Chapter 2

Cartier, May 6

A welcome warm spell had stretched into its fourth day.  Jill hadn't told him why she asked him to have lunch, but her silence on the way to the restaurant quickly dashed any illusion that her call this morning stemmed from romantic interest.  While waiting for traffic to clear at Main, he discreetly glanced her way.  She was obviously preoccupied by something more important than him, but he was pitiably thankful just to be alone with her.

"Richard," she said suddenly.  From beneath a slightly furrowed brow her blue eyes captured his.

"Yes?"

"Nothing," she said shifting her eyes back to the street.  "It will wait until we get to the restaurant."

She didn't seem to notice that traffic had cleared.  Richard stepped into the street, extending his hand when she hesitated.  She stepped from the curb and accompanied him across the street leaving him to wonder if she had even seen his awkward gesture.

They passed in silence a string of turn-of-the-century shops recently restored to an architect's idea of their original appearance, their destination a two-story brick building that had been a combination furniture factory and store in the twenties.  Now it was an upscale and only slightly pretentious restaurant called Yesterday's featuring soup, salad, sandwiches, and ambiance.  She had suggested it.

A large wooden staircase led them to an upper floor whose center had been cut away, leaving an interior gallery with seating on four sides.  Richard cringed at the prices as they studied their menus in silence.

"I should not have involved you in this," she said abruptly.

"In what?"

She looked at him and winced.  "Can you speak with Mic for me?"

Mediation service! he thought bitterly.

He was irritated and disappointed, but, most of all, he felt foolish for letting himself believe that she had any interest in him.  He tried to soldier on.

"Go on," he said.

"He will not accept that . . . I mean he insists that we . . . "

She pursed her lips in consternation and looked at him beseechingly.  "Please make him understand."

"Understand what?"

"That it is over between us obviously.  Or am I just wasting my time?"

He tried to understand why her anger.

"Wait.  You two broke up?"

"You are his friend," she said.  "You must know that."

"Not till now," he said.

Her wide blue eyes searched his face.

"Please do this for me," she began, and then grimaced in exasperation.  "That's sounds so manipulative.  I just . . . I'm sorry.  Forget I said anything."

It was manipulative, but he didn't care.  If she needed his help to get clear of Mic, that was just fine with him---more than fine.

"I'll talk to him," he promised.  "But we're really . . . not all that close."

Jill gave him a skeptical look.  "You and he are always together.  You are old friends."

If she knew why I've even tolerated him all this time what would she think? he asked himself.

That you're a creep, came the reply.

"I only knew him in the Corps . . . in Somalia," he said.  "And then not well.  I never expected to see him again after we left.  Then he shows up here last fall and . . . you know, familiar face . . . strangers all around.  I never intended . . .to hang around with him . . . it just happened."

Their over-priced sandwiches arrived.

"So, I guess appearances are deceiving sometimes," she said when the waitress was gone.

"I didn't mean to deceive you."

It galled her to need assistance in something she should have been able to handle for herself.  She had always prided herself on handling her own problems, but this was different.  Mic had frightened her.  She couldn't share that with Richard, whom she hardly knew.  She hadn't even told Marta.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing I care to discuss," she said tersely.

"No.  I understand.  Some things are just . . . personal."

She only nodded, her discomfort matching his.  They finished eating in awkward silence, Jill, unwilling to confide the details of her relationship with Mic, and Richard not knowing what to say.  The sandwiches gone, there was no reason to prolong their lunch date or whatever it had been.  They exited Yesterday's on the side facing the other street into a courtyard surrounded by a high serpentine brick wall enclosing a small formal garden.

"This reminds me of home," said Jill absently, gesturing toward beds of perennial mints providing a variegated green border for small yellow and red patches of miniature tulips.

"Eager to get back?"

"Not until I earn my degree.  Air travel is expensive."

She was eager to leave, and he wondered if she wanted to escape him or just the situation.

"I'll do my best with Mic," he said.

Her face colored.  "I should not have I asked," she said.  "Perhaps you should forget it."

"I don't mind.  Really I don't."

She nodded, averted her eyes, and turned to hurry away.  She had taken only a half dozen steps when she turned back.

"You really do not have to do this, Richard."

"I know, but I will.  Don't worry about it."

May 7

It was only four, but Richard knew he would find Mic at Tonto's, a gloomy, smoke-filled cavernous blue-collar bar.  From the foyer he surveyed morose clots and individuals drinking in isolated silence.  It couldn't contrast more starkly with the boisterous taverns near campus.  Mic sat at the far end of the bar, talking to a woman overdressed for the time of the day.  While wending his way through the mismatched furniture, he noticed that her dark blue dress was too short, too tight, and definitely not age appropriate.  As he neared he saw that she was thirty-something and needed the dim light to pull off the illusion for which she was trying.

"Hey, Mic," he said, sliding onto a stool.

The woman covered her annoyance with a polite smile.

"Well finally out of hibernation," said Mic with a crooked grin.  "How's it hanging, Ricky?"

"Same-ole, same-ole," he replied, automatically falling into adolescent military patois.

"Barkeep, San Miguel for my friend," Mic called out.

He rested his hand proprietarily on the woman's nape.  "Ricky, meet Rose."

"Hi, Ricky," she mumbled.

He nodded.

"Rose is a model, Ricky.  Did lingerie shoots a few years back.  Still got the bod for it, don't you think?"

"Come on, Mic," she whined.

Mic was betraying a confidence, and he enjoyed her obvious discomfort.  He tightened his grip.

"Mic!"  She tried to pull away.

He dug his fingers into her neck to make a point before releasing her.  When she turned to leave he swatted her lightly across the tight fabric covering her rear.  Clutching her purse she fled with as much dignity as she could salvage.  Mic shrugged and turned his attention to his drink.

"She'll be back," he said before taking a long pull from his bottle.  He slammed it down abruptly, turning a glassy-eyed stare at Richard.

"Women pretend they hate it when you do that, but they love it---every damned one of them.  Hell!  They need it.  Just takes some of ‘em a while to realize it.  She'll come slinking back like a kicked dog.  I guaran-damned-tee it!"

He pointed the bottle at Richard.  "Sometimes they forget their place---need reminding."

"Ever think maybe you don't know as much as you think you do?" asked Richard.

It wasn't the segue he had rehearsed, but Mic had irritated him.

Mic's head came up abruptly.  Then an amused look came to his face  "We're not talking about Rose any more, are we, Ricky?"

"I talked to Jill," said Richard.  "Maybe you should just accept the fact that she doesn't want to see you anymore."

"She sent you to say that?  Aw, Ricky," he said, shaking his head as if in disbelief.  "She's playing you, buddy."

Mic finished his beer and motioned for another, tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth, and chewed them thoughtfully.  "She winds you up and sends you over here to hassle me.  I'll have to straighten her out."

As he lifted his bottle for a drink, Richard's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Leave her alone, Mic."

"Or answer to you?" asked Mic nonchalantly, clearly amused at the thought.

"Or answer to me," said Richard evenly.

He waited for a subtle weight shift or some other sign that Mic was about to throw a punch.  Mic held his gaze steady, a neutral expression on his face a long moment, and then he laughed.  "Go on.  You can have her---my present to you.  Good luck with the slut."

When he was younger he would have felt compelled to push it further.  Now he let it pass.  After all, the main thing was to get Mic to understand that his relationship with Jill was over.  Evidently the mission had been accomplished.

But with Mic, nothing was ever over until he decided it was.  Richard should have known that.

May 8

Footprints puddled on the parquet floor behind her as she hurried, wrapped in a hastily donned robe and with wringing wet hair, to pick up the phone.

"Oh, Richard," she said when she recognized his voice.  "I am glad you called.  I think perhaps you should not talk to Mic.  I was not thinking.  It is---"

"Already taken care of," he said to forestall her.  "Don't worry about it."

"How did he . . . What did he say?"

"I don't remember exactly."

"I should not have asked."

He cleared his throat nervously.  "Listen, the reason I called is . . . well I came into these tickets for a . . . a concert up at Traverse City . . . for tonight.  I was thinking maybe you'd like to go if you have nothing else to do."

She hesitated, afraid that he would construe accepting as acknowledgement that she had purchased his services.  As much as she despised manipulative women, she now wondered if she were the one being manipulated.

"Are you still there?" he asked.

She tried to process the situation.  Was he trying to manipulate her?  If so she certainly deserved it.  And she could end it before it got as far as her ill-considered relationship with Mic had gotten.

"When do we leave?" she asked impulsively.

"Five-thirty?"

"That is only an hour from now."

"Yeah, I know.  Sorry."

"I can be ready by then, but why so early?"

"Travers City is a long drive, and we'll be coming back late I'm afraid."

She didn't respond for a moment, already having second thoughts.

"Jill, I . . . hope you're not thinking of this as . . . Look, you're not obligated or anything."

"I know.  I  . . . uh . . . I am looking forward to it."

Jill placed the phone back in its cradle and closed her eyes.

"Why did I do that?" she wondered.

"Because a night free of worry will be a relief.  I deserve it."

