How did you get here?
And how do I help you get out.
Those whispers of rational thought remind me he is not a child, not trapped, not in need of my help, no more than kids I saw in the streets when I was a cop. Still, that never stopped me from seeing them and thinking the same thing.
How do I help you get out of this?
Maybe that’s basic human empathy or maybe it’s projection, seeing myself at nineteen, trapped in an alley, going down under a rain of blows, waking in a hospital to be told I might never walk again and then walking out … and putting a bullet through the heart of the guy I held responsible. At that age, I’d been so lost and so alone. I saw those street kids, as I see this boy, a distorted reflection of who I’d been at their age, trapped in their eyes.
How do I help you get out of this?
That passes in a split second before, thankfully, I remind myself I am in the forest, during a storm, surrounded by hostiles, and this boy is one of them. I have my gun in hand, and I should point it at him. I should let him know I will use it. I will kill him. Yet my hands don’t move.
The boy stares at me. There’s no malice in his gaze. Certainly no rage. He’s staring at me, eyes clouded with what I saw the first time we met Maryanne. The confusion that only comes with a glimmer of recognition, as if he’s saying to himself, “Something about this situation is familiar, and I don’t know why.”
Maryanne looked that way when she saw Dalton. The expression on this boy’s face, though, isn’t quite the same, and I may be misreading it entirely. Seeing what I want to see.
“I’m not—” I begin, but he slices a finger under his throat. It could be a threat. I know it isn’t. It’s the sign for urgent silence.
He shakes his head, eyes widening to confirm I’m not misidentifying his gesture. He is afraid the others will hear. That they will realize he’s close enough to attack … and he has not.
He lifts his finger to his lips. Then his gaze sweeps the landscape. I know there are hostiles nearby—at least the injured woman—but they remain out of sight. The rain beats down, sky dark and rumbling, and in that moment, it is only the boy and me, standing in the rain, both on guard, every muscle tensed as water sluices over us.
He motions for me to approach. I adjust my grip on the gun and mentally tap the knife at my side, reassuring myself it’s within easy reach. As I approach, though, he moves to the side. That gives me pause, and my gaze shoots past him, looking for an ambush. No, he’s just getting out of my way.
I jerk my head, telling him to come closer. He doesn’t even dignify that with a response. I have a gun, and I suspect even if I didn’t, he wouldn’t risk his companions seeing him with me. I still take a step his way, but he backs up fast, his hands rising.
Come with me, I mouth.
He shakes his head. I doubt my face is more than a blob in the pelting rain, but no matter what I’m saying, the answer is no.
“I can help,” I whisper as loud as I dare.
Head shake. Hands raised. Then a finger pointed left.
Whatever you’re selling, lady, I’m not buying. Not today. The door is over there. Have a lovely day.
I can’t linger. I saw what happened to Colin. Whether the hostiles are responsible for the death of the Danish tourists or not, they are still dangerous as hell. This boy is offering me a safety hatch, and I need to take it. Now.
“Find me later,” I say aloud. “Please.”
Without answering, he slips away. Then I’m gone, moving fast through the rain, watching my feet, watching my surroundings, telling myself I am fine. As if I can see more than a couple of damn feet in front of my face as the rain slams down in torrents. As if I’ll hear a twig crack over the constant rumble of thunder. As if I’ll sense someone there even with my brain preoccupied, worrying about Petra, worrying about Dalton and Storm, worrying about that damned kid I just left behind.
I keep moving until I spot the pale blur of Petra’s face and blond hair, and it’s a good thing I do, because otherwise, I’d have walked right past, my treacherous brain insisting they were fifty feet to the right of where they actually are. I pick up speed and reach her in a few heartbeats.
She’s poised over Colin, her gun raised to protect him. When she sees me, she swings that barrel my way with, “Stop right there!”
“It’s me!” I call, and then add, “Casey!” as if I could be a hostile in disguise. She shifts her gun to cover my approach.
“Is she gone?” Petra says, never stopping that slow surveillance.
“Yes, but there are others.”
“Huh. What a surprise.”
I don’t answer. She knows me well enough to realize I’m already smacking myself over my mistake.
“How many?” she says as I back into position on Colin’s other side.