The Cabin on Souder Hill Page 3

  “There’s only one road, Michelle! How could I take the wrong one?” he’d said, obviously agitated. “You pull out onto the road, drive down a half mile, then make a left turn. It said Pink Souder on the sign. How could I have been on the wrong fucking road?” He was almost yelling at that point. Michelle had looked down at the floor, then back at her husband standing on the deck and gyrating madly as he spoke.

  “I can see the damn light!” he’d said, pointing over the rail. “It’s right there!”

  They hadn’t left Atlanta until after eight that evening, and it was a three-hour drive. She was too tired to argue further.

  “Go to sleep,” Cliff had said, his back to her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Michelle had gone inside and was almost asleep when she’d heard Cliff rummaging through the pantry looking for a flashlight. She’d told him there was one in the Cherokee, then wished she hadn’t. “Cliff! Wait!” That was the last time she’d seen him. Now she was doing the same stupid thing Cliff had done, tramping down the mountainside in the dark, too impatient to wait.

  Michelle took a deep breath and steadied herself against the massive boulder, her jeans cold and muddy. The cut on her knee throbbed when she put weight on it.

  Holding to trees and shrubs, she tricked her way through the cover, plotting each step cautiously. Michelle felt the burden of silence around her. No crickets, tree frogs, owls, or chirrups. No barking dogs. None of the sounds that made night tangible. Michelle’s skin prickled under the warm coat. She heard something several yards away. She stopped and listened. Something walking. A bear? Should she make a sound? Or run? Maybe just stay still. Then she heard a similar sound behind her, then another to the side. “What the fuck?” She held onto the tree and tried to breathe shallow, quiet. The sounds moved closer. She stole a quick look around the tree. Hunters maybe?

  “Is someone there?” Michelle finally said. “Hello?” Something loped past, a shadow, but upright, nothing like a bear.

  She bolted from the tree down the hill, searching the woods for the light below. She didn’t want to stop to hear if anything was following. Darting past tree trunks and branches, something caught her ankle. She stumbled, almost falling, grabbing at limbs and leaves to catch herself. Sticker bushes cut her hands, snagged her jeans. In a second, Michelle was on the ground, rolling, tumbling. Then airborne, off a cliff maybe, no sensation except drifting, flying, until her body slammed solid ground. The collision rocked her, smashing the air from her lungs. Michelle tried to sit up, gasping. She couldn’t breathe. Her ribs ached. She tried to steady herself. Then she heard footsteps. She willed herself up and started running again.

  After running for almost fifty yards, Michelle stopped, took a deep breath, and held herself against a tree. The woods were still. The darkness absolute. Once Michelle was able to release the tree, she eased down the slope, shifting her head back and forth to find the light below, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to see if anything was behind her. After a few minutes she found it. It was much closer now. She heard noises, like conversation or maybe a television, coming from the direction of the light.

  The house came into view. It was less than two hundred feet away—though this close it was more like a cabin than a house.

  When Michelle came within the glow of the dusk-to-dawn light, she looked down at her clothes. Blood stained her jeans. She could see the front door, lights in the window. She picked leaves from her hair and used her fingers to comb out the tangles. A Range Rover sat in the driveway, next to the sheriff’s car. Why hadn’t Fisk bothered to come back up and tell her he’d found the house?

  Michelle studied the cabin, the red trim, the shutters, the herbs—sage, peppermint, basil—growing along the walk. The familiarity of the place froze her. The copper ash bucket filled with dried flowers sat to the right side of the front door. The brass door knocker in the shape of a leaping trout—exactly like the one she’d found at Kresser’s in Atlanta. Michelle spun around and looked up the mountain. The lights of her and Cliff’s cabin were gone, nothing but black. She was about to knock when she looked down at her shoes, at the welcome mat beneath her feet. It was the same one her sister had given them as a gag gift for the cabin. She and Darcy had laughed about the picture of the Paul Bunyan-looking hunter with his black beard shooting a musket at a fleeing turkey.