Later, as she fastened her earrings in the mirror, second thoughts came again.

"What do you really know about Richard?"

She heard a knock at the door.

"Too late now," she mumbled.

She pulled on a sweater and threw a light jacket over her arm before going out.

"I told Marta about the concert," she said casually as they went down to the car.  "Poor girl.  With her fiancé so far away she goes nowhere but to the university."

She wished that she had thought to call Marta.  The white lie was meant to make him think that someone knew where she was and whom she was with.

The scent of her perfume as he helped her into the car evoked feelings that were premature at best.  Richard had virtually extorted his date with her.

"I hope you enjoy the Lightfoot concert," he said.  "I don't even know what kind of music you like."

Both of them sensed the awkwardness of the situation.

"Lightfoot?" she said.  "Is that a group or a soloist?"

"Singer-songwriter.  Lots of hits from all the way back in the sixties through the eighties.  Great lyrics, lots of meaning.  You'll recognize the voice."

"Tell me about his music," she said.

As Richard told as much as he could remember about the Canadian artist's music, he gradually got lost in his own enthusiasm.  He became more comfortable, and Jill became more comfortable too.

"Meaningful words set to the right tune is like magic," he said.  "There's no better means of communication according to my dad.  He loved his music.  He taught me to really listen.  He said that a great musician always has something to say---something to share."

Jill noted the past tense.  Richard's father was no longer alive.

"He was a musician then?" she asked.

"Not professionally.  Just a working man---raised a few cows, worked in the switchyard down by the quay."

"Switchyard?"

When Jill didn't know a word it surprised him.  Her command of English was better than any native speaker he knew.  Even the slight accent he had noticed at first had completely disappeared.  Her intelligence was almost intimidating.

"A switchyard is where they make up trains," he explained.  "Where they reorganize and couple together the cars.  It's kind of a dangerous job.  One night when I was in high school we had a bad ice storm.  Dad must have slipped or something.  No one ever knew exactly what happened."

"I'm sorry, Richard."

"That's okay.  It was a long time ago.  I miss him, but I've still got mom.  She's living in Florida now.  While I was in the Marines she married a guy named Charles . . . nice guy . . . crazy about her.  What about your parents?"

"My parents divorced when I was twelve.  Neither could be bothered with an inconvenient child who might interfere with starting a new life.  My Aunt Mirabelle is my real mother."

"So where's home?  I know it's in France, but where exactly?"

"Bretagne-a-Mare.  In Brittany."

"Brittany?  So it's on the ocean?"

She didn't tell him that "a-Mare" literally meant "on the ocean."

"We live south of Normandy in the province of Bretagne Atlantique.  It's eighty kilometers from the ocean at St. Nazair on the south coast of the peninsula."

"Tell me about your Aunt . . ."

"Mirabelle," she supplied.  "She suffered a cerebrovascular embolism . . . a stroke I think you say.  She is in a convalescent home now.  The prognosis that she will completely recover is not great."

"You miss her a lot," he said.

"I did not wish to leave her, but she insisted that I come here and finish my education as we had planned.  I feel guilty, but she insists that I not sacrifice myself to care for her.  She would be very angry with me if I go back before I . . . accomplish my mission."

"Sounds like a remarkable woman."

In ten minutes, Richard had discovered more about her than Mic ever had.  It made her want to know more about him.

"Why do you never speak of Somalia?" she asked.

"I don't have any stories to tell."

He said it softly and without a hint of emotion, but she sensed that the question had made him uncomfortable.  Things went better when they began discussing music again.

Lightfoot was well into the first stanza of his tribute to the builders of the Canadian Pacific railroad when the maitre d' showed them through the crowded club to their table.  Richard noticed a few in the crowd as young as Jill, and thought that they could not have heard the song when first released.

"You are right.  I recognize that voice," said Jill as Richard helped her to her seat.

They listened silently through profound and poignant ballads about the singer's homeland and its diverse people, the French and British Canadians, the Native Americans, and the Irish who had come to build the railroads.  The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, mournfully repetitive, but perfectly fitted to the tragedy of an ore carrier lost to a Great Lakes storm, took them to intermission.

"Thank you for bringing me, Richard," she said.  "I am so enjoying myself."

"I'm glad," he said, cautioning himself not to make too much of her remark.

Lightfoot came back on stage, experimented with a few chords, adjusting the strings, and then began one of his first hits, Early Morning Rain.  He abruptly stopped playing just as he was about to start the vocal, and then leaned to the microphone.

"Maybe I'll be more in the mood for that later," he said, making a minor adjustment to one of the strings.  Satisfied, he began the opening arpeggio of That's What You Get For Loving Me, at the end of which he slipped directly into Ribbon of Darkness.

"I love what he did there," said Richard.  "Turnabout or maybe reaping what you sow."  He gave her a crooked grin.  "Sorry about the running commentary.  I've been doing it all evening, haven't I?"

"Do not apologize for enthusiasm.  There is so little wonder in the world for most people."

That pleased him too.  Then again most of what she did and what she was pleased him.

The concert ran long.  Lightfoot had given the audience its money's worth.  Now Richard and Jill walked down the street to the car side by side, but not close, Richard with his hands in his pockets and Jill with arms folded against the cool night air.

"Thanks for coming with me," he said.

"The music was wonderful.  And you are good company."

"Maybe we can . . . do something like this again."

"Maybe," she said tentatively.

On the drive back Jill found herself studying Richard's profile in the light of oncoming cars.  The relationship between Mic and Richard puzzled her.  Then again, her own actions puzzled her.  They were totally at odds with the image she had of herself.

Why have I asked this virtual stranger to help me?  Is it because I was more afraid than I wanted to admit?

Her face burned as she thought again about the implications of accepting the invitation tonight.  Suddenly she felt guilty and foolish.

"Jill," he said without taking his eyes from the road.  "I'd love to see you again sometime, but . . . well, given the circumstances, I'll understand if you don't think that's a good idea."

She nodded without answering, and his heart sank.

Gradually the conversation resumed, each trying to steer safely toward neutral topics, but time did not pass as quickly as it had earlier in the evening.  Finally Richard pulled to the curb at her apartment.  He got out and walked her to the door.

"It's nearly two," he said inanely when they got to the stoop.

"Thanks for the evening," she said.

"My pleasure," he replied before turning to go.

She couldn't let him leave without an attempt to explain herself.

"Richard!"

He turned.

"I should not have asked you to talk with Mic.  I hope it does not cause trouble between you.  I . . . I just was not thinking."

"Hey, it's okay.  It's over," he assured her.

And he thought it was.

Richard was halfway to the car when she spoke again.

"Call me."

He nodded, and then got into his car.

Tired, but more at ease than he had been in a long time, he searched for the lock with his key.  Suddenly he was slammed face-first into the wall.  Stunned, he rolled to the side, but before he could recover a forearm across his throat pinned him to the wall.  He saw only the dark silhouette, but instinct told him that either a knife or gun pointed at his abdomen.  Ragged alcohol-laced breath hit his face.  The guy may have been drunk but he was as strong as an ox.

"Man, I don't have much money," he choked out.  "What I got ain't worth getting hurt over."

He tried again.

"I haven't seen your face, so just take the money and throw my wallet in the yard so I don't have to do all the paperwork to get my license and stuff."

The forearm jammed harder, cutting off his wind.  Richard reacted instinctively, twisting just enough to partially block the knee he sensed coming up toward his groin.  Simultaneously he grabbed the wrist and twisted down and to the left, pulling hard.  As his assailant lost his balance and fell forward, Richard threw an elbow, connecting solidly with the man's temple.  He heard the dull thud of a head hitting the brick wall.  The man became dead weight, and slumped to the concrete.

Gasping for air, Richard coughed and rubbed his aching Adam's apple.  Pulse pounded in his ears.  He bent double and threw up in the grass.  Then he opened the door and flipped on the light to see the man who had attacked him.

"What the hell?" he said.  "I should have known it."

He scanned the street.  Mic's car was parked just down the block. 

Using a fireman's carry and his own car, Richard managed to get Mic back to his own house where he found the door unlocked.  Struggling under the weight, he flipped on the light, and went straight to the couch where he dumped Mic.  Instead of leaving, as he should have, he went to the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge.  He got back just as Mic was coming around.

Mic groaned, moved his hand to his head, and then sat up unsteadily.

"What the hell did you hit me with?"

"My elbow.  I could have killed you."

"I should have killed you.  You can't mess with my girl like that."

"She's not yours, Mic.  She was, but you blew it."

Mic sat straighter and ran a hand over the goose egg on the side of his head.

"Damn!  Good shot, Ricky.  You got lucky though because I was careless."

His face lost all expression.

"You want your little split-tail though, it's gonna take more than a sucker punch."

"It's not up to you---me either for that matter.  She'll make up her own mind."

"She's not going to get away with this."

"Leave her alone, Mic," Richard said evenly. 

"Or what?  You'll talk to me again?"

"I'll do whatever I have to do."

