Once upon a Time, Margaret
5
The Pursuit - and The View from a Deer Stand
Twelve hours earlier, Margaret had made her way down the same slope, and waded and sloshed her way fairly quickly up the center of the creek bed. Once out of sight of the bridge and in the covering shadows of the trees paralleling the creek, Margaret stopped. She took the time to put the shoulder holster on, adjust the straps as closely as possible to her child's slight frame, and carefully secure the gun in its sheath. The gear, having been sized to adult proportions, hung loosely on her. But her arms and hands were freed to help her balance as she managed the uneven sludgy bottom of the creek.
Sunshine Creek was anything but "Sunshine" where it ran through Scotstown. There certainly was no local pride in it. Scotstown couldn't afford to keep it clean. Once a year the Walton Senior High School Class took it as an annual project to troop its length in the town, clearing it of trash. It was still three months away from the next scheduled cleanup.
Margaret moved at as steady a pace as possible for the conditions. She was seen, of course, and wondered at, but most witnesses seemed to have more pressing needs to attend to. She was slowed a bit in her progress by having to watch for hazards that lay along the bottom - cans, broken bottles, bits and pieces of unidentifiable metal, broken nails, etc. A sharp glass shard did catch her on the ball of her right foot. She steeled herself against the hurt and continued along the way.
Once out of town and into relatively open farm country, the detritus of modern civilization was mostly left behind. It was early evening now, but still fading summer light provided better visibility through this thinly treed section of the creek's run. Margaret sat down on a rounded stone at the stream's edge to inspect the cut. It didn't look too deep, but it was still bleeding. She seemed more concerned about giving the wound a good washing than in stopping the steady drain of blood. She rinsed and rubbed water into the cut thoroughly. After resting another few minutes, she took off again, allowing the blood to leak as it wanted. Having to favor the injured foot did slow her progress, but she kept steadfastly to her trek. She was able to go along unseen through this relatively open country, the few trees and the fields of late wheat acted as an effective shield from the eyes of those in farm houses a couple hundred yards away.
An hour later, when she entered the National Forest, she stopped to rest again. She checked her foot, and again washed the wound vigorously. The thin trickle of blood continued. She pressed on.
The forest was thick with aging trees, young sprouts, vines, and heavy underbrush. Lightly covered deer and hunter paths made mini canyons as they meandered through the wilderness. In season this was deer hunters' paradise. Deer stands were common sights in this area of the forest. Some were sturdy store-bought frames. Some bore skeletons ready for camouflaged canvas tent-like arrangements to be draped over them. Some were merely crude home-made wood platforms a hunter need simply sit or lie on and wait for passing prey.
Margaret followed the creek to a small open glade - perhaps a half mile from where she'd entered the forest. A man-made pond occupied a center circle. Frogs in the area had already begun their evening serenades. She climbed the berm surrounding the pond, resting her eyes on the water. Fragile water-walkers entertained her as they flitted here to there. The pond's still surface was debris-covered and wore islands of green scum, not inviting her to wash the wounded foot here.
The dull light of evening left the forest nearly dark under its thick overhead canopy.
She returned to the creek, but kept perhaps a yard from the water, picking her way stepping on stones and logs, walking on the heels of both feet, leaving behind no full footprint or blood smears. She returned the way she had come for about sixty yards until she came to a deer path. More quickly now, she followed the deer path to the forest boundary, using the lights of the neighboring subdivision as her guide.
Still obviously being careful not to leave flagrant evidences of her trail, she limped cautiously through the yet undeveloped section of the subdivision. Streets and cul-de-sacs had been laid, but groundbreaking of only a few foundations had begun. Cadres of wooden pegs stood guard over the houseless lots. Two idle bulldozers seemed to be less than eagerly waiting to return to work early Monday morning. On past the undeveloped section Margaret crept up close behind a row of occupied houses, pausing behind one where a family of five, all dressed in their going-out clothes, were piling into a passenger van. A late start for an apparently important event. Possibly a late church service.
After they had pulled away, she crept quickly to the back door, which she inspected closely. The windows bore no warning tag of an alarm company. She slipped around to the front. It too was free of decals, as well as tell-tale code pads. She circled the house again. Then she pried a brick from the patio rim and used it to smash out a back door window panel.
She dared to turn on the lights of each room as she checked for signs of alarms, pads, or cameras. She shut off all the lights again and started up the steps to the second floor bedrooms.
Two hours later, she slipped out the back door again and hurried to one of the bulldozers; she seemed not to be so concerned about return footprints. She climbed into the cab and curled up on its small floor, drawing a canvas tarpaulin over herself for cover from the elements ... and searching eyes. She may have slept through the sounds of excited shouts and the flashing of a squad car's rooftop lights at the house she'd visited earlier. However, some hours later, as dawn was in its early pre-glow, she was awakened by the sound of cars passing close to her perch on the finished street in this undeveloped area.
