Chapter 3

Bonne Femme, May 12

The glow in the east did nothing to alleviate her misery as she huddled naked except for the denim jacket clutching the rough canvas about her while feeding wood to the smokey fire.  White ash, a fire-stained zipper, the lingering stench of burnt feathers, and the cold breeze were constant reproach for burning the sleeping bag.  Her wet clothes hung on sticks near the fire looking as wet as when she placed them there to dry.  She had spent a sleepless night reliving the foolishness that had resulted in her abduction.

"I can wait no longer," she said aloud.

She stripped off the jacket and put on her damp bra, wincing at its cold dampness.  Her panties were drier and warmer, but her jeans were stiff and heavy, having dried little.  The sweater was too wet so she left it where it was, pulled the jacket over her bare shoulders, and zipped it to the neck.  After pulling on her socks and shoes, she picked out a large piece of wood to renew the fire.  Suddenly it occurred to her that she was doing exactly what he had scripted for her to do.  That infuriated her.

"I will not just let this happen!" she shouted, slamming the large stick into the fire.

Firebrands flew in all directions, one hitting her in the chest.  She jumped back, stumbled, and almost stepped into the fire before catching her balance.  Noticing several coals on the canvas, she quickly picked it up and shook them off, wincing as sharp pain shot through her wrist.  Despite the pain she scraped the scattered embers back together fearful that she would lose the fire.  Muttering to herself about stupidity and lack of self-control, she noticed that an ember had melted a hole in her sweater.  Her Aunt Mirabelle had knitted it for her.

She snatched it from the ground, clutched it to her bosom, and began to cry.  He was destroying everything she had.  He would debase her, abuse her, and destroy her too.  She thought about throwing it into the fire so that he wouldn't be able to enjoy seeing its ruin.

No.  I'll keep it.  And when I get away from him, I'll fix it.  No.  Aunt Mirabelle will fix it.  And I will tell her how I got away from him.  And I'll never leave her again---ever.

Jill recognized her thoughts as those of a child, but they comforted and she would not give them up.  She sat down, drew the tarp about her, and fed the fire.  Rocking gently, she clutched the precious sweater to herself and tried to find something to build hope on.  The only thing she could think of was that he hadn't hurt her yet.  With that as a starting place, she began to construct her own plan.  She would do whatever it took to please him and keep him from hurting her.  She would gain his trust and lull him into vulnerability just as he had done with her, and when the opportunity came she would incapacitate him and escape.

Jill gradually became aware of an intermittent sound, but at first thought that she was only imagining it.  Holding her breath, she strained to catch it again.  The low rumbling sound drifted back, strengthened, and became a sustained drone.

He's back!

The determination she had worked so hard to attain drained away.  Panic seized her.  She wanted to run up into the trees and hide, but she couldn't move.  Paralyzed by her fear, she remained at the fire.  Eyes wide and pulse pounding, she watched as he came into view, cut the engine, and drifted slowly toward her.

Now it begins, she thought in cold dread.

Richard read it as a good sign that she was sitting calmly by the fire.  He jumped out, pulled the boat up behind the rocks to screen it from view, and chained it, all the while trying to think of something reassuring that he might say.  He had resolved to react calmly to whatever she did.  Sooner or later she would understand that she was safe with him.  Then he could work on convincing her of the danger she was in from Mic.  Most likely the best he could hope for was that she would become so wary of both of them that she would go back to France.  Objectively speaking, it would be the best thing she could do.

"Are you okay?" he asked as he approached the fire.

"What a strange thing to ask," she said.  "How could I be?"

"I'm sorry."

Jill tried to understand how he could sound so reasonable while she wanted to scream.

"Why have you done this, Richard?" she asked, her voice flat, purged of emotion.

"I told you:  to protect you."

"You cannot do this," she said trying to sound firm, but her voice quavered.  "You know it is wrong."

"I know you're frightened, but I promise that nothing will happen to you."

"Richard.  If . . . if you care for me at all, you must let me go."

Not for a minute did she believe that he cared for her---at least not in any normal sense of the word.

"Not yet," he said.

"You wish me to believe you about Mic," she said.  "I have thought about what you said while you were gone . . . and  . . . I do believe you, Richard."

She wasn't a good liar.

"No.  You don't really believe me yet."

"No," she said.  "But I know that you believe you are protecting me.  But this is wrong.  You must know that."

"I see how it looks.  You're not ready to consider what I have to tell you about Mic.  When things settle down and . . . and get calmer . . . or . . . more normal, then you'll understand that you have nothing to fear from me.  Then we can talk."

"We can talk now," she said eagerly.

He realized that she would say anything if she thought it would get him to take her back.

"Not yet."

"Then it is all a lie.  You do not wish to talk.  You only want to . . ."

"I desperately want to convince you of the danger.  That's all.  Until I do, I intend to keep you safe.  I don't blame you for thinking the worst of me, but nothing will happen to you.  You'll see."

"This is crazy."

"It is, Jill.  I can see that.  But I'm not crazy."

"What does that mean?"

He shook his head.  The conversation was pointless.

"I brought some clothes.  Perhaps you'd like to put on something dry."

Richard idly poked at the embers as he put more wood on the fire, frowning when he recognized the fire-stained zipper.

"The sleeping bag burned," she said.  "It was an accident."

"An accident?"

"Yes.  Sometimes things do not proceed as planned.  They get ruined."

"It's okay.  I've got another one for you."

"How considerate," she said sarcastically, surprised at the amount of satisfaction she derived from striking back in such a petty fashion.

She sat across the fire from him, sharing its warmth, but resisting every attempt he made to engage her in conversation.  A light breeze had sprung up since dawn, driving milky whisps of fog across the water.  Richard put more wood on the fire and went back to the boat for an old percolator, a heavy cast iron grate, and a tin of coffee.  As an afterthought he took a package of granola bars from one of the containers.  Back at the fire, he propped the grate over four stones, and went down to the water to fill the pot.  She clutched the canvas tightly about her and watched passively while he made coffee.

"How well did you sleep?" he asked.

She ignored his question and held the stare until he looked away.

"We'll have coffee in a little while," he continued.  "Want me to pour you a cup?"

"I need to go to the woods," she said.  "Will you follow me?"

"Of course not," he said, busying himself with the fire in order to escape her eyes.

He listened as she scrambled up the bank behind him, studiously keeping his eyes on the fire.  He had betrayed her, and now they were strangers again.  All he could do for the present was to provide her physical needs, respect her privacy as much as possible, and help her to feel secure.

After a few minutes he heard noise behind him.

When she sits back down, I'll offer her some coffee and see if there's something neutral we can talk about.

A sudden motion in the periphery of his vision caused him turn.  The bat-sized limb glanced off his shoulder and hit him above the right ear.  Tumbling sideways, Richard landed heavily, the left side of his head hitting solid rock.  Half-stunned and looking through myriad stars and darkness, he saw her second swing coming in time to ward it off with his left forearm.  Somehow he caught hold of the limb and twisted it from her grasp.

