After that, I keep my mouth shut and just follow him.
The woods up here are all redwoods. There are no leaves on the forest floor to crunch as we walk. Instead, the forest gives us exactly what we need—a thick carpet of soft needles that muffles our footsteps.
I want to ask if the voices he heard are coming our way, but am afraid to speak unnecessarily. We can try to go around their territory, but we need to continue in the same general direction if we are to reach San Francisco.
Raffe picks up his pace downhill almost to a run. I follow blindly, assuming he hears something I don’t. Then I hear it too.
Dogs.
By the sound of their barking, they’re heading straight for us.
CHAPTER 14
We break into a sprint, skidding on the needles almost as much as running over them. Could these people keep dogs? Or is this a wild pack? If they’re wild, then climbing up a tree would keep us safe until they wander away. But if they’re kept…. The thought boggles my mind. They would need enough food to keep themselves and their dogs fed. Who has that kind of wealth and how did they get it?
An image of the cannibalized family comes back to me, and my brain shuts off while my instincts take over.
It’s clear by the sound of the dogs that they’re gaining on us. The road is far behind us now so we can’t dive into a car. A tree will have to do.
I frantically scan the forest for a climbable tree. There are none that I can see. Unlike other trees, redwood trunks don’t split off. They grow tall and straight, with branches shooting out perpendicular to the trunk high above the ground. I'd have to be at least double my height to reach the lowest branch of any of the trees around us.
Raffe jumps up below a branch. Although he jumps much higher than a normal man could, it is still not enough. He slams his fist into the trunk in frustration. He's probably never needed to jump before. Why jump when you can fly?
“Get on my shoulders,” he says.
I'm not sure what his plan is, but the dogs are getting louder. I can't tell how many of them there are, but it's not one or two, it's a pack.
He grabs my waist and lifts me up. He's strong. Strong enough to lift me all the way up until I'm standing on his shoulders. I can barely reach the lowest branch this way, but it's enough to get a grip when I push off from him. I hope the skinny branch is strong enough to hold my weight.
He puts his hands below my feet, supporting and pushing me up until I'm securely on the branch. It wobbles but holds my weight. I look around to see if I can find a branch to break and send down to him.
But before I can do anything, he takes off running. I almost call out his name, but catch myself before I do. The last thing we need is me giving away our position.
I watch him disappear down the hill. Now it's my turn to pound on the tree in frustration. What's he doing? If he stayed by the tree, maybe I could have managed to get him up here somehow. I could have at least helped him fight off the dogs by throwing things down on them. I have no projectile weapons but from this height, anything I throw would be a weapon.
Did he run to distract the dogs so I could be safe? Did he do it to protect me?
I slam my fist into the trunk again.
A six-pack of dogs come snarling at the tree. A couple linger, sniffing around the trunk, but the rest take off after Raffe. It only takes a moment before the loitering pair run off after the pack.
My branch leans precariously toward the ground. The branches are so sparse and thin here that all anyone would have to do is look up to see me. The lower branches only have leaves at their ends so that there is very little coverage near the trunk. I reach up for another branch and start climbing. The branches get stronger and thicker as I head up. It’s a long way up to a branch with enough leaves to give me any cover.
When a dog yelps in pain, I know they have caught up to him. I curl up and cling to the branch, trying to guess what's happening.
Below me, something large crashes through the underbrush. It turns out to be several large men. Five of them. They are in camouflage and carry rifles like they know how to use them.
One of them signals with his hand and the rest fan out. These men don't give the impression of weekend hunters shooting rabbits with one hand while drinking beer with the other. They are organized. Trained. Deadly. They move with an ease and confidence that makes me suspect they've worked together before. That they've hunted together before.
My chest drains of all heat thinking about what a rogue military group would do to an angel prisoner. I consider yelling at them, distracting them to give Raffe a chance to run. But dogs are still growling and yelping. He's fighting for his life and my yelling will only distract him and get us both caught.
If I die, Paige is as good as dead too. And I won't die for an angel, no matter what crazy things he does that coincidentally save my skin. If he could have climbed on my shoulders to get up here, would he have?
But deep inside, I know better. If he was just out to save his own skin, he would have outrun me at the first sign of danger. As the old joke goes, he doesn't need to outrun the bear, he just needs to outrun me. That, he could easily do.
The vicious growl of a dog lunging makes me cringe. The men shouldn't be able to tell that Raffe is not human unless they strip his shirt or unless the wounds on his back open and bleed. But if he's getting torn up by the dogs, he will heal completely within a day and that will be a dead giveaway if they keep him that long. Of course, if they're cannibals, none of it will matter.
I don't know what to do. I need to help Raffe. But I also need to stay alive and not do anything stupid. I just want to curl up and put my hands over my ears.
A sharp command silences the dogs. The men have found Raffe. I can't hear what they're saying, only that they're talking. Not surprisingly, the tone doesn't sound friendly. Not much is said, and I can't hear Raffe talking at all.
A few moments later, the dogs run past my tree. The same two diligent dogs sniff at the bottom of my tree before running to catch up with the rest of the pack. Then the men come.
The one that made the hand signal earlier leads the group. Raffe walks behind him.
His hands are tied behind his back and blood runs down his face and leg. He stares straight ahead, careful not to look up at me. Two men flank him on either side, their hands on his arms as though just waiting for him to fall so they can drag him up the hill. The last two men follow, holding their rifles at a 45-degree angle and looking around for something to shoot. One of them carries Raffe's bag.