The Woman in the Woods

The man, who was dressed in a business suit, unlocked the trunk to
his car. He lifted the petite woman's body, which was wrapped in the
motel blanket he'd taken from a Halifax motel an hour earlier. Being
tall and rugged, he effortlessly tossed her over his shoulder the way a
lumberjack would carry a log. The unmoving torso doubled at the waist,
one breast resting snugly against his shoulder--her knees held firmly
to his chest. She smelled sweet to him, like the baby powder that his
grandmother use to sprinkle between his sheets.

Her long raven hair, slippery with blood and clinging to her gentle
face, had felt stiff to his touch back at the motel. Like that bush at
grandmother's house, he thought--that leafy, thorny bush which had
grown wild across her muddy driveway, in Scotch Village; the
grandmother with whom he'd stayed until he'd been seven when neighbors
had finally reported the boy's screams and the police had removed
him.

The bush had sat next to the lilac tree where he'd been ordered many
times to dump tea leaves. The teapot had a cover and sometimes he had
forgotten to remove it, and it had fallen to the ground. Most times
he'd licked the cover clean of dirt before his grandmother had opened
the squeaky screen door, which slammed against the house with a loud
whack. The hefty woman, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and holding a
stick of kindling, had many times grabbed the tin pot from the boy,
inspecting it with hawk-like eyes, while he'd squirmed.

Right now, he felt the warmth of the woman's body through the blanket
which added to the heat of the already muggy, late-July evening in Nova
Scotia. Mosquitoes buzzed around his head in the darkness, while he
picked his way carefully over the side of the dirt.

He was an executive for a Halifax bank and in great shape from working
out three times a week at the YMCA. Still there was no moon and the
footing was treacherous. This remote area had been a location he'd seen
before in daylight. He stumbled, almost falling. Why hadn't he brought
along his track shoes instead of his office shoes?

He glanced at his running car, the trunk light reflecting the exhaust
smoke. Except for the scuffling of his shoes on the dry, dusty ground,
everything was quiet in this wooded and lonely Musquodoboit area.

He made it down to the ditch and had moved several yards into the
forest when the body started to move--then wiggle, and suddenly he
could no longer hold on and dropped it. He heard the body hit the
ground. He felt around with one foot, trying to find the body in the
dark.

He found the sheet. It had come undone and in the dark he tried
frantically to find the body. At first he thought it had merely rolled
away. Soon however he realized that somehow she'd escaped, which seemed
totally remarkable as he'd beaten her unmercifully with his fists and
shoes at the motel and he had assumed that she was dead.

Finally convinced that searching for her in the dark was futile, and
being furious with himself for his mistake, he climbed back up to the
road, threw the blanket (which he would toss over the side of a bridge)
into the trunk, slammed it shut, and got into the car. He had a moment
of hope. Was there a flashlight in the glove compartment? The
compartment was empty except for car insurance papers, an old plastic
coin wrapper, and some change. He drove off.

As he drove toward home, he made plans. He lit a cigarette. She
wouldn't get too far, he figured. He would come back at daybreak with
the other car. That back road was seldomly used, and she'd be watching
for a car, any car, in the morning for help. There was only one way
out, with no houses for miles.

He thought about his grandmother, her flabby white arms shaking like
jelly, mixing bread while puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette, warning
him that the next time his cat got up on the table that she'd wring the
cat's neck, and use it for soup.

For minutes the woman left behind in the woods had crouched mere feet
from him, twisting her aching body behind a tree trunk, pressing her
body and shoulders against the bark. And keeping silent, for she dared
not allow a whimper. Her body had throbbed unmercifully, but she had
slithered away from that blanket after it had miraculously opened. She
had prayed, and prayed, and prayed. Finally, she had heard him
relieving himself up on the road, and then he had driven away.

Somehow, she managed to sit up. She was totally lost in the dark. She
had no idea where she was. She had come to just after he had lifted her
out of the trunk. All she knew was that she had been badly beaten--but
alive! She had remembered being naked, but now she was clothed, but had
no shoes or stockings. He had dressed her. She guessed that he hadn't
wanted evidence lying about.

When she had entered his hotel room, he had asked her to strip.

"You don't want the heels left on?" she had asked. "Most men do."

"No heels. Nothing." He had told her.