She lifted a corner of the tarpaulin and watched as the police car and shiny black SUV reached the end on the street and drove onto the high grass of the adjoining meadow. It looked like there was only the driver's silhouette in each. When they reached the forest boundary, they turned and followed it around towards the creek. A few minutes later the police car returned alone, carrying the driver and a passenger. Margaret lost sight of it as it moved on into the subdivision proper. Carefully, she let herself down from the bulldozer, ran toward the forest, and then followed the route around the forest the cars had taken.
The SUV was parked at creekside. The doors were locked. Reaching up to the side mirror for support, she hoisted herself onto the short running board. It was still impossible to get a good view of the interior, so using the mirror arm for leverage, she climbed onto the hood. She could see what looked like a bed roll in the area behind the front bucket seats. She couldn't miss the large white stenciled letters printed on it: "SHERIFF". And there was enough light by now to see the photos strewn on the passenger-side seat. Of course she recognized them from DeKalb's collection.
*****
She's hurt. Bleeding. Gives me an edge.
He worked his way upstream. He could make out no footprints in the sludge below the water.
She wouldn't have left the creek in town. She's a fugitive. She'd have pushed on.
The boots made progress slow.
Not as slow as bare feet. And a bleeding wound.
He was beyond the town limits now. In the more refreshing farm country.
He stopped. Rocks at the side of the stream were spotted with blood.
She must have stopped here. Big stone to sit on. To check the cut? Maybe clean it in the water. Trail's getting warmer now.
He moved faster through this section. More blood marks on rocks and stones along the way encouraged him.
The SUV was where they'd left it.
I should stop and call for the next leg of the shuttle. But it's still early. And the trail's warm. Gut feeling: she's close. Even with a twelve hour head start, she's without boots - and wounded. I just know she's close.
He entered the forest.
Getting easier now. Creek's narrower. More rocks. More blood.
He found the glade and pond. She'd left the creek here. Footprints and blood leading to the top of the berm.
Grass compacted. She rested here.
He put his hand to the grass.
My imagination? Or is it still warm? My instinct, my gut feeling: it has warmth.
Tracks to this resting spot. But no more. He circled the top of the berm. No trace. He found what could have been a heel print, but he couldn't be sure. And it gave no indication of the direction she took. Probably she continued on up the creek.
Probably. She couldn't have disappeared. Has to be some trace. A print. More blood. The warm trail's made me impatient. Just not looking close enough. Easy now. Relax. Don't make mistakes.
He sat down at the base of a good-sized tree, laying his rifle and backpack at his side. He drank some water from the canteen in his backpack. Then he punched up the office number on his cell phone. He and Schindemann had agreed that he'd use the radio for routine reports or in an emergency. For the more confidential stuff between Schindemann and himself he'd use a cell phone.
"Martel here," he said when Schindemann answered.
Schindemann: "Go ahead, Tris."
"Got anything for me?"
"Where are you?"
"About a half mile inside the National Forest."
"As a matter of fact I do have something. Not too far from where you are right now. House break-in last night. In the subdivision that borders the forest. You might be able to see it from where you are. But probably not at this time of year. Forest's too thick now."
"They know who did it?"
"Not yet. I told Stephens you're in the neighborhood and would take charge of the case. He was leaving anyway. 'No big deal. Probably just local kids,' he said. He said there were a couple bizarre aspects to it. I figure there's a good chance it might be our girl."
Martel: "Bizarre, hm. Yeah, I'll check it out. Between that and the solid trail I'm on, we might not be too far from her."
Schindemann: "Remember, first priority's erasing her. I'd like to be present when you do, but shortly after is just as good, I guess. But I definitely want to see her actually lying there dead."
Martel: "Not to worry, George. I always deliver on my promises. I said she'd be dead by next Friday; she'll be dead by next Friday. The way things are going now, probably a lot sooner."
Schindemann: "I know you'll deliver. I'm just a nervous Nelly politician."
Martel: "Right. Anyway, what's the address of the break in? I'm heading there now."
All the while Tris Martel was talking to his boss on the cell phone, a few feet above his head Margaret was lying flat on a rickety deer stand with her 9mm pistol pointed down at his head.
After he closed off the connection with Schindemann, Martel gathered up his backpack and rifle and made a move to walk back downstream to where his SUV was parked. But after a few steps he stopped, deciding to save time by plodding straight through the underbrush to the subdivision. If it was Margaret who broke in, she'd likely have picked a house on the street closest to the forest. Margaret kept the gun trained on him until he was out of sight.
