vision returned, he crossed the distance between them and put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re trembling,” he said. “Why don’t you crawl into the tent and get warm.” He handed her a small electric freestanding lantern, hoping that as well as a little reassuring light, it would also emit a tiny bit of heat to ward off the chill.

“Sure you aren’t hungry?” he asked as he followed her inside and opened the ice chest.

“Positive.”

He downed a bottle of water and a handful of nuts, then opened the flap. Picking up the revolver he’d rested beside the ice chest, he handed it to her. “Do you remember how to use this?”

“Yes,” she said, “although I have no idea why.”

“I taught you,” he told her.

“So we know each other,” she said. “Explain that to me. Tell me who I am and who you are to me.”

“I will, I promise, as soon as I get back from answering nature’s call. Meanwhile, keep the gun with you. When you hear someone coming, I’d appreciate you checking first to make sure who it is. If it isn’t me, go ahead and shoot.”

“I will,” she said, her voice shaky.

Using his flashlight until he saw the trail he wanted, he moved off into the dark carrying the rifle. The forest was still and quiet and, to his relief, the dim light from inside the tent seemed to disappear behind the dense undergrowth at a surprisingly short distance. He couldn’t stay up guarding the site all night—his eyes already felt grainy and fatigue had started to gnaw on the fragile edge of usefulness. At some point he was going to have to sleep.

The overriding question on his mind now was how much to tell Chelsea. How much could she bear to know, and when did the out-and-out truth of what they’d meant to each other become a burden she would have to shoulder alone once they separated? Every word of the current truth had marinated in a hot tub of lies—he wasn’t even sure where to begin.

Plus, how would she handle the fact she was pregnant while running for her life? Wouldn’t the best thing to do be to find her a safe spot where she could heal and he could go on alone?

He thought back to that moment on the ridge—he was positive the men at the cabin had caught a glimpse of him, but there was no way they could know Chelsea had escaped the helicopter before it blew. For that matter, there had been no sign of emergency or rescue response. That meadow was the closest staging area—if someone had arrived to search for the helicopter, there would have been visible evidence of it. That meant as far as everyone currently knew, Chelsea had disappeared or died in the chopper.