Chapter 4

He walked down a dusty, litter-strewn street in Mogadishu, rifle at the ready, eyes scanning the doors, windows, and alleyways as he stepped stealthily over broken glass and cast-off from recent looting.  Across the street, Kevin motioned him ahead as they walked point.  The pockmarked walls reminded him that death came as often for the unlucky as for the unwary.

Breathing shallowly, he picked his way over and around the garbage scattered in the street, ready to shoot at the first movement, and praying that he would encounter nothing.  As he approached the intersection of a narrow alley his attention was drawn to a sudden movement up the block.  Just dust kicked up by the breeze.  Without warning a figure stepped from the alley not ten yards from him.  A rifle swung his way---and he froze, unable to move until he heard the firing pin click on a defective round.

Finally released from his paralyzing fear, he jerked up his rifle and held the trigger back, emptying the entire clip so quickly that the individual shots were indistinguishable.  The obscene burp was over in few seconds.  The figure fell, as if its bones had suddenly dissolved.  Exhilaration surged through Richard.  In his giddy relief he giggled---until he approached and came face-to-face with what he had done.

Bonne Femme, May 19

Disoriented, Richard stared at the corner scant inches from his face.  After a moment he remembered where he was.  His mouth was dry and his abdomen sore, but the nausea was gone and he was hungry.  A tickle deep in his lungs told him that the cough was still there, and the effort it took to breath indicated congestion if not pneumonia.  Getting up and walking around would help loosen it, but he didn't feel up to that just yet.

How did I get over here? he wondered.

Turning slowly so as to not bring back the vertigo, he noticed that the floor was wet where he had lain last night.  Then he saw Jill sitting by the fireplace.

"Did the roof leak?" he croaked.

Startled, Jill looked up from her reading.

"What?"

"The floor's wet?"

"I had to wash it.  You . . . soiled it."

He rolled to a sitting position, noticing for the first time that he was naked beneath the rough wool blanket.  His hands were no longer tied.  He frowned in concentration, trying to remember.

"What happened last night?"

"You have been more or less unconscious for two days."  She dog-eared and closed her book.  "You remember nothing?"

"No . . . I . . . don't remember anything after . . . you gave me the aspirins.  Why did you untie me?"

"Your hands were freezing.  I had tied them too tightly," she said.

He noticed that she still had the .45.  It lay beside her on the floor.

"Why didn't you retie me only more loosely?"

She shrugged.

"Does this mean you're no longer so afraid of me?"

"No, it does not mean that," she said firmly but without the bitterness.  "And it does not mean that I trust you either."

He tried to make sense of the change.

"Something happened while I was unconscious?"

"Tell me about the boy," she said.

"What are you talking about?"

"The boy in Somalia," she said, stunning him.  "You talked about him while you were unconscious."

Actually, he had cried out in his delirium, asking an unnamed someone why it had to happen.

"Tell me about him," she prodded.

"It has nothing to do with you," he said.

"But it has everything to do with you.  I have a right to know what is wrong with you."

He closed his eyes.  "It has nothing to do with you, Jill."

"I think it does."

"You won't like it any more than I do," he said.  "He was only ten . . . or maybe twelve.  He shouldn't have been there."

"And he killed him."

"Who?"

"The little boy.  Why did Mic kill him?"

It was tempting to let her believe it.

"He didn't, Jill.  I did."

Her mouth dropped open and then she looked away.  For several moments the only sound in the cabin was the hissing of the burning wood and the wind in the chimney.  Richard wanted to explain, but he felt dead inside.  He couldn't understand it, how could she?

"Throw me some clothes," he said.  "I need to go out to the privy."

Jill took pants, a shirt, and underwear from the storage container that she had carried up from the boat and brought them over.  He got dressed under the blanket, and then went out to the john.  Sooner or later she had to know the truth---even the horrible part.  It surprised him to discover that he wanted to share it with her.  He hadn't even told Kevin.

"Was it an accident?" she asked as soon a he got back.

"No.  Just circumstance.  He was the enemy."

"Children are not the enemy!"

They stared at each other.  She clutched the pistol, but it wasn't pointed his way.

"Do you really want to know what happened?"

Her eyes bored into his.  "I have to know what you did."

The words poured out of him almost of their own volition, disjointed and more than a little self-serving.

"He was a soldier . . . of sorts.  They're not regular troops over there . . . more like armed street gangs . . . all sorts of uniforms . . . or no uniform at all . . . men and boys of all ages.  He was just . . . maybe ten or twelve like I said.  He would have shot me . . . tried to.  That should make it all right, shouldn't it?  His rifle misfired . . . and I emptied my clip into him.  I flipped him over with my boot, and he was just this little kid."

