The Shadow Box(2)

Through the fog of near death, I thought I heard a scream outside, a high-pitched wail, primal and wild. Is that why he left me there before he had finished killing me? Had the sound scared him off? Or had the noise come from my own throat? Had my attacker run into the kitchen, hidden in the house? Or slipped out the garage door and escaped along the beach path? He must have thought I was dead or would soon die.

I look up at the garage ceiling. One rafter is damaged, part of it lying on the floor next to me. I realize it broke under my weight, and my eyes fill with tears. This old carriage house was built around 1900, at the same time Griffin’s great-grandfather, governor of Connecticut, the first Chase man to hold political office, constructed the “cottage”—growing up, I would have called it a mansion. We live at the edge of the sea, and countless nor’easters and hurricanes have battered this place. We’ve been meaning to reinforce the building for years. The rafter gave way, and I tumbled to the floor and lived. This weathered old structure saved my life.

My left ankle is bruised and swollen, and my legs are stiff. Will I make it through my backyard, over the stone bridge, into the marsh, and from there into the pines, the deep woods, to the safe place my father and I built together? It is a long way. Will my blood leave a trail for Griffin to follow? The state police have a canine unit. Griffin will make sure his minions send the cadaver dogs after me.

When will I be missed? I have until they first notice I am gone to get where I need to go. My whole body is shaking. Will I make it? What if the police find me first? They belong to Griffin. My husband rules law enforcement in Connecticut. He was already a man of power, and the backing he has for his run for governor gives him even more. The secret I keep could ruin his career. And once it gets out, his campaign will end, and the men who support him will be furious.

I think about the letter I received, and the warning it contained. Why didn’t I listen?

My hands hurt. I picture the knife again, and my knees feel like jelly.

Using the garage walls for support, I stagger to a shelf at the back and take down a can of animal repellent—a foul-smelling powdered mixture of fox, bobcat, and cougar urine that I bought by mail order. It is intended to keep deer away from gardens, dogs away from borders. The smell of predators will raise their hackles, send fear through their blood. My woodsman father taught me the potion has another use: when spread in the wild, rather than repelling, it will attract the species of animals that excreted the urine.

Ever since my father’s death, we have stayed connected in spirit, through the myth of a mountain lion said to live deep in the woods nearby. Perhaps that big cat is a ghost, just like my father, just like members of the Nehantic and Pequot tribes who lived here before us. But I have seen and tracked large paw prints, collected tufts of coarse yellow fur for my work, and I have seen his shadow. Could that have been the caterwaul I heard just as I was supposed to die?

The smell of the mixture will throw off the dogs. They will be intrigued by the possibility of a wild animal; they will sniff along the boundary line I will create. They will not cross it, and they will forget about their quarry—me. My father’s lessons along with years of loving the forest, observing the behavior of its inhabitants, will help me escape.

I find a beach towel in the cupboard and use it to put pressure on my head wound. The blood soaks through—I am shocked by the amount because there is already a pool on the floor. How much have I lost?

I feel weak, and I bobble the tin. Some urine powder falls to the floor. I try to wipe it up, but the putrid stench nearly makes me vomit. When the search dogs get here, they will growl and back away from this corner; they will be on guard before they even begin.

I start to walk and trip on the rope around my neck. If I can’t untie the knot, I can at least cut through it. I look around the Range Rover for the knife my attacker used, but it’s not here. He must have taken it.

Garden clippers hang on a rusty nail; I use them for pruning roses and hydrangeas. The handles fit my hand, but it hurts to maneuver them. Do I have the dexterity to snip the line instead of my artery? I nick the skin, but victory—the rope falls to the floor. This effort has taken all my energy, so I sit down and hope I’ll be able to stand again before the police arrive.

Griffin’s police departments throughout eastern Connecticut will investigate my disappearance with the full force of his office behind them. Suspicion will fall on violent criminals he sent to prison—he will make sure of that. People will assume someone wanted revenge. Detectives will investigate every recently released convict. They will question the families of prisoners still incarcerated.

My husband will hold a news conference and say that the police will catch whoever harmed me, abducted me, or killed me and removed my body, and he very personally will prosecute that person, get justice for me. The tragedy will burnish his image: public servant, grieving husband. I will become a hashtag: #JusticeForClaire.

But he, someone on his force, or one of his political backers with too much to lose will find and murder me first.

Terrified and half-dead, I choke on a sob. I had loved my husband more than anyone, this man who now wanted me dead. I am dizzy, can barely stand. I think, for half a minute, of going to my studio behind the house, grabbing the letter. But why? I ignored it when it mattered most, when it could have saved me. Let it stay in its hiding place. If I die, if I never return, it will be a record of what happened.

It is time for me to set off on a journey that will be short in distance, endless in effort. Maybe I’m delirious, just coming back from having been deprived of oxygen, but I sense that big cat padding silently in the woods ahead of me—my destination—and I walk cautiously. Fear is the gift.