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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781467064750 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 10/26/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 456 |
| File size: | 645 KB |
Read an Excerpt
Spirits In The Wind
A NovelBy Robert P. Fregault
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Robert P. FregaultAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4670-6477-4
Chapter One
Mike finally reached the clearing, exiting the woods a good half mile from the point where he had entered just two hours earlier. He stumbled into the open, his shirt soaked with perspiration and his legs losing strength. He paused only a moment to glance back over his shoulder, a look of fear and desperation on his face. Leaving the cover of the woodlands, he began to run again as the hot August sun beat down on him and the oppressive heat sapped his strength. His heart was pounding as the sweat dripped from his brow; his lungs burning in his chest as he tried to breathe. But he dared not stop, he had to keep moving. The steamy humid air made each breath a battle of pure will. Stopping again, his energy all but spent, he bent forward, placed his hands on his knees, and breathed deeply, his chest heaving as he tried to take in air. The pain in his chest was consuming him. His shirt and pant legs were splattered with blood, Stephanie's blood. Though still moist in the warm humid air, it was becoming sticky to the touch, congealing, and the smell of it was making him nauseous. He had left her body behind in the dense woodlands. The wounds inflicted on her were deep, and death, though painful, had come quickly.Gaining some strength, he straightened up and pushed onward. His Jeep Wrangler was somewhere off to his left hidden among the trees. If he could make it out of the area, he stood a chance. If he were found now, he'd be charged with murder. No one would ever believe him. People would think him mad. He was being pursued by pure evil, and for the first time in his life, Mike knew real fear. Whatever it was that they had found in the woods, it was still there ... watching ... The legend of Hell's Gate.... It was real ... all the stories that he had ever heard were true. The only question now was ... where could he run to? ... where would he be safe? ... if safety even existed.
That sound! A cracking branch ... a gush of wind.... It was back! It was still pursuing him ... he had to keep moving!
Mike looked back over his shoulder, his face contorted in a mix of fear and pain. Whatever it was, it had found him again and had not tired of the chase. Mike dared not stop any longer to rest. He drew in a deep breath and began to run again. His legs were weak with fatigue and his strides were unsteady but he could not stop. He would not let it catch him.... he was not going to die in the middle of a field ... not on this day.... not now ... Where's the damn Jeep he thought to himself as he scanned the tree line for something familiar, something that would tell him that he was going in the right direction.... away from danger and home toward safety. Where was it?!
At last he caught sight of a small section of the dirt road that bordered the field and the woods from which he had just come. He kept moving forward, the weeds and small bushes slapping at his exposed arms and legs as he raced through the open field in the direction of the road, glancing over his shoulder every few steps, looking for his invisible pursuer. Seeing the road gave Mike new strength and he lowered his head and sprinted toward the road, his lungs aflame in the heat, protesting his every breath. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes.
Finally, at long last, he reached the split rail fence that enclosed the once productive cornfield and quickly hurtled the fence, placing both hands on the top rail and vaulting over. Mike was surprised that he had scaled the fence with relative ease but, as his feet met the dirt road, his legs betrayed him and he landed in a squatting position and then fell forward, his face pressed to the ground. His blood- and sweat-covered clothes absorbed the dust from the road and were now caked with a thin layer of dirt and mud. Rising to one knee, he hunched over and breathed deeply, barely able to draw a full breath.
With new-found resolve he drew a breath, winced at the pain in his lungs and the ache in his leg muscles, and stood at the edge of the road, looking quickly to his right and then to his left, hoping to gain sight of the Jeep. Still sensing fear, he turned around and looked back across the field that he had just crossed, studying the tree line at the edge of the forest. Whatever had been pursuing him had given up the chase. All that could be heard now was the rustling of the leaves and the swaying of the tall field grasses as the warm August breeze moved across the open field and to the tree line beyond.
Moving on impulse he turned to his left and jogged tiredly down the road, his head bobbing from side to side, small puffs of dust rising from his footfalls as he trekked onward. Every few steps he would glance to his left, his face a mixture of fatigue and anguish as he looked over the rail fence and across the field hoping to confirm that he was no longer the prey. He was bent slightly forward barely able to hold his head up as he jogged down the road, his arms loosely swaying from side to side in cadence with his steps.