He looked at her without seeing her.

"I should have seen that he was a kid.  Maybe I could have . . . hit him . . . or grabbed his rifle."

Jill stared at him until he looked away.

"Are you supposed to be on some sort of medication?" she asked gently.

She thinks I'm some head case gone off his meds, he realized.

"Probably," he said sarcastically.  "Look.  I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"What were you taking?"

"Nothing," he snapped.  "I'm not under a psychiatrist's care.  They don't make drug for what I've got, but my mental state is irrelevant.  It has nothing to do with what's going on here."

"Do you know what post-traumatic stress is?" she asked.

He snorted.

"Sure.  Battle fatigue.  I don't have that.  All I've got is guilt because I broke the oldest taboo of the species.  I killed a child!  Okay?"  He shook his head in disgust.  "I get that you think I weirded out---started seeing ghosts or something.  Unbalanced vet gets lost in his delusions, and kidnaps a girl that he imagines his buddy is trying to kill.  Just like that boy---you were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

It was exactly what Jill thought.

"If you think that then keep your distance," he said as he folded the blanket and canvas tarp.  "Thanks for taking care of me."

"Where are you going?"

"Back down."

"You cannot.  You are not well."

"I'm well enough," he said as he took the blanket and tarp over and placed them atop the container with the rest of his clothes.

The effort left him weak-kneed, but he determined not to let her know how debilitated he was.

"I'll see that you have plenty of firewood and water."

"You should stay here until you are stronger," she said.  "If you have a relapse---"

"I'm not going to have a relapse.  Besides, what do you care?"

"If you die, then I cannot get off the island."

"You'll get back.  I promise you."

"When?"

"When I'm certain you understand what's going on---not when you tell me you understand, but when I'm satisfied that you actually do."

"Oh.  You can bully me into believing you?"

"No, Jill.  We have to hammer this thing out.  That starts with being honest with each other, and with listening to each other."

He was getting nowhere.

"Call me if you need anything.  After I bring up some firewood and water this afternoon I'll just stay away for a while."

Later in the afternoon, he struggled up with a small armload of firewood.  She let him in, and he stacked it neatly near the fireplace.

"I heated those rations," she said.  "Do you want some?"

"I'll take some down with me."

"Eat here," she said over her shoulder as she squatted to fish a steaming packet from the cook pot.  "We need to discuss an arrangement."

"Arrangement?"

Jill paused to think through what she wanted to say, as she slit open one of the packages, poured it into a bowl, and set it aside.

"Things need to proceed," she said.  "Not just drift."

"I'm not intentionally trying to prolong this," he said.

"Let us be clear," she said.  "As I said, things need to proceed, but we cannot have a relationship.  You understand this?"

"Of course.  That possibility ended when I brought you here," he said.  "I don't want that to be true, but it is I guess."

She stopped what she was doing and stiffened at his words for just a moment.

"An understatement," she said calmly.  "That is no longer important.  What is, if I understand you correctly, is that you think that I must understand why you have . . . done this idiotic thing, and appreciate your reasons for doing it."

"You know I brought you here because I'm afraid of what Mic will do, but you don't believe me."

"We are at an impasse, but we cannot allow things to just drift," she repeated.

"If you knew him the way I do---."

"I know him better than I know you!"

"I don't think so.  He was acting with you."

"And you did not?  You say I do not know what he is really like, but I do not know what you are really like either.  And that is more to the point since you are here and he is not."

"I'm exactly what you see."

"Really?  Are you the shy man who took me to the concert, or the . . . person who abducted me?  Are you Mic's long time friend as you pretended, or do you really loathe him as you say now?  You see the problem?  You deceived me.  And now, I must trust you if I am to leave this place?  It is idiocy."

Trusting him was not the point.  She wanted him to trust her so that he would take her back to the mainland.  Jill planned to pretend to be convinced by his arguments and to deceive him into believing that she had finally accepted everything he had told her.

"I see your point," he said.

"Good.  Now I wish you to stay at the cabin for at least a few more nights," she said as she handed him a bowl of the LIRP rations.

"You'd feel safe with me here?"

"Not entirely.  But you must stay until you are well or I may die here."

Richard nodded.