  Michelle felt like a stranger about to knock on her own door, yet it wasn’t hers, she reasoned. But reason and logic seemed to have no role in the events of the last twenty-four hours. She drew a breath and rapped the trout lightly against its metal base.

  Chapter 3

  “Michelle!” Cliff said, throwing open the door. “I’ve been worried sick! The sheriff was out with men and dogs and a chopper and . . .”

  Cliff pulled her into his arms. “I was going crazy here,” he said. “I was so scared.” He eased back from Michelle, checking her hair, the cut at her knee, her ripped coat. “Jesus. You’re hurt.”

  “I . . . uh . . . Cliff?” Michelle said. “You’re okay. Where were you . . . ?” Finally she pushed past him, no longer able to marshal her thoughts. Her book was sitting on the coffee table, just as she’d left it. The interior of the cabin was exactly the same except for the furniture—it was completely foreign to her.

  “Cliff . . . where am I? Where are we?” she asked. “What happened to . . . ?”

  The mounted deer head Cliff had bought at a flea market, as well as the classic car series of prints and the rug he’d ordered from L.L. Bean were gone. So were the rustic couch and chairs that he had said would be perfect for the cabin, along with the antiques he’d bought on a trip to Knoxville. The painted duck decoy on the bookcase, the wrought iron fireplace tools—they were all missing and the new furnishings unfamiliar to her.

  “You gave us all a scare, ma’am,” the sheriff said, holding his hat in his hand. “I can get an ambulance up here in ten minutes if you think you need one.”

  “Sheriff Fisk . . . why didn’t you . . . ?” Michelle could not parse the queerness of the moment. Was she still unconscious in the woods from the fall? “Bogan, right?” she said, looking at Elmer. He seemed confused and took a step back.

  Michelle had recognized Fisk immediately, and Elmer, but she could tell by the way they regarded her that the recognition wasn’t mutual.

  “Don’t you remember me?” she asked Sheriff Fisk. “How about you, Elmer?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I ain’t never seen you before,” the deputy said.

  Fisk said something to Cliff about Michelle being in shock. Then Cliff was leading her by the arm toward the couch, and they continued speaking as if she weren’t there. She jerked her arm away from Cliff, and backed up, away from the sheriff and Elmer.

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” the sheriff said, his palms opened as if to suggest he wasn’t going to harm her. He turned toward Elmer and whispered something. “Now why don’t you have a little rest,” he said, turning back to face her. “Your husband here has some coffee on the stove. Would you like some coffee?”

  “I don’t want any coffee,” she said. “I want to know what’s going on here.”

  She saw Cliff nodding and smiling, agreeing with the sheriff. They spoke in tones reserved for the elderly, or the dangerous. Cliff hurried to the kitchen and returned with a steaming cup and saucer.

  “Come on, Michelle,” he said, setting the coffee cup on the end table. “Sit here and warm up. Let’s get you out of that coat.”

  When he reached for her, she jerked her wrist back. “Don’t touch me, Cliff.”

  Cliff straightened like he’d been slapped. Elmer had left the living room and she wasn’t sure where he’d gone. The sheriff looked at the floor and Michelle couldn’t understand why he hadn’t acknowledged her, why he was acting so queer.

  “Sheriff Fisk? Why don’t you remember me?” Michelle asked. “I spoke to you less than two hours
ago. We drove down Pink Souder Road together. The chopper? Dell?”

  Fisk’s eyes burst open wide. He looked at Cliff but said nothing.

  “Baby, we’re here to help,” Cliff said. “Let me take your shoes off. They’re soaked.” Michelle noticed a scar across Cliff’s forehead, one that had never been there before. And when he reached out to her, she saw the little finger on his left hand was missing.

  “What happened to you, Cliff?” she said. “Where’s your finger?”

  Cliff shook his head, tears pooling along the bottom of his eyes. He looked over at the sheriff, then back at her. The sheriff took his eyes to the floor once more.

  Michelle hurried past Cliff and Sheriff Fisk.

  “Where are you going?” Cliff said, following her.

