Skeleton Man Page 6

  “Hello,” I hiss. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

  A hand reaches up to touch the grating. I recognize that hand.

  “Dad,” I whisper. Our fingers touch, link briefly before he falls back. My heart is pounding. It’s really him! He’s alive. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t make my voice come out. And in the back of my mind I remember that I must keep counting. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three. I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to ask the question that I have to ask, even if I’m afraid of what the answer might be.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s here,” he answers. His fingers push mine away. “Run.”

  “Is she all right? Are you all right?”

  “Run, Molly,” he says again. “There’s no time. Get away!”

  “No, Dad, not yet,” I whisper. And as I say it I feel a certainty and strength like I’ve never felt before. I know what I have to do and I am going to do it.

  I’ve got the bolt cutter out now. I maneuver it around to the lock that holds the grating and press down with all my strength. The jaws of the bolt cutter shear through the steel, as if it was butter. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

  “Run,” Dad says again. “Now!”

  “The falls, Dad,” I whisper. “You know the place.”

  I push the bolt cutter and every other tool I have in my bag through the grating. I’ve lost count now. I don’t know if there’s enough time. I’m sure that by now he will have gone upstairs to my room. But the way he moved like a cat, so fast, makes me uncertain now how long he’ll take.

  I’m through the hidden door, the door of the toolshed is ahead of me. But I don’t go through it straight. I duck and twist as I come out, and it’s a good thing because he is there waiting in the darkness and he almost grabs me. His bony fingers slip through the loose braid in my hair. I scream and yank and I’m free. I go around the house toward the road. Just as I expected, he has gone around the other side to cut me off. He thinks I’m going to run toward town, toward other houses because his is the last house on the road. He’s wrong. I’m going the other way, running fast. Running and running.

  I venture a quick look back to see where he is. He isn’t far behind me, no more than fifty yards. The moonlight glitters off his white forehead. Suddenly a rabbit darts out of the bushes and crosses in front of him, making him stumble. I gain another twenty yards, running and running. Looking back will only slow me down. I won’t risk that again. I feel the strength of that story from long ago in my legs. I won’t get tired.

  I run and run and keep running. I have gone at least a mile now. The lake glitters in the moonlight off to my right and the Visitors’ Center is just ahead of me, but there’s no time now to use the phone. I pass the sign for the park, turn onto the trail, and begin to climb. I can no longer hear him behind me. This is my territory now. I’m sure I know it better than the one chasing me.

  But I don’t. I round the corner where the trail is narrow and the cliff falls off to the right. He is there ahead of me, cutting me off. There is a grin on his skeletal face, and his long arms are spread wide as if in welcome.

  16

  Escape

  YOU CAN’T escape me,” he says in a hollow voice, a taunting voice. “Can you, little niece?”

  If I try to answer him, I’ll be done for. It would be like a mouse trying to argue with an owl. Instead I throw my backpack at him and, as he staggers back a step, I scramble up the slope off the trail into the brush. The trail edge is thick with blackberry bushes. They scratch at my hands and my face. Dead thorns stick through my jeans into my knees. But I get low, as low as a rabbit, and I crawl through and under the brush.

  He can’t. I hear him being held back by the thorny branches. I crawl until I find a clear area, then I stand up and move as quickly as I can along the dark, wooded slope. I roll my feet as I step like Dad taught me so that I don’t make much sound. Then I stop and listen. I don’t hear anything for a few heartbeats and then…

  “Whooooo!” It’s like the cry of an owl just below me on the trail. But it’s not an owl, even though it makes me want to jump like a little mouse being scared out of hiding. “Whoooo!” Skeleton Man calls again. “I’m waiting for youuu. I will get youuuuuu.”

  I don’t move. I’ll sit here all night if I have to. I won’t let him scare me into showing myself. Silence. Nothing but silence for a long time. Too much silence, for it means that other things in the woods that would normally be making noise at this time know something is still out there. Something dangerous. Like me, they’re waiting.

  Then I see it. A beam of light coming through the forest. It is sweeping back and forth, not at random but moving slowly, patiently. He has a flashlight. Its illumination is moving toward me, its beam like the strand of a spider’s web that will catch me. It’s getting too close, and I have to move. I crawl downslope as slowly as I can, a hand’s width at a time, until I reach the trail. Then I’m up and running toward the falls again. I’m not making much noise, but I begin to hear the feet of Skeleton Man thumping on the hard-packed earth of the trail behind me.

  “Whoooo,” he cries. “Whoooooo. I’m coming for youuuuuu!”