*****
Never take notes while on a chase: that's my motto. The mind will keep the important details alive and buzzing around its computer constantly. Poirot's little gray cells - I believe in them. It's easier to set aside concern when information is relegated to paper. I can always call for information I need from the office. Stephens wrote up the initial report; he's a thorough officer. It'll be available whenever. And don't bother with irrelevant information about the people who made the report. It just clutters. I'm only interested in Margaret.
Ed Sexton, the home owner, was more than willing to tell his "bizarre" tale again - and would probably repeat it forever as necessary to anybody and everybody who even hints an interest.
Martel: "So as far as you can tell, nothing was taken."
Sextom: "You mean besides the Band-Aids and ..."
Martel: "Nothing of substance."
Sexton: "Not as we can tell so far. We checked the jewelry, and emergency cash hiding places. And the electronic stuff - you know, tv's and computer equipment - all seem to be where they should be. We'll be checking our inventory list to make sure."
Martel: "The perpetrator spent a lot of time in your upstairs bathroom, you said."
Sexton: "Correct. And at least a little time in every room downstairs. The blood stains, you know. Not bad, but we'll have to get a pro carpet cleaning outfit to scour the wall-to-walls."
Martel: "The bathroom."
Sexton, laughing: "Right. He'd ... she'd (somehow I think our intruder was a girl), she'd obviously taken a shower, of all things, and then left the towel and washcloth folded neatly - more or less - over the rod in the shower stall. But the hand towel, the one I think she used to wipe blood off her foot and then the floor, she didn't know quite what to do with it. So she just laid it neatly in the corner. Couldn't bring herself to throw it into the little trash container - and knew it shouldn't be put with the others."
Martel nodded.
Sexton: "It was those little slip-ups that I noticed. Kid stuff, you know? Like the blood on the bathroom floor: she didn't get all of it. She missed the spots at the base of the toilet. And when she went to throw away the Band-Aid wrappers and those little plastic tabs, they didn't all quite make it into the container." Another laugh. "I don't mean to sound picky; I'm really not that way. But it looked like this kid seriously wanted not to leave a mess. That's why those little details were so apparent.
Martel: "And the kitchen? You were saying ..."
Sexton: "The same thing. She actually fixed herself a couple hot dogs in the micro-wave ... and with a refrigerator loaded with good food, you know? She used a napkin, but there was still a little grease splattered around. She'd broken a fresh package, took out the two dogs, and carefully re-sealed the package and returned it to the refrigerator. The chips, too. She found them in the closet. But when she was finished, she searched around in the drawers until she found a clip to hold the sack closed. But she left the sack on the table. Oh, and she'd swept up the broken glass from the door - but put it in the wrong trash can." A deep sigh. "Kids!"
Martel, frowning: "Yeah ... kids."
It wasn't hard to find Margaret's tracks away from the house in back. The ground under the thin grass cover was still soft from the rain of a few days ago. It'd been too dark for Margaret to take the time and effort to cover them. He easily traced her movements to the bulldozer.
The tarpaulin: yes, I do feel ... she was here. She was under it.
What surprised Martel was the path her tracks followed from the bulldozer - the same as the tire tracks of the cars in the early hours this morning.
She saw us. And followed us!
He followed her tracks following the car tracks all the way down to his parked SUV. Still soft ground. Tracks still easy to find.
He figured she circled the car at least twice. Mud/dust footprints on the driver's side running board.
Jesus! She was on the hood.
Footprints and knee marks followed her every move on the hood. Right up close to the windshield.
Martel stepped up on the running board himself and stretched out over the hood enough to get an idea of what the girl had seen inside.
SHE KNOWS.
Tracks back into the forest. But not along the creek. A trail of some sort enough away from the creek that he wouldn't have seen it when he was tracking her blood marked trail earlier.
The trail led right to the glade and pond. It passed behind the tree he'd rested against. In the back, wood slats nailed to the trunk made a rudimentary ladder ... if you were very careful. So he used them ... very carefully.
The rickety platform was covered with oak leaves and pine needles. Packed down in the center as if a small person had been lying there. He put his hand on the imprint.
Margaret!
He allowed his hand to linger there a bit longer as he glanced downward to the base of the tree where he had been sitting while talking to Schindemann. Suddenly his eyes widened, and his heart started pounding against the walls of his chest.
My god!
*****
Episode Guide
Part One
1. Escape; 2. Introductions; 3. Contract; 4. The Hunt Begins
Part Two
5. Pursuit - and The View from a Deer Stand
Part Three
6. Hesitation; 7. Interlude; 8. The Plan; 9. The Execution
Part Four
10. Beginning