Mic laughed.  "I was with you in the Mog.  Remember?  I seen your action.  Let me give you something to sleep on tonight, buddy."

He gave Richard a nasty smile.  "I'm gonna give her what she's been asking for, and you are going to stay out of my way."

"No.  You're gonna leave her alone."

"You're fighting a losing battle, Ricky.  She don't want you.  She wants me.  I know what she likes.  She likes it when---"

"Shut up, Mic!"

"No, you gotta hear this.  You should see her when she's really into it.  She likes me to do it to her while I got my hands on her throat---you know---and kind of---squeeze until her eye's roll back in her head.  She loves that, man.  She's addicted to---"

The bottle shattered on Mic's forehead before Richard realized that he had swung.  Shards skittered across the tile floor.  How he got there he couldn't remember, but Richard found himself astraddle Mic with the broken bottle up under Mic's chin.

They held their positions silently for a long moment as each tried to come to grips with what had just happened.  Blood trickled into Mic's left eye.  He blinked it away.

"Who you kidding, Ricky," he said calmly.

Richard trembled, dangerously close to slashing the man's throat.

"Can you do it, Ricky?  It's a real rush.  I was just a kid the first time."

Richard dug the glass into Mic's throat, but the big man didn't flinch.  Instead, he giggled.

"You know what I'm gonna do?  Picture the look on her face when she realizes that this time it ain't play.  That I'm really doing it."

Richard hit him in the face with the fist wrapped around the broken bottle again and again.  Later he couldn't remember how many times.  He got up and staggered from the house, not because of what he had done, but because of what he was tempted to do.  He had to get away.

Before he had driven far, Richard was already trying to rationalize Mic's behavior as nothing more than drunken ranting, but he knew better.  It hadn't been drunken behavior.  It had been insane.  The possibility that Mic was indeed insane terrified him.  And it was all too easy to believe.

He drove southeast of town, his thoughts a jagged tumble of frustration, self-doubt, and dread.  He wrestled with Mic's perverse remarks about Jill longer than he should have, wondering if he didn't believe it because it was ridiculous, or simply because he didn't want to believe it.

No.  If I know anything about her, I know she's not like that.

Yet something else bothered him.  In fact it made him question his own sanity.  Since Somalia the very thought of violence sickened him, yet he had been on the verge of slashing Mic's throat.

What came next wasn't a mere memory.  He heard it, smelled it.

The squad walked slowly, keeping five-meter intervals to minimize damage from a burst of fire or a grenade.  After a fruitless search for hiding gunmen they returned to the square to provide security for the overwhelmed medics.  Richard saw Mic prod a dead civilian with his M-16.  The flash suppresser slid down the front of her bloodstained dress.  At the sound of ripping fabric he stepped over and shouldered Mic away.  They glared at each other across the body.  Then Mic shrugged and threw him a what-the-hell smile.

"Hey, she's just dead meat."

"We all said stuff like that," Richard mumbled as he drove on, not knowing or caring where he was going.

It was true.  Coarse talk and insensitivity were a kind of armor against the awfulness.  They all developed emotional calluses, but Mic had seemed to have them from the start.

Richard and Kevin went to find Mic after a firefight, and found him sitting in a doorway smoking.  The unmistakable odor drew Richard to look inside.  In the dim light he made out a dead girl, on her side, hands and bare feet trussed together at the small of her back by an electric cord now buried in the flesh of her neck.

"How could anyone do that?" he asked hoarsely.

"Militia execution," offered Mic off-handedly as he flicked his cigarette toward the body.

Could the Somali girl be the "rush" Mic had talked about earlier in the evening?  He decided that it couldn't be because he talked about being a kid when he discovered the thrill of killing.

Richard drove on aimlessly, realizing that another fight was a forgone conclusion, and the next time he probably wouldn't fare as well as he had tonight.  That bothered him less than what Mic had said about Jill.  It was fantasy.  It had to be.  But that he had such a fantasy coupled with what Richard already knew about him was terrifying.

Flashing lights in the rearview brought him back to the present.  He had been driving on autopilot, and wondered if he had been wandering.  He pulled over.  A moment later he glimpsed a thin uniformed man approaching in the rearview mirror.  The beam of a flashlight found the mirror, blinding him.  Richard rolled down the window and placed both hands atop the steering wheel so as to be plainly visible to the approaching officer.

"Richard.  What are you doing out here this time of night?"

The voice and Sam Elliot mustache concealing the man's upper lip were familiar.  He had been Richard's mentor during his summer practicum.

"Just driving and thinking, JR."

"Thinking or drinking?  You smell like a damned brewery."

"Got a Breathalyzer handy?"

JR studied him closely for a moment.

"I might give you a pass, I guess."

"I haven't been drinking.  Well, I did have a beer.  One."

JR noticed the scrape on Richard's forehead.

"You sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah," he said, and then changed his mind.  "No, not really.  Got time to talk after work?"

"No.  But if you lock up you can ride around with me for awhile."

"So talk to me," said JR as soon as they were underway.

"I need some information on the guy who put this knot on my head."

JR stared straight ahead and nodded solemnly.

"You're not with the department anymore, Richard."

"I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."  When there was no answer he hurried on.  "He's a scary guy, JR.  I need to know how scared I should be.  He indirectly threatened a girl I know.  If there's something in his past that would indicate how likely he is to carry through I need to find out about it."

"Don't you think that might be a matter for law enforcement?"

"As far as I know he hasn't done anything illegal here.  Look, I've got to make sure nothing happens to her.  That's the bottom line.  I really need this, JR."

"Just what am I supposed to do while bending the law for you?"

"I need to find out where a guy named William McCulloch Boyd was say around 1987 and 1988, and I need to know if there were serious crimes committed wherever that was during that time."

"Define ‘serious?'"

"Sexual assault, abduction, maybe a disappearance . . . "

Richard omitted "murder."  If JR did what he was asking him to do he was sure to pass along any homicides."

"Don't they teach you anything up at the college?  That's all public record."

"I need it quick, JR."

"You're not feeding me a line, are you?  I mean, this isn't an assignment for one of your classes or something, is it?"

"I wish."

"Let me think on it.  I'll get back to you this afternoon."  He grimaced.  "Look, don't go getting yourself in trouble, Richard---not if you want a job in law enforcement."

"I don't intend to.  But I have to know what I'm into here.  And this girl needs my help."

"Just use some sense, Richard."

The phone woke Richard from a fitful sleep.  He glanced at the clock before answering.  He had only been sleeping for three hours.

"Yeah?" he said hoarsely.

"Richard, this is JR.  Got something to write on?"

Richard grabbed some junk mail, found a large envelope with a blank back, took a pen from the table, and came back to the phone.

"Go ahead."

"Your guy's got a record all right.  He got probation for breaking and entering when he was eighteen."

"That's it?"

"Barry County, Missouri is where I got that.  During the period you asked about---January of  '87 to December off '90 there were six homicides and three missing persons reports and a mess of assaults, too many to count.  Two of the missing turned out to be runaways, both later reunited with their families, and there was an eight-year-old boy whose body was eventually found in Table Rock Lake.  Probably an accidental drowning.  No other notation.  Now five of your homicides resulted in arrest and conviction, but one is a cold case.  A girl disappeared from a high school dance.  Body was found the next day . . . apparent sexual assault.  No arrest."

"Got a name?"

"Carly Marissa Williams."

"I wonder if he knew her."

"Richard, I know you think this guy is good for something like that, but don't let your imagination run away with you.  Not even country people know everyone else in the county."

"I know that, JR.  Thanks for getting this stuff for me."

"If you want my advice, I say cut loose from this situation as quick as you can."

"I intend to," he said, but he had a feeling that it wasn't entirely up to him.

As soon as JR was off the line he called Jill.

"Yes," she said uncertainly when he identified himself.

"You said to call, so . . . I was wondering if you'd like to . . . maybe have a sandwich or something."

"I cannot today." 

"Tomorrow then?  Or am I just being a pest?"

"Actually, what I need to do should not take the whole day.  Can you meet me at the library . . . at say, three-thirty this afternoon?"

"Sure.  Is Yesterday's okay?"

"Let's go somewhere more reasonable.  Fast food is fine."

It wouldn't provide the privacy for what he needed to tell her, but it would have to do.

He spent the rest of the day trying to formulate what he was going to say, deciding immediately that he couldn't tell all of it, very little in fact.  Alluding even indirectly to erotic asphyxia would embarrass her at best, and at worst make her think that he was some sort of sex maniac.

"He talked about strangling you," he imagined himself saying.  No.  That might make her think that I'm the real threat.  Unless he's already done something to make her believe it, she would think I'm crazy.

By three he was still at a loss.  Worse, he himself didn't know what to believe.  He could not construct a single certainty from all the bits and pieces---all the words and worries.  It was still all supposition and speculation---except his fear for her.  Something bad was going to happen to her unless he stopped it.  Still he had no idea of what to tell her.

He couldn't decide how to begin the conversation or how to correctly frame what he wanted to say.  What he had to tell her was bound to seem implausible if not completely preposterous.

