Page 8 of 44.1644° North
My eyes raked the darkness.
I didn’t see anything, which was exactly what I expected.
But as I continued watching, a tall shadow seemed to materialize out of the darkness. He was still several car-lengths away, walking toward me.
My scalp prickled.
Was I beingfollowed?
Thishadto be someone looking for his car.
The shadow remained too far away for me to be able to make out the features, even if he—given height and build, it had to be a he—hadn’t worn a hoodie. Or maybe it was the hood of his coat. There was nothing inherently sinister about a hood or a hoodie. Everyone up here was dressed for a polar expedition, me included. But silent hooded figures following you? Yeah, creepy.
I watched as he plowed on, walking steadily with speed and determination, facing front—facing me. I couldn’t see his face, let alone his eyes, but I knew he was staring at me.
Like the way I’d known Rory No Last Name had been watching me long before he spoke up. I wasn’t being paranoid. Or at least, I wasn’tonlybeing paranoid.
Anyway, the silent purpose with which this guy walked toward me was unnerving.
Wasthis someone just going to his car?
I continued to stare, still walking backward. This was definitely starting to feel weird. Weird or ridiculous. Or both.
I raised my hand and called, “Hey.”
A second passed.
Another.
No response. Only ominous stillness broken by the slip-slide of boots on snow and the eerie echo of the woods. He didn’t speed up. He did not slow down. And that focused, measured pursuit was… Well, it was starting to worry me.
But why assume it waspursuit?
Maybe he hadn’t heard me?
Maybe he had poor night vision?
Maybe he had poor night vision, couldn’t hear well, and couldn’t find his car.
Despite my disquiet, I just couldn’t believe that anyone would attack me, let alone attack me less than two hundred yards from the Swiftwater.
Right?
Right. But with each slippery step, I was getting farther away from any kind of certainty.
Was I really about to… What? Fight? Fight for my life?
“Can I help you?” I called. Not in the tone of someone eager to help.
Headlights swept over and past me before I heard the engine of an approaching car. High beams illuminated the gleaming snake of parked cars, the short and crumbling snowbank, and the figure walking toward me.
He threw his hand up—shielding his face?—and, as the car slowed, he turned and started back toward the pub. Not running, not rushing, but striding briskly, steadily putting distance between us.
“What the hell?” My words seemed to hang in the air with my frozen breath.
Heart still bumping against my ribs, I hesitated, one eye on the retreating figure, one eye on the car which had pulled to the side of the road and was attempting the complicated maneuver of parking in a too-small space.
I continued the business of reasoning away what had nearly happened—assuming anything had nearly happened.