"Are you crazy?" he shouted.

She stood legs apart, gasping for breath, a look of defiance and determination on her face.  She seemed not to notice that she was now unarmed.

"You could have killed me!"

She stumbled backward, mouth agape, eyes wide.

With his head still reeling he probed the goose egg above his right ear.  His hand came away bloody.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said as earnestly as he could.  "Please promise me you won't try anything like that again."

"Okay."

Her assurance meant nothing, of course.

How can I expect her to be honest with me after what I've done to her? he asked himself.

He flung the limb into the lake and sat down heavily.  He had been lucky.  If she had waited until he was asleep she could have caved in his head.  It had never occurred to him that she could be capable of such a thing.  She had complicated everything.  Now neither of them could trust the other.

Am I going to have to tie her up at night?

"Give me your word that you won't try that again," he said.

"I give my word," she said without hesitation.

She was obviously lying, but tying her up was out of the question.  He was too tired to figure it out.  After three days without appreciable sleep, his mind was sluggish.

"I'm going . . . there," he said wearily, pointing up into the trees.  "I'll be gone for a while.  And . . . I'm going to need the tarpaulin."

"I do not care where you go," she said as he picked it up.

"Have some coffee and eat something, Jill.  Dry clothes are in the boat."

He picked up the canvas, folded it, tucked it under his arm, and started to walk away.  Then he turned back and picked up the plastic jug of distilled water.

"There's more of this in the boat."

Jill sat by the fire, wondering how close she had come to being killed.  She had been sure that he would at least beat her after she had tried to knock him out.  Why he hadn't was a mystery.  She looked up into the woods.

What is he doing up there so long? she wondered.

Every now and then she heard something and thought it was him returning.  Each time it proved only to be the sound of the wind in the trees.

Sizzling drew her attention to the fire.  She burnt her fingers taking the coffee pot from the fire before it boiled over.  After setting it on the ground, she put her fingers in her mouth in an attempt to cool them.  After a moment she looked.  They were red, but not blistered.  She pulled down the sleeve of her jacket as a potholder and poured herself a cup of coffee.  Then she sat facing the woods chewing a granola bar and sipping the bitter liquid.

When he didn't return, she went to the boat, hoping that he had left the keys or perhaps had just left it unsecured.  If she couldn't start it, she contemplated just pushing it back into the lake and letting the wind take her where it would.  A heavy chain and padlock frustrated that desperate plan.  Then she saw the suitcases he had taken from her apartment.

Richard stopped at a small rocky draw near the north shore a quarter of a mile from the camp.  Coming down the steep, rocky slope had been difficult.  He chose to go this way because he couldn't imagine her finding him here.  He didn't think she would try to find him, but she had already proved more unpredictable than he could have imagined, and he didn't want to give her a second chance to bash him in the head.

"I'm lucky she didn't kill me," he murmured as he spread the tarp on the sloping ground.

He reclined and, despite his jumble of worries, fell asleep at once.

His thoroughness surprised her.  In addition to her clothes, he had retrieved her toilet articles, and had even taken the trouble to buy extra women's clothing and personal items from two different stores!  She was mildly surprised---if anything could surprise her anymore---that he had chosen durable outdoor attire, mostly denim and dark colored cotton.  Of course, nothing was her size.  Everything was a little too large.  She had pawed through the packed suitcases, certain that she would find lingerie.  It wasn't there, but that didn't reassure her.

She carried the suitcases back to the fire, sure that he would have returned when she got there, but he hadn't.  After pouring another cup of coffee, she sipped it and stared up the hill, wondering when he would return.  She wanted to change into something warmer, but wouldn't until she knew where he was.  She suspected that he was hiding somewhere near and watching her, perhaps through binoculars.

She finished her coffee and had another granola bar.  When there was still no sign of him, she took jeans and a sweatshirt from one of the suitcases and spread them on the rocks.  After looking around again to see if she could catch sight of him, she took out fresh underwear, dropped them onto the other clothes, and quickly rolled them together.  She strained to see if she could hear him coming through the woods.  Hearing nothing, she hurried up into the trees intent on finding a safe place to change.

The rocks provided less shelter than she had hoped, so she went deeper into the woods.  Near the top of the hill, she saw what looked like a flat, sloping area of moss.  On closer inspection, she saw that it was a building.

That's where he went, she thought.  He left me to spend another night wet and shivering down at the shore.

Try as she might, Jill couldn't think of a reason for him to do such a thing.  That didn't surprise her, however.  She was beginning to suspect that she didn't know anything about the strange man who had abducted her.  Curiosity pushed her forward.  She approached the building stealthily, pausing every few steps to see if she had been discovered.  As she got closer the condition of the cabin became apparent, and she forgot about being discovered.  If he was keeping the cabin for himself, she might not be missing out on much.  A large section of the roof was missing and the rest looked as if it could collapse at any moment.  Still it might be a good place to change clothes.

The inside was damp and musty.  Rotted leaves and rusted cans littered the floor.  She went to a dry section of the floor where the roof was still sound.  Listening again to make sure he wasn't near, she quickly exchanged her damp clothes for dry ones.  When she came back down she again expected to see him.  But he still wasn't back.

Night came without a sign of him.  She took the second sleeping bag from the container and built up the fire.  She wondered where Richard could be and what he could be doing.  Then, the obvious answer occurred to her.

He didn't tell me about the ruined cabin.  There's another one, and it's in better condition.  That's where he is.

May 13

Jill awoke to a sky full of stars.  Shivering, she pulled the damp sleeping bag closer and sat up, which intensified the pounding in her head.  The moist air had brought on a sinus headache.  After building up the fire, she lay back down.

She was asleep when Richard made his way quietly down to the fire deeply chilled after having slept through the day and into the night with nothing but the tarp to warm him.  He approached slowly, fearful of startling her, but badly in need of the warmth the fire would provide.  He picked up the bomber jacket, hoping to find it dry, but the lining had been thoroughly soaked and she hadn't bothered to turn it inside out and hang it by the fire.  He would take care of that in the morning.

He wished he had thought to bring along a camping tent.  As it was she would have to shelter in the sleeping bag in what was left of the cabin.  He would have to think of something else for himself because the warm weather couldn't last.  One thing was certain.  She would not consent to share a tent even if he had one.  He snorted at his foolishness for even thinking about it, as he roused himself to put more wood on the waning embers.  Unable to sleep he decided to just tend the fire until morning.

The wind had died, which was something to be thankful for.  Overhead the Pleiades shone hazily through a high, thin cloud cover, reminding him of Christmas tree lights shining through ‘angle hair.'  The clouds meant a front was coming.  On the rocky peak just above them stood the dilapidated cabin that his uncle had repaired over thirty years earlier in the heyday of his charter service.  After breakfast he would see how much shelter it could provide.

