Endings Linda Richards (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

the tent floor. I can see now that her whimpering had been abject and without point or any real hope. If there had been fervor in the cries that came earlier, the ones I did not hear, she is spent now, almost hopeless against the torrent of what she has experienced. And she is alone.

“Emma,” I whisper, putting the gun aside, entering the tent more fully. “Don’t worry. I’m a friend.”

Her head swivels towards me, and I feel as much as see the relief in her, though the relief is not complete. There is still fear, and still the sound of a slight whimper under a ragged breath. But there is hope on her face, in her eyes.

I pull off the hoodie I am wearing over my San Pasado T-shirt. I settle it over her as I untie her. The hoodie covers her small form completely.

It’s where my story begins.

She sits up and instinctively begins to rub her ankles and wrists where circulation has been cut off. The whimpering stops as she sets herself to this new task.

“Do you know where he is?” I ask.

She looks at me, still sputtering. Shakes her head. I feel maybe she is in shock. And no words come. If she has information for me, it is lost in a column of horror and terror. I don’t even want to know what she has seen. Right now, there is one thing only of greatest concern.

“We’re going to get you out of here, okay? We’re going to take you home.”

She looks up at me, then looks beyond me and screams, a sound so piercing I wonder if I’ll even still have hearing after the ringing stops.

If I hesitate, it is only half a beat of a heart. I am pure reaction. I raise the Bersa two-handed as I rise from where I’ve been crouching next to the child and I spin.

He is in the tent’s entrance and there is a chain in his hand. As I raise the gun, I see him see me and drop down to the embankment beneath the tent. Still, I feel certain I catch a piece of him. I hear something that sounds like “oof” as the slug hits home, and then I catch the white of his T-shirt retreating more deeply into the forest. I begin to follow him, but a shrill wail brings me back.

Ridiculously, I fire several rounds after him, feeling quite certain I won’t hit him, but wanting him to understand the depth of my capability and the completeness of my desire. I drop back next to Emma and gather her in my arms, collecting myself as I go. I am so conflicted. Relief at finding the child alive. Self-recrimination for letting Atwater get away. Fear, because we still have a bit of a hike to get back to the car, and he could be out there in the darkness somewhere, hopefully bleeding, but maybe not. I take some small comfort in the fact that he ran in the direction opposite of where I left the car. But still.

Emma’s whimpering slows, then stops, as I half lead, half carry her back to the car. The shadows are filled with bogeymen. Anything seems possible. I don’t take awareness away from my gun and my surroundings. My training and experience leave me ready to put the child down and pull the Bersa out of my purse and shoot with a moment’s notice. But, in the end, there is no need.

The car is only a few hundred yards into the forest, but with the weight of the little girl on my heart and the fear of Atwater on both of us, it feels like miles. And it is too easy to imagine him jumping out from behind every tree and bush. I have no illusions: he is larger than me and stronger, too. If I lose the slight advantage of my gun, all is lost.

At the car, I unlock it and we get moving quickly. I am still imagining Atwater jumping out at us from behind each bush and bend in the track. Emma is likewise silent, the only sound a ragged breath upon breath. She is not very old, but it is my sense that she knows what’s at stake.

At the car, the puppy greets us stoically, like he’s been waiting for us, which I suppose, in a way, he has. I see Emma relax visibly when I pop her onto the back seat next to the young dog and he snuggles against her instinctively. It’s like a new level of safety has been revealed to her. Safe when she was with me, safer still in a slightly larger pack that includes a canine.

Once they’re settled in, I get us moving, still ever watchful, even though the doors are locked with us inside. Despite my fears, the bumpy forest path remains clear. I don’t breathe until I get to the highway and then, when I do, I hit the accelerator as soon as I drive back around the boulders and feel the smoothness of pavement under my tires. With my foot heavy on the pedal, the car jumps ahead.

“Hang on, honey,” I say, reaching back to steady the little girl’s shoulder with my hand, trying not to read too much into the motion when she flinches away from my touch. She looks at me with shadowed eyes. I want to weep with joy, anger, relief.

I want to weep.

Before we get to San Pasado, I consult my phone for directions to the hospital. It seems the only choice I have. I know I take a risk going there, but I don’t feel there are any other options. The child needs professional care. That’s apparent to me right away, even though I don’t see any injuries. I know they are there. The ones you can’t see.

I park at a distance. She protests at leaving the puppy behind, but then gives it up without much effort when I make it clear the