They sat cross-legged, facing each other in front of the fireplace, bowls in hand eating in silence.  She averted her eyes, uncomfortable with the proximity.  A log suddenly flared as its heated reservoir of volatile gasses released themselves to the fire.  It lent her cheek a golden hue and produced tiny amber highlights in her hair.  Richard ached at the thought of what he'd had to throw away in order to make sure nothing happened to her.  She looked up unexpectedly and caught his expression.  Her face blanched and she looked away.  A minute shake of her head told Richard how she had interpreted his incautious stare.

"I'm sorry for staring," he said.  "It's . . . I just wish things were different."

In the awkward silence that followed, he was sure she would ask him to leave and rescind the suggestion that he stay with her in the cabin.

"If I must do something for you to take me back just tell me."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She shrugged.  "If it is only sex, then we can . . . just . . . save each other a lot of time and trouble."

One was as stunned as the other by her statement.  So much so that each missed the other's reaction.  Had they noticed, things might have been different.

"That's not what this is about," he said sadly.  "I wish I could at least convince you of that."

Jill looked directly at him, her blue eyes black in the dim light.

"Maybe you have not admitted this to yourself."

"You have to know me better than that."

"But I do not know you at all, Richard.  Anything I thought I knew . . . is gone."

He lay flat on his back and wide-awake when the low rolling peals of thunder began sounding off to the southwest in the early morning.  As a child he had loved the potatoes-in-the-attic sound of gentle night thunder.  Now it seemed ominous.  Fat drops of rain splatted upon the metal roof in a brief wind driven crescendo that ebbed quickly to desultory pattering as if the fickle clouds could not decide whether to give up their moisture.  Suddenly it pounded down in earnest, and a moment later he heard the runoff cascading to the ground from the roof.  As suddenly as it had begun, the shower ended and the thunder grumbled its retreat leaving behind the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of a leak near the door.  In the morning he'd get a fix on it and try a new patch.

As people do when faced with problems beyond their control, Richard took refuge in detail.  Convincing Jill was, at the best, a long-term proposition.  What to do about the danger from Mic was another.  Seeing to her comfort on Bonne Femme, however, was amenable to immediate action.  It wasn't what she wanted or needed, but it was something he could do.  He daydreamed, planning the details of a rainwater collection system for her bathing and hair washing needs.

He coughed, but only a few bursts, not the extended fits that had racked him.  As he turned to ease his back pain and rearrange his blanket, he heard Jill shift in her sleeping bag.  Her rhythmic breathing indicated that she was asleep which was good, as was the fact that she hadn't shown symptoms of the flu.  He slid his folded right arm under his rolled up jacket to make it a more comfortable pillow, but within minutes it went numb from the pressure.  He tossed and turned as the cabin cooled.  Rather than risking waking her by feeding the fire, he pulled the blanket up to his chin.  He fell asleep just when he had given up the possibility.

He replaced the empty clip while continuing to scan the street.  The rest had taken immediate cover.  Approaching the fallen body while Kevin covered him from across the street, he nudged it with his rifle barrel.  Getting no reaction, he used his boot to roll it onto its back.  The face that lolled into view was that of a smooth-faced boy.  The unfocused eyes stared through him and a fly landed on drool from the slack mouth.

Richard sat up, pulse pounding in his ears.  He took a shuddering breath and pulled on his jacket.  In stocking feet he went to the fireplace and quietly fed kindling to awaken the nearly dead embers.  Cross-legged on the floor, he stared into the flames, trying not to think about the boy, but unable to think of anything else.

Dawn painted cracks around the door.

"How long have you been up?"

The question startled him.

"I'm not sure," he said.

"After the rain stopped, I awoke and went outside to the bathroom.  When I came back you were murmuring in your sleep."

"Probably a dream.  I don't remember it," he said as he pulled on his shoes and stood.  "I'm going down to get something from the boat.  I'll be right back."

While she made coffee Jill tried to fathom why he would admit killing the boy instead of letting her continue to believe that Mic had killed him.  His explanation could be true, but it could as easily be a rationalization, or an outright fabrication.

"Whatever the truth, he was damaged terribly," she said aloud.

Hearing her own voice, Jill held her breath and listened, fearing that Richard had come back already and had overheard her.  Thinking aloud was a bad habit.  She listened intently, but heard only the sound of wind in the flue.  To ease her mind, she went to look through the crack in the door.  He was nowhere in sight.

Richard watched his breath as he packed the food, matches, and his clothes into one of the remaining containers.  The wearying walk down reminded him how much the illness had sapped his strength.  He hefted the container, and decided that he could manage it.  First, however, he would rest a moment to catch his breath.  He sat by the cold campfire pit and looked out over the lake at a featureless gray sky, feeling a light mist on his face.  The air smelled of snow.  Although not unusual for the time of the year, it never amounted to much or lasted long.