Jill moaned, startling him.  She turned in her sleep, ending up on her right side and partly uncovered.  He noted that she had changed into dry clothes.  The firelight caused loose strands of her reddish blonde hair to shine like fine copper wire.  Careful not to awaken her, he gently rearranged the sleeping bag to cover her better.  She murmured fitfully, and he withdrew hastily lest she wake and find him bending over her.  Her eyelids flickered, and he was sure that she was waking.  But then he saw the rapid movement beneath the lids and knew she was dreaming.

I hope it's of happier times, Jill. 

The fog lay heavy on the water, and low on the horizon a thin arc rind of the moon hung, noticeable, but casting no appreciable light.  Daybreak neared.  Reflecting on the situation, he realized that both of them were essentially alone with their doubts and fears.  The difference was that she was totally powerless, and had no idea of what he might do.  His first task was to end that part of her nightmare as soon as possible.  It came to him with unusual clarity, that the best way to do that was to be thoroughly predictable.  He also realized that Jill had to have control over everything but the decision of when they should go back.  If she was going to be his prisoner---and that was essentially what she was---then she could at least be a trustee.

Better not share that thought with her.

He resolved to involve her in day-to-day decision-making.

Like what? he asked himself sarcastically.  Like what flavor of granola we're going to eat?  What we're going to fetch water in?  What the topic of discussion will be?

He decided that the last idea wasn't really all that silly.  Like the military, prisons regimented the daily life to discourage independence and keep people from thinking that they were free to do as they pleased.

Let her initiate conversation.  Ask for her advice on stuff.  If she is the one who initiates things, then maybe she'll at least feel a little less helpless, a little less like a prisoner.  At least let her set the daily routine.  It may be cosmetic, but the less I regulate things the freer she'll feel at least superficially.

Right!  All you get to decide is that little matter of when she can get off this God forsaken pile of rocks.

There was a good side to the ‘God forsaken pile of rocks' called Bonne Femme; no one would think to look for them here unless his uncle went down to the marina to check on his boat.  And no one would stumble upon them.  Few people ever visited the rocky outcrop.  From the lake it looked inviting, but locals knew that its tree-covered slopes offered only a deceptive invitation.  There was almost no soil on the island, and aside from the occasional osprey or bald eagle that came to nest and fish, it was practically devoid of wildlife.  It was also far enough out that few were tempted to make the long ride out in a small boat.  He hadn't lied to her about the wind.  The lake was seldom as calm as it had been yesterday.

Richard took the coffee pot down to the water's edge to fill it.

Jill stirred, her eyes flickered open, settled on him, closed for a fleeting instant, and then flew open.  She tried to push herself away and gain her feet, but the sleeping bag prevented her.  As she came fully awake, her frenzied attempts to free herself stopped.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said.

Her heart continued to race even as she managed to slow her breathing.  It was an adrenaline reaction---fight or flight, only she was too weak to fight him and there was nowhere to flee.  She scooted into a sitting position and hugged her knees, peering at him warily, wondering how long he had been watching her.

Does it begin now? she wondered not for the last time.

"There's no reason to be afraid of me, Jill.  I know you find that difficult to believe right now, but you'll see.  Except for this . . . this craziness . . .  I . . . well, I won't do anything else to you.  I promise."

The corner of her mouth curled contemptuously, but she said nothing.

Suddenly it occurred to him how he might convince her that he meant no harm.  He took a chain from around his neck and pitched it to her.

"Take that key and go over to the boat.  In that plastic container, about half way down you'll find a metal box.  I want you to keep what's in it.  Maybe it will make you feel more secure."

She suspected a ruse, perhaps the opening scene of some sick fantasy.  After a moment, however, she went to the boat, looking back warily to see if he would follow.

"I'll stay here," he assured her.

She climbed into the boat and went back to the container.  Beneath the lid was another of the folded pieces of canvas.  With another look over her shoulder to make sure he was still at the fire, she grasped the stiff canvas.  An odor or mildew clung to it and it had an unpleasantly damp, sticky feel.  She tugged back the heavy fabric and saw an olive drab metal box with a small padlock.  She unlocked and opened it.  Inside something was wrapped in an oily cloth.  Her heart raced as its heft told her what it was.  She unwrapped it.  In dazed incomprehension she turned the automatic in her hands.  The bore was huge.  It looked old, the dark color worn away to silver in many places.  It felt slick and deadly beneath a light coating of oil.

She exhibited none of the clumsiness he expected as she turned his old .45 in her hands examining it, but Richard attributed that to her natural grace.

"You keep that with you," he called out.  "If you bring it over, I'll show you---no I'll tell you how to operate it."

"I know how to shoot," she said softly, as if she were in some sort of a trance.

"Good."

Jill's elation at having the pistol died quickly.  He would never give her a loaded gun.

"But this is a game, isn't it?" she continued in the same detached voice.

"Game?"  He shook his head.  "No.  I just want you to feel safe."

Jill got out of the boat and came back with the heavy pistol dangling in her hand.

"Be careful.  That thing is loaded."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.  There was no way he would give hr a loaded weapon.

"I brought you here against your will---"

"You kidnapped me."

"Yes.  I know you're terrified---who wouldn't be.  But now I'm placing my life in your hands so we're . . . kind of even in a way."

"But the gun has no bullets," she said in trembling voice.  "This is a . . . a charade."

"No."

She shook her head slowly.

"How long have you planned this?"

"Since yesterday," he answered truthfully.  "As soon as I understood the danger you were in from Mic."

"But Mic did not do anything to me," she said, raising the gun.  "You did!"

She aimed at his midsection, not at his head as someone unfamiliar with firearms might do.

"Point the gun away," he gasped.  "I forgot to tell you something about it."

His reaction confused her.  He would never have given her a loaded weapon---unless he was insane.

"It is loaded?" she said, still not believing he would be so foolish.

A pain shot through her injured wrist almost causing the pistol to slip from her grasp.  She clutched at it with the other hand.

The loud report caught her by surprise.  Splinters of rotted wood exploded from the log scant inches from Richard's ear.  The recoil sent the heavy weapon back and upwards, catching her a glancing blow on the temple.

Richard gasped, surprised both that she had fired and that he hadn't been hit.

"It had bullets," she said in surprise.

The painful ringing in his ears kept him from hearing her.

Recovering quickly, Jill braced the gun with trembling hands and assumed a shooter's stance.

"Give me the keys to the boat," she said firmly.  "Or this time I will not miss."

"I've hidden them," he stammered.  "If you shoot me, and you'll never find them."

It was a precaution he should have taken, but the keys were in his pocket.

How could I have been so stupid? he wondered.

"Please listen to me, Jill.  I'll take you back.  I promise . . . after we've had time to talk . . . when I'm sure you understand the situation."

She shook her head, steadfastly training the .45 on his midsection.

"Please point that thing in another direction.  As you've seen, the trigger mechanism is worn.  It's got a hair trigger."

Killing him by accident wouldn't do.  She pointed the automatic skyward, but stayed ready to bring it down and fire should he make a sudden movement.

