He picked her up as carefully as he could, and grabbed his ax. He curved her in against him to protect her from the low pine branches and underbrush. She was small, probably not older than five or six. He realized then she wasn’t wearing a jacket, only the thin yellow T-shirt and dirty yellow jeans. There were white sneakers on her feet, one of the laces unfastened and dangling. No socks, no gloves, no jacket, no cap. What was she doing out here alone? What had happened to her?
He stopped. He could have sworn that he heard the sound of a heavy foot snapping through leaves and small branches. No, he was imagining things. He pulled her closer and quickened his step, the sound of that crunching step hovering just behind him.
It was heavy dusk by the time he walked through the door of his cabin. He laid the little girl on the sofa and covered her with an afghan, an old red-and-blue-checked wool square that was probably older than he was, and very warm. He lit the lamps throughout the cabin.
He turned to look at the front door. He frowned at it, then walked to the door, locked it, and turned the dead bolt. His hand paused as he lifted the chain. Better to be certain. He secured it. Then he lit the fire in the fireplace. Within ten minutes the single large room was warm.
The child was still unconscious. He lightly patted her cheeks, and sat back, waiting.
His day certainly wasn’t ending as it had begun. “Who are you?” he said to the child. Her face was turned away from him. The scratches were bright and ugly in the lamplight.
He fetched a bowl of tepid water that had been sitting on the woodstove all afternoon, a clean pair of white gym socks, and a bar of soap. He washed her face, as carefully as he could with a gym sock pulled over his hand, blotting the blood off the long scratches.
He brought one of his soft white undershirts that was warm and soft after years of laundering, and began to strip her. He had to examine her as best he could. He was shocked, then furious, at what he saw.
She was covered with bruises and welts, some of them crusted with dried blood. Blood was smeared between her legs. Oh, God. He closed his eyes a moment.
He bathed her thoroughly, examining her as well as he could, but he didn’t see any signs of wounds or cuts, just abrasions and deep bruises. He turned her onto her stomach. Long thin welts scored her child’s flesh, from her shoulders to her ankles, welts that didn’t overlap, as if made by a careless enraged hand, but that had been carefully placed by someone who wanted to mark every inch of the child, to obtain a certain result, a certain effect. She was thin and as white as the clean undershirt he pulled over her head. The undershirt came to her ankles. He smoothed the covers back over her, and spread out her hair about her head on the pillow with his fingers, gentle as he could be, easing out the worst of the tangles. It was just as well that she wasn’t awake while he’d taken care of her. He sat back, staring at the silent child.
He realized he was shaking with fury. What monster had done this to a child? He knew, from firsthand experience, that there were many monsters out there, but to come face-to-face with this made him want to puke and kill at the same time.
He willed her to wake up. She didn’t move. He considered whether to take her to the hospital now. He had no phone so he couldn’t call. He’d even left his cell phone at home. It was late. He didn’t know where the hospital was, how far. And he didn’t know who had done this to her, who’d abused and beaten her, or where they were. No, tomorrow he’d take her, and he’d stay with her. He wouldn’t leave her alone. Tomorrow, he’d drive with her to the sheriff. There had to be a sheriff in Dillinger. Tonight he’d take care of her himself. If she awoke, if she was hurting, then he’d take her to the hospital, no matter what the hour. But not now.