  She ran into the bedroom and jerked drawers open on the dresser then rummaged the closet. “I want to go home,” she said. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I want to go back to Atlanta. Now.”

  “What are you looking for?” Cliff said. She heard a siren coming up the mountain, getting closer. She pushed past Cliff, headed for the kitchen. The sheriff was no longer in the living room.

  “Where’s my purse, Cliff? What did you do with my purse?”

  “Calm down, Michelle. It’s right in here.” He walked back to the bedroom. “Here. You left it by the bed where you always leave it.” He picked it up and handed it to her.

  Michelle jerked the purse open and stirred the contents with her fingers, then dumped everything out on the floor. She dropped to her knees and pushed her hand through the pile, scattering cosmetics, deposit slips, and amber pill containers across the carpet. It didn’t even seem like her purse—what were the pill bottles for? “Where are they, Cliff? Where are my keys to the Cherokee?”

  Cliff looked distressed, his head cocked slightly to the side. “The Cherokee? Michelle . . . you know we don’t have the Cherokee anymore.”

  Michelle looked up at him. “What? It was right there in the driveway when I left the cabin . . .” She pictured it clearly, the rain beating sparks along the hood, sheets of water running down the windows. She had seen it in the driveway less than an hour ago.

  Cliff sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. When he looked up at her, his eyes were red, his face damp with perspiration. He was about to speak, his mouth was open, but no sound came out.

  “What is wrong with you, Cliff? What . . . ?” Michelle tried to speak. She couldn’t tell if her words were getting out. Then, like a welcome interruption, or a desire for something familiar, her thoughts went to Cassie. The swim team.

  The siren outside the cabin shut off abruptly.

  “Cassie made the swim team, Cliff,” Michelle said. “Not only that, they voted her captain. Did she tell you?”

  Cliff shot up from the bed and left the room.

  Michelle saw red lights pulsing on the branches outside the bedroom window. Then along the walls. “What . . . ?” She put her hand to her cheek, slid her fingers to her lips, and felt weak, dizzy. “I . . .” She twisted her neck to the side, as if to relieve a catch. A clatter of metal and voices rose beyond the bedroom, the sound urgent, racing closer. She ran her hand along her throat, finding a bit of dead leaf stuck to her skin, then rested her palm on her shoulder.

  “What’s going on, Cliff?” she whispered, then repeated it louder so he could hear. Cliff was gone from the room.

  Michelle felt something inside her become unmoored, flesh from bone, organs from veins, dissolving, turning to dust.

  Gentle voices coaxed her onto the gurney. Someone covered her with a blanket. She noticed a cobweb hanging from the blade of the ceiling fan as they wheeled her through the living room. “Cliff?” She thought she saw Elmer’s face, distant and blank as the moon, when they lifted her into the back of the ambulance. “Cliff?” She heard crying, doors slamming, the siren coming up, drowning out the sad noises. Cliff was suddenly next to her, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He touched her forehead. Michelle hadn’t remembered taking her coat off, but it was gone. So were her shoes.

  “It’s going to be okay, baby,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “Cliff?”

  Chapter 4

  “Where am I?” Michelle said, looking over at Cliff. He was beside her hospital bed reading a newspaper. He put it down as soon as she spoke to him. “Where am I?” she asked again. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant.

  “The hospital,” Cliff said. He reached over and laid his hand on top of hers. Cliff looked so different to her, and it wasn’t just the scar on his forehead. His eyes no longer burned with that same determination, as if life were something to be killed and eaten on an hourly basis. His eyes were soft and easy now, yet sad, flat. Nothing about Cliff had ever been flat. Even his hair was different, most of the blond now gray. He’d shaved his mustache and beard, and at first Michelle thought maybe that’s why he looked so much thinner. Yet by the way his shirt draped off his shoulders, it was obvious he’d lost at least thirty pounds, almost the way he’d looked when he wrestled in college, though not nearly as vibrant. When he spoke, his voice was low and restrained, as if a baby were asleep in the next room. But in spite of all these differences, it was his hand that bothered Michelle most.