"It's your money, sugar," she had said, humming. She had learned the
secret of moving seductively. It usually meant a quicker departure, as
sexy movements and conversation turned most men on.

"I know I'm the one who's paying," he had said, his kindness quickly
dissolving. She had started to get scared, and told him everything was
okay as long as he wasn't rough. She had made it clear that she
wouldn't put up with any rough stuff, or she'd leave.

He had turned his back to her once she had been nude, and when he
turned around again he was rubbing his left hand over his right fist.
His eyes had grown evil and the woman hadn't had the time to run before
he'd begun to beat her.

When he arrived at his southend Halifax home, he set the alarm clock
for 4:15 a.m. before crawling into bed next to his wife, Linda. She
murmured that he was late and hoped he hadn't been drinking and he said
that he'd just been out driving around. She said she could smell
perfume on him.

"I don't know how that's possible." He responded.

Just before drifting off to sleep, he felt his wife turning and
wrapping one arm around his waist, her lips meeting his, and heard her
saying that she loved him.

He awoke to the alarm. Sleepy and confused, his wife asked why he was
getting up so early. Wiping sleep from her eyes, she sat up, and
focused on the alarm clock in disbelief.

"It's only 4:16, Brad!"

"I know, dear. I know," he said. "I want to go in to work and get a few
things done. I might go to the gym. I'm just under a lot of stress
lately. I'll be back before ten-thirty." He bent over and placed a
tender kiss on her forehead. "Now, hush, or we'll wake the
twins."

She groaned, muttered something about him locking the front door after
leaving, and rolled over. He dressed quickly.

He went down to the basement. Beside his toolbox, on the counter, sat
the flashlight he wanted. He also grabbed a hammer. Carrying both
items, he left the house. After stopping to buy a coffee, and having a
few cigarettes, he was again parked in the exact spot where he had
parked the other car the night before. No sign of her. Nothing.
Daylight was slowly coming. The trees now were recognizable from one
another. He waited ten more minutes and the light had grown even
brighter. He could see quite some distance in all directions. He could
even see the scuff marks his shoes left on the side of the road.

Carrying the flashlight and hammer, he climbed down and entered the
woods. The green moss, still damp from the morning dew, felt spongy
beneath his feet. Birds began to sing merrily from their perches up in
spruce trees as sunbeams darted into the forest. In the distance a
woodpecker hammered on a dead oak stump, seeking bugs. The spot where
he'd dropped the body last night showed traces of blood on several
crushed bushes; but, for the life of him, he couldn't make out the
direction she had taken.

He walked around in the woods realizing that he had had made a serious
mistake. He should have returned last night with a flashlight. The
forest was vast, and she could have taken several different paths. She
could have crawled up to the road and someone, maybe some late night
lovers could have found her. He roamed around a bit. Hungry insects
made for his eyes and mouth. He made ever wider circles further and
further away from the spot where he had dropped her the night before.
Nothing. He walked deeper into the woods. This was deep woods Nova
Scotia and if you got lost in its forest, you were as good as dead.
Then a thought made him feel better: perhaps she was still alive but
had gotten herself lost. Surely, without food and especially water, she
wouldn't last long.

He decided to give it up, stopping to light a cigarette. He yelled, "I
know you're here, bitch!"

A fat, milky face with eyes magnified by thick lenses, appeared between
some white birch trees. "Bring me the wire brush, boy," she commanded.
"I'll get those dirty fingernails clean!"

Again, he was a boy. He lifted his hands, examining his bloody fingers
and ripped nails.

"I'll promise to keep my hands cleaned!" He cried, trying to yank his
small hands from his grandmother's strong grip, while she worked the
wire brush across his fingers.

Climbing the roadbank he stopped at the side to urinate. He heard the
sudden roar of the car engine. His body was slammed against the bumper
and thrown up over the hood. He could make out the woman's face within
inches of his--it was his grandmother, her white oily skin reflecting
the morning sun. She braked hard, and he slid like a rag doll to the
ground.

She backed up the car, then stopped. The motor idled. He lifted his
head, his body quaking in shock. She put the car into forward and drove
ever so slowly toward him, then slowed to a crawl. She heard him
begging and she heard the crunch as she drove over his head, like the
sound of a pumpkin smashing.

And then the forest was quiet.