Bonne Femme

Chapter 4

Captive

Bonne Femme, May 12

        The glow in the east did nothing to alleviate her misery as she huddled naked except for the denim jacket and clutched 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.  It was too much.

        "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 canvass, 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 her 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.

60.

       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?"

 61.

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

"Not yet."

        "You want 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 believe me yet."

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

        63.

        "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 want to talk.  You 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."

"This is crazy."

"I know.  But I'm not."

"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.

64.

Attempting to Escape

 

        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.  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.

65.

        "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 his head in.  It had never occurred to him that she could be capable of such a thing.

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

        She had complicated everything.  Now neither of them could trust the other.

"I have to have your word on that?"

"Yes," 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 . . . up 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.  Your clothes are in the boat."

        He picked up the canvass, 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.  Now she wondered what he was doing up in the woods for so long.  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.

66.

        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 apparently 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 the way because he couldn't imagine her finding him there.  Not that he thought she would try, but she had already shown herself to be more unpredictable than he had imagined, and he didn't want to have his head caved in while he slept.

        "I'm lucky she didn't kill me," he murmured as he spread the tarp on the sloping ground.  He lay back, and despite his jumble of worries, fell asleep at once.

 

The Cabin

        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.

67.

        She carried the suitcases back to the fire, sure that he would have returned when she got there, but he wasn't.  After pouring another cup of coffee, she sipped it and stared up the hill, wondering when he would come back.  She wanted to change into something warmer, but not until she knew where he was.  She suspected that he was hiding somewhere not far away 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 it 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 about to collapse.  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.  He's leaving me here to teach me a lesson. 

 

May 13, A Miscalculation

        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.

68.

       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.

69.

        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.

        "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.

70.

        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 she went to the boat, looking back warily afraid that he would follow her.

"I'll stay here," he said.

        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 back 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.  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."

71.

 She narrowed her eyes and shook her head in incomprehension.

"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.

72.

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's what he should have done, 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 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.  She could kill him and perhaps find a way to get herself rescued from the island before she starved.  Or she could use the pistol for protection and hope that she could get him to take her back.  The problem was that there would be constant opportunities for 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?  That's not what this is about, Jill.  Don't you think I knew how much this would frighten you?  I'm not stupid enough to think kidnapping a woman would make her fall in love with me.  That's not what this is about.  Can't you see that?"

 

73.

        "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 sat on a log, putting the fire between them.

        "You have the gun now," he said.  "You won't need it, 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 winced, 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.

"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 men who abused women.  As a teenager the subject had consumed her as she struggled to understand her parents reasons for divorcing and then abandoning her.  Richard was obviously unbalanced, but was he abusive?  He hadn't done anything yet, except dumping her into the lake when she tried to get away from him.  It could have been an accident, but she doubted it.

        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 murmured.

74.

        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, which 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 wanted to desperately to forget.  She hadn't even confided in Marta.  If she told him now it would only validate his decision to abduct her.

 

        Repairs

        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 in bad shape.  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 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 him 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 she realized that he might never take her back.  That was the undeniable fact amid all her uncertainty.

75.

       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 at the roof to close up the huge hole she had noticed earlier.  He obviously was preparing for more than a few days stay.  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.  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?  No.  He doesn't want 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 be 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 its inside 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 him leave the cabin and walk past her hiding place, heading down to the shore.  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.

76.

        Richard reappeared in the doorway with a shovel full of trash, which he pitched out before going 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 if they did.

So it's either find the keys or convince him to take me back.

But how did 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.  Everything 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.

        He found Jill sitting near the boat with his .45 in her lap.  "I've been working on a cabin up there," he said as he came down.

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."

She got up to leave.

77.

        "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, Richard.  I do not want to hurt you."

Encouraged, he smiled.

        "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 know.  You are not," she said.  "You keep saying that."

        "You can go up to the cabin after I come back down.  Take the sleeping bag.  I'm going up to 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, Richard?  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 want me to think you will never return me."

"It's not like that."

78.

       "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 engine?  And is there enough fuel to get back?  What if I get lost?  What if the wind gets bad?

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

 

79.

May 14, In the Cabin

         Jill lay fully clothed in the sleeping bag, her head on the rolled up denim jacket, listening to the wind rustle the canvass 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 no longer it, she got up.  As silently as she could manage she disassembled the heap blocking the door.  Clutching the pistol, but with her finger off the 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 go in while she was gone.  As she unsnapped and pushed down her jeans, she knew he was watching.

He probably brought 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 of boxes and bags.  Breathing heavily from her effort, she cursed him---herself---the situation.

        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.  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 out of the bag to build up 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.

80.

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.

        Jill put a larger piece of wood on the fire and crawled back in the sleeping bag, once more placing the pistol on the floor beside her.  She wanted to sleep, but was afraid to.

 

        Richard huddled with his back to a rock, using it to block the breeze.  His position along with cold dampness 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, however, 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.  Trust is earned, but, once betrayed, is it 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.