Things need to proceed, she had told him.  But how?  He had to come clean, be totally honest.  But he couldn't tell her everything.  There were things about him that she didn't need to know, yet she was too sharp to deceive.  There was only one option.  He would tell her as much as he thought she needed to know, but would answer truthfully any question she might ask---except one.  He would never let her know what he might have to do should he be unable to convince her.

He needed a little more rest before going back up, so he went to see what was left in the boat.  Rolled up and stuffed beneath the seats was a small, badly worn, piece of canvas.  Thinking he might find a use for it, he pulled it out and discovered that it was a case containing a cylindrical bundle of nylon fabric and plastic ribs.

"Wish I'd known that was there," he muttered.

As he made his way back up to the cabin, a steady, cold rain coalesced from the mist.  Chilled and winded after making it half way, he dropped the container and sat down on it to rest and catch his breath.  He thought about what she must be thinking of him as his breathing gradually slowed.  He always knew she was intelligence, but her toughness had surprised him.  In fact, most of what she had done had surprised him.  Now she had apparently decided that it was in her interest for him to sleep at the cabin.  It would be encouraging to think that meant that she no longer considered him a threat, but he knew that wasn't true.

She thinks I'm shell shocked, or whatever it is they call that nonsense now.

"I'm not crazy, Miss Belbenoit," he grunted as he hefted his load to resume.  "I just can't let anything happen to you."

Hearing him cough, Jill went to open the door.  He came in and dropped the container heavily on the floor.  After a moment to catch his breath, he went to the fire to warm up.

"Looks a little nasty," he said, as he knelt to rub his hands over the flames.  "Could get pretty cold tonight."

"Yes, I can feel it," she said distractedly as she bent to examine the nylon bundle.

"Is this what I think it is?"

"It was back under the seats.  Sorry I didn't find it sooner.  I'll use it when I go back down in a day or two.  In the meantime I thought we could put it up in here to give you a little privacy at night."

She considered that he might be lying about the tent, but realized that he would not have done without it and slept in the weather with only a single blanket and the canvas covering.

"It's free standing," he said.  "Adjust the ribs and it pops into shape.  No pegs needed."

Jill thought about offering him the sleeping bag if she used the tent, but decided against it on principle.  She was already uncomfortable enough.

"The tent will be nice," she said.  "But I do not feel like thanking you."

"Well that's honest enough," he replied with a grin.  "I don't blame you.  I know it doesn't mean much coming from me after . . . all this, but I am sorry."

"Yes.  Well, the thing is . . . honesty."

She looked idly through the container of clothes he had brought up.

"Who are you really?" she asked suddenly.

"I'm the guy who took you to the concert, Jill.  That's the truth."

It was a presumptuous thing to say, and he braced for her reaction.

"I know you want me to believe that, but if you are not really the man who abducted me then why do you continue to keep me here against my will."

"To keep you safe."

"Protective custody then," she said bitterly.

She threw her hands up to ward off further argument.

"No.  Wait," she said impulsively.  "This is no good.  We both have said all this before.  Let's talk about what really matters.  Tell me what led you to your conclusion."

"I've told you that."

"Not in detail.  No one in his right mind would do what you have done unless there was no other way."

"I'm not insane, Jill."

If he were, of course, arguing with him would do no good.  Separate worlds could coexist, but not interact in any meaningful way.

"I suppose a sane person---theoretically---could do such an insane thing given the right circumstances," she said carefully.

She was heading in the right direction, and he didn't want to say anything to ruin it.

"You think Mic intends to kill me.  Do I have that right?"

"I believe it."

She stared, trying to comprehend how the decent person Richard claimed to be could become intimately involved with the kind of person he now claimed Mic was.

"And the only way you can convince me of this is to take me captive?"

"You wouldn't let me talk about it."

He had told her, of course; what she hadn't done was let him elaborate on it.

"I suspected your motives, perhaps because my motives were not so pure.  I encouraged your feelings for me so that I could get you to intervene and help me get away from him.  See how honest I am being?"

She looked earnest, but he knew part of what she was saying was ingenuous.  She may have used him as she said, but she had not just pretended to like him.

"I used you," she continued.

That was the true part.  Suddenly he saw what she was trying to do.  She had inadvertently encouraged his obsession, and now was trying to dampen it.