"I didn't want to do this," he said.  "Believe me.  The way I feel about you I---"

"Do not say that!  How dare you say that!"

The pistol came down again.  Her hands shook.  He waited for the shot.

Jill tried to think it through as she pointed the pistol slightly above his head.  If she killed him and couldn't get the boat started she might still be rescued before she starved.  Or she could use the pistol and force him to take her back, but the slightest miscalculation would allow him to overpower her and take the gun away.

"Richard, you must listen to me," she began patiently as if she were speaking to a small child.  "You cannot keep me here against my will.  There is no way that this . . . this thing you are doing will ever make me . . . it will not change things between us."

"What?  No.  That's not what this is about.  I knew how much this would frighten you.  I'm not stupid enough to think kidnapping you would make you . . .  Good grief!"

"This is all just to save me from Mic," she said wearily.

She lowered the pistol to her side.  "Do not move.  I will shoot you if I must," she said as she went around and sat on a log, putting the fire between them.

"You won't need the gun now," he said.  "But keep it near."

When she nodded he allowed himself a sigh of relief.  He poured two cups of coffee.  Smiling reassuringly, he offered her one.  She slapped it away, sending scalding coffee onto his shoulder and into his face.  He grimaced, but didn't cry out.  He expected an expression of regret or a look of satisfaction, but saw only one of cool disdain.  Richard poured what was left of his own coffee into the fire and dropped the cup.

"I'm going up the hill.  Maybe we can talk later.  Believe me, I know how you feel---"

"You have no idea how I feel," she said.

"No.  I suppose not."

As she listened to him struggling through the vines and dry leaves up the hill, she tried to remember what she had read about the psychopathology of abusers.  As a teenager the subject had consumed her while she struggled to understand her parents' reasons for divorcing and then abandoning her.  Richard was obviously unbalanced, but she didn't know that he was abusive.  He hadn't done anything yet, except dumping her into the lake when she tried to get away from him.  For the first time she considered that it might have been an accident.  Except for his awkwardness with women, Richard lacked the characteristics of an abuser, as she remembered them.

Maybe he just hasn't shown them yet.  No abusive language even.  If he's a sadist, then he seems unusually patient.  But it's supposed to be about control, and he certainly has that.  I'm definitely under his control---except for the gun.

"It makes no sense," she muttered.

Of course her own actions would have made no sense to Richard had he known the truth.  Jill had become wary of Mic on her own.  It was why she had asked him to intervene.  She hadn't disclosed her reasons to him, not because she had done anything shameful, but because what had happened to her was private.  It was something she desperately wanted to forget.  She hadn't even confided in Marta.  And if she told him now it would only validate his decision to abduct her.

Richard surveyed the interior of the cabin, trying to decide where to start.  Light coming through the roof where the sheet metal had blown away illuminated the detritus of several years.  Leaves and twigs formed a dank mound and had rotted away the flooring in the southeast corner.  Spindly saplings had rooted in the moldering mass and struggled toward the hole in the roof.  The sound part of the floor was littered with dried leaves and the rusted husks of cans discarded long ago.  It would be a lot of work, but he welcomed it.

The fieldstone fireplace looked sound, and the flue was clear.  Tiptoeing, he felt around the uneven stone top overhead until he encountered the tools, both surprised and relieved that they were still there.  The hickory hammer handle was sound, the varnish having protected it from the powder post beetles.  Its head was rust pitted, but serviceable.  The handsaw was rustier, next to useless.  A small coffee can contained rusty nails, many of which were bent.  There should have been a hatchet, but it was gone.  Fortunately he had bought an ax.  A football sized chunk of hardened tar that had served as a door prop could be melted and used to patch roof.

Behind the cabin he found the missing sheet metal, but it was twisted and corroded.  Repeated bending by the wind before it had ripped loose had chipped away the zinc exposing the base metal and causing it to rust through.  Richard used his weight to more or less straighten the mangled two-by-eight-foot strip before throwing it up to the roof.  A shadow slid over the island.  He noted sourly a cloudbank looming off to the northwest.  It was the cold front.  Now there was real urgency in repairing the cabin.  He had to go back to the boat for matches.  On the way he intentionally made plenty of noise to alert Jill, lest he frighten her and get himself shot.

He didn't see her, but knew she couldn't be far away because the rest of the containers were open, their lids and contents strewn in the bottom of the boat.  He wondered what she had thought she would find.  As he threw the stuff back into the storage containers, he decided that she was just looking for answers.  He couldn't blame her for that.

Jill watched from behind a boulder up in the trees, wondering what it was that he had put into his pocket before picking up the ax, and starting back up the hill.  He'd made no obvious effort to locate her, which only meant that he knew she had nowhere to go.  Whatever illusion of freedom he might provide for her, the fact was that she was a prisoner.  That he might actually believe his rationale for bringing her to the island changed nothing.  She wanted desperately to believe he wouldn't hurt her, but now it occurred to her that he might never take her back.  That was the undeniable fact amid all her uncertainty.

A screeching sound came from up the hill, followed by the sound of pounding on metal.  She crept up furtively.  Hiding behind a fallen tree she searched for him, finally spotting him atop the cabin's moss covered roof.  Jill watched him hammering and realized that he was closing up the huge hole she had noticed earlier.  He obviously was preparing for more than a few days stay.  That wasn't good.  She remembered a news story from several years before about an old man and his son somewhere in the American west who had kidnapped two women and taken them into the wilderness to be their wives.

Is that what he has done? she wondered.  It made sense.

He stalked me all that time, waiting for his chance.  I should have seen it.  He was always there, but I thought he might be attracted to Marta, but it was me all along.  He's been obsessed with me from the beginning.  So now he is preparing a home for his woman.  Why didn't I see it?  So he doesn't wish to harm me, just keep me here forever!  He is delusional---schizophrenic.

Instead of a sudden violent attack, she now anticipated relentless pressure for her to become what he wanted her to be.

It will be rape in increments---unless I use the gun.

With the sheet metal hammered flat and fastened to the roof once more, Richard surveyed the rust holes doubtfully.  All he could do was patch them the best he could.  He went to the edge of the roof, braced his hand against a tree, got a foothold on the stub of a small limb, and swung out.  From there he bent to drop his other foot on the windowsill before jumping athletically to the ground.  Gathering an armful of dry wood he went inside and laid a fire in the fireplace.  Then he went back out and snapped pencil thick twigs from a dead sumac bush.  Even in rainy weather the inside of sumac remained dry and the volatile oil would ignite quickly.  He had plenty of matches, but wanted to be frugal.  His tinder caught immediately and the embryonic flame soon became self-sustaining.

Jill watched as he left the cabin, walked past her hiding place, and headed down to the boat.  In a few minutes he reappeared, carrying a shovel, the fire grate, and a coffee can.  Leather gloves protruded from his back pocket.  He disappeared into the old cabin where a faint plume of smoke was coming from the chimney.  It gave her the idea of starting a signal fire that could be seen by a passing boat if not from the mainland.