"What's wrong, Richard?" she asked, as they pulled into the lot at McDonalds.

"Nothing," he said, turning her a weak smile.

Her eyes flitted to his forehead.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"Oh, this?  Mic was waiting at my house . . . last night . . .after I . . . after we got back and---"

"And you decided to settle things like men?"

"No, that's not what happened.  He was drunk and jumped me.  All I did was defend myself."

"Winner gets the girl?  Is that what it was?"

Now he couldn't bring it up.  She would reject any warning about Mic out of hand.

"Maybe he thinks like that.  I don't."

Jill shook her head impatiently, dismissing his denial of responsibility.

"Why did you let this happen?" she asked irritably.  "No.  This is my fault.  I should not have involved you."

"Jill, this is no more your fault than mine."

"I will talk to him," she said.  "As I should have at the beginning."

"No!  You can't do that.  He's dangerous.  You have to be really careful around him."

"I do not intend to be around him, and I . . ."

She blinked a few times without letting her eyes stray from his.

"I wish to leave now," she said.

"Jill, I---"

"Please take me home."

In the resulting silence on the way back across town, Richard ran through it all again, trying to see if he had misinterpreted what had happened the night before.  He shook his head, rejecting the idea.  Jill mistook his action for exasperation with her.

"It surprises you that I am angry?" she asked sharply.

"Not at all," he mumbled.  "I think I know how you feel."

"Really?" she asked sarcastically.

"Yeah.  You're upset because you didn't cause this and you have no control over it.  You asked me for help, and I complicated things.  But it's not my fault, Jill.  That's the truth, but I guess there's no way you could know that."

"I do not know what to think," she said.  "But I do not like this."

When he stopped across from her apartment, she opened the door.

"Wait," he said.  "There's something you should know.  I'm afraid that he might do something to you."

"You are just trying to frighten me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Maybe you wish me to . . . to think I need a protector."

"If you believe that then get away from both of us.  Transfer to a different school, or go back to France even."

"You are serious?"

"It might be best."

Only the sound of the heater fan filled the silence as she searched his face.

"You do not have the right to interfere in my life like this," she said evenly.

"Something else happened.  He made some threats."

"What did he say?" she demanded.  "I do not want your interpretation.  I want his exact words."

"He said he'd make you sorry for what you did to him."

"All I did was quit seeing him," she said as she opened the door.  "You said that he was drunk, so it was probably nothing."

Before he could respond, she closed the door.

May 9, 10:05 P.M.

Richard took a second can of beer to the living room, dropped into the recliner, tried to get into the movie, hoping that it, some aspirin, and a touch of alcohol would dampen his unease enough for sleep.  He stared at the screen, trying unsuccessfully to tune out the insistent replay of his fumbling incompetence.  Jill had reached the perfectly logical conclusion that he was exaggerating the threat in order to make her think she needed him for protection.  He had managed not only to provoke Mic, but also to drive Jill away.

I've got to make her understand how serious this is.  But how?  She's more afraid of me than of him.  And the worst of it is that by antagonizing him I've put it more danger than ever.

In the movie both men and women wore hats when out of doors, which dated it more precisely than its black and white cinematography.  That was all Richard grasped about the film.  He had no clue as to the plot, and only snippets of dialog penetrated his preoccupation, none of them sticking.  When he drifted off his subconscious slipped in a different reel.

It was late afternoon when they rolled into the village where the convoy was last seen.  From the ramshackle cluster of dusty tin roofed huts a mob of murmuring human scarecrows approached, a tide of brown and black faces.  They clustered pleadingly around the UN flag hanging limply from the lead vehicle.  He felt sick to his stomach.  There was not a healthy looking person among them.  In mute petition a mother held up her barely moving baby, its stomach distended in starvation.

They gave out what few rations they had, and watched in horror as the people fought each other for each bit.  None of them got enough to do any good.

Captain Holt had the interpreters tell the villagers that the Marines were there to track down the criminals who had stolen their relief rations.  The people were angry with the thieves, but refused to give information.  One day the foreigners would leave, but not the warlords.

Holt decided to search back toward Mogadishu where it was believed this particular warlord was holed up in the northwest section of the city.  Late that afternoon sniper fire forced them to hunker down behind a packed dirt wall and call for aid.  Relief was not immediately available so the Captain decided to find a defensible position and stay the night.  They commandeered a masonry building occupied by a once wealthy shopkeeper.  The family was confined in an upstairs room, and the marines bivouacked on the lower floor.  Watches were posted in the walled courtyard.  Richard's watch wasn't until early morning, so he bedded down on the floor and tried to ignore the sporadic small arms fire coming from somewhere south in the city.

He awoke to muffled alien voices and a strange keening sound that rose and fell in uneven rhythm.  Indecipherable words came from somewhere near, followed by harsh laughter.  Seeking the source, he followed the sound through the darkened adjoining room to a door at the back.  When he opened it, light from a large incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling spotlighted a terrified girl held in a wooden chair by one of the Somali guides.  His large hand completely covered the lower half of her face.  Beads of sweat glistened on her smooth forehead.  Mic knelt in front of her, smiling past the cigarette he held before her eyes.

Richard awoke to the sound of the phone, with whisps of the nightmare lingering like a lifting fog.

"Richard?"

He noted that it was a little after eleven-thirty.

"Jill.  Is something wrong?"

"No . . . I mean, yes.  It's . . . I called to apologize for everything.  I know it's late, but . . . I was the one who asked you to get involved, and when the fight happened I blamed you.  It was unfair."

"It's okay.  I understand why you were upset, but---"

"Please do not start again, Richard.  I do not wish to speak of it."

He couldn't let it go at that.  The dream had shaken him.  If she gave him a chance he had to try again.

"Fair enough.  Can I see you again?"

There was silence for a long moment.

"Give me time, Richard."

"What I had in mind can't wait."

"It will have to," she said tersely.

"Don't hang up," he said quickly.  "I was talking about the weather.  It's really beautiful right now . . . way warmer than usual for this time of year.  I was thinking we could go out to the point . . . maybe have a picnic tomorrow."

When she didn't respond, he hurried on.

"In a week there could be snow on the ground."

Her long silence made him think he had lost her.

"I owe you that much, but no more talk about Mic."

"You don't owe me anything."

She didn't respond for a moment.

"He called tonight," she said.  "He . . .apologized for . . . ‘hanging on.'  I think those were his words.  He accepts the situation now so you should not be concerned."

"That's good," he said without conviction.

"It bothers me that you are no longer friends.  I didn't mean to do that."

"You didn't do anything."

Again there was a pause before she responded.

"What time is our picnic?"

"I'll pick you up at one o'clock, okay?"

"That will be fine."

Afterwards he sat in silence trying to fathom what had happened.  He was gratified that she agreed to see him again so soon, although he suspected that this also came from a mistaken impression that she owed him something.  The stunner was that she had taken Mic's apology at face value.

She doesn't know him at all! he realized.

He looked out into the empty night, seeing a montage of unsettling images.

The woman at Tonto's wincing as Mic gripped her nape, refusing to let her flee his humiliation.  A flash suppresser forcing open a bloody blouse to reveal small brown breasts.  A tiny garroted woman's pinkish soles and palms gathered like an obscene bouquet at the small of her bare back.  Fright-widened dark eyes reflecting the red glow of a cigarette.  And each time, that smile.

How had he let the man into his life?  Jill was the reason of course.  Without even trying she had set a hook into him.  He was obsessed with her, and now almost scared to death for her.  It occurred to him that he might be crazy.

"I might be," he mumbled aloud.  "But he's dangerous and crazy."

But what evidence was there?  He had only a drunken threat made in the heat of anger and during a fight.  Then there was that vague comment about something he did as a kid.  So Mic enjoyed abusing the dead and humiliating the living, but did that make him a killer?  Yet Mic had threatened to strangle Jill.  That was bottom line.  Richard wondered what his own bottom line was.  How far would he go to protect her?

"As far as it takes," he muttered as he took out his wallet.

The folded post-it note he'd put there a year and a half ago when he left the Corps was blurred, but still legible.  He punched in the number.  A groggy voice answered with mild oath.

"Kevin, this is Richard," he said without preamble.  "Remember your definition of a friend?"

"That three in the morning thing?  I knew I shouldn't have said that."

"I need to talk."

"So talk."

"Face-to-face.  How soon can you get to South Bend?"

"If you're in Cartier, about as soon as you can.  Are you in trouble?"

"Not yet."

A semi barreled past with its wheels on the centerline, its blast of turbulence rocking the Cougar threateningly.  It barely registered as Richard continued to think of a way to convince Jill of her danger.

I can't even tell her how I know.

It was like walking point.  You just knew sometimes.  A movement can be just wind-blown trash or a rat scurrying for cover, but somehow you know that something's wrong---and you act before it's too late.  He couldn't tell her that because things like that didn't make sense in her world.  He plowed on through the night on autopilot, rehashing it, searching for something that might work.

