Just then she heard a sound, a brief snippet of static, and saw that he was on his walkie-talkie, probably calling for reinforcements. Without thinking, she took a step away from the boathouse, squared her feet, and pulled the arrow back. He must have heard the creak of the bow, because he turned and looked at her, and she fired, the string smacking against the windbreaker on the inside of her arm, but the arrow flying straight, striking the man below his left shoulder. He stepped backward, lost his balance, and went down. Abigail ran over and knelt above him. It was the island detective—Bob something—instantly recognizable by his white hair. He looked up at her with fear in his eyes, then yelled, “She’s here.” Another staticky squawk came from the walkie-talkie, still in his hand. Abigail picked up the rifle and, holding it by its barrel, smacked the other end down toward his forehead, but hit his nose instead, breaking it, blood pooling into his mouth. He squealed, an almost purely animal sound, and she hit him again, this time in the head, and he was quiet.
She ran to the kayaks and examined the nearest one. It had a convenient handle on its bow, a plastic grip attached to two inches of synthetic rope. She stowed the rifle inside the kayak, then went in search of a paddle, finding several lined up against the interior wall of the boathouse. She picked the shortest one. On the way out of the boathouse she smelled coffee and spotted an open thermos next to a lawn chair. She picked up the thermos and took a long pull, the coffee hot and milky and sweet. And there was a sharp undertaste of alcohol, probably whiskey. She spotted the thermos’s lid, on top of a paperback novel splayed open on the floor, and twisted it back onto the thermos, deciding to bring it with her. She didn’t know how long it would take her to kayak from the island back to the coast of Maine, but it couldn’t hurt to have some fuel with her.
With the rifle, the thermos, and the paddle all stowed, she grabbed the handle and began to pull the kayak along the shore.
CHAPTER 31
She was on the bluff when she heard the dogs.
Two distinct howls followed by the sound of barking.
She didn’t know exactly how long it had been since she’d taken the kayak from the edge of the pond, but she thought it was at least an hour. The hardest part had been along the shore, the boat scraping over the rocks, her heels banging against the bow. Then she’d remembered that there was a better way to move across land with a kayak. She even remembered the word—portaging— something her father had taught her many years ago. She bent her knees, then slid an arm through the rim of the kayak’s cockpit and lifted, settling the kayak on her shoulder. She tilted it slightly so that the paddle and the rifle wouldn’t fall through the opening.
Once she was upright the kayak didn’t seem too heavy, and she quickly reached the path through the woods. She had to climb an embankment, the path covered with mossy rocks and occasional patches of weeds, and she was terrified of slipping. But she kept going and, ignoring a painful stitch in her side, little by little made her way through the woods.
When the path evened out, she began to smell the ocean in the breeze, and when she reached the edge of the bluff the sky, anchored by a nearly full moon, was an expanse that arched above her. Her lungs ached and the muscles in her legs were cramping, but she felt an almost alarming sense of hope. She could see the ocean, placid in the light of the moon.
She walked slowly over the bluff, saving some energy, cutting diagonally across to where the path began along the cliff edge.
Halfway there was when she heard the dogs, the distant howls and the barking. They’d be out in force now looking for her. She wondered, also, if there was a guard near the cove where she was headed. It was one of the few places where it would be relatively easy to launch a boat. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed to pick up speed. The dogs would be following her scent.
She turned left at the cliff and began down the path, the rim of the kayak’s opening biting into her shoulder. Another bark reached her, this time much closer. She looked back and saw what she thought was the faint glimmer of a flashlight emerging from the dark line of woods on the other side of the bluff. She peered over the edge of the cliff, wondering if it was worth throwing the kayak off and jumping after it. It looked like about a twenty-yard drop, but the brief line of shore below was covered with black jagged rocks.
She kept moving.
The cramp in her side got worse and the roof of her mouth ached, saliva pooling under her tongue. She bent over, resting the bow of the kayak on the ground, and was briefly sick, tasting only the coffee that she’d drunk back in the boathouse. Then she began to run, her shoulder screaming at her, her legs rubbery.