Enter The Black Oak: Chapter 22

AS THE CAR HURTLES OVER SHINNECOCK CANAL, I shoot repeated glances into my rear-view mirror, afraid that I’ll see Jack pull up behind me in some car he’s managed to get hold of. With every minute, the adrenaline ogre is subsiding slightly, giving way to twisting anxiety deep in my gut that no amount of deep breathing will attenuate.

The rain is still battering my windscreen and I let my foot off the accelerator slightly. I’m struggling to see through the torrent despite my windscreen wipers clapping at a frenetic pace. Driving past a deserted county park to my right, I can’t wait till I get past these dark and isolated farmlands and woods and get closer to Shirley and more populated areas.

I glance at the speedometer and see I’m going almost 10 mph past the speed limit and start to slow down while trying to ignore the fact that I think I can hear a strange noise coming from the right side of the car—a noise that doesn’t sound right at all… and a vibration.

No. My goddamn emotions are just heightened. I’m not that unlucky.

But there it is again: an unmistakable shaking coming from the right side of the car.

“Please, God,” I implore loudly.

I keep driving, praying that it’s just some temporary glitch that will sort itself out if I ignore it long enough.

The right side of the car starts to wobble.

This isn’t happening.

I slow to about 15 mph. If I could just get to Eastport, I could pull into a gas station…

“Fuck!” I exclaim desperately as the right side of the car starts to rattle.

Pulling over onto the shoulder, I push the hazard-light button as I come to a complete stop, contemplating for a second whether this whole night is some bad dream I need to slap myself to wake up from. The road is dark and deserted apart from occasional cars that zoom past in either direction. My hands tremble as I take out my phone and turn it on. The battery’s nearly dead, but with the sixty seconds of battery life I pray I have left, I’ll call Stella and ask her to get someone to pick me up. I know roughly where I am and it would only take her about twenty minutes to get here in a cab.

I thank God as my phone comes on with the battery symbol flashing, showing one percent power. Just enough. I find Stella’s name and press call. Two seconds of ring tone and then… silence.

“Stella! Listen! No battery left. I’ve broken down. I’m on the shoulder of Sunrise Highway, just next to the country park past the canal—Sears Bellows I think. Can you come and get me?”

Silence.

“Stella?!” I shout.

I glance down at the phone. It’s off.

“Please, no!” I plead, cold fear tricking into my veins. I turn the phone on again and it immediately shuts itself off. I push hard on the power button, swearing at it to come on, but it doesn’t comply. “Damn it!”

I replay the phone call in my mind for signs as to whether she heard me. To my horror, I realize that I never heard her voice, not even for a second. If she’d heard me, she would have said something. I would have heard a word, a sound—something!

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I mutter, looking around to see if there’s a building within walking distance. “What am I doing?” I ask aloud to no one in particular as the reality of my situation—parked alone in darkness next to a field surrounded by ominous-looking woods with rain slamming my windscreen—soaks in with unnerving clarity.

I move over into the passenger seat, roll down the window and lean out as far as I can to see if there’s something obvious that could be causing the problem—something I can fix in a miraculous split-second maneuver.

The tire. Something looks off.

“Courage,” I whisper as I open the passenger side door and step out onto the shoulder to take a closer look as rain spits at my face and a frigid wind nips at my ears. A gasp escapes me as I see the pathetic-looking front tire, almost totally flat, the rim lying against the tarmac with a thin sheet of deflated rubber between them. I stare at it for a few seconds, sure my eyes are deceiving me, not believing something like this could happen the one time a year I’m driving alone in the dark in a desolate area, wondering if the universe is punishing me for having the audacity to leave my unfaithful husband.

With now-damp hair and heavy clothes, I get back in the car and contemplate my options. I briefly turn on my floodlights to see if I can spot one of those emergency phones that I see dotted along highways and always assume I will never need.

Nothing.

I curse myself for not allowing Jack to install a GPS system in my car like he wanted to, my complaints about our over-reliance on technology now sounding nigh-on insane. I could have at least seen what the best direction to walk in is or if there’s some shop or something nearby.

A car zooms past me as I consider waiting till sunrise—five, maybe six hours away—and then trying to flag down a vehicle with a family in it or something. But I don’t fancy finding myself here at 3 a.m. when the roads are even more deserted than they are now.

You can do it, you can do it, you can do it, I repeat to myself, mantra-style, as I make up my mind to change the flat tire myself. I mean, I’ve seen it done before. My father made it a point to show me and my brother how to change one the couple of times we got a flat when I was younger. How hard can it be?

