Stranded

God, and then he cut Ethan. So much blood
.
    “I promise I won’t tell.”
    “Run. Go on now. Run.” The man had made it sound so natural, almost soothing.
    “Go on now,” he’d repeated when Noah stared like a paralyzed deer caught in the headlights.
    And now he realized the high-pitched scream was coming from his own throat. He could feel it more than hear it. It came from somewhere deep and vibrated along his ribs before escaping up and out his mouth.
    He had to shut up. He’d hear him. Know exactly where he was.
    Run. Faster
.
    Mud sucked at his bare feet. Shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks—all a cheap exchange for freedom. He knew his bruised and battered soles were cut open and bleeding, scraped raw by the sharp rocks. He blinked hot tears.
    Don’t think about the pain. This is nothing compared to what’s happened to Ethan
.
    He needed to concentrate on running, not the pain. Not his skin that was slashed and bruised.
    How far did these woods go?
    There had to be a clearing. He had run away from the interstate, away from the rest area, but there had to be something more than trees. Maybe a farmhouse? Another road?
    He didn’t hear the footfalls behind him anymore. No branches cracking or leaves crunching. His chest heaved and his heart jack-hammered. He slowed just a fraction and held his breath.
    Nothing
.
    Just a breeze. Even the birds had quieted. Had the madman turned back? Given up? Decided to honor his promise?
    Maybe one was enough for him tonight?
    Noah chanced a look back over his shoulder. That’s when his foot caught on a fallen log and sent him sprawling. His elbows slammed into the rock and mud. The impact rattled his teeth. White stars flashed as his skin ripped on the palms of his hands.
    He tried to stand. Fell back to his knees. The foot that had caused the fall burned with pain. He looked back at it and grimaced. His ankle was twisted and his left foot was at an unnatural angle. But it wasn’t the pain that sent panic throughout his body. It was the fact that he couldn’t move it.
    He stopped himself. Held his breath again as best he could. Waited. Listened.
    So quiet
.
    No sounds of traffic. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Even the breeze had been frightened to silence.
    He was alone.
    Relief swept over him. The madman hadn’t followed after all. The last wave of adrenaline slipped away and he dropped backonto the ground. He sat up with his legs outstretched, too weak to even touch his swelling ankle. In the moonlight he didn’t recognize his own foot. It was already ballooning, the bruised skin split open. His breathing still came in gasps, but his heartbeat had slowed to a steady drum.
    He wiped a hand over his face before he realized he was only smearing blood with more blood. He brought down his hand in front of his eyes and saw that the skin on his palm had been peeled away.
    Don’t think about it. It’s a small price to pay for freedom. Don’t even look at it
.
    He glanced around. Maybe he could find a branch. A long one. He’d use it under his arm like a crutch. Take the weight off his battered foot. He could do this. He just needed to concentrate. Forget the pain. Focus.
    Pain was better than dead, right?
    A twig snapped.
    Noah jerked in the direction of the sound.
    Without warning the man stepped out from behind a tree and into the moonlight. Calm and steady like he had been standing there all night. No sign of being out of breath. No hint that he had traveled through the same thick and dark woods that Noah had just run through.
    The madman didn’t even bother to raise the knife in his hand. Instead he it kept at his side, still smeared with Ethan’s blood.
    He grinned and said, “It’s your turn, Noah.”

TUESDAY, MARCH 19

CHAPTER 2

    OUTSIDE SIOUX CITY, IOWA
    JUST OFF INTERSTATE 29
    So far the mud had surrendered one skull from within the dug out crater. FBI agent Maggie O’Dell had a feeling there were more. Washed clean by the morning downpour, it gleamed a brilliant white as it rested on top of the black loamy soil. Besides the skull, three long bones and a scattered assortment of smaller ones had also been uprooted. Maggie had enough medical background to identify the long bones as femurs, though she prefaced her claim to Sheriff Uniss by saying, “I’m not an anthropologist.”
    The sheriff blinked at the news as if she had thrown water in his face. He took a step back, wanting to distance himself, either from Maggie or from what she had just told