Chapter 2

Six months later

"No, Jenny, it's not a joke." Cathy Chandler chuckled into the phone.

"Backpacking in the wilderness and Cathy Chandler are two concepts that don't belong in the same sentence," replied Jenny Aronson to her best friend.

"I know, but I can adapt," insisted Cathy as she raised her chin defiantly.

"You're more Fifth Avenue than Appalachian Trail," joked Jenny. "You'll need a whole new wardrobe."

"As if I ever needed an excuse to shop," she replied with a chuckle. "Tom and I are hitting the Explorer Store this afternoon."

"Cathy Chandler goes commando," laughed Jenny, "who'd'a thought!"

"Hardly commando, more weekend warrior," Cathy responded lightly. "Without the war, of course."

"So, I can't talk you out of it?" asked Jenny, her voice had taken on a more serious tone.

"No. It's very important to Tom. This new account could be huge for his firm; they want to build eco-friendly luxury resorts on the edges of these wilderness areas. Frankly, if the client wanted Tom to fly to Mars, he'd find a way."

"Then, let him fly the Mars—without you," insisted Jenny. "This whole scenario is not giving me good vibes Cathy."

"Vibes, smibes," joked Cathy. "It'll be fine. It's a bonding thing, Tom and me and Stuart and Tracey from Wilderlux Resorts. We're driving up to the Campton helicopter base on Saturday. They're flying us in to the Sandwich Range Wilderness area at White Mountain and we're hiking out. It'll be fun."

"What does your father say?" asked Jenny.

"He says I could do a lot worse than Tom Gunther and should support him," said Cathy.

"And have," confirmed Jenny. "Gosh, I remember Stephen Bass, the way he was so possessive. But Cathy, Tom has his own ways to manipulate; they may not be as obvious as Stephen's. Please promise me you'll go slowly with him."

"Jen, don't worry. I know Tom's not perfect, who is? But he has ambition."

"What about your ambitions?" needled Jenny. "There's more to you than being Mrs Tom Gunther, homemaker and all round entertainer you know."

"I know that, but I'm so mixed up at present, Jenny," admitted Cathy. "I'm hoping this trip will somehow be a turning point, a new direction, and it might give me better insight into Tom."

"I hope so too," said Jenny. "And stay away from Bigfoot. Did you see the reports in the Sunday paper?"

"Yeah, I did. 'A man-beast spotted in the forests of White Mountain near the river'," she quoted, remembering the news report. "Probably some poor starved bear trying to catch a fish."

"Well, be careful, it's hunting season up there. We wouldn't want them mistaking Tom for Bigfoot, would we?" quipped Jenny.

"We'll be careful," replied Cathy, a smile playing around her lips. "Now, I'd better go meet Tom and be guided by his superior knowledge of purchasing outdoor gear."

"Yeah, right!" Jenny responded sarcastically before she ended the call.

Cathy's thoughts were in disarray as she rode the elevator down from her office with Tom a short time later. He held her arm firmly, in that proprietary way of his, once again giving her the impression that she was a prisoner being escorted to the dock.

Familiarity isn't love … complacency is wrong … even Tom deserves someone who truly loves him.

….

Life had narrowed considerably for Vincent. If he'd thought his life Below was contained and suffocating he was wrong. He had lost so much. His home and sanctuary, his family, his sense of community, his books … his books, although their words still had the power to bring him solace.

He was alive, and relatively free, and that small mercy he owed to Howie. During the terrible ride in the trunk of the Silk's car, they'd stopped for gas on the highway. Vincent's hands were still chained, making escape impossible; and he'd lost most of the feeling in his arms. He lay in quiet desperation, unable to call for help—who would help him anyway? To Vincent's amazement the trunk opened slowly and although his vision was still blurred he could make out Howie standing there, looking nervous. The others had gone into the store.

"Shush, Mister, shush, don't say nothin'," advised Howie. "This is real wrong what Chris and Tony are gonna do. Here, gimme' your hands … I'll take them chains off."

Vincent raised his numb arms; his whole body still ached from the explosion and subsequent rough handling by the Silks. Howie worked the chains until they fell away.

"Mister, no one's 'round. Just go and I'll shut the trunk." Howie constantly scanned the store as he nervously moved from foot to foot. He glanced at Vincent and pointed across the highway. "Go that way. I saw lots of trees and mountains. You'll be safe there."

Howie then helped Vincent out of the trunk. He felt unsteady and weak and his head hurt, but steel himself he must, if he wanted to survive.

"Thank you, Howie," whispered Vincent, "I owe you everything."

"Just go, Mister, before they come back," encouraged Howie. "Run!"

And so Vincent ran. Across the highway, empty at the late hour, down a side street, around the edge of a town, along sealed roads and then gravel roads until there were no more roads. Still he ran on, until the pain in his chest and legs and head defeated him and he crawled into the undergrowth, pulled his cloak tightly around himself and let go ...

… and six months on, Vincent's life was still in limbo. He worked daily, in survivor mode, to shelter and feed himself and to stay away from people - those who would do him harm and those he would unintentionally frighten. He'd eventually recovered from his injuries, although it had taken several weeks for his vision to settle. He daily considered his options for returning home, but the very reasons he stayed Below in New York were equally valid here. In fact, it was venturing Above that had landed him here in the first place. He was trapped.

He had made a shelter in an overhang below a cliff. The natural contour had afforded him a roof and rear wall. Working with vegetation he'd fashioned further walls and camouflaged them. He could stay dry and relatively free of drafts in the shelter and it wasn't too far from the river that ran through the valley. He could obtain water and wash himself and his clothes at the river and had even made fish traps using reeds from along the river bank.

What scant possessions he had were gathered from vacated campsites. He couldn't believe the treasures people left behind. He had a tin plate and a mug, a pocket knife and even a piece of soap that had been discarded. His most precious find was a full box of matches. Although he could make a campfire without the matches, using the skills he'd learned on expeditions far Below, these little sticks tipped with phosphorous were invaluable during wet weather.

Vincent had spoken to no one since thanking Howie six months before. That is not to say he had not seen people or been seen by them on occasion. As good as his hearing and eyesight were, spring and summer had meant lots of hikers in the area and it was inevitable that he would be seen. He tried to stay hidden by day and hunt and forage by night. Dawn and dusk were the most dangerous times for him.

His diet was monotonous and barely adequate: fish mostly, small animals and what berries and plants he could find that proved edible. Oh, what he would give for some of William's cooking. He dreamt of huge vats of delicious stew, laden with carrots and potatoes, and homemade bread, warm and crusty from the oven. Some mornings he woke to the smell coffee brewing, wafting on the breeze from a distant valley. The aroma conjured memories of home and family, companionship and laughter. It reminded him starkly of all he had lost and made him feel so alone.

He ate enough to survive, but not to thrive, and he wondered how much longer he could go on this way. The colder weather had arrived and there'd already been occasional flurries of snow and days when he was never warm.