Just lay it all out.  Tell her everything you've seen him do.  Then maybe she'll at least be careful enough not to let him get her alone.  But you haven't seen him "do" much of anything.  All you've got is gut feelings.  Push too hard and she won't let you stay close enough to protect her.  But why should she believe you?  What you're suggesting doesn't happen in her world.

The conclusion he had drawn was a Gestalt thing, greater than the sum of its parts.  It wasn't difficult for him to believe---not in the middle of the night, alone with his memories and fears.  She had seen none of it, so how could he expect her to believe what he was saying?

South Bend, May 11, 3:15 A.M.

The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke, burned grease, and Lysol.  Kevin took up the entire side of a corner booth.  Richard estimated him at two eighty.  Despite the hour, his blue eyes sparkled through thick wire-framed glasses as a bemused smile crinkled his freckled face and chronic bed head had won the battle for control of his hurriedly combed reddish blonde hair.  Except for the extra weight he looked just the same.

A weary waitress refilled his cup, and poured coffee for Richard.  He grimaced as the hot, bitter liquid bit his tongue.

"Okay," said Kevin as soon as the waitress left.  "What kind of mess you got yourself into?"

"Mic Boyd turned up at Pere Marquette one day last fall acting like some long lost friend.  I kind of let a relationship develop . . . I guess I didn't know how to end it without antagonizing him."

"So, antagonize the prick and get rid of him."

"It's not that simple anymore.  I cold cocked him the other night."

Kevin held him in an unblinking gaze, a slight smile on his lips.

"Good," he finally said.  "Good, but not smart.  Why did you do it?"

"I need to ask you a question first, something that happened in Somalia.  Remember when we went looking for him after that firefight?"

Kevin nodded.

"Could he have killed that woman we found him with?"

"The one in the hooch."  His eyes narrowed.  "It's possible I guess if that's what you want to hear.  The question is:  Why do you want to hear it?"

The reaction dismayed him.  If Kevin doubted him then what chance did he have of convincing Jill?

"Don't you remember the way he acted when we found him that day?"

"He always acted a little crazy.  You really think he did that?"

"Tell me it's impossible."

"No.  It's possible," said Kevin.  "What is it?  You're afraid he'll come back at you with something more in mind than just beating the hell out of you."

"I'm not worried about me.  There's a girl involved, and I'm worried about her."

"Okay, so what do you---I get it.  I've just confirmed your opinion."  His eyes narrowed again.  "Are you sure you're okay?"

Richard shrugged.  "I've been . . . having trouble since I got back."

"Flashbacks?"

"You too?"

"Me?  No."

"Yeah, I don't know if I'd call them flashbacks either.  I never think I'm there or anything.  More like vivid memories and bad dreams," said Richard dismissively.  "That's not what I'm talking about.  I've been kind of having trouble getting interested in things---except for the girl.  You might say I'm obsessed with her.  No.  That's overstating it.  I just like her and . . . I worry about her---about her safety."

Kevin nodded.

"I'm not delusional, Kevin.  I guess that's the reason I came---you know to see that what I remember of him isn't . . . you know, like completely crazy."

"What you remember isn't crazy.  It happened.  But stuff happened to you over there."  Kevin squinted at him.  "What else have you done besides have a fight with him?"

"Nothing.  The girl---"

"She got a name?"

"Jill.  She was going with him---broke it off, but he wouldn't leave her alone.  I kind of got involved on her behalf."

"And you expected him to take that without blowing up?"

"Looking back at it?  No.  And I don't expect him to leave either of us alone now either."

"And you want confirmation that he's worth worrying about."

"Do you think I'm blowing it out of proportion?"

"Let me put it this way:  I think you're right to worry.  If I know anything about him, he's not gonna just let it slide.  He'll get back at you somehow."

Richard let it go at that.  Then they caught up.  Richard told him about working on a degree in law enforcement and Kevin explained the struggles of independent trucking.  He apologized when he found out that Kevin had to pick up a load at seven before making a swing through the southwest, but it gave him an idea.  It took a bit of exaggeration as to the depth of his relationship with Jill and assurance that Richard had no intention of taking the law into his own hands, but Kevin finally agreed to do what he asked.

As they walked out into the crisp air, Richard zipped up his jacket.

"Be nice to see you when I get back," said Kevin.  "Think you could come down?"

"Maybe in a week or two I'll get in touch."

"Bring your lady."

"We'll see," he said.

"Richard, be careful around him.  I never trusted him even over there."

On the way back to Cartier, Richard remembered the night that should have told him all that he ever needed to know about Mic.  He didn't want to go there, but like probing a sore spot on his gums, he was compelled to.

She sat straining in the chair, whimpering into the large black hand clamped over her mouth.  He had stood there, trying to comprehend the situation.  Captain Holt rushed past, swinging his M-16 like a bat.  Mic went tumbling.  Richard looked back at the girl.  Her eyes locked onto his as if she blamed him for not stopping it.

The next day Mic boasted about his interrogation.  "Just holding the cigarette close to the nail hurts like hell, but it doesn't leave a mark.  No matter what she says or what anyone knows there isn't any proof."

Mic wasn't as smart as he thought, but he was lucky.  Holt ate a sniper's bullet during a brief skirmish a few days later.  With his death any possibility that Mic would be held to account for his torture died.

"Something else I can't tell her," he muttered as he gloomily assessed the prospects of his plan.

I hope I don't need a fallback.

As he thought it through he realized how insane it seemed.  She wasn't likely to believe him no matter what he told her, but the threat was real.  He was point and he knew---he just knew.  He had to trust that.  It was more real than anything else.

Maybe it won't come to that.  Maybe she will listen.

Cartier, May 11, 5:40 A.M.

He hit the exit to Cartier as the sun came up, but instead of going home, he drove down to the lake.  After checking things out there, he stopped at an ATM and wiped out his meager bank account.  A stop at the discount store north of town took care of his cash.  He took his purchases back to the lake before going home to shower and shave.  He managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep before the alarm roused him feeling worse rather than better.  Before leaving he propped an envelope between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table.

He drove with windows down in an attempt to clear the half-sleep sludge away.  Whatever happened today, he was determined that Jill should at least become aware of her danger.  He might not be able to make her understand that Mic's apology was just a sham meant to lull her, but he had to try.  Perhaps she had seen or experienced something with Mic that had scared her.  Maybe that was why she stopped seeing him.  Of course couples broke up all the time because one or the other of them just finds out that there's nothing worth holding onto any longer.  Based on her intelligence, though, he had a feeling that she had seen something in Mic that scared her.  If so, that might compel her to believe him---if she would hear him out.  She had to because his fallback was no plan at all, just a desperate play for time.

He picked up a box of fast food chicken on the way and arrived at her apartment still unable to decide how to even broach the subject.

"Oh, by the way," he imagined himself saying.  "I think Mic plans to get you alone so that he can kill you.  You see, I know this because I saw him torture this girl in Somalia, and I'm pretty sure that he killed another one over there because of this racist joke."

Of course he wouldn't say anything so stupid, but it hardly mattered.  She wouldn't believe him no matter how he phrased it because what he had to say was unbelievable in her world.

As he walked up to her door he noticed cirrus clouds smudging the deep clear sky and frowned at their portent.  A cold front loomed, promising an end to the pretense of spring.  Jill stepped out before he could knock, dressed in a faded denim jacket over a loose, white, cable-knit sweater and jeans.  She made the comfortable attire look elegant.  A wicker picnic basket with a wine bottle peeking from beneath its white linen covering hung from her arm.  She wore little or no makeup, making her seem even younger than she was.  Her hands appeared more delicate and childlike, and her eyes were unbelievably blue, clear, and innocent.

He shied away from commenting on her appearance, thinking that a girl like her had heard more than her share of that.  Besides which he wasn't particularly good at that sort of thing.

"What have you got in the basket?" he asked.

"Fresh bread, cheese, and wine," she said.  "Is that suitable for an American picnic?"

"I don't think there are any rules."

"It is an informal thing I suppose.  Things are supposed to be serendipitous.  Is that the word?"

Even her voice sounded delicate, beautiful, and vulnerable.  A pang of loss emptied him of everything but looming dread.

"Is something wrong?" she asked when he didn't respond.

"What?  No.  Everything's fine---great."

"You look tired.  Are you well?"

"I may have a little cold.  It's nothing."

As he responded to her attempts at conversation with one and two word prompts, Richard thought about what a pathetic voyeur he had been.  He had watched Mic's act for miserable months, wondering when she would finally recognize the falsity of his persona.  It had disgusted him to listen as Mic revealed how he really felt about her.  Now he was disgusted with himself for doing it.

If it had been me you chose I would have---

He cut short the thought.  It was too late.

"Are you sure you're not feeling worse than you're telling me?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said as he pulled onto the shoulder.  "We're there."

She looked at the bare, windy hill beside the road and frowned.

"It's down there," he said, pointing to the left.  "See those tree tops?  There's a sheltered little . . . ‘swale,' I'd guess you'd call it, with a great view of the lake."

A nearby line of trees growing through an unkempt fence caught her attention.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's a junkyard," he said.  "Don't worry.  You can't see it from our spot.  What you can see is a spectacular view of the lake."