"You still think I'm making it up to scare you and make you dependent on me.  I may not be much of a man, but I'm more of one than that."

"How dare you!" she erupted, forgetting her resolve to pretend to be convinced.  "This is not about your manhood.  This is about what is happening to me!  I am not a  . . . prize for the two of you to fight for."

"No.  No, Jill.  I know how you must feel, but---"

"You do not!"

Richard understood her helplessness, but not how violated she felt.  He had not laid a hand on her, but he had defiled her.

"Jill, I honestly wish you had never met either of us," he said weakly.

"So do I!"

Jill closed her eyes and took a deep breath to regain her composure.

"Emotion does not help," she said.  "Explain to me how you can be so certain that he intends to . . . do this thing.  It cannot just be because of his drunken threat.  People say foolish things when they are angry and drunk.  Yet you took him seriously.  Why?"

"Because of stuff I've seen," he said vaguely.

"So you say.  It was while you were Marines in Somalia I suppose.  Explain that please."

Odors are the most vivid memory cues, but now the process was reversed.  As he recalled it, the stench of the starving city came back.

"I met him in the Mog---Mogadishu.  Grunts make up names for stuff, you know, like Nam for Vietnam.  One day we were hunting down a hijacked food convoy.  We rolled into a village and got mobbed by all these stick people . . . black and brown faces, yellow teeth and eyes, breastless women and pot-bellied kids . . . all murmuring stuff you couldn't understand.  I remember the hands . . . begging with their hands.  We made the mistake of giving them the few rations that we had.  They fought like dogs . . .human beings reduced to animals.  This one guy thought it was hilarious.  It was Mic.  That's my first memory of him."

"So he is heartless and racist," she said.

"We trucked on back to an area of the Mog where this warlord, Adid was supposed to be.  Around dark all hell broke loose . . . took so much fire all we could do was hunker down.  Couldn't get back to the compound, so we spent the night in this shopkeeper's brick building.  He and his daughter were the only people other than the militia who looked like they'd had enough to eat.  We were suspicious, because like everyone was starving."

"Anyway, during the night I hear something and when I go to investigate, I find Mic and one of our interpreters interrogating the daughter.  Mic was using a cigarette on her."

"I should have stopped him . . . but I froze.  It was like my mind couldn't come to grips with what was going down."

"Mic took the cigarette," he said as if in a trance.

"Stop.  I do not need to know the details."

"He enjoyed it.  I can still see that look on his face."

It was the same expression as when Mic spoke of strangling Jill, but he couldn't tell her that.

"Poor kid couldn't have been more than fourteen.  I don't think he cared if she had any information.  He just got off on hurting her.  And I just stood there.  I'd like to say I was in shock or something.  But I don't know why . . . to this day, I don't know.  The Captain came in and put an end to it."

"It was a war crime," she said.  "You all should have been punished."

"We might have been, but the Captain took it from a sniper the next day."

"And the rest of you did what?  Just went on as if it had not occurred?"

"Well, it was war.  Terrible things happen . . . atrocities.  Don't let anyone tell you that war brings out the best in people.  It's not unusual for men to . . . just become calloused."

"Enough to let that happen and not say anything?"

"Cruelty is common among adolescent boys---and that's what a lot of us were.  Some enjoyed terrorizing people . . . in minor ways---nothing like what Mic did.  And there's this reluctance to interfere.  We were trained to be ruthless.  Moral considerations are secondary to the mission."

He didn't tell her that when young men are taken far from home, placed in an all-male society where fighting, drinking, and whoring are considered manly, and then have daily reminders of mortality, many quickly become less civilized than mothers and girlfriends would like to believe.

"We didn't approve, but we ignored it afterward.  It's like when a family member does something terrible.  Everyone just wants to forget it and go on."

"You know, Jill, when I got back to the states I saw a girl, of all people, with this T-shirt on:  camouflage overlaid with a skull with a knife through the eye sockets.  The slogan read, Kill ‘em all.  Let God sort ‘em out."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It helps explain why Mic wasn't ostracized."

Jill was skeptical.  She had discovered for herself how frightening Mic could be when angry, but she was not ready to share that with Richard.  She had been wrong about Richard as well as about Mic.  Now she needed to know which of them she had been the most wrong about.

"Is that all?" she asked, wondering if her prompting would cause Richard to fabricate further proof.

"I didn't see him mistreat any other Somali, at least not a live one."

"What do you mean, not a live one?"