Would anyone pay attention?  And what if he discovered it?  I can . . . disable him---tie him up.  Then I will wait for a clear night and set the cabin on fire.  Someone is sure to see the glow of the flames and investigate.  Then I can have a second signal fire ready to light.

Richard reappeared in the doorway with a shovel full of trash.  He pitched it out and ducked back inside.  She watched him remove shovel after shovel of the stuff from inside.  Later he came out, gloved hands carrying the coffee can, now fire-blackened and smoking.  A faint but cloying odor reached her.  It seemed familiar, but she couldn't identify it.  Acting as if the can were burning his hands, Richard climbed onto the roof and began dabbing whatever was in the can onto the roof.  Twice he took the can back inside and shoveled for a while before climbing back up to resume his work on the roof.

The day had cooled noticeably, giving Jill second thoughts about burning the cabin.  It was quite possible no one would notice the fire or investigate even if they did.

So I must find his keys.  Or I must convince him to take me back.

But how does one reason with a schizophrenic?

Satisfied that he had done what he could, Richard climbed down.  The roof would still leak, but rain would no longer pour in.  Things of value would have to be kept beneath the sounder part of the roof.  Tomorrow he would repair the floor and see to the outhouse.  It was only about two in the afternoon according to the angle of the sun, but already the day was uncomfortably cool.  Carrying everything up from the boat would warm him.  When he went down he found Jill sitting near the boat with his .45 in her lap.

"I've been working on a cabin up there," he said.

She only stared at him.

"It still needs work, but you can sleep up there tonight."

"I'm not sleeping with you," she said.

"No.  I'm staying down here."

She nodded.  "If you come in, I will shoot you."

"I won't," he said as she got up to leave.  "Wait, Jill.  If you decide to . . . kill me you'll never get off the island and the supplies I brought won't last forever."

She hadn't so much as flickered an eyelash at the suggestion that she might kill him.

"Then stay away.  I do not wish to shoot you."

"I know you don't," he said earnestly.  "And I know this is difficult for you to understand, but if you'll give me a chance---if you can just hear me out---"

"Stop it!" she shouted, suddenly overcome by anger and frustration.  "Stop trying to sound reasonable.  What you have done is not reasonable.  It's crazy!"

"Yes," he said, as much to himself as to her.  "But I'm not."

At least I don't think I am, he added to himself.

"Can you wait here until I've packed some more stuff up?" he asked.  "You can go up to the cabin after I come back down.  Take the sleeping bag.  I'll set the fire and put on a pot of water for you.  There are LIRP rations in the green box.  Mix a little hot water with them . . . they're pretty good."

"Are we ever going back?" she asked.

"Of course."

"When?" she demanded.

He took the last of the large plastic boxes from the boat.

"We have to talk, Jill," he said.  "It's why I brought you here, at least it's one of the reasons."

"How long?  Give me some idea."

She knew that whatever he told her would either be a lie or fantasy, but she had to hear something.

"We have to get together on this.  You have to listen and really consider what I'm saying.  Unless we can come to a . . . mutual understanding as to what is going on . . . and figure out together what to do about it, then this will all have been for nothing."

"So unless I think what you wish me to think you will never return me."

"It's not like that."

"Until you take me back I can believe nothing you say.  Think about it, Richard.  What kind of fool would trust someone who has done what you have done?"

"You have to."

"That is one thing you cannot make me do."

"I don't intend to make you do anything."

"Except stay here."

"Not forever.  I'll take you back.  I promise."

"You promise?  That means lot, doesn't it?"

Instead of continuing the fruitless conversation, he snapped the lid back onto a storage container, hefted it, and stepped gingerly out of the boat.

She watched him struggle up the hill with the heavy box.

You should not provoke him, the reasonable part of her mind told her.  He needs to believe that he can get what he wants by talking.  If nothing else it gains you some time.

For what?  So that you can prepare yourself to be raped?

Maybe he will not do that.

He didn't bring you here to talk no matter what he says.  No one does something like that.

The internal dialogue ended in impasse just as her conversation with Richard had.  With repeated glances to make sure he wasn't returning, she began a methodical search for the keys, beginning with the boat itself.

Even if I find them, how can I get it down to the water?  Can I even start the motor?  And is there enough fuel to get back?  What if I get lost?  What if the wind he speaks of blows the wrong way?

Hopelessness pressed down on her, raising a painful lump in her throat.  She bit back the urge to cry.

May 14

Jill lay fully clothed in the sleeping bag, her head resting on the rolled up denim jacket, listening to the wind rustle the canvas he had tacked over the window.  A dying ember in the fireplace flared suddenly, casting flickering patterns on the cobweb covered log walls and the untidy assemblage of plastic boxes and bags she had piled against the door.  The .45 lay within easy reach on the floor beside her.  It was the middle of the night, and she had to go to the bathroom.

When she could delay it no longer, she got up and, as silently as she could manage in the near dark, disassembled the heap blocking the door.  Clutching the pistol, but with her finger off the touchy trigger, she slipped out into the night.  Scudding low clouds drifted across the sliver of moon, giving little light, but enough to make her visible.  She huddled shivering in the shadow of the cabin, trying to decide where to go.  She went only a short distance into the woods so that she could keep an eye on the door lest he enter while she was outside.  As she unsnapped and pushed down her jeans, she knew he was watching.

He may have night vision goggles.

As she hurried back to the cabin, a tingling feeling at her nape screamed that he was about to grab her.  She bolted inside, shut the door, and, placing the .45 on the floor, frantically began reassembling her barricade.  Breathing heavily from her effort, she cursed him, herself, the situation, and him again.

Like a stupid slasher movie!  Helpless female in the woods with a homicidal maniac!  I hate you!  I hate you!  I hate you!

Anger failed to override her fear as it had in daylight.  The darkness made nonsense of the possibility that he intended her no harm.  Clutching the cold automatic in her small hands, she crawled into the sleeping bag and shut her eyes.  Sleep eluded her.  Fear amplified every sound and lent it sinister meaning.  She shivered in the cold dark now, having neglected the fire.  As the cold permeated the drafty cabin she derived grim satisfaction at the thought that he was outside with only the canvas for covering.

"I hope he gets frostbite," she mumbled as she got up to revive the fire.

Maybe he will get sick from the exposure and be forced to take me back.

He does not have to take you back.  He will leave you here.  You are not going anywhere.

But I will not have to worry while he is gone.

That is when I will burn the cabin and try to get someone's attention.

She shivered as she poked at the resurgent fire.

Better not burn it until the weather is warm.

God, please do not let me have to stay here that long.

It crossed her mind that it might be better to pray that she would get to leave at all.

When the flames appeared strong enough to handle it, she put a large piece of wood on the fire and then crawled back in the sleeping bag.  She would have liked to keep the pistol in her hand, but the delicate trigger made that too dangerous.  Once more she placed it on the floor beside her.  She wanted to sleep, but was afraid to.