Thoughts of Stephanie began to fill his mind as he jogged onward. She had collapsed at his feet near a large oak tree in what seemed like the middle of the forest, her blood dripping from the knife that he held in his hand. He could not remember where he had gotten the knife; he could not remember why he did it. She had been stabbed repeatedly in the neck and chest. But he could not remember doing it. He could not remember why. He loved her; at least he thought he did. He would not have hurt her, but he did. But he couldn't have. It had killed her, he was certain of it, or was he? Why would he hurt her? Nothing was making sense.
Mike slowed to a walk and straightened his posture as he looked down at his hands and examined his clothing. Beads of sweat ran down his face and his arms turning the road dust on his body to small ribbons of damp mud. The blood on his shirt and pants had mixed with the sweat and the road dirt and was now more brown than red. His legs were scratched from the run through the field and they began to sting as Mike's perspiration made contact with his open wounds. As his mind began to clear, strong pangs of guilt and remorse came over him. His body shook as he fell to his knees and he began to weep bitterly. The guilt and sense of loss overpowered him.
The sound of an approaching car quickly brought Mike to his senses. He couldn't let anyone see him, not now, not as he was. He needed to hide before he was seen. Looking around frantically for a place to hide, he dove between the rails of the fence and concealed himself in the tall grass and bushes of the cornfield. The sound of the approaching car grew louder as Mike pressed his body to the ground trying his best to conceal his position. As the sound of the vehicle grew closer, Mike slowly raised his head to get a glimpse of the passing car. An aged and nondescript pickup truck drove past, dust flying into the air as it sped along the dirt road. The air quickly filled with dust making it even more difficult for Mike to breath. He could taste the grit in his mouth and his throat begged for water. Mike was fairly certain that he had not been seen; the truck was moving much too quickly for the driver to have paid attention to anything but the road. Mike laid his head back down in the grass, the sweet smell of the hay permeating his nostrils, and waited until he could no longer hear the sound of the truck. Slowly he rose to his feet and stretched his six foot frame as far as he could to get a better view of the road to his right as a misty cloud of dust hung in the air, the only indication that the truck had passed by.
Leaving his hiding place, Mike quickly hopped the fence again and resumed his jog down the road, this time with more energy and a strong sense of purpose. He needed to find the Jeep and get back to his apartment before he was seen. He needed to destroy his clothing and cleanse himself of any trace of Stephanie's blood. His mind was now beginning to focus as he thought about what must be done. The knife! Where's the knife? Mike suddenly stopped in the middle of the dirt road as he searched his memory, his brow furrowed with concern as he rubbed his forehead with the fingers of his right hand and tried to remember. Somewhere in the pursuit he had lost the knife. It was evidence, it had his fingerprints on it, it could tie him to Stephanie's murder, but he could not remember what he had done with it. He remembered it in his hand as he stood over her lifeless body, the long blade of the knife red with her blood. He remembered the sound of the breaking branches, as someone or something moved through the woods behind him, and here membered running through the cornfield. But he didn't remember much else. He didn't even remember where he had gotten the knife. He didn't remember bringing it with him and he didn't remember why he had stabbed her. He remembered her screams and the look of fear in her eyes as she raised her arms to protect herself from the blows, the flow of blood pulsing forth from the wound in her neck. He could still feel her warm flesh as he drove the knife into her. Perhaps his mind was trying to shut out the shock of what he had done, blocking his memory of the more gruesome details. He tried desperately to remember other details that might lead investigators to his doorstep. He couldn't. His mind was blank except for the clothing that he wore and the knife that he no longer had. He would have to deal with the knife later.
More thoughts filled his head. Stephanie's body lay on the ground by the great oak tree. How long would it be before someone found her? Should he go back and bury her? What if someone already knew what he had done and the police were only moments from finding him? Mike's mind was racing in circles, asking questions for which he had no answers. He needed to focus but couldn't. He would deal with everything in due time, he told himself, but first he needed to get away, back to the safety of his apartment where he could begin to piece together what had happened in the woods.
A sense of calm began to take hold of him as he forced himself to think logically. He would find the Jeep, go to his apartment, destroy his clothing, and then calmly develop his alibi. He'd deal with the knife and Stephanie's body in due time. As far as he knew, no one had seen him and no one knew that he had been with Stephanie. He just needed time to reason things out and construct a plausible story. He would survive this, he told himself, and he was surprised at how calmly he could analyze his situation. What kind of person was he becoming? Was murder really this easy to dismiss? His initial remorse was fading and a new sense of self preservation was taking hold of him.
