I bent my knees, wrapped both arms around his waist and pulled. His boots dragged through the mud while he pushed weakly with one foot. The strain shot across my back so hard that black spots appeared in my vision.
“Just one step,” I said.
Ray groaned.
“One step.”
He moved his left foot.
“That’s it.”
We took another.
The hill rose ahead of us, slick and steep. I kept my shoulder beneath his arm and used the fence posts to pull us forward. Whenever he slipped, I grabbed the back of his vest. Whenever I slipped, he tried to catch himself against me, which nearly knocked us both down.
The canvas bag swung against my hip with every step.
At the top of the first rise, I looked back. The pickup was gone, but the motorcycle remained beside the ditch. A glint near the front wheel caught my eye.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw a strip of bright yellow plastic lying in the mud.
I stopped and lowered Ray against the fence.
“What is it?” he asked.
I pointed down the slope.
The yellow piece was attached to a small metal road marker. It had been ripped from the post beside the gate. The post itself leaned at an angle, its base freshly broken.
I remembered seeing the marker when I came down the road earlier. It had stood straight, warning drivers about the washed-out shoulder. Now the broken end showed clean, pale wood beneath the mud.
Ray followed my gaze.
“That wasn’t there when you crashed?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You saw it?”
“I saw the sign.”
“Was it standing?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
He closed his eyes.
“Ray.”
“Someone moved it.”
“Why?”
His breathing became rougher. He pressed his palm against his ribs.
“The road was blocked ahead,” he said. “A fallen tree. I took the side road.”
“You mean this road?”
“I was directed here.”
“By who?”
He did not answer.
I crouched in front of him. “Who directed you here?”
His gaze shifted toward the farmhouse hidden beyond the next ridge.
“An emergency call came over the radio.”
“What emergency call?”
“Static at first. Then a voice.”
“What did it say?”
He looked at the black trees behind me.
“It used my name.”
The rain seemed to grow louder.
“You heard someone call your name?”
“Ray Mercer. Said there had been an accident on the county road. Said someone was trapped near the old farmhouse.”
“And you came here?”
“I thought it was a dispatch.”
“You’re not a police officer.”
“No.”
“Then why would you think it was a dispatch?”
“Because it came through the channel we use on the road.”
“Your motorcycle club?”
His jaw tightened at the word club. “Road crew.”
“Whatever it is, why would anyone send you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the voice sound familiar?”
He looked at the bag.
“I knew the voice.”
That was the first thing he had said that made the pieces feel connected.
“Who was it?”
Ray’s eyes moved to mine.
“I thought it was someone who needed help.”
The answer left a space between us that the rain could not fill.
Before I could ask again, he bent forward and vomited into the mud. I moved his hair away from his face and held his shoulder until the shaking stopped. There was a thin streak of blood in the water near his hand.
My fear became something harder.
“We’re going,” I said.
He nodded once.
I got him upright again, but the second hill was worse. The fence ended near the top, leaving nothing to grab. The ground had turned into a sheet of wet clay, and each step slid backward half the distance we had gained.
Ray tried to help by leaning less of his weight on me, but that only made him stumble. At one point, he dropped to both knees and stayed there.
“Leave me,” he said.
“No.”
“You need to go.”
“I already heard that.”
“You can make it alone.”
“So can you, apparently. You’ve been telling me to leave for twenty minutes.”
His head lowered.
I grabbed his vest and pulled him upright. “If you pass out again, I’m dragging you by this thing.”
“That’s not how you move an injured person.”
“Then stay conscious.”
He looked at me, and something almost like a smile touched his face.
“Bossy.”
“Alive.”
We climbed.
The farmhouse roof appeared again, closer this time. It was a small white structure with a red chimney and a covered porch. No lights showed in the windows. A rusted windmill stood beside the barn, its blades motionless against the low clouds.
I shouted.
“Help!”
My voice carried across the field and vanished.
I shouted again.
Ray’s knees buckled.
I held him upright and screamed until my throat hurt. No one answered.
The front porch was less than a hundred yards away, but the space between us and the house was divided by a tall wire fence. A metal gate stood in the middle, locked with a thick chain. The fence continued in both directions, disappearing into the wet pasture.
I set Ray down against one of the posts.
“Can you wait here?”
“No.”
“I’m going to the house.”
“No.”
“You need help.”
“Stay low.”
I stared at him. “There is a fence.”
“Go under it.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the farmhouse. “Because if they’re watching the road, they’ll watch the gate.”
A sharp sound came from the far side of the barn.
Not a voice. Not an animal.
Metal striking metal.
Ray’s hand caught my sleeve.
“What was that?” I whispered.
He shook his head.
The farmhouse windows stayed dark. The barn door was closed, but a narrow line of shadow showed beneath it.
I glanced back toward the road. The motorcycle was too far away to see clearly. The pickup had not returned.
“Could someone be inside?” I asked.
Ray’s expression had gone blank.
“Ray.”
“Get me under the fence.”
I did not want to. Every instinct told me to run toward the house and pound on the door. But Ray was watching the barn, and whatever he had heard had erased the little color left in his face.
I dropped to my knees and crawled beneath the bottom wire. Mud soaked the front of my shirt. The fence caught my backpack strap, then tore it loose as I pulled through. I turned and reached for Ray.
He tried to crawl after me, but his arms gave out.
“Come on,” I said. “You’re almost through.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Bag first.”
I pulled the canvas bag from beneath my coat and pushed it under the wire. Ray reached for it with shaking fingers.
The metal sound came again from behind the barn.
This time, a vehicle door slammed.
Ray’s eyes widened.
“Get back,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Get back under the fence.”
I grabbed his arm and pulled, but he was too heavy and too weak. His vest snagged on the lower wire. I tugged harder, ripping a seam near the shoulder.
“Ray, help me!”
He looked toward the barn.
A shadow moved across the gap beneath the door.
I stopped pulling.
The farmhouse was still dark. The porch was empty. The red chimney rose above the roof like a warning against the clouds.
Then a figure stepped out from behind the barn.
I could not see the face, only a tall shape in a dark rain jacket. The figure stood still for several seconds, looking toward the motorcycle at the bottom of the hill.
Then it turned toward us.
Ray made a sound that was barely more than air.