Harlan Coben - Six Years

“He’s close by,” Thin Man Jerry said.

“Or,” Jed added, seeing the light, I guess, “his cell phone is.”

I kept moving, kept low. I really didn’t have a plan here. I had no idea what direction to take or how far the woods went. I might be able to escape them, might be able to keep moving, but eventually, unless I found a way out of here, I didn’t have a clue how I’d get out of this.

Maybe, I thought, I could double-back to the house.

I heard voices mumbling. They were now too far for me to see them. That was a good thing. I could see the movement stop. The flashlight was lowered.

“He’s not here,” someone said.

Stocky, annoyed: “I can see that.”

“Maybe your tracker is off.”

They were, I guessed, right on top of where I’d haphazardly buried the phone. I wondered how long that gave me. Not much time, but probably enough. I rose to keep running and then it happened.

I’m not a doctor or a scientist, so I really can’t tell you how adrenaline works. I only know that it does. It had helped me move past the pain from that blow to the head, from my jumping through a window, from my landing hard on the ground. It helped me recover from running face-first into that tree, even as I felt my lip fatten, could taste the bitter blood on my tongue.

What I do know—what I was learning at that very moment—was that adrenaline is not limitless. It was a finite hormone found within our bodies, nothing more. It may be the most potent surge we know, but the effects, as I was quickly experiencing, were only short-term.

That surge eventually peters out.

The pain didn’t so much ebb back in as announce itself with the thrash of a reaper’s scythe. A bolt of pain ripped through my head, knocking me to my knees. I actually had to cover my mouth with my hand to prevent myself from crying out.

I heard another car coming up the drive. Had Stocky called for backup?

In the distance, I could hear voices:

“It’s his phone!”

“What the . . . he buried it!”

“Spread out!”

I could hear rustling behind me. I wondered how much of a lead I had and how well that lead would stand up to flashlights and bullets. Probably not very big or well. I once again considered the idea of surrendering and taking my chances. I once again didn’t like it.

I heard Stocky say, “Just back off, Jed. We can handle this.”

“It’s my land,” Jed replied. “Too much land for you two to cover.”

“Still—”

“My property, Jerry.” There was snap in Jed’s voice. “You’re on it without a warrant.”

“A warrant?” It was Stocky. “You serious? We’re just worried about your safety.”

“Me too,” Jed answered. “You got no idea where this murderer is hiding, right?”

“Well—”

“For all you know, he could be in the house. Hiding. Waiting for us. No way, bro—we are staying out here with you.”

Silence.

Get up , I told myself.

“I want everyone to stay in sight,” Stocky said. “No heroes. You see something, you scream for help.”

I heard murmurs of agreement, then flashlights sliced through the dark. They were spreading out. I couldn’t see people in the dark, just the bouncing beams of light. It was enough to know that I was really screwed.

Get up, dumb ass!

My head reeled in agony, but I managed to get to my feet. I stumbled forward like some kind of stiff-legged movie monster. I had made it about three steps, maybe four, when the flashlight sliced across my back.

I quickly jumped behind a tree.

Had I been spotted?

I waited for someone to call out. No one did. I kept my back against the bark. The only sound now was my own breath. Did that beam of light hit me? I was pretty sure that it had. But I didn’t know for sure. I stayed where I was and waited.

Footsteps coming toward me.

I wasn’t sure what to do. If someone had spotted me, I was finished. There was no way I could get away. I waited for someone to shout for help.

Nothing, except for the approaching footsteps.

Wait a second. If I had been spotted, why hadn’t anyone called out? Maybe I was okay. Maybe I had been mistaken for a tree or something.

Or maybe no one was calling out because they wanted to shoot me?

I tried to coldly consider that for a moment. Suppose, for example, it was Jed. Would he call out? No. If he called out, I might run and then Stocky and Thin Man Jerry would be on me too and it would be harder to kill me. But suppose he had spotted me with his flashlight. What then? If he had indeed seen me, if he knew that I was hiding behind this very tree, well, maybe Jed could sneak up on me alone, gun at the ready, and . . .

Ka-boom.

The footsteps were growing louder.

My brain tried to do that quick-calculating-reptilian thing again—it had already saved me, right?—but after a second or two of neuron burning, I came to a rather startling yet obvious conclusion:

I was finished. There was no way out.

I tried to gather my strength for a big-time sprint, but really, what would that do? I’d expose myself for certain and in the condition I was in I’d never get far. I’d either get shot or captured. Come to think of it, those seemed to be my only two choices now: shot or captured. I preferred captured, thank you very much. The question now was, how could I maximize my chances of captured over shot?

I didn’t have a clue.

A beam of light danced in front of me. I pressed my back into the tree and went up on my tippy-toes. Like that was going to help. The footsteps were getting closer. Judging by the sound and the brightness of the light, I would guess that someone was within ten yards of me.

Options flew in and out of my brain. I could stay here and jump the guy. If it was Jed, for example, I could disarm him. But any struggle on my part would not only reveal my location for sure, but if it wasn’t Jed—if it was, for example, Stocky—then it would be open season on using deadly force on me.

So what to do?

Hope that I hadn’t been spotted.

Of course, hope wasn’t a plan or even an option. It was wishing. It was fanciful thinking. It was leaving my fate in the hands of, well, fate.

The footsteps were only a yard or two away now. I braced myself, unsure what to do, leaving it to that reptilian part of my brain, when I heard a whisper.

“Don’t say a word. I know you’re behind the tree.”

It was Cookie.

“I’m going to walk past you,” she said, her voice low. “When I do, get right behind me and walk. Get as close to my back as possible.”

“What?”

“Just do it.” Her tone left no room for discussion. “Right up close.”

Cookie walked past my tree, nearly knocking into it, and kept going. I didn’t hesitate. I fell in line right behind her and followed. I could see flashlights in the distance, both on my left and on my right.

“That wasn’t an act, was it?” Cookie said.

I didn’t know what she meant.

“You loved Natalie, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I’m going to walk you as far as I can. We will hit a path. Take it to the right. Stay low and out of sight. The path will lead to the clearing where the white chapel is. You’ll know how to get away from there. I will try to keep them occupied. Get as far away as you can. Don’t go home. They’ll find you there.”

“Who will find me?”

I tried to move in sync with her, matching footstep for footstep like an annoying kid copying another.

“You need to stop, Jake.”

“Who will find me?”

“This is bigger than you can imagine. You have no idea what you’re up against. None at all.”

“Tell me.”

“If you don’t stop, you’ll kill us all.” Cookie veered left. I kept with her. “The path is up ahead. I will turn left, you head down to the right. Understand?”