He'd done all the talking up till now. "Come get me, you bastard," I said. "Come get me, rapist."
"They loved it," he said, amazingly. "They loved it."
"Sure," I said. "Who doesn't like being chained and burned and sliced before sex?"
"No," he said, panting, "not the boys. Tom. Tom and Chuck."
"Okay, you make me sick," I said. "You going to stand there and make me sick some more, asshole?"
And he charged. He can't have been stupid, because he had a good job and he did it well enough to keep it, but he was stupid that night because of the strain and the pain and the freezing temperature, and he did lunge right at me. I leaped to one side and as he shot by I shoved him as hard as I could using both hands, even with the broken arm screaming at me. He landed right at the lake's edge, so I hadn't been close enough, damn it. I'd wanted him to go into the chilly water. But he wasn't getting up, and I took off. All those years of running finally gave me a reward for good behavior.
I was in the trees and working my way around the lake toward the inhabited cabin, the one with lights, which—I was almost certain—was the Hamiltons'.
I thought I heard him a million times. I hid for ten minutes, not moving, at least once; and maybe more than that. I was in too much pain to make sense, too cold to reason. I still had the knife, and though I thought of dropping it, I was scared to be without it in case he caught up with me. When I remembered how it had felt when the knife went into him, I had to stop and throw up. This was a queasy case. I didn't remember ever getting the heaves over any case before. Probably, I thought, I could excuse myself for it over the knifing. But I'd gotten sick outside the barn, too. Maybe it was the torturing, not the knifing?
I knew I wasn't thinking clearly, but knowing that didn't seem to help. I actually shook my head, maybe in the hope that my brains would resettle in a more sensible configuration, but I was really sorry I did that after I got sick yet again. Something was wrong with me, something bad. I needed to go to the hospital! I giggled.
It sure must have been Tom that hit me with that shovel, I thought. If it had been Barney, he would've killed me.
I'd forgotten to move for a couple of minutes. I'd just been standing in the dark woods with my mind far, far away. I listened hard, but I couldn't hear anything. That didn't mean it wasn't happening. I didn't trust my senses anymore. But I made myself move, because I couldn't stay out in the cold. I had to reach shelter.
That was the hardest struggle of my life. But I could see the lights and they were getting closer. I was farther from the road, far enough that I could only see lights passing occasionally. And who could tell whose lights they were, anyway?
I finally approached the first cabin. The woods ended, not abruptly, but with a gradual shift from heavy brush and trees, to trees with no brush, to scattered trees, to lawn and cabin. I didn't know anything: where Barney was, if I was for sure at Pine Landing Lake, if Tolliver was even looking for me. How could he not be? But what if he thought I'd gone off voluntarily? We'd been a little irritated with each other. No, that would never happen. He'd never believe I'd leave him.
I was stalling because I was scared to step out into the open. I listened with all my ears and looked with all my eyes. My heart was thudding and my head began pounding in time with it. I was having to fight a terrible desire to lie down on the cold ground and rest there, just for a minute. I took a few deep breaths and braced myself. I stepped out into the darkening evening. The moon would be out and there would be a lot of visibility, but now it was still twilight, the deepest, darkest part.
One step out into the open. Another.
Nothing happened.
I began to move faster, crossing this lawn and going into the next. Saying "lawn" may give an impression of unbroken sweeps of trimmed grass, but that wasn't exactly accurate. These were summer cabins, or glorified fishing camps, and lawn care was not a big item in the time budget of people who spent weekends at the lake. The lots were not that large, and sometimes there was no division at all between one property and another. Sometimes there was a line of ragged bushes, probably something that flowered in the spring. The ground was often weedy, uneven, and always, it was wet. There were things strewn around: buckets, childrens' toys, boats covered in tarps, even a swing set. One careless cabin owner had left out his deck chairs. I know because I fell over one.
I'd never felt so alone in my life.
I got this feeling that this episode would never end. Forever, for always, I'd be stumbling in the dark through rough territory, with death waiting for me somewhere along the line.
I was actually surprised to find that I had reached the Cotton cabin, where we'd stayed. For the first time I was sure I was at Pine Landing Lake, and the next cabin, the one with lights, was the Hamiltons' place.
But I'd have to step into the bright light to knock on the Hamiltons' door. I might endanger them. Though it seemed to me that Barney Simpson must be heading toward Mexico or Canada in his SUV by now, I couldn't be certain.
I planned it in advance, real carefully. I would run from the shadows of the Cotton cabin, up the slight slope to the Hamiltons' driveway, up the steps to their little deck, across it to the door, bam bam bam. Ted would open the door, because it was night. He would let me in. He might not really want to, because I was such a mess and I was bringing trouble with me, but I thought he would.
I gathered myself. Just as I was about to take the step out of the shadows, a large dark shape passed between me and the cottage. It seemed more bear than human, but after a second I was sure I was seeing Barney Simpson—not the kindly hospital administrator, but the beast that had lived within him. He hardly walked like a man. His shoulders were slumped and his left leg was dragging. I was sorry I hadn't hurt him enough to stop him. I thought he was more dangerous now that he'd been wounded.
He stood almost directly outside the Hamiltons' side door, down on the driveway; he didn't mount the steps to the deck. Their security light shone on the top of his head. Barney's hair was full of leaves and twigs. His suit was stained with blood and damp and dirt.
He had a big knife in his right hand. It was really more of a machete than a knife. I wondered if he'd gotten it out of his car, and if so, where it had been during our struggle. He'd been too cocky, then, apparently; he hadn't thought a weapon would be necessary, because he was big and strong.
Okay. I'd just wait until he left.
But Ted Hamilton was on the watch, as always. The door to the cottage opened, and the old man stepped out onto the little deck.
"Is it Mr. Simpson from the hospital?" he called. "Mr. Simpson, is that you?"
"Oh, Mr. Hamilton," said Barney. "Listen, I'm sorry to disturb you. But that young woman that was here to find the bodies, that Harper Connelly, she's having a mental episode and she's somewhere out here running loose."
"Oh, goodness," said Mr. Hamilton, and it was impossible to tell from his voice what his reaction was.
"I don't suppose you've seen her?" Barney asked, and I wondered if I was the only one who could hear the strain in his voice. Barney was having a hard time sounding and acting like a human.
"No, I haven't," Ted Hamilton said. "What do you plan to do when you find her?"
"Why, take her to the hospital," Barney said.
"Are you planning to cut off her head first? Because that sure is a big knife you've got there."
"No, Mr. Hamilton, watch out!" I jumped out of my hiding place, because I was so scared that Barney would attack the old man and his wife.
But Mr. Hamilton was pointing a gun at Barney. He was right on top of the situation, until I'd startled both of them by my sudden appearance.