He put the car in gear again.

"However, there has to be a slight change in our plans.  We can't drive down this way.  See those ruts?"

"We will walk?"

"No, we can't park on the highway, but I can get us closer."

A few hundred feet down the highway he turned into an abandoned driveway blocked by a rusty chain strung between railroad tie gateposts.

"It is locked," said Jill, somewhat relieved.

"It just looks that way," he said, getting out.

He pulled down on the large padlock and twisted it open, unfastened and dropped the chain, swung the gate inward, and got back in the car.

"It's always that way," he said.  "They lost the key years ago."

"If it is private property maybe we should not go."

"It'll be okay.  We're just using the road to get closer to our picnic spot, and the guy who owns the marina down there has known me since I was a kid."

She surveyed the wildly overgrown tract with increasing misgiving.

"Are you sure it is okay?"

"Trust me," he said, the phrase bringing an unexpected knot to his throat.

The Cougar bumped over and around wallowed-out holes of standing water, windfalls, and weed-covered mounds.  Worry furrowed Jill's brow as they went further and further from the highway.  They were now invisible to the world outside, and her good sense rebelled at letting herself be taken to such a secluded place by a man she now realized that she hardly knew.  She reassured herself by recalling that she had already accompanied him alone on a long trip late at night.  That had been a pleasant experience.

The car suddenly bottomed out with an alarmingly loud "thunk."

"You've gone this way before?" she asked, steadying herself with both hands on the dash.

"The way gets better in a minute," he assured her.

They were far down the hill now, and her unease refused to be put to rest.  Perhaps it was because Richard seemed different today, preoccupied, rather than ill.

"We should go back before something happens to your car," she said.

"There," he said, pointing ahead to the right.

She looked, expecting to see a view of the lake.

"That's the junkyard isn't it?"

"We have to go through it.  Trust me, the road's better."

"It would have to be."

The "road" was non-existent, but he navigated the way having to backtrack only once.  Then he spotted two large trees, and knew where he was.  Steering to the right, he plowed through a thicket of huge dry weeds that screeched along the flanks of his car as they went deeper into the abandoned salvage yard.

Noticing her cringe, he said, "We're almost there.  Just a little further and we're back out in the open."

The road reappeared, smoothing somewhat as it curved back to the right between rusted hulks.  The weeds were fewer now, oil and transmission fluid having poisoned the soil as effectively as herbicide.

"You're not going to believe this place," he said as he steered through an open space in a line of trees.

They emerged from the wreckage abruptly and he parked on a large stone outcropping.  The scene spread before them was as sublime as the junkyard had been squalid.  The hill fell away, and Lake Michigan spread endlessly and impossibly blue.

She sighed audibly.  "Beautiful is insufficient, isn't it?"

"God's infinity pool," he said.  "And right over there."  He nodded toward the grove of trees he had shown her from the road, "That's our picnic site."

She looked back, hoping to see the highway, but it was hidden by the curvature of the hill.

"Aren't you glad we didn't have to tote everything down?" he said.

"It looks like a long walk."

"Yeah, and there would have been some muddy stretches.  This slope catches a lot of sun and the ground thaws even in the middle of winter."

Jill carried her basket, and he the box of chicken and two blankets, one an army surplus blanket.  She frowned as she caught sight of the olive drab blanket.

"I picked this old thing up this morning to keep my other blanket from getting dirty."

"Unusual," she said.  "Not the blanket.  I mean you.  No, I mean . . . most men do not . . . think about practical things like that.  I sound silly.  I'm sorry."

"I'll take it as a compliment."

"That I am being silly around you?  Or that I think you are practical?"

That she cared what he thought of her would have been exhilarating under different circumstances.

"Both," he said.

They crossed sloping ground to a cedar shaded outcropping in silence, she staring at the lake, he at her.

"I'll steady you if you're worried about falling," he said, offering an arm.

"I am fine," she said.

They stopped at a patch of soft early spring grass sprinkled with tiny white wild flowers.  Below, the verdant slope fell away sharply some hundred meters to a narrow strip of off-white sand where a gentle surf sparkled in the sunlight.

"This is what I wanted to share with you."

"Thank you, Richard," she said.

Something in his smile shouldn't have been there.  She thought perhaps he was more ill than he admitted.

Maybe he was afraid that I would not agree to another date if he cancelled the picnic, she thought.

In fact, she was ambivalent about it.  Dating him was an untidy thing, begun on the bad note of obligation.  Consciously or unconsciously, he had continued it in that vein.

He noticed her expression.  "Something wrong?"

"No.  Why?"

"You seemed far away there."

"No.  Everything is right.  Now sit.  You've done your part by getting us safely here," she said, flashing him a dazzling smile.  "Although I did have my doubts.  Now sit and let me take over."

Jill spread the blankets upon the stone and then settled cross-legged to unpack her basket.  She tore crusty portions of bread, spread them with Camembert, and arranged each on china plates.  Richard watched solemnly.  She was so young, and he suddenly felt old.  He had never felt that before, and it was startling.

She looked at him expectantly.

"Oh.  The chicken," he said, handing over the greasy box.

She opened it, looked inside, and grimaced involuntarily.

"Not exactly . . . uh compatible?"

"It's fine," she said, recovering quickly.  "What's your favorite piece?"

He took the box from her and set it aside.

"Maybe the bread and cheese would suit the wine and the occasion without the help of cold grease."

"Occasion?"

"The warm spring day," he said with a shrug.  "The beautiful . . . basket you brought along and . . . and . . . uh . . . the view.  Hey.  You've got to admit I got that part right."

"Definitely," she said handing him a long stemmed glass.

Richard sipped tentatively, and then nodded pretended appreciation.  He knew nothing of wines.  The bread and cheese were better.

"I am sorry about your chicken," she said.  "It was rude of me to react like that."

"Honesty is a virtue," he said, unable to meet her eyes.

His sad look puzzled her.

"Richard, we can go back if you are sick."

"I'm fine.  Just in mourning for the chicken.  I waited five whole minutes for it."

She laughed appropriately.

"Something is bothering you then."

He wondered how she would react if he told her now

"I'm worried about that apology."

Her smile immediately disappeared.  She looked away.

"Do not ruin this, Richard.  The whole thing with you two makes me . . . ill."

"You're right.  I didn't bring you out here to talk about Mic," he said wincing inwardly at the blatant lie.  "I brought you because this place is special to me.  I come out here to sort things out sometimes."

"That," he said, motioning toward the lake, "makes me feel small . . . puts things in perspective somehow.  Does that sound trite?"

"Profound actually," she said in genuine surprise.

"I wanted to share it with you because you're . . . I just thought you would appreciate it."

"If that's a line then Mic isn't the only one who can lie charmingly.  I'm sorry.  I know you're sincere."

"Did you mean that about him being a liar?"

"I'm going to tell you something because I owe you an explanation.  Just listen and then we shall not talk about him any more.  I was foolish and selfish to involve you in this situation.  And I was also foolish to become involved with him.  Richard, I . . . do not wish to make the same mistake with you---not that I think you're like him."

"But you don't trust me?"

"It is not you.  I cannot trust my judgment just now.  So you must not . . . make too much of . . . our friendship."

Richard nodded as he gazed at the slow response of a nearby cedar to the breeze.  Although it would ruin everything---or the possibility of there ever being anything between them, he had to make her understand that Mic was a real danger to her, not just an irritant.

Jill took another crust of bread, applied a thin layer of soft cheese, and offered it.

"Try this," she said, straining to recapture the pleasantness.

He pretended to enjoy it, but didn't even taste it.  Jill was everything he had imagined when he first saw her, and he was about to lose her.  For all practical purposes they were absolutely alone, and she trusted him enough to be comfortable with him here.  He stared at the blue expanse below and saw something so clearly that it seemed he was living it.

A black woman, naked to the waist, hands and feet gathered and bound at the small of her back convulsed in death throes.  An electric cord cut cruelly into the flesh of her neck.  Her wide eyes bored into his as her life ebbed away.

He'd never witnessed anything remotely like it, and it left him wondering from what dark recesses of his imagination it had come.  How could his mind produce such a thing?  What other horrible things lurked inside him?

"What do you see?" she asked.

He nodded toward the horizon, a faint color change where lake melded imperceptibly with sky.

"It's too hazy to see it today, but right out there is an island called Bonne Femme.  Uncle Bill used to take me out there when I was a kid.  Bonne Femme means ‘good woman,' but of course you knew that.  They say that a lonesome French trapper who lived out there named it, but I doubt it.  The island is too small for much trapping.  Would you like to see it?"

"It could be interesting.  How many people live there?"

"None.  It's like a pile of rocks covered by a tiny forest, but it's unbelievably beautiful in its own way.  You should see it."

"Maybe this summer we can go.  Is that possible?"

"Why not today?"

She laughed.  "Your car has proven itself an admirable all-terrain vehicle, but I think the water is too deep even for it."

"No.  Remember the old marina?  My uncle keeps a boat down there.  He won't mind if we borrow it."