I get out of the car, pull my suitcase out of the trunk and throw it onto the back seat so that I can get to the spare tire under the lining of the trunk. I grab the little bag of tools from the center of the tire before summoning all my strength to yank the spare tire out and rolling it to the front of the car.

Okay. That was easy. Phase one done.

Rain soaks the thin cotton of my pants as I empty the tools out onto the wet gravel and sit down next to the deflated tire that seems like it’s taunting me for leaving Jack and not just shutting up and taking it like a good little wife is supposed to do. I turn on the flashlight that I grabbed from the glove compartment and place it on the ground facing the tire before positioning the jack under the chassis of the car and inserting the rod thingamajig, cranking it as hard as I can to lift the car up. I strain to get the car to elevate, using every ounce of strength to crank it about two-thirds of the height it could do with being. It’ll have to do.

As I take the wrench and try to loosen the first nut that’s keeping the tire in place, my heart flutters as another car thunders past me.

You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

I yank the wrench counterclockwise in an attempt to get the nut to shift, trying to steady my slippery hands as I lean on it with all my weight to get it to budge…

Nothing.

Rainwater drips into my eyes and down my nose and I push soaked strands of hair behind my ears and wipe my hands on my water-logged pants in a futile attempt to get a better grip on the wrench. I switch to a different nut, which—after much straining on my part—I feel shift a little, then more, until I finally manage to unscrew it completely and place it on the tarmac beside me.

“Okay. Round three. Be nice,” I whisper imploringly to the next nut as I once again use all my might to try to get it to budge. “Damn it. How the fuck is anyone supposed to do this?” I mutter, using both hands and the weight of my body as leverage on a nut that seems to have been tightened on by the Terminator. My wet hands slip and I fall onto my side where a sharp jolt reminds me that my leg is still far from healed.

Okay, not now. Let’s just do this. It’s easy.

I give up and turn to the fourth nut which cooperates. As I start to work on the first immovable nut again, headlights light up the tarmac in front of me. I turn back and see a car, expecting it to careen past me but realize that it’s going slower than all the others who have come past—much slower. In fact, it’s slowing way down.

I stay crouched beside my car on the rough asphalt and lift my head slightly, straining to see if it’s perhaps a police car or highway patrol. Instead, I see an old-model burgundy sedan slowly cruising by my car, and through the side window, I observe a man’s face look my car up and down. The sedan turns onto the shoulder and stops about twenty feet in front of my front bumper.

As hopeful as I am that this is some kind stranger wanting to help, the hairs stick up on my neck and trepidation leaves my heart thudding violently.

From the shapes in the car, it looks like there are two people—two men—both in the front seats. The car stays immobile, engine running, nobody moving.

Why isn’t anyone getting out?

Fear breathes an icy mist into me and I open the passenger door of my car and dive into my purse for the small canister of pepper spray that I always carry, unlocking the safety latch and gripping it in my left hand as I desperately scan my memory for the numerous tips I learned in self-defense training.

Don’t try to be polite when you sense danger.

Never ignore your gut instinct.

Locate your exits.

I pick up the heavy wrench and hold it in my right hand before standing up and trying to look as tall as I can in the hopes that the advice about what to do when encountering a cougar in the wild can somehow be applied to this situation…

Making a run for it into the woods past the pasture to my right is hardly an option. Nor is trying to drive my car any distance in the state the front tire is in. I may well be paranoid, but if something starts to feel really wrong, I’ll cross the highway onto the median strip and run as fast as I can in the opposite direction against traffic. I don’t think these men would be able to drive after me, nor, hopefully, catch up to me before I manage to flag a car—any car—down.

The passenger door of the sedan suddenly opens with a click and a man gets out. He looks about forty-five, with a too-large denim jacket, torn jeans and black sneakers on. His hair is light brown, mottled with grey, his face gaunt. He shifts from one foot to the other, straining to see my face through the headlights before taking a step towards me.

“You alright, lady?” he asks, his voice weathered.

I scan his face and contemplate whether I should ask him for help, wondering if I’m demonizing a benevolent stranger who just wants to be of assistance.

And yet, there’s something. A voice. A sense. A feeling that I shouldn’t let these men near me.

Never ignore your gut instinct.

I grip the canister tightly.

The man stares at me awkwardly, exchanging uncomfortable energy with me. I shift my gaze towards the driver and notice shadowy eyes staring at me through the rear-view mirror.

