Blindside

tromping through the beautiful woods he remembered, filled with spruce and pine, hiking to Lake Klister.
    Savich stuck out his hand. No raindrops yet. On the seat next to him was a grocery bag from Lew’s Friendly Staples in Blessed Creek, ten miles from the cabin where they were staying for a long weekend. The real staples at Lew’s were tourists; he was expensive, but his little store was open nearly 24/7 and that was what counted to everyone from out of town. In the bag was a wizened bunch ofcarrots for the snowman’s nose, a quart of two-percent milk for Sean, some buttered microwave popcorn for Sherlock and himself, and a lovely big watermelon, an unexpected find in the middle of January in a nearly empty produce bin in a grocery store the size of his dining room.
    The cabin belonged to Jimmy Maitland, Savich’s boss, who regularly loaned the place to his friends and his college-age sons. The boys’ recent presence had necessitated two hours of scrubbing before the cabin was habitable again.
    Savich started singing one of his favorite country-western songs, “A Blameless Life Ain’t No Fun at All,” written by his friend James Quinlan. The road was straight and lined with trees set off a bit from the asphalt, the branches thick and impenetrable. “I robbed that bank, laughin’ till my belly hurt, till I—”
    Suddenly there was a loud bang and the rented Subaru’s steering wheel jerked in his hands as the car’s back end lurched wildly to his left. He gently eased the car into the skid and let up on the accelerator, but the Subaru’s momentum hurled it into a snowbank on the left side of the highway. Despite his seatbelt, his head slammed against the steering wheel, stunning him for a moment. Everything was quiet. He raised his head, shook it, hoped he hadn’t hurt himself, and slowly climbed out of the car. The back driver’s-side tire had blown. He buttoned up his coat, wrapped his scarf firmly about his neck, then dug out some of the snow from the left front wheel before climbing back in and putting the car in reverse. The car hesitated, then finally backed out, leaning heavily to the left. Savich climbed out again and collected the spare tire and jack. He called Sherlock, told her what happened, and told her he’d be about twenty minutes late.
    It didn’t take him long to change the tire. He was fastening down the last lug nut when he heard something, and heturned to see a woman burst out of the trees twenty feet ahead of him, running directly at him, waving her arms wildly, screaming something he couldn’t understand. Her hair was long, dark, and straight, flying back from her face as she ran. Her face was stark white beneath the pale sickle of moon that suddenly shone down through the dark, heavy clouds.
    She was still screaming when she reached him, her breath hitching. Words he couldn’t understand bulleted out of her mouth.
    He was on his feet in an instant. “It’s all right. It’s okay, you’ve found me. I’m an FBI agent. It will be all right.” He left his SIG in his belt harness for now. She was so terrified she was heaving, speaking fast and high, hysteria smearing her words like thick grease. “The man, he’s in the house! He’s trying to kill me. Oh God, help me! ”
    She threw herself against him. Savich was startled for just a moment, then he took her arms and gently drew her close, patting her back. She wasn’t wearing a coat, not even a sweater, only what appeared to be a light summer dress with thin straps. “It’s all right,” he said against her hair. A young woman, not more than thirty, he thought, but so frightened she would collapse if she didn’t calm down. He tried to soothe her, but it wasn’t working. She kept saying over and over again, her voice breaking, her terror slamming him in the face, “The man, he’s in the house, he’s trying to kill me. You’ve got to help me!”
    The same words, over and over, nothing specific, no names, nothing more than what she’d said since she’d run out of the woods. Her voice was hoarse now, but her hysteria kept building. Her eyes were dark, wild, and terrified.
    He clasped her face between his hands and looked right in her eyes. “Listen to me. I’m a cop. You’re going to be allright. I’ll protect you. Just tell me, where do you live?”
    “Over there.” She threw a wild hand in the direction off to their left.
    “All right, is the man still there?”
    “Yes, yes, he’s there, he wants to