Jill looked doubtfully at the lake.  She couldn't see even the hint of an island.

"Not today.  Besides, you may be getting sick, and it is getting cool again."

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said.  "But how about taking the boat out on the lake for a few minutes?"

"I do not think we should."

"Come on.  With the wind so low the lake's as calm as it'll ever be.  You should see the shore from out there.  It'll be fun.  We won't go very far out."

"It is late."

"We've got three hours until sunset.  We'll just be out a few minutes."

Growing up near the often-stormy ocean as she had made the lake appear serene and harmless.  Its pristine blue water eroded her reluctance, but her real reason for acquiescing was that she was still trying to make up for having used him.

Above the narrow whitish beach the slope had just begun to tinge with green.  But last year's vegetation still cloaked the land in the predominant winter hues or dark brown, gray, and straw.  The boat rode smoothly, but it was cooler than she had expected.  Jill found that if she kept the leather jacket pulled tight over her life vest and stayed below the rim of the windshield, the breeze was more refreshing than chilling.  Richard swung the boat around to head south and pushed the throttle forward, running parallel to the shore.

"What's that?" shouted Jill over the sound of the outboard, pointing to an object on the horizon, a gleaming white spike that seemed to float on the water.

"The Cartier lighthouse," he said.  "Used to be manned---three man crew, sixty days on thirty off.  Can you imagine the cabin fever?  All automated now."

"Can we go over?"

He shook his head.  "Shoals.  You're not supposed to approach."

Jill noticed how far they were from shore.  "You have plenty of petrol, yes?" she shouted.

"Gas?  Yeah.  I checked it this . . . It's the first thing I checked."

He cut the engine and the boat wallowed gently.  Then he tapped the gage.  "See, it's full."

"You get out here it seems like a guy can think," he said.

"Away from distractions, you mean.  I can understand that."

"It puts things into perspective when you realize that you're not in control of things as much as you'd like to think you are."

The cryptic remark made her uneasy.

"There's something you should know," he began earnestly.

She looked away, thinking He's going to say he's in love with me.

It was too early for that---far too early.  When he hesitated she hoped that he was losing his nerve and would let the moment slip away.

"I have something that . . . it's---  Look.  You don't know Mic as well as I do."

"This is not your business, Richard," she said firmly.  "I was wrong to involve you, but you are even more wrong to stay involved."

"Hear me out and then we can talk about it."

"No!  I told you that he apologized.  It's over now.  There's nothing to be concerned about."

She saw it as a dilemma of her own making.  Dating Richard had been an unconscious effort at payment for services rendered.  Now she was paying the price.

"It is a beautiful day," she said, trying to turn the conversation.  "Thank you again for bringing me."

"Okay.  I'll promise not to talk about Mic anymore if you'll let me show you Bonne Femme?  This is as calm as I've ever seen the lake, and we may not get this opportunity again."

He chose to take her lack of immediate objection as assent.  A throaty rumble drowned out her first attempt at protest, as he turned in a gentle arc toward the west.

"I do not think it is a good idea, Richard," she said, raising her voice to be heard above the engine noise.  "What if it gets dark?"

When he didn't respond, she thought he hadn't heard her.  She touched his arm.

"It's getting late," she shouted.

"There's plenty of daylight."

"No.  Let's go back."

He backed off on the throttle.

"Come on.  It'll be fun.  I really want you to see it.  You never know when we'll get a chance to make the trip again.  In springtime the lake can be nasty for weeks on end.  It's hardly ever this calm even in the summer."

She gripped his arm.  "Maybe some other time.  Please let us go back."

He nodded his head distractedly, but didn't change course or touch the throttle.  Jill looked toward the shore.  Already they were too far for anyone to see them, although the boat itself would still be visible.

"I'm cold," she said, apprehension straining her voice.  "I cannot enjoy myself when I'm cold.  Take me somewhere warm.  I know.  We can have dinner tonight.  Then we can talk.  We can talk about anything you wish."

He backed the throttle to a low troll, and turned the wheel to the right, letting the boat drift in a lazy circle.

"Jill, the night of the fight Mic made a . . . a vivid threat.  It scared me because I know him and he wasn't just talking."

"He had been drinking," she said evenly.  "You must understand this."

"We have to take what he said seriously."

"We?  There is no we, Richard!  If you insist on bullying me, there never can be."

It was playing out just as he feared it would.

"Jill, as much as I want there to be something between us---and I want that a great deal---that isn't as important to me as your safety is.  You have to listen to me.  You have to."

His utter sincerity didn't reassure her.  It frightened her.  Now all she wanted was to get away from him and never to go near him again.  Cartier.  She had to back to Cartier.

She gave him a weak smile, but couldn't stop quivering.

"I am so cold," she said.  "Take me somewhere warm.  Buy me some hot chocolate and we will talk---I promise."

"He threatened to kill you," he blurted.  "I can't tell you the awful things he said, but he meant it, Jill.  He meant it."

"He was drunk, Richard, but you are not," she said sternly.  "Now take me back."

He shook his head.

"I know him . . . and I've found out something that . . . it's not just words, Jill."

"Okay.  Okay.  Perhaps you are right," she said, fighting to keep the rising panic from her voice.  "But you have a better chance of convincing me if I can get someplace where I can think of something besides being cold.  Now please take me back."

"Just listen a minute and---"

"Take me back now!" she screamed.

Her eyes were wide.  Color drained from her face.

"Please don't be afraid," he said softly.

It was the worst thing he could have done.  He took her stunned silence as a sign that he was getting through to her.

"I'm going to keep him from hurting you.  You don't understand now, but you will.  You just need time to think about what I have to tell you.  I'm sure you'll see."

This can't be happening! screamed her mind.

"No!" she shouted, scrambling away from him.

Richard reflexively reached out to keep her from falling, inadvertently hitting the throttle.  The boat leaped forward, pitching her headlong over the back.

Jill gasped as she plunged beneath the icy water.  She broke surface, gulping air.  Coughing tore at her chest as her aching lungs tried to expel water.  Her arms and legs were already numb.  Then she saw the boat turn toward her.  She flailed to get away from it.

When he saw her terrified expression as she bobbed in the dark blue water, he cursed himself aloud.

Jill misread his grim expression.

"Stay away from me!" she shrieked, as she thrashed about, trying to elude the approaching boat.

"You've got to get back in," he shouted.

"NO!" she shouted.

He cut the engine and used a paddle to pull toward her.  But she continued to swim away.

"You have to get out of the water.  You could die from hypothermia."

She shook her head stubbornly, but already the cold was sapping her resolve as well as her strength.  A five-minute eternity later she finally surrendered.  Although she tried to help him he had to drag her onboard like a dead weight.  Then he snagged the jacket from the water and dropped it into the bottom of the boat.  Then he stripped off his own jacket.

"We're going on out to Bonne Femme, and we're going to have to run out at a pretty high speed or we'll never make it before dark.  You have to warm your core.  Take off your vest and your sweater and I'll give you this to wear."

"I'm not doing that!" she said, teeth chattering.

"You have to.  I won't look."

Jill shivered so fiercely that she could barely speak.

"I will not!"

She ought to have dry clothes next to her skin, but he decided to let the cold force her to yield to the necessity since there was no other option.

"Suit yourself," he said.  "I'm heading out there now.  As soon as I see your sweater on the seat up here, I'll hand back the jacket."

Without waiting for a reply, he started and slowly accelerated as he swung around and headed into the lake once more.  Moments later, the wet sweater flew forward onto the windshield and instrument panel.  He dropped it onto the floorboards on his side, and then handed back his fleece-lined jacket.  She took it without comment.  He expected her to resume her seat on the bench, but she failed to appear.  After another five minutes, he called back.

"There's less wind up here behind the windscreen."

"I'm fine," she shouted.

"No you're not," he said as he cut the engine.

She stood up, feet apart to keep her balance, her face white, her lips blue from the chill.  As he got up and went back, she shrank away.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.  "Your jeans are wet."

"I'm not taking them off!"

"I don't want you to," he said, picking up the canvas tarp.  "I want you to get up there on the seat behind the windscreen and wrap this around your legs and hold it up to your chin to block the wind."

She didn't shake her head.  She didn't cry.  She only looked at him with a blank, unreadable expression.  Richard wondered what she must be thinking of him, but she wasn't thinking, not in words, not in rationale thoughts.  Jill's mind had ceased to function beyond the level of raw unfathomable panic.  Emotionally, she was still flailing away as she had beneath the frigid water as her lungs burst with the invading water.  She had so quickly fallen under his power that all she could comprehend was the terror of it.  Yet, somehow she found the will fight her debilitating panic.  Like being in the bottomless, icy water, she strove to calm herself and swim rather than drown in her terror.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked.

"I told you why."

As insane as that is, I want to believe him, she thought.

"You're really doing this," she said so softly that he could barely hear her above the idling motor.

"You'll be safe."

And you can have me all to yourself, she thought numbly.

"If there was any other way . . . " he began.  "This is the last thing I wanted to do."

A lie! she thought.  He planned it.

