CHAPTER 6
I wipe at the sweat dripping into my eyes. Take deep breaths, trying to ease the pounding of my heart. Do my best to maintain a positive inner monologue, trying to convince myself I’ll be okay. But I’m losing the battle. I don’t have much fight left in me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.
Too long. It isn’t only that I’m ill-prepared, although there’s no denying that’s true.
It isn’t even the heat, which feels like it’s boiling my brain and sucking my will to survive out through my dehydrating pores.
It’s that I’m starting to think this is pointless.
According to my GPS, I’ve gone just over three miles, and so far, other than a few small birds darting through the underbrush and one very scruffy-looking squirrel, I haven’t seen anything.
Not the raccoon, not the arrow made of branches, not even the other two hikers who signed the trail log ahead of me and should still be out here.
Slipping my hands under the straps of my pack, I hoist it higher on my back. My long-sleeved sun shirt beneath is drenched. My shoulders beg for a break, unaccustomed to the weight of the gear I carry. And my nerves… well, let’s just say they’ve had better days.
I’ve had nothing to do but think for the last hour and the conclusion I’ve reached is that coming out here by myself was a really stupid idea. I run the conversation I had with Donna through my mind for the dozenth time.
The woman who spotted the raccoon in need of help called the report in.
As far as I know, she didn’t give her name.
No one saw her face. The time marked by the two hikers who checked in before me indicates that they started their hike after the woman made the call, but their names were the only ones entered this morning, which means she didn’t even sign the trail log.
In fact, so far there’s been nothing to indicate there’s any truth to her story. But why lie?
Despite the heat, a chill races through me, goosebumps rippling across my skin as I think of an answer.
One I may have dismissed too easily. Because if you wanted to get someone to let their guard down, to lure them away from their home turf to a place where you could catch them off guard, bait them into a situation where they’d have a hard time escaping, what that woman did was an excellent way to go about it.
My pulse kicks into overdrive, the rush of blood leaving me lightheaded. I grab onto the nearest tree, waiting for the dizziness to pass. I’d been so focused on not giving in to fear that I completely ignored the fact that I should be afraid.
But are these people that smart?
Calling the feed store instead of the sanctuary directly, knowing Donna would call me and I’d be the one to respond? Being vague about the distance, so I’d keep going until I’d made my way far beyond the reach of help? To a place where no one would even hear me scream?
A scraping noise sounds behind me, so foreign to the sounds of the woods that the world around me falls silent.
I gasp so hard I practically choke. Draw my pistol from its holster as I twist around.
Pressing my spine hard against the tree I’d been leaning against, I search the shadows for the source, eyes straining wide with the effort.
I hear the clatter again, though I don’t see any movement.
My heart kicks against the walls of my chest, berating me for being such a fool.
I didn’t tell Jake where I was going specifically because I knew coming out here by myself with everything that was going on was a dumb idea.
Now, if I don’t make it home tonight, he won’t even know where to look.
Not that there would be much hope of my body being discovered way out here. There are too many places to dispose of it, too many creatures to eagerly feed on my remains.
Sharp fingernails of panic claw at me. I try to draw deep, calming breaths, but my lungs fail to fully inflate.
The panic attacks that plagued me after I escaped a serial killer’s basement, the ones I thought I had overcome, have returned.
Bark scrapes painfully against my back as I slide to the ground.
I promise myself I won’t go down easily, not without putting up a heck of a fight, but even my hands fail me, shaking too hard to rack the slide as I try to chamber a round. But as movement shakes the underbrush to my right, the surge of adrenaline helps me get the job done.
“FBI.” My voice sounds weak, shaky. Conjuring my former self, I bark, “Come out slowly with your hands up. Do it now!”
A palmetto rustles, then another, the motion moving away from me. There’s no way I want to be stuck out here, looking over my shoulder for the entire three-plus miles back to the trailhead.
“Stop or I’ll shoot.”
Bracing myself with my free hand, I push to my feet. The change in viewpoint reveals the last thing I expected. Quickly, I launch into pursuit.
Though it doesn’t take me long to catch up, I have to be careful. This next part is tricky.
I re-holster my firearm as I shadow my quarry. Slip off my pack and pull it on across the front of my chest, then unzip the pouch. Grab out the long, thick leather gloves I packed right at the top.
The instant I touch the raccoon’s back, it releases a startled screech. It reverses frantically, trying to get away, but the metal lodged over its head keeps that from happening. It paws at the trap, at my hands, at everything, trying to get free, but it can’t.
Though not a baby, it’s young, still a kit. It squeaks and cries instead of growling and hissing. And I can tell, as it wraps one of its silky little hands around my fingers, that it’s weak. There’s no telling how long its head has been stuck like this.
I gently pinch the loose skin between its shoulder blades. Instead of springing back when I release it, the flesh remains tented. This creature is dehydrated. And while that could happen quite quickly in the South Florida heat, that doesn’t make it any less dangerous.
Murmuring softly, I crouch over the raccoon, holding it in place with my legs as I riffle through my bag. Withdraw a pair of small shears. Push down on its neck until I get enough slack to slip one blade inside the trap. And then I get to work.
Progress is slow. Between the raccoon’s squirming and not having the best tool for the job, it’s hard going. But finally, keeping a finger over the ragged metal edge, I’m able to work the trap over the animal’s head.
And it is a trap, one of the old metal types we used to catch bait in when I was little.
Strange to find it so far out here, in the middle of nowhere.
But I don’t get much time to think about it.
Because though I’d expected the raccoon to scamper off once free, it doesn’t.
It remains where it is with its eyes shut, panting.
Concerned, I grab a bowl from my bag and fill it with water. The raccoon curls its tiny hands around the rim, drinking greedily. Still it keeps its eyes closed.
I lean forward for a closer look. Sigh heavily and unstrap the collapsible carrier from the bottom of my pack. Though I’ve been intending to re-open the medical care part of the sanctuary, I don’t have the facilities completely ready yet.
But it seems I’m out of time. I just got my first patient.
I wait until my new ward has finished drinking, then make the kit as comfortable as I can in the carrier. Though I consider wearing the gloves in case I need to reach the animal quickly, I ultimately decide to return them to my bag.
Because even though the call that brought me out here was legitimate, that doesn’t mean I’m safe.
I have a long—and with the extra weight I’m going to be carrying, no doubt arduous—hike back to the trailhead.
And though I was never a Girl Scout, that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in their motto: Be Prepared.
Which means keeping my trigger finger at the ready.