  There’s a place just ahead of us, around the next corner, where I remember my father and I had to duck under the long, low limb of a maple tree that overhung the trail. I’m praying that no one has trimmed that branch as the path bends around the hill. Yes! The branch is leaning over the narrow trail just as I’d remembered. I grab it as I run and it bends with me. Still holding it, I turn slightly. He’s too close! He’s about to grab me, but when I fall back and let the branch go, his hand misses me. The branch whips back to strike him in the face, knocking him off balance onto one knee and onto the loose stones at the steep edge of the trail. He begins to slip, and for a moment, it seems as if he is going to slide all the way off the trail into the deep ravine below. But, at the last moment, he whips one bony arm out, grabs the branch, and starts to pull himself back up. Before he can get to his feet I’m up and running again.

  As I run I startle something that had been hiding in the brush next to the path. It runs ahead of me, clearly visible in a band of moonlight shining through the overhanging branches. It’s a rabbit again. I know there are rabbits all through the park. You hardly ever walk through here in the morning or early evening without seeing at least four or five of them. It’s not at all likely that it is the same one that slowed down my pursuer back near the house. But something in me tells me different, tells me that it’s the same rabbit and it is trying to help me. It runs ahead of me and then suddenly darts off the main path onto a smaller, even steeper trail.

  I know where this trail leads. It might seem like a dead end to some people if they just read the signs that say TRAIL CLOSED and BRIDGE OUT on them. But I can see that the wooden-planked suspension bridge over the gorge is still there. Its boards are old, but it should be able to hold my weight. I follow the rabbit up that trail, my feet slipping on the loose stones, my hands grasping at branches and clumps of grass as I climb.

  Just as I’d remembered, there is a hole in the bottom of the chain-link fence big enough to crawl through. It was probably made by the local kids who carried up the narrow pieces of plywood to lay over the spots in the long, swaying bridge where the boards have rotted and fallen away, down into the stream, which is nothing more than a thin band of silver among the jagged rocks far below. But it doesn’t look as if even the daredevil kids from the high school have ventured across the bridge for a long time.

  I drop to my knees and crawl under the fence. A sharp piece of wire scratches my cheek and I feel the blood flow down my face. Another wire catches on my pant leg and I pull as hard as I can. I can’t be caught here.

  “WHOOO!” The eerie scream comes from right behind me and then there is a crash as his headlong rush takes him right into the chain-link wire. I feel something grabbing at my foot. I pull free, leaving my sneaker behind.

  There’s no time to stop
or think. I start across the bridge, my arms spread out to hold the rusty cables on each side, my eyes looking down to see where to place my feet. One step, two, three. Old boards creak under my feet and the bridge begins gently swaying back and forth. Four, five, six. The rhythm is almost like that of a dance. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, and I’m almost halfway across.

  “Molly.” The harsh whisper that cuts through the night from behind me makes me take a wrong step. My foot goes right through a rotten board. He’s never spoken my name before, and the chill that it sends down my spine makes me shake all over. “Come back here.”

  I can’t stop myself. I turn around and look. He’s standing there, back at the end of the bridge, perhaps hesitant to cross it. His long arms are held up above his head, his fingers spread out so wide that they look like the talons of a giant bird. The moonlight glistens off his pale hard face and the top of his head, and it seems as if there is no skin at all. His eyes are twin blue flames burning from within his skull.

  “No,” I say, not just to him, but to myself. I wrench my foot free, break away from his hypnotic gaze, and start forward again. There’s a thin piece of plywood just ahead spanning the last ten feet.

  Suddenly the bridge starts to shake. I know that he is on it, moving across to catch me. And he’s coming fast. I’m on the plywood now and it bends, almost to the point where the end that overlaps the concrete lip at the end of the bridge slips free. But it doesn’t. I reach the safety of the other side. Then I keep myself from doing the one thing I want to do—which is to scream for help and run headlong, run as fast as I can to get away from the bony hands that I know are about to reach out and grab me. Instead, I turn and drop down onto the ground and kick my heels against the edge of the piece of plywood. And even though he’s already on it, the plywood slips—fwap!—past the lip of stone.

  The plywood falls from beneath him, sails down into the gorge like a flipped playing card. He pitches forward, his long fingers clawing forward wildly. I try to pull myself back, but one clawing hand wraps around my ankle. It holds on so hard that I feel a searing pain, as if I’m being burned by those fingers. I begin to slide back toward the edge. I’m about to be pulled into the gorge with him! I grab hold of a metal bar that sticks up from the concrete. My arms feel as though they’re being torn from my shoulders, but I don’t let go. Instead I kick at the fingers with my other foot, the foot that still has a sneaker on it. Those fingers are strong, but they are bone, nothing but bone, and I’m alive, and I am stronger than Skeleton Man. I won’t let him defeat me now. I kick again and again and then…

  The clawed fingers wrapped about my ankle slip free. I hear the one last despairing cry of “Noooooooooo” as Skeleton Man falls away from me like a bad dream disappearing when you wake.