Then:  I've got to keep calm.  Maybe I can still reason with him.

"Richard.  Please take me back.  I will not tell anyone what you did," she began calmly enough, but suddenly, her voice cracked and she sobbed.  "I promise---I do---I promise!"

"Please," she begged, all her resolve and dignity gone now.  "Please just let me go home.  Do not do this to me."

"I know you're frightened, but---"

"What are you doing?" she shouted.  "How dare you try to sound reasonable!"

"I won't touch you.  I promise.  You'll see.  When we get there I'll . . . well, I'll just make sure that . . . you have everything you need and that you're okay.  You'll be safe.  I promise."

She realized suddenly that nothing she could do or say would stop him.  She turned her back, drew the canvas over her shoulders, and sat down.  Giving up attempts to reason with her, Richard checked his compass heading and then pushed the throttle forward.  Jill huddled against the onrushing air and stared longing back across the empty lake toward Cartier.  A horrid kaleidoscope of images and thoughts ran through her mind as she shivered beneath the rough cocoon of stiff, musty cloth.

He's crazy!  She imagined him pinning her to the ground.  Like a fool I let him get me alone.  She saw him ripping at her clothing.  No one knows where I am!  No one can help me.  She conjured other violent images, perverse things invited into her subconscious by movies she should never have watched.  She imagined a hand around her throat, pinning her motionless.

In extremity people clutch at every hint of hope, and so Jill took hold on the one thing she could.  Richard had not yet so much as looked at her inappropriately as far as she knew.  Perhaps he was so dysfunctional that all he would do was look.  And so far he seemed more saddened than exultant.

He does not look dangerous, she thought.  Maybe . . .

Jill suddenly realized what she was doing.

Of course you want to believe that!  You fool!  He is insane.

That did no good at all.  She had to think to a purpose, had to make some kind of plan.

I must let him do what he wants.  But what happens after that?

She had read about this.  What woman hadn't?  But now she couldn't remember what the experts said.

Something about control?  Wait!  I have to get him to see me as a person---and---but he already thinks there is this personal connection, so . . .  I don't know!  I don't know!  I don't know anything!  If I do the wrong thing, he'll---   Stop it, Jill!  Stop it!  You will find a way.

Of one thing she was certain.  If he ever gave her the chance she would kill him.

No.  I will knock him unconscious.  Then I will take the boat and leave him there.  I will get away.  Then I will tell them what he did to me.  I will have him arrested.  And I will never trust a man again.

Her world shrank to the endless blue of water and sky, the droning of the engine, the rhythm of the hull, the penetrating cold, and him.  The hope she had rallied faded with the sinking sun.  She huddled lower.  The wind ripped at her damp hair and numb face when she chanced a glance forward.  He sat rigid, staring ahead.  The paddle was up front with him, and she saw nothing else with which to could attack him.  Despite her efforts not to think about it, she began imagining the inevitable word, gesture, or cruel smile that would remove what little doubt she had as to his intentions.

As if it mattered now, she thought about how easily he had duped her.

I am no naïf, so why could I not see?  Because he seemed so shy?  Are all the men who hate women not also afraid of them?  Is that not why they have such anger?

Then the injustice of it was suddenly hit her.

All I did was . . . ask him for a favor.  I invited him into my life.  That was my crime?  It is not fair!  I do not deserve this!

She glared at his back.

Damn you!  Insane or not, I will kill you!

As unrealistic as it was, her vicious intention made her feel better.  As terrified as she was, the heat of her anger comforted.  Numbing despair was gone for the time being.  Richard would have understood had he known what she was thinking.  Jill had discovered the trick soldiers have always used on the eve of battle:  anger chases fear, and action banishes thought.  Going into combat one screams, not to frighten the enemy, but to put one's own fear to flight.

Richard continued to scan the horizon, looking for the island.  Jill stared blankly, looking for what was to be.  She pulled the tarp closer, eager now for the trip to be over, but fearing what would happen when they reached their destination.  Then a new terror seized her.

Maybe there is no island.  He may just be taking me out where he can attack me and throw me into the water!

"There!" he shouted.

Following his gaze, she saw a hazy dark spot on the horizon.  Over the next fifteen minutes it turned first into a blue-gray mound floating above the water, and then sharpened, fastened itself to the surface, and turned green.  Finally, the fading sun slid behind a cedar-covered knob of rock, casting the boat in deep shadow.  Now Bonne Femme was a black silhouette against the dying sky.

The rumbling Mercury chugged to a clunking stop, and the boat's dying momentum took it to a stone tumbled shore.  Waves wallowed the boat slightly as they approached land.  Suddenly sick, she vomited over the side.  The boat drifted between half-submerged boulders into a natural berth no more than ten feet by twenty.  Richard went forward and, at the first grinding of bottom against rock, jumped out, lightening the boat.  He pulled the boat forward by a chain attached to the bow and looped it around a boulder.  After fastening it with a padlock, he turned to see her still sitting motionless in the boat.

"Come on," he said gently as he offered his hand.  "Get solid ground under you and you'll feel better."

She shook her head mutely, sitting stiffly erect.

The enormity of his task hit him, but at least she was safely out of Mic's reach.  In his own way, and for entirely different reasons, he was as fearful as she.  Both were searching for a plan, and each had a clear goal, but neither had but the vaguest idea of how to achieve it.

"Get out when you're ready," he said.  "I'm going to build a fire."

The task of making a hasty night camp provided him temporary diversion from depressing reality.  After gathering kindling up the slope among the trees, he built a campfire in the lee of a boulder where it would be sheltered from wind and hidden from view from the lake.  Jill smelled smoke and longed to warm herself at the fire, but stubbornly stayed in the boat.  He gathered windfalls and driftwood until he had nearly a quarter of a rick and then went once again to see if he could coax her to the fire.

"I built a fire," he said, as he threw back the tarp and hefted the large plastic container holding the sleeping bags and blankets.

Jill had determined not to set foot on the island, a foolish idea since she already had to relieve the pressure of her bladder.  She watched warily until he had disappeared behind the boulders, and then she slipped silently from the boat and crept into the brush, intending to make it back to the boat before he returned.  She unzipped her jeans and glanced around to make sure he wasn't watching before pushing them down.  As she squatted the cold wind touched her exposed flesh, making her feel humiliatingly accessible.

Then she heard the chain dropping into the boat, and hurriedly pulled up her pants.  She crept back down the hill, hoping to discover what he was doing unseen.  The boat was floating back out.  He was leaving her!  Forgetting her resolve, she ran out of the woods to the water's edge.

Seeing her, Richard cupped his hands around his mouth.

"I'll be back in about four or five hours," he shouted.  "You'll find some something to eat at the fire."

Before she could respond the big engine roared to life, the boat swung in a tight curve, and then powered noisily away, drowning out her protests.  He didn't even look back.  She watched mutely until the boat was lost in the gloom.  The island stilled to the sound of the wind whispering through cedars and the soft lapping waves.  Being totally alone was almost as bad as being here alone with him.  She knew what would happen when he returned, just not how it would happen or what would come afterward.

I will bear it, she said to herself, trying to be brave.

But the thought wouldn't hold.  It all came crashing down.  She began to pace and to sob.

This cannot be happening!  Please, God, let it be a dream.  Let me wake me up.

But it was no dream.

How could I have been so wrong?  Why did I let this happen?  No one knows where I am.

No!  Marta does not know where we went, but she knows I was with him.  If I don't return in a few days, she will call the police and tell them.  Then they will know that he was the last one to . . .

" . . . to see me alive," she finished aloud.

"Yes.  Well, that is only a figure of speech," she lectured herself.  "Thinking like that can do no good."

Jill slowed her pacing, her steps becoming more regular as she considered what she could do.

I cannot mention Marta.  He might go back and do something to her also.  She will tell them we were together.  They will want to talk to him, and when they see that he is missing also, then they will know that he did something to me.

But they will not look here.

Jill felt herself beginning to succumb to useless tears again.

He is in complete control!  He can do anything he wishes!

She clenched her teeth.

Stop it!  You are all right.  You will be all right.

She picked up a stick and knelt by the fire, prodding it absently.

Maybe he still wants me to like him.  If he just wants to . . . to take me, he would already have done it I think.

She looked suspiciously at the box she had placed her purse in it to keep it from getting wet during the boat ride.  Jumping up, she ran and opened it.  Her purse was still there, but it had been opened.  A quick search confirmed that her keys were gone.

Of course!  I am wet and filthy.  He has gone to get my things so that I look the way he wants when he . . ."

"That is what he will do," she said aloud.

She hugged herself against the cool and walked back to the fire.  The sight of the neatly prepared pallet he had laid out for her suddenly infuriating her.

"Like hell!" she shouted, kicking at it in impotent rage and unintentionally sending it into the flames.

She watched it burn, taking perverse satisfaction from the knowledge that she was ruining at least this small part of his plan.  Of course it would change nothing.

"It will not be so easy for you," she said aloud.  "I will kill you if I get a chance."

It was whistling in the dark, but she meant it.