"Well, the next day we were on our way back to the UN compound when snipers opened up on us.  That's when Holt bought it . . . a shoot-and-run ambush in the middle of a street full of Somalis.  We cleared the street, looking for the shooters and then went to check the civilians who had gone down.  About twenty of them lay in the dirt.  There was a this girl of about eighteen, either from a well off family or connected with a militia because she was well fed."

Richard got up and went to the fireplace.

"I saw him trying to . . . expose her breasts . . . using his rifle to . . . poking at her his M-16 . . . pushed up her skirt and tried to flip open or . . . pop the buttons of her blouse.  I pushed him away from her," he muttered with a derisive snort.  "Odd, huh?  I tried to save the dead girl from him, but not the live one."

Jill pursed her lips, and he knew she thought he had fabricated the story.

"So you find him repulsive and yet you became his friend.  How can that be?"

He looked away, afraid to tell her the truth, certain that she would misunderstand.

"I wanted to be near you."

"You were with him before we met."

"It's hard to explain.  He showed up and I . . . tolerated him . . . figured if I just sort of . . . was lukewarm he'd stop hanging around and I'd be rid of him without having to offend him.  The two of you met and things just drifted."

"You stayed with him because of me?  Nonsense.  You didn't even know me."

"But I wanted to."

"Because of my appearance," she stated irritably.

"At first," he admitted.  "Later there was more to it."

"I might have believed that once.  I no longer know what to believe."

"I'm being perfectly honest with you."

Jill looked at him intently, biting her bottom lip unconsciously.

"Richard," she began carefully, "I believe that you are sincere, but perhaps---"

"It's all in my head?  It's not.  I know what I saw.  I know what he said."

"But you are no longer in Somalia.  Death is not hiding in every doorway.  You have obviously experienced some terrible things.  You need counseling.  There is no shame in that."

"I see.  The post-traumatic crap again," he said in frustration.  "I'm not the crazy one.  He is."

Richard checked his anger.  He had to take what she was saying calmly or he would confirm her diagnosis.

"Somalia didn't mess up my head---just the opposite.  It got me rid of the notion that I could be a soldier."

"You have nightmares.  You talk in your sleep.  You cry out."

"Only about the boy," he said.  "My mind won't let go of it.  It shouldn't.  No one has the right to do what I did and then just forget it.  That would be insane."

"I would seek professional help if I were you," she said.

It wasn't true.  Jill was too private to share her innermost thoughts with a stranger, no matter how professional.

"I know that you think only an evil person or a crazy one would do what I have done to you.  But believe this:  I will never hurt you, and, as long as I'm alive, no one else will either.  I'm sorry that I wasn't smart enough to think of a better solution than this."

She wanted desperately to believe him.  At the same time she was angry with herself for wanting to believe him.  What he was doing was no solution!

"Nothing has been done that cannot be undone," she said.  "I understand now why you brought me here.  And I believe you are right that I should not trust Mic.  I wanted to be rid of him too, and like you, I made a mistake.  I asked you to help me.  So we can clear up all this . . . confusion if we just go back now and tell everyone that we just went away together for an assignation."

"You mean a tryst?"

"Why not?  That is what they will believe anyway.  I will tell no one what really happened."

Richard studied her face for a long moment.

"I promise," she added.

"An extorted promise," he said.  "If you leave here not believing me, you'd be a fool not to go directly to the police."

"I will not."

"I can't risk it yet.  I really hate this but . . ."

"But Mic forces you to do it," she said bitterly.  "Or is it I who forces you?"

"Does it matter?" he asked wearily.  "Look, I'm not crazy.  I've just done something that seems crazy.  Jill, think about all the time you were with him.  Didn't you ever get the feeling that he was only acting, like maybe what you were seeing wasn't the real him?"

The truth would only reinforce his delusion.

"I saw nothing to make me believe that he is dangerous," she said.

As she set up her pallet inside the tent that night, she reconsidered telling Richard how badly Mic had frightened her.  Under the right conditions it might be useful, but not now because she wasn't altogether certain that being delusional was the only thing wrong with him.  It was, in fact, only the most benign explanation for her abduction.  Delusional or not, right now his goal seemed to be protecting her.  As long as it stayed that way, then surely he wouldn't hurt her.  She decided to be very careful not to do anything that might cause that to change.

She was thinking clearly now, and so was Richard, but neither could read the others mind.  So the impasse remained.

May 21

Jill heard him on the roof at the back of the cabin.  She closed her book and went out to find him fastening canvas at the edge of the eave.  Whatever he was doing was bad sign.  It meant that he was preparing to prolong their stay.