  “Let me see it,” she said, pointing to the one folded in his lap.

  He reluctantly placed it on the blanket.

  “How did that happen?” she asked.

  Cliff slid his hand away from her and sat back slowly in the chair, resting it in his lap. He seemed to have trouble swallowing. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to erase an image from his brain.

  “What’s going on, Cliff? Why am I in the hospital? Have you spoken with Cassie? Does she know everything is okay?” Michelle sat up abruptly, knocking dishes from the tray, splattering food across the sheets and floor. “Where’s Cassie? Where are we, Cliff? Are we in Atlanta?”

  The commotion brought a nurse to the room. Cliff motioned that everything was okay. He cleared the dishes from her bedspread.

  “Sorry, Cliff. Where are we?”

  “We’re still in Ardenwood. Don’t you remember?”

  She shook her head. “How long have I been out?”

  “Two days,” he said.

  Michelle’s memory was starting to come back. The cabin, Sheriff Fisk, going down the dark mountain, falling. Maybe she had a concussion. Her side hurt. Maybe broken ribs.

  “Am I okay?”

  “Bruised ribs. But other than that, you’re fine,” he said. “At some point we need to talk about why you left the cabin in the middle of the night, Michelle. You were lost for an entire day.”

  That wasn’t how Michelle recalled the events of the past few days. “You were the one who left the cabin in the middle of the night. You were the one who got lost. I came looking for you and . . .”

  “Okay, Michelle. We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

  Cliff walked to the door. “I’m going for coffee,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly. Do you want anything?”

  They spoke no more about it.

  Michelle was released the next day, the doctors believing it best she return to Atlanta. They gave her a prescription for Xanax in case she became anxious or overwhelmed by her ordeal. Cliff drove a Range Rover up to the curb. Michelle had never seen it before. She got in, shut the door, and stared out the windshield.

  Michelle rubbed her neck and felt nauseous, probably from the medication, she figured. She closed her eyes and was in the backyard of their home in Atlanta, the familiar odor of chlorine and wet concrete around the pool—reassuring smells. She thought about Cassie making varsity swim team, about her being team captain, the power of her strokes as she glided from one end of the pool to the other. For a moment, Michelle felt normal, recalling Cassie, the pool, until her mind shifted to Cliff’s scar, h
is missing finger. He had yet to explain. But those were new. Those pieces could not fit into any puzzle she constructed in her head. And Fisk. The cabin down the mountain, the one identical to the one she walked out of to look for Cliff. Had she somehow gone back up the mountain? Or gotten turned around in the woods? But what about the furniture? Fisk and Bogan? The Cherokee? Cliff’s scar? Cliff’s missing finger? Stop! None of it made sense. Michelle was suddenly engulfed in anxiety. She strained to breathe, to calm down. She shifted her attention home. Michelle pictured their pool in Atlanta, tried to recall the cool water, the sun, how it felt on her face when she sat on the chaise lounge, heat rising from the concrete. It calmed her. The fear started to subside. Michelle wondered if Cassie had told Cliff the big news yet, about being voted captain. He hadn’t mentioned it. Michelle was starting to feel anxious again. She took another Xanax.

  It wasn’t long before everything felt vague and jumbled, as if her brain was packed in cotton. Unable to sleep, Michelle focused her attention out the window as they left Ardenwood. Fast food restaurants and gas stations swept by, along with billboards for trout fishing, canoeing, and whitewater rafting. Tire companies, insurance salesmen, and real estate brokers. One in particular caught her attention.

  “Stop the car, Cliff!” she shouted.

  “What?” he said.

  “Stop!”

  Cliff mashed on the brakes, throwing her against the shoulder harness. Cars screeched and skidded behind them, horns honking.

  “What the hell?!” Cliff shouted. “What is it, Michelle?”

  “Go back, Cliff! Go back now!”

  Cars rushed past, drivers twisting to glare at them. Cliff turned around in a Shell station. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Make a left up there at McDonald’s,” she said, twisting in her seat to see the giant advertisement.