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks,” I shout as assertively as I can manage. There can be no mixed messages here. “My husband’s just on the way. He’s like two minutes away. He’s gonna change the tire. We’re all good. Thanks anyway,” I yell, trying to prevent my voice from quivering, though I know it wavered more than once and that my face must be a picture of barely concealed fear.

He keeps eyeballing me.

Why isn’t he saying something?

A shiver runs down my spine.

This isn’t right.

The man takes two steps towards me. “You sure, lady?”

I take a step back, making the heavy metal wrench I have in my hand more visible.

Don’t try to be polite when you sense danger.

“I’m sure! We’ve got this! We don’t need help. Thanks anyway,” I shout, more forcefully this time. “You can go, really.”

Go on, asshole, get in the car. Just turn around and get in the car.

“Well, I don’t know,” he responds.

I hear another click and see what appears to be the driver of the car opening his door.

Jess, get out of there.

Keeping my eyes trailed firmly on the men, I take a few steps backwards, turning just in time to see an explosion of blinding headlights and a second car I don’t recognize turn unwaveringly onto the shoulder with a growl, pulling up fifteen feet behind the back bumper of my car, its floodlights startling my eyes.

“Shit,” I shudder, my mind racing, wondering if they called someone. I look back at the passenger of the sedan and see his eyes squinting through the glare. With the floodlights illuminating him, his hollow eyes, pitted cheeks and a scarred, unshaven face are much clearer.

As I turn back to look at the newly arrived car behind mine, the driver’s side door swings open and a tall stranger gets out. I stay frozen on the spot, clutching the wrench in one hand and pepper spray in the other. The silhouette makes its way through the floodlights as if in slow motion as I desperately try to make out the man marching determinedly towards me.

As he gets closer, I observe dark, wavy hair and burning, tenebrous eyes, with rain lashing a sculpted face and dripping onto strong, broad shoulders.

I almost gasp as I recognize the face and a monumental surge of relief allows my lungs to expand again. “Cameron!” I utter on a desperate, breathy exhale, taking a step toward him.

He approaches, his stride unfaltering, his fiery eyes flitting fiercely between me and the strangers in front of us. He positions himself just in front of me, placing his hand on my hip and gently easing me behind him before swinging my passenger door open and turning to face me sternly. “Get in. Now!”

I start to protest.

“In!” he repeats in anger, turning to look at the man standing in front of us.

The driver’s door in front closes, but the passenger remains standing.

I get into the passenger seat as Cameron takes a couple of steps towards the car in front. He’s a good five inches taller than the stranger opposite him, which does little to assuage my fear for his safety. I grip my pepper spray tightly, determined to jump out if my friend finds himself in danger, even if my physical strength is little match for any of these men.

“You can leave now. I’ve got this,” he shouts assertively— aggressively almost—staring the unmoving stranger down. “Just get back in the car and leave.”

The man’s eyes flick to mine before finding Cameron again, whom he eyeballs as a dark smile begins to unfurl; a nasty, wicked grin spreads across the stranger’s sickly face and he holds it for five frightening seconds before getting back in the car which speeds away.

Once it’s completely out of sight, Cameron strides round to the driver’s side of my car and gets in. He glares at me, rain dripping through his thick brown hair and down his devastating face as he tries to control his breathing, his amber eyes wild with furious concern.

“Jessynia, what the hell—”

“I got a flat!” I interject, physically restraining myself from throwing my arms around him and hugging him out of sheer relief. “My phone died. I was trying to change the tire and they turned up. I—”

“You can’t drive around at night in this weather without a fucking phone! You know that!” he shouts. “I’ve heard you tell women shit like that!”

“I know, I know. I’ve never had anything like this happen before.”

“Do you have any fucking idea what could have happened to you?!”

“I know!” I yell. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had a flat before. I was trying to change it, but it—”

“Are you okay?” he asks, looking me up and down and smoothing damp strands of sticky hair off my face with his strong fingers.

“Just a little shaken.”

He spots the canister of pepper spray still gripped tightly in my white-knuckled fingers and takes it from me, throwing it onto the back seat of the car.

“Where’s Jack?” he asks, in a tone that suggests he has an idea that Jack is not involved in this scenario.

I shake my head and look down. “It’s… it’s bad. I need to get away from here. From him.”

The storm on his face dissolves slightly as he observes the pain in mine and I avert my gaze for a moment, ashamed and embarrassed.