Meanwhile Richard huddled with his back to a rock, using it to block the breeze.  His position along with cold and damp made his back ache.  Jill had showed surprising strength and determination, which was both good and bad.  She was strong enough to think rationally despite her fear---which was good.  However, he could now see that convincing her would be harder than he had thought.  Physically, she was intimidated, and he hated that, but emotionally she was tough, resilient.  Giving her his .45 had not been a mistake, despite the fact that she had almost killed him.  The pistol meant security.  Security meant she could listen.  Listening meant he had a good chance of convincing her.

Linear reasoning, he told himself.  But you missed a link:  she has to trust you.  But trust is earned.  Once betrayed, is it even possible to regain?  Or is it like shattered crystal?

Despite fatigue, he couldn't sleep.  He replayed everything they had done together and everything they had said to one another again and again, his mind insisting on alternate scenarios, uselessly imagining that things had gone differently. 

She'll probably have me thrown in jail when we go back.  Who can protect her then?

She might even go back to him.

No.  She's smarter than that.  If I do nothing else before we leave, I'll tell her enough that she will at least be suspicious of him no matter what she thinks of me.

The last thing Richard remembered before falling asleep was catching the first glimpse of dawn.

Bonne Femme, May 15

Morning sun fell on his eyelids, causing him to stir, but it was the noise that brought him fully awake.  He opened his eyes to see a pistol inches from his left leg and a grim-faced Jill bracing to fire.

"No!  Don't!" he shouted.

She raised the gun to his midsection.

"Do not move or I will shoot you in . . . a vital area," she said.  "If you remain still I will just shoot your leg.  You force me to do this."

"You don't understand.  If---"

"You will have to let me take you back to treat the wound," she said.  "It should be simple for you to understand.  You brought me here so that I would be forced to listen to you.  Now I am shooting you so that you will take me back.  I am sorry, but I have no choice."

He remained motionless, fearing that a sudden movement would frighten her into pulling the trigger.

"Jill, you've got to listen to me.  The .45 was made to cause maximum damage.  If you blow open my femoral artery I'll bleed out in minutes.  There'll be no way to stop it."

His words seemed to make no impact.

"If I'm dead, you may never get off the island," he said.  "Think of that."

She wavered, and then raised the pistol.  He allowed himself a sigh of relief.

"I cannot kill you," she said weakly.  "Please just tell me what I must do to make you take me back."

Sooner or later he would have to take her back, even if she refused to believe him, but he couldn't tell her that.

"I have some things to tell you.  I need for you to at least consider that they may be true."

She let the hand holding the pistol fall to her side.

"Jill, think.  What does your intuition tell you?"

"That you are a liar," she said simply.

He started to sit up.

"Do not move," she said, bringing up the pistol again.

He eased back down.

"I never lied to you."

Her hands shook as she kept the pistol trained on him.

"No?  You lured me to your picnic spot.  Then you tricked me into getting in the boat.  Then you forced me here.  How many lies did you tell to do all that?"

"True enough," he admitted, "but---"

"Stop!  I do not want you to tell me anything.  I refuse to listen as long as you keep me here."

"Let me stand up," he said weakly.  My back is killing me."

He threw back the tarp to tried to stand.  "Whoa!" he said as his head spun.  He steadied himself on the boulder to keep from falling.  Jill backed away warily.

"Just vertigo," he mumbled.  "Probably a sinus infection or something."

He's taken something, she thought as she watched him stand unsteadily.  Some drug.  That explains a lot.  Or maybe he is off his medication.

"Are you being treated for a mental condition?" she asked.

"What?  No.  No, I don't have a mental condition," he said irritably as he waited for his head to stop spinning.

It finally abated a bit, but left him with a slightly unreal feeling.

"I'm prone to sinus infections.  That's got to be what this is.  Don't worry about me."

"I am not worried about you," she said.  "But if you're sick, maybe we should go back now."

"Not yet."

"I know.  You have something you have to tell me about Mic.  We can still do that.  If you take me back now, you can see a doctor and I promise I will tell no one what you have done.  Later we can meet somewhere---in public, of course---and I will listen to everything you want to tell me."

"Good try," he said weakly.

"I will not listen to you as long as you keep me here," she said, turning away.

After she trudged back up the hill, he threw up and felt marginally better.

"Twenty-four hour bug or something," he muttered as he bent gingerly to take a granola bar from the box.  The movement set his head spinning again, and he dropped it. 

Between bouts of nausea, Richard spent the morning making the privy serviceable.  To say that he repaired it would be gross exaggeration.  The roof was gone, and it listed perilously, threatening to tumble down the hill if so much as an anemic sparrow lit upon it.  After prying and pushing for an hour, he righted it, chocking the downhill side with stones.  A diagonal brace shored it up.  Finally, he arched saplings over it for a makeshift roof frame and then secured canvas atop it approximating a hogan shape.  He reattached the door on its rusty hinges and washed down the seat area.

Not much to look at, he said to himself as he surveyed his handiwork.  But it beats the bushes especially when it's raining.

Another bout of weakness struck him.  He laid it off to the cold night and lack of caloric intake.  He needed to eat, but the thought of food made him queasy.  He plodded tiredly to the cabin, forgetting to let Jill know he was coming.  His sudden appearance in the doorway startled her.  With a small cry she backed away, dropping the cup of coffee she had just poured.

"Sorry.  I should have said something to let you know I was coming up."

Her eyes flicked toward the pistol sitting atop a container near the fireplace.  Richard stepped back to the threshold, steadying himself on the doorframe.

"I just came to tell you that the outhouse is done . . . at least as far as it's going to be.  If you put some toilet paper in a coffee can with the plastic lid on, it won't ruin with the humidity.  Then you can just leave it out there."

She nodded, eying him cautiously.  She had returned to the "paranoid delusion theory."  His "consideration" infuriated her, but she had decided that she had to pretend appreciation if she were to establish the semblance of a "normal" relationship with him.  If she could make him believe that she still liked him then she might gain some control over what was happening to her.  The downside was that she might reinforce his fantasy.

"Jill, earlier I told you---"

"I will not listen to you until you take me back," she interrupted.

She saw it as her only bargaining chip, but it was only the flip side of Richard's dilemma.  He couldn't take her back until she did listen.  Jill was mistaken in thinking that all he wanted of her was to hear him out.  Richard had to be reasonably certain that she believed what he had to say.

"You have to take me back, Richard.  We cannot live here."

Her voice sounded oddly weak to him, as if she were a lot further away.  He leaned on the doorway, came in, and sat on a storage container.

"I . . . can't risk it yet," he said, his head spinning again.

His move inside the cabin frightened her.  He was deliberately intruding, trying to intimidate her.  Again her eyes flicked toward the .45.

"Could you get me a granola bar . . . and some water?" he asked.

"You have some at the boat," she said.

He nodded and got to his feet unsteadily.

"Do not return to the cabin today."

"Okay," he said weakly.

"I need to know where you are.  You claim to care about . . . my privacy.  So do not walk in unexpectedly again like you just did."