"What are you doing?" she asked

"Making something to catch rainwater.  Shampoo and soaps work better with soft water."

"That's not what I meant.  The first part of your plan was to come here.  After we go back then what?"

"I'm not sure yet," he said distractedly, as he adjusted his makeshift guttering.

She wondered if he really hadn't decided or simply didn't want to tell her.

"There is food for how long, a month?"

"About two," he said, looking up at his handiwork as he came down.  "There.  I think that'll do."

"The amount of food cannot be the determining factor," she said.  "Why not sooner?"

He pretended to concentrate on the guttering in order to avoid her eyes.  Jill wasn't fooled.  She had become quite good at reading his reactions.  Now her pulse quickened because she knew that he was about to tell her something new.

"I think you should return to France.  It's the smartest and safest thing to do."

"If I agree to do that can we leave now?" she asked, allowing herself to believe that he would agree.

"It's not safe.  The wind is too high right now."

"That is only an excuse.  You intend to keep me here no matter what I say."

He pursed his lips in concentration.

"Jill, let's say that you don't return to France, and you also decide not to have me arrested, what do you think is the best way to insure that he doesn't try something?"

"I will tell the police that he has threatened me."

"You didn't hear the threat," he pointed out.

"Could I not obtain a court order making him stay away from me?"

"A restraining order is no deterrent.  The punishment for violating one is nothing compared to the punishment for committing . . . a violent crime.  If the possibility of jail doesn't deter him, why would a fine?"

She turned her back to him.

"Then you have made things worse.  If he was angry with you before now you have made him angrier---only now he will blame me also."

"I can make sure he doesn't hurt you."

Jill whirled on him.

"I would be a fool to entrust myself to your keeping!  You do not think clearly enough."

Seeing his shocked expression, she continued.

"This surprises you?  You have made many foolish mistakes.  Has it not occurred to you that Marta wonders where I am?  Do you not think others have noticed that you have disappeared also?  I am certain that the police are even now searching for us."

"No one is searching for us," he said.

"Of course they are!  People do not just disappear."

"You told Marta about the picnic?"

"She knows I went with you.  That proves you were the last person to see me before I disappeared."

"No," he said.  "When I went back to get your stuff, I sent Marta an e-mail from your computer saying that we were going away together and that we might be gone for some time."

"She will never believe that."

"Why not?  We are gone, and your message says that we went together.  Even if Marta does wonder about it, no one else will---least of all the police."

Jill tried to control her resurging panic.

People will believe it!  It is the simplest explanation.

She sought a foothold, and found just enough of one to keep from giving in to the looming despair.

Sending the message links the two of us, which means he doesn't intend to harm me.

"By now my landlord has received a postcard from me postmarked from Texas or New Mexico," he said.  "I had a friend mail it so that if Mic starts looking for us he'll find out and think we are in the southwest.  No one else will look for us unless we stay away too long.  I don't intend for us to do that."

He wanted to reassure her.

"I didn't tell you that to frighten you.  I just wanted to let you know what I had done so that . . . well, I don't want to keep secrets from you."

"So people think we are lovers," she said.

That she was upset by the idea surprised him since she had said earlier that it was what people would think.

"I didn't want anyone to worry about you," he said.

"How considerate," she muttered as she turned her back and went back inside.

Returning rain drove him inside where he found Jill sitting motionless on a storage box near the neglected and nearly dead fire, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders.  Not a word passed between them as he got the fire going and set pots on the grate.  The raw wind increased, sporadically chasing puffs of smoke down the chimney.  The rain became a steady patter on the metal roof.  Cold drafts swept the cabin.  The fireplace seemed inadequate to fight the chill, and the desultory flames struggled to fight the dark.

"It's getting cold," he said.  "I'll move the tent nearer the fire for the night."

Jill had been unresponsive since their talk.  He assumed it was because she was trying to come to terms with the collapse of her hope that someone was looking for her.

"I'll keep it a safe distance from the sparks.  The sleeping bag will keep you plenty warm though."

He pulled the coffee pot forward to the edge of the grate to let it finish perking more slowly.

"I'll bundle up here and feed the fire tonight," he said as he pulled the container with the LIRP rations closer.  "What do you want, chicken and rice or beef and noodles?"

"I am not hungry," she said.

Richard decided not to heat the army rations just for himself, and removed the pot of water from the grate.  He poured an enameled metal cup of coffee and offered it to her.

"Careful not to burn your lips.  I wish I had brought ceramic mugs, even plastic would have been better."

