The Courage Tree - Diane Chamberlain [76]
Zoe had instructed her to follow the trail of blue cloth. Find one piece, then stand and search the forest for the next and walk in that direction. She had made certain that each scrap of cloth was visible from the location of the piece before it. She’d told Marti to remove each piece of cloth as she passed it, so that no one could follow her trail. Marti would have about ten miles to cover in that painstaking fashion. It had taken Zoe most of a day to lay the trail; it would take Marti at least that long to follow it, although sheer terror might quicken her pace. Poor Marti. Zoe hated thinking of her, scared and alone, in the forest.
This would be a long day for Zoe, as well, as she waited for Marti’s arrival. If Marti didn’t come today, tomorrow would seem even longer. And what if she didn’t come tomorrow? Or the next day? What if she never arrived? Zoe would have no way of knowing what had happened to her. So many weak links in the treacherous chain of this plan, so many places where things could go wrong.
She couldn’t think that way, she told herself. She got out of bed and walked into the clearing to start the fire for her instant coffee.
She was stoking the fire beneath the pot of water when she heard the sound of crackling twigs directly behind her. Marti! She stood up and spun around, expecting to see her daughter emerge from the woods. At first she could see nothing at all; the woods were too thick for the early morning sun to illuminate anyone inside them.
“Marti?” she called.
Suddenly, a child appeared at the edge of the woods. A small child, no more than six or seven, with red hair and one bare foot. Panicked, Zoe dropped the stick she was holding and ran the few feet to the house, grabbing her rifle where she’d left it leaning against the decrepit front porch. She raised the gun into shooting position, obliterating her face from this strange little intrusion.
“Git back with your folks!” Zoe ordered. “And keep offa my property!”
The little girl had been running toward her, but now she stopped. Her legs and arms were as thin as twigs, her red hair a tousled mess. And through the telescopic sights of the rifle, Zoe could see she was crying. The child’s body jerked slightly, as if she were uncertain whether to move forward or to turn back the way she came.
“Where’s your ma?” Zoe hollered.
The child raised her hands above her head, the same way the teenagers had done the day before, but it looked as though it took all her strength, and she could not seem to get them straight up in the air. One arm remained bent. She was trembling all over and weeping freely.
“I’m…” Her arms began to fall, as though she were too weak to hold them up any longer. Quickly, she raised them again, as if afraid Zoe would shoot her at any moment. She whimpered, in pain or fear or both, and something in that sound squeezed Zoe’s heart so hard that she felt the contraction in the center of her chest.
“I’m lost,” the little girl said, her lower lip quivering as she struggled to hold up her arms.
Zoe lowered the rifle to her side. What was she doing, pointing a gun at this baby?
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” She felt terrible for having frightened her. “Come here,” she said, laying the gun on the ground. Her voice was soft,