"Yes.  That's why I gave you the cabin.  I'll cut firewood.  You should be able to hear the chopping."

"Fine."

Nausea caught him half way down the hill, and he leaned against a tree as he threw up, each heave causing his head to pound as if it were about to explode.  Afterwards he felt little better.  Stomach acid burned his raw throat.  When he got to the lower camp, he sat shivering near the fire, and tore open a package of granola bars.  Eating was a chore, but he choked down half of one by eating slowly and sipping water.  The meager meal lay heavily on his stomach, but he kept it down.

His eye fell upon the ax propped next to the fire.

"A promise is a promise," he said, pushing himself up.

Jill poured lake water from an army surplus container into a large cast iron pot she had found among the stuff from the boat.  She placed it on the grate in the fireplace, listening vainly for the sound of chopping.

"So much for your promises," she muttered.

As if on cue, the hollow sound of the axe biting into wood carried up from the bottom of the hill.  Something was different about it, however.  Earlier, she had noticed a rhythm to his chopping, a predictable pattern of sounds:  two solid "thunks" followed by a hollow "thock."  Now the strokes sounded random.

"You have more important things to worry about than that," she said.  "All that matters is that you know where he is."

The lake water was clear, but she decided to boil it and save some for drinking.  She filled the single pot Richard had brought to the island, and then emptied the coffee from two tins into large Ziploc bags and placed them in one of the storage containers.  After filling the three-pound cans with lake water, she placed them on the grate along with the cast iron cooking pot.  Jill determined that she would be independent.  If there was heavy work to do, like carrying water or cutting firewood, he could do it.  Everything else she would do for herself, and, as much as possible, she would keep him away from her.  That she was beginning to think long term was depressing, but it was practical.

As she knelt to feed the fire, the flames became an unfocused image, like the mandala she had used in a brief teenage experiment with meditation.  Instead of the transcendental state that she had never found, Jill was transported back to the final stages of her deteriorating relationship with Mic.  He had become oppressively possessive, even resenting the time she spent with Marta.  When he couldn't bully her into staying away from her friend, he attacked Marta.  That was the only way to put it.

"Why does she always have to hang onto you, Jill?  It's weird.

"She's a friend, Mic."

"Yeah," he said contemptuously.  "A real ‘good' friend."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know.  Has she ever tried anything with you?"

Clearly he had been jealous, but his jealousy had nothing to do with love, only possession.

"You can tell me nothing that I do not already know about him, Richard," she said aloud.

Jill stoppered and filled the old metal sink with hot water.  Of course there was no plumbing other than plastic pipe running through the wall to drain wastewater onto the ground outside.  She unwrapped a new bar of soap.

She had been desperate to rid herself of Mic, else she would never have made the mistake of asking Richard to intervene.

"Well, you certainly intervened," she mumbled.

Shivering, she began to disrobe, intending to bathe in stages.  Listening until she could hear the chopping at the base of the hill, she stripped to the waist, and began sponging herself.  The warm water felt good, but cooled quickly.

How crazy is he?  That's the question, isn't it?

The rinse water ran down, soaking her jeans.  She dried and pulled on a clean sweatshirt before stripping off her jeans and hanging them near the fire.  She put her underwear on the edge of the sink.

"No laundry detergent, of course.  I will have to use soap."

She finished washing, and donned new jeans.  She had vowed earlier not to bathe, reasoning that the more disgusting she became, the less tempted he would be to attack her.  Being filthy, however, depressed her.  Depression, she realized, could lead to apathy and she couldn't afford that.

The chopping was fainter now, but hearing it reassured her.

He hasn't tried anything yet.

But he will.

"If he . . . forces me I can survive it.  Women have had to survive it throughout history, have they not?"

She tried to assess Richard's behavior objectively, as if she were viewing it all from the outside.  What she had intended as a dispassionate intellectual evaluation quickly turned on her.  Everything about his behavior unmistakably pointed to obsession.  With that realization, her panic rushed back.

He kidnapped me!  I am alone with him and he can do anything he wants!

Stop it!  You are not helpless and he has not harmed you.

He is diseased!  Who knows what he is thinking?

She tried to calm herself.

Wait.  He is obsessed with you.  That means he cares about you.  He has not harmed you, and he will not.

That she had to rely on his good intentions angered her.  It wasn't good enough.

I will not let him hurt me.  And I will get away from him.

"All I need is the key."

Fine.  I will let him talk to me.  I will gain his trust.

It was obviously important to him that she believe what he what he had to say about Mic.  It was important to Jill that he thought her belief was genuine.

She leaned against the sink to pull on clean socks and slip back into her tennis shoes.  What she was planning was a type of seduction.  For a moment she felt an irrational twinge of guilt, but impatiently dismissed it.

"You did not cause this, Jill," she said aloud again.

Of course he wouldn't take her back even when he did think she believed him.  But that wasn't the point.  She simply had to gain his trust, get the key, and then betray him as he had her,

It felt better to be clean---and, to have a plan.

She emptied the wash water, put on coffee, and then went to the door to call out for him to come up, intending to put her plan into action immediately.  She hesitated.

"I will do it tomorrow," she said as she closed the door without calling to him.

He felt weak and chilled.  The coughing was painful and almost constant now.  His nausea was at bay, but barely.  So far he had been able to keep the scant amount he had eaten from coming back up, but was increasingly less sure that he could continue to do so.  He needed food, but the mere thought of eating sickened him.

It's just a stomach flu, he told himself as he brought an armload of wood to the campfire and dropped it without bending over.

He knelt stiffly, trying not to incline his head lest the vertigo return.  After putting several large pieces on the fire, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, wishing it were later in the day.  If he had a twenty-four-hour bug he could sleep through the worst of it.  Hazarding a reclining position turned out to be a mistake.  He rolled to his hands and knees to avoid throwing up on the blanket.  Then he expelled everything he had eaten, which wasn't much, but his stomach wasn't content with that, and he had to endure the dry heaves.  Instead of providing relief when it subsided, it left him shaking and as nauseous as before.  He was racked with a severe chill.  His eyes burned and his head ached, along with virtually every joint and muscle in his body.

After rinsing his mouth with water to expel the taste, he sipped a little, pulled the blanket about him again, and scooted close to the fire.  With difficulty he got the tarp over his shoulders too.  He sat cross-legged, his back and knees aching from the position, but it was better than the vertigo.

Jill did a thorough inventory of her clothes to determine how often she would have to launder.  She had decided to be as clean and comfortable as circumstances allowed.  A daily routine would put her in control of the details of her life at least.  If that gave her the illusion that she was not completely at the mercy of his whim, then it was a useful illusion.  It would help her remain sane in this insane situation.  Beneath underwear and feminine napkins in the smaller of the two suitcases, she found the paperbacks and writing tablets from her apartment.  She was trying to fix a meaning to the fact when a harsh cough came from just outside the cabin.

She scrambled for the pistol.