  My own hands are slipping. But after all I have been through I can’t fail now. I won’t let myself fall. I dig in my fingers. My sneakered foot finds a rock for leverage as I push and claw my way up to the top, away from the brink. My heart is pounding like a drum, but I am alive. I breathe in and out as I look at a sky that is filled with the light of the moon and stars. After a while, I inch my way back to the edge and look over. All I can see is darkness and the thin, glittering line of the stream far below, a ribbon of silver touched by the light of the moon. I rub the place where Skeleton Man’s fingers scratched my ankle. I can hardly believe it, but I’m perfectly safe at last.

  “Molly,” a deep voice calls from the main trail below me. “Molly.” That voice is worried, almost frantic, but it makes my heart leap with joy.

  “I’m here, Dad,” I answer. “I’m coming.”

  Then I go leaping down the trail, my feet as sure as those of a mountain goat. I feel like I can’t fall, but even so I stumble just before I reach him.

  But he doesn’t let me fall. Powerful arms catch me and lift me up, right off the ground, and then my dad is hugging me.

  “You saved us, Molly,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re our Warrior Girl.”

  “Dad,” I sob back. I don’t feel like a Warrior Girl at all, just a little kid who wants to cry and cry and cry.

  I wish I could say they found my so-called uncle. But they didn’t, not on the rocks below or in the swift running stream. Even though the water was high and the current would have carried him down into the deep lake, they should have found him. But they didn’t. Where his body went remains a mystery.

  So does his real identity. I found my backpack on the trail where I threw it at him, but none of the evidence I gave them and nothing he left in the house gave any clue. They found the doctored photographs, the phony identification papers, all of the stuff in the computer, including the way he was able to hack into banks and databases to get money and information about people. It appeared that he’d chosen our family because of Dad’s job with the bank and because he could use me and Mom as leverage to make Dad give him the information he needed. The fact that we didn’t have any relatives made it easier for him to deceive people about being my uncle. There was also a diary, with photographs, of how he’d planned everything and carried it out. It was all there, from posing as a highway patrolman to stop their car while they were on their way home that Saturday night to stepping in as my next of kin. Everything was there except who he was and why he did it. And what he was planning to do with us in the end.

  “What was it,” the school psychiatrist said to me, “that made him want to have total control over a family like that? Was it a chemical imbalance? Perhaps it was because of things that happened to him as a child. Or perhaps not.” Then she tapped her pencil against her chin and looked wise. Right.

  I remember what my dad and mom said to me about it all when the police and the reporters and the lights and cameras were finally gone, and there was time at last for us to be alone together.

  “There’s going to be a lot of people talking about this, trying to figure it all out,” Dad said. “But it seems to me that the only place where it makes sense is in our old stories.” As he spoke I realized how much the voice of the rabbit in my dreams had been like his voice. “There are still creatures that may look like people but are something else. The reason creatures like Skeleton Man do what they do is that they like to hunt us. The only way to defeat them is to be brave.”

  He smiled at me then, and I smiled back.

  I looked over at my mother and she nodded. But I could tell she had something more to say about it, too, about why he locked them up under the toolshed and barely fed them, why he pretended to be my uncle. Dad and I didn’t ask her; we just waited for her to speak.

  “Molly,” she said, holding my hand tight, “you know what a cat does when it catches a mouse? It doesn’t kill it and eat it right away. It plays with it for a while first.”

  And that was all she had to say about it, though Dad reached over and took both of our hands and we sat there together like that for a long time.

  Maybe, like Ms. Shabbas said to me, there never was any real why about it. “Honey,” she said, “it happened, but now it is over.” Then she sang a few lines from that musical about Don Quixote. “Yes, indeed,” she said, nodding. “You have dreamed the impossible dream.”

  I can live with that. Like one of the old stories I’ve grown up with, something evil came into the lives of good people and we found a way to defeat it. My dad and mom and I are together again, we are happy, and that is enough for me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could not have written this book without the many lessons I’ve been taught by such tradition bearers as the late Alice Shenandoah Papineau/Dewasentah (Onondaga), Grandmother Doris Minkler (Abenaki), and my great friend Gayle Ross (Cherokee). They have helped me understand even more deeply how different the strong women in our traditional American Indian stories are from the dependent damsels of European folktales who hope for a prince to rescue them. Not only do our Native American heroines take care of their own rescues, they often save the men, too!

  About the Author

  JOSEPH B
RUCHAC is a master storyteller and author. He has written numerous critically acclaimed novels, poems, and stories, many drawing upon his Abenaki heritage. SKELETON MAN, based on a traditional Abenaki story, is the first book in which Mr. Bruchac has recast the plot of one of the old stories as a novel set in the present. He and his wife, Carol, live in upstate New York in the same house where he was raised by his grandparents.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Credits

  Cover art © 2001 by Sally Wern Comport

  Cover design by Hilary Zarycky

  Cover © 2003 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  Copyright

  SKELETON MAN. Text copyright © 2001 by Joseph Bruchac. Illustrations copyright © 2001 by Sally Wern Comport. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.