“I need to go back to Manhattan and get my stuff out of my place before he tries to stop me or uses it as leverage to force me to see him.” My teeth almost chatter as I speak, the icy rain now permeating right through my clothes to the skin.

He takes a deep breath, his pupils dilating and contracting as they focus on my wet face in the dim light for several charged seconds.

“Okay,” he says soberly. “Let me change your tire.”

He gets out of the car and walks round to the front, surveying my feeble attempts at getting the job done. I get out to help him.

“Get back in the car,” he says firmly. “I can do this.”

“Let me help,” I insist. “I can hold the flashlight or something.”

I pick up the yellow flashlight lying on the ground and shine it at the wheel. Cameron’s powerful arms easily crank the jack the rest of the way up and despite rain that lashes his eyes and drips down his muscular neck, he makes light work of the two nuts that I couldn’t shift, barely exerting any effort to make them budge loose. He grabs the flat tire and yanks it off, places it on the tarmac and positions the spare onto the hub.

“Damn it,” he curses over the screeching wind, straining to make himself heard. “This is a factory spare. It’s not a real spare. It’s half the size of your other tires.”

I look and see a tire of a radius of two-thirds that of the original tire. “Can I drive with it?”

He doesn’t answer, continuing to tighten the nuts onto the wheel bolts effortlessly with his fingers and then the wrench. He cranks the jack down so that the new tire is now in contact with the tarmac and removes it, placing all the tools and the flat tire into the trunk before getting into the car seconds after me.

“I don’t want you driving on this tire,” he says forcefully. “There’s no way you’ll get back to Manhattan on this spare, in this visibility with the potholes around here. It’s meant to last an hour—long enough to get to a garage or something.”

I start to shiver, unable to speak, now thoroughly soaked all the way through to the bone. The shock and the frigid rain have taken their toll and I’m aware that I’m starting to feel too cold.

Cameron turns the heater on and rubs his hands up and down my arms in an effort to warm me up a little. “Jesus. You’re in no state to drive two minutes, let alone two hours. I’m going to get someone to pick up your car.”

I don’t answer, barely having enough energy to stay warm and conscious, let alone protest. Cameron gets out his wallet, takes a card from it and calls what I assume to be roadside assistance, describing my car and its location and insisting it be picked up immediately and taken to a tow-yard in Oyster Bay, whatever the cost.

Hanging up, he turns to me. “I’m going to drive you to Redwood. Lottie will probably be the only one still there. You’re not going to make it back to Manhattan tonight and there’s no chance of getting a hotel around here this weekend. I’m not wasting time looking for one while you’re dying of hypothermia, okay?”

I curse internally. I really don’t want to go with him. It’s far from ideal seeing how much Jack despises him and how much I’ve been hurt by Cameron in the past. I hate that I’ve ended up in this stupid, vulnerable position, dependent on another person—another man—to get me out of this mess. I briefly try to think of another solution, but my body is so frigid and shaken that the only thing I can think of doing is getting into a safe, warm bed and sleeping so that I can regenerate enough to sort out the disaster that is my life. The fact is that his strong, powerful presence feels like the only thing keeping me alive right now.

I nod.

Before I have a chance to rethink, he gets out of the car and walks round to my side, opening the passenger door and helping me out before walking me over to his black Audi. As I get in, he returns to my car, grabs my suitcase and bag and throws them into the trunk of his. Getting into the driver’s seat, he puts the heating on full blast and turns to look at me as rivulets of rainwater drip off his thick dark locks, down his golden forehead onto chiseled cheekbones, following the sharp lines of his face until droplets caress his dusky pink lips, and coat his strong neck and muscular shoulders.

As I put my head down and wrap my arms around my chest to keep my body temperature up, vague words emanate from him, but I’m too disorientated to make them out.

A strong hand suddenly yanks my chin up. “Jess? Can you hear me?” His powerful voice is loud and urgent.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I’m aware of him buckling my seat belt, turning on the engine and pulling out onto the highway.

During fleeting moments of lucidity between periods of lost time, I sense him navigating expertly through dark, quiet roads, as though the very roads belong to him. The warmth from the blaring heater has helped get my body temperature up a little, but I’ve been on enough hiking expeditions to know that I’m suffering from mild hypothermia.

At some point I feel the crunch of a gravel driveway and the car stops, silence descending upon us but for the tapping of rain. The passenger door jolts open and strong hands are upon me, undoing my seat belt and lifting me out of the seat. I stand on my forceless, uncoordinated feet before being lifted up by Cameron and carried in his arms across the rest of the driveway to a majestic house.

Redwood.