The coughing was louder, became a fit.

Finally, he knocked at the door.

"What do you want?" she asked, eying the boxes stacked against the door.

They weren't meant as a barricade, only a warning system to keep him from entering stealthily.

"Aspirin.  I've got a bad fever."

It is a ruse, she thought with certainty.

"Go away.  I do not have aspirin."

There was a long silence.  She raised the .45 and held it centered on the door, determined to shoot when the door to flew inward.

"I think there were some in your medicine cabinet.  Look in the small suitcase," he said weakly.

He broke off in a fit of coughing that she believed was contrived.

"Stay out.  I will get it."

She found the bottle where he said it was.  She tiptoed to the window and forced it through a gap in the canvas he had nailed up.  Going back to the center of the room, she braced the pistol again, pointing it toward the doorway.

"I put it out the window," she said.

"Good grief!" he muttered.

Coughing near the window made her shift her aim.  She was sure he would rip the canvas aside and leap in.

"Jill, I don't have any water."

"Go away."

She suspected that he would only feign leaving.  She aimed the heavy pistol half way between the door and window, not knowing which one he would burst through.  After long moments without a sound, her arms began to ache.  She eased backward, sat down with her back against the wall by the fire, and braced her elbows on her knees, ready for his inevitable charge.

After chewing the aspirin he settled by the fire.  It was dark now, and the cold seemed to be closing in sharply.  He still couldn't recline without his head spinning, and he didn't want to expel the aspirins before they had done their job.  The fire was blazing now, burning his face, but oddly doing nothing to stifle his uncontrollable shaking.  He pulled the blanket and the canvas tarp around his shoulders and hunched over miserably.  His back and neck felt stiff, and his headache had blossomed to insistent pounding.  When he opened his eyes, the firelight intensified the pain.

"I've got the flu," he said with certainty.  "Why didn't I get a shot?"

Adding to his misery, it began to drizzle.

Jill didn't hear him until he knocked.  She snatched up the .45 and pointed it at the door.

"I have to sleep in the cabin tonight," he said.

"No!  You cannot stay here!" she gasped.

"I'm sick, and it's beginning---"  The coughing seized him again.  "Jill, it's raining and it's turning colder.  I have to have shelter."

"Sleep in the bathroom."

"I need warmth."

"No!"

"I don't care anymore.  If you're going to shoot me, just do it.  I'm coming in."

"I will," she stammered.  "I swear I will!"

With eyes wide, she watched as the door slowly pushed the boxes aside.

"Stay out!" she shouted, trying to steady the shaking pistol.

"I have to come in."

Slowly, so as to avoid frightening her further, he came through the half opened door.

"Get out!"

He dropped the tarpaulin and the army blanket just inside the door.

"I'll sleep here," he said as he shut the door.

Jill sat with her back to the fire so that she could watch him.  Instead of reclining, he had wrapped the blanket around himself and leaned again the wall.  His chin finally slumped to his chest, but she was sure that he was only pretending.  Soon, however, he began to snore.  Her resolve not to fall asleep was aided by his periodic coughing attacks.  Occasionally he groaned.

It was mid-morning before he awoke.

His white face and quivering lips made her believe for the first time that he really was sick.

Drug withdrawal, she decided.

He started to push himself from the floor, but sat back heavily.

"Can you help me up?" he mumbled.

"No," she said.

There was no way she was going to get close enough for him to make a grab at the pistol.

"I have to go out to the bathroom," he said weakly.

"Then go."

He couldn't get to his feet.  With a sigh he started to crawl over to the door.

"You're overacting," she said.

He used the doorknob to pull himself to his feet, the effort completely exhausting him.  His breath came raggedly.  Then he looked out into the steady slow rain and gathered himself for what she thought was a run for the privy.  Instead he walked unsteadily toward it without even bothering to shut the door.  She went to close the door, but stayed to watch as he went inside the outhouse.  A few minutes later, he emerged and stumbled back without looking up.  He came back inside with thoroughly soaked clothes and hair plastered to his forehead and collapsed onto without glance at her.  His chest rattled as he tried to recover.

"You really are sick," she murmured.

"Evidently," he said, giving her a weak smile.  "Better stay away from me."

A coughing fit racked him, leaving him rasping for breath.

"Take my . . . word for it.  You don't want this."

Jill stared at him a long moment, trying to decide how to handle the situation.  She sat and unlaced her shoes with her left hand while keeping the pistol pointed in his general direction.

"Careful," he said.  "You know how that thing can go off."

"Yes.  You remember that also please."

When she had the laces out of her shoes, she placed the automatic on her knee, and quickly tied then together.  She made a slipknot.

"Roll over.  Put your hands behind your back," she said.

"You're tying me up?"

"I do not trust you."

"Okay," he said as he rolled over, fighting the returning nausea.

Jill approached warily.  Using only her left hand, she tried to get the loop over his crossed hands.  He put his hands together to facilitate the job.  Finally, he felt her pull the knot tight.  Richard didn't know how she did it, but somehow she managed to tie the loose ends together securely---too securely.

"That's too tight," he told her.

"I am sorry," she said without sympathy.  "Sit up."

Richard struggled to a sitting position, biting back the nausea.  If he threw up again, she would probably just leave him lying in his own vomit.  The thought made him heave.  He rolled to his side, and his stomach went painfully through the motions, but nothing came up.  He fell back exhausted and closed his eyes.  When he opened them she was bending over him with a severe look.  She touched his forehead.

"Where are the aspirins?" she asked.

"Down by the boat."

"Wonderful.  I'll go get them."

"I'm sorry," he murmured thickly.

She left without responding.

"Open your mouth," she said.

He had no idea that she had been trying to rouse him for more than an hour.  He recognized the texture and bitter taste as aspirin.  She held water to his lips and supported his head with her hand while he sipped.  She was saying something, but he couldn't make it out.  He saw her face, but couldn't bring it into focus.  It was the last thing he remembered.

Cartier, May 17

Rose had enjoyed better days.  The cold wind whipped at her skirt and cut through the thin sweater she clutched closed.  Her car would have to await diagnosis until payday.  Even then she might not be able to afford to have it fixed again.  Once I could have gotten it fixed with a smile, she thought bitterly as she hurried down the broken sidewalk, trying not to catch a heel.  Raindrops coalesced in the frigid mist.  She had six more blocks to go, and no umbrella!  That's all I need.  My hair will be a wreck before I get to work.

A car went by, slowed, and pulled to the curb ahead of her.  She needed a ride, but he was the last person she wanted to give her one.  The window slid down, and Mic leaned down to look at her, an amused smile on his darkly handsome face.

"Hey, need a lift?"

"No.  I'm almost there."

She wanted to look away, but couldn't.  His eyes and smile held her. 

"Get in out of the cold, Rose."

She unconsciously bit her lip as her vow to stay away from him crumbled to mere words.

"Come on.  A girl could catch her death out there," he said as he stretched to open the door.

As always, she gave in to him without a fight.