Rounding the bend in the road he spotted what seemed like a familiar clearing and then he saw the olive green fender of the Jeep. New energy surged in him as he picked up the pace of his jog. Reaching the Jeep, Mike pulled a ring of keys from his pants pocket and then climbed into the driver's seat. His bare legs rubbed uncomfortably on the vinyl-trimmed cloth seats as he leaned forward to find the ignition switch. The key slid quickly into the ignition and, with a turn of his wrist, the Jeep's engine roared to life. With his feet firmly on the clutch and the brake, Mike pulled off his the blood-soaked shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and arms, and then he stuffed the shirt under his seat. If he were spotted now he would look like any other bare-chested, twenty-something-year-old male, covered with dust and dirt, enjoying an afternoon of four-wheeling through the countryside.
Twisting his body, he looked over his right shoulder as he pushed the floor mounted gear shift into reverse. Popping the clutch, he looked over his shoulder and pressed down on the accelerator. The engine whined as the Jeep backed out of its hiding place and onto the dirt road. Quickly looking down at the gear shift, Mike shoved the gear shifter into first and with robotic like response, released the clutch and turned the steering wheel. The Jeep's tires spun in the soft dry dirt of the roadbed and then found traction as the vehicle lurched forward. Shifting again, the Jeep picked up speed and headed down the road in the direction of town and away from the forest, a growing cloud of dust following the vehicle as it moved.
The movement of air through the open Jeep was a welcome relief as it dried the sweat on Mike's chest and back and made the August heat more tolerable. But the relief lasted only a few moments as thoughts of Stephanie came back to haunt him. He could see her face. He could still hear her screams. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he thought of Stephanie's body lying face down and blood soaked in the woods near the big tree. For a moment he thought about calling the police and ending his torment. But what would he tell them? That he had murdered his girlfriend? That he had savagely stabbed her to death? What reason would he give? Would they even listen to his story or just arrest him and throw away the key? Mike decided that he could not call the police. He was not prepared to give up his freedom and spend the rest of his life in prison. He didn't know why he had killed her and he could offer no defense for his actions. He needed time to think. He needed to survive.
Chapter Two
At four-thirty in the afternoon the sun was still high in the summer sky as Mike drove into the western edge of Stevensville. The drive down the old logging road from the national forest, an area that most local folks referred to as Hell's Gate, had been uneventful. The only people that Mike had encountered along the old dirt road were two teenagers who were headed in the opposite direction on motorized dirt bikes. The two had shown no concern for safety as they had weaved back and forth across the road several hundred yards in front of Mike trying to raise as much dust as was possible with their large nubby bike tires. Their Kawasaki engines had emitted an alternating high pitched whine and low sputtering growl as the boys manipulated the throttles up and down, spinning their tires in the soft dirt and playing a game of follow the leader up the hilly road. The two were identically dressed in white tee shirts and blue jeans and, with their protruding helmet visors and shaded goggles, were unrecognizable, looking like futuristic warriors from another dimension. Coming to within a few yards of Mike's Jeep, the boys suspended their game of follow the leader, split to opposite sides of the roadway, and turned their heads to stare directly at Mike as they sped by on opposite sides of the Jeep, almost challenging him to protest their actions. The second of the two riders raised his fist into the air, as if a lancer charging on his noble steed and proclaiming his triumph over some imaginary nemesis."Assholes," Mike mumbled to himself as the boys sped by.
Driving away from the cornfield, Mike had donned dark sunglasses and an army style fatigue hat. He looked like any one of a hundred other outdoorsmen enjoying an afternoon of off-roading. If ever asked, Mike was fairly certain that the two boys would never remember his appearance, but they might recall the army style Jeep that he was driving. It was a fact of time and circumstance that he could not change and would have to trust to fate that the two boys, if ever questioned, would not remember anything but the thrill of riding freely in the open countryside on a warm summer's afternoon.
Mike exited the old logging road and pulled onto Route 2 in western Massachusetts and headed east towards Stevensville. He stayed in the right hand lane and, more than ever, was cautious of his speed. The section of Route 2 that he was traveling was posted at fifty-five miles per hour, which only the elderly and the lost obeyed. Most folks drove sixty-five, give or take, and never worried much about the police. More often than not, the police looked more annoyed than anything else if they pulled up behind someone who was traveling the speed limit. Life was too short to just mosey on down the road; people had things to do, places to go, and traveling the speed limit just made the journey longer. As long as the speed was reasonable for the traffic and the road conditions, the police tended to let people set their own speed.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Spirits In The Wind by Robert P. Fregault Copyright © 2011 by Robert P. Fregault. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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