She shook her head.  He clutched the cup to warm his hands as he stared into the flames.  Jill studied him surreptitiously.  Although still pale from the illness, his thin cheeks were dusky with sunburn and several days' growth of beard.  His black disheveled hair was lightly sprinkled with premature gray at the nape and just above his ears.  The hands gripping the cup were angular, bony.  He was too thin for his clothes.

He glanced up unexpectedly and caught her staring.  She refused to look away.  The glow of the fire highlighted her cheekbones and made her hair look redder than usual.

"Studying the monster?" he asked, which was a really stupid thing to say.

"I fail to see the humor in that," she said.

"It was asinine.  Sorry."

He was tired, worn threadbare by the illness.  It was quite possible he could have died had she not nursed him through it.  For the first time it occurred to him how frightening that had been for her.  She'd been forced to nurse him in order to keep from being marooned and starving to death.  A relapse was not likely, but possible.

"It's only about twenty miles to Cartier," he said.  "If anything happens to me, you can make it just fine.  Just wait for a calm sunny day and point the boat toward sunrise.  You'll get to the mainland in two or three hours depending on the wind."

"What about the keys?" she said.

Her quick response surprised him.  Richard realized that she had thought of taking the boat while he was unconscious.  The heavy chain was probably the only thing preventing her from attempting to hotwire it.  She didn't know how, but as smart as she was she would have been able to do it by trial and error.

"The keys are on the roof, near the chimney."

"How can I get on the roof to get them?  You cut down the tree outside the window." 

Richard poured another cup of coffee.

"Here," he said offering it to her.

"So how can I get the keys?" she repeated as she took it from him.

"Take the hammer and pull some boards from the door.  Then get a couple of the poles from the privy canopy.  There are nails up there," he said indicating the can atop the fireplace.

"Nail rungs from boards to the poles and make yourself a ladder.  It will take a while, but you can do it."

She took two granola bars from a storage container and handed him one.

"I suppose I will find out if that is true if and when I get up there."

"Why would I lie?  Look.  You don't need the keys.  If something happens to me, take the hammer down and beat the hell out of the eyebolt holding the chain to the boat.  Eventually you can break it off.  Then pull out the wires from the ignition panel.  Use a knife to strip them and start touching them together until you get the motor started.  You can do it."

"The only safe way to get back is for you to take me," she said.

"I will, but I was telling the truth about the keys and about hotwiring the boat." 

"Okay.  So let us talk about what happens when we get back.  You wish to remain close by so that you can protect me from him, I suppose.  You cannot do that if I have you arrested.  So you must believe that I will not do that before you agree to take me back."

She had succinctly stated the position in which he had put her.

"It will do us no good to starve ourselves," she said, coming to the fire.  "Let me prepare some chicken and rice."

"Suppose we go back," she continued.  "How do you plan to protect me from him?"

He took a moment to formulate his answer.

"He would have to isolate you to do anything, so I won't let him get you alone."

"You will beat him up if he comes near me?" she asked, thinking that perhaps that was what he wanted to hear.

"I won't let it come to that.  Besides I doubt that I can take him in a fight."

"You did after the concert.  I'm sure you will win if it happens again."

The comment jarred.  It wasn't Jill.

"As you know, he'd been drinking.  His reactions were slow.  I can't count on that happening again."

Richard intends to shoot him!  She pushed the thought aside.  She didn't want to think about people getting killed.

"Why are you so sure that he will harm me?"

"Because he told me.  He didn't imply it.  He didn't say it just for effect or because he was ranting.  He described it in detail, and he made me believe it.  It's why I hit him with the bottle."

"He was just jealous and drunk."

"He may have been jealous, but not because he cares about you.  He never cared about you.  From day one he . . . said things . . . things you don't say about someone you respect.  No.  It isn't jealousy.  It's revenge.  You rejected him and he thinks I took you away."

"What did he say that made you do this?  Tell me exactly."

There was no way he could even bring up the subject of erotic asphyxia.

"He said he would kill you."

She stared at him steadily.  "Try again.  His exact words please."

"What do the words matter?  You don't need to hear them, Jill."

"Tell me, Richard."

"He said he would strangle you."

She blanched, but in the dim light Richard failed to notice.

"And you took him literally?" she said as if the words hadn't effected her.  "Is not that what one would expect from a drunken and angry man?"

"You don't know him, Jill.  Mic gets even.  I've seen him just tear guys apart for an imagined insult.  He meant it."

That she had been the topic of such an exchange between them made her sick.  She felt violated.

"You're trying to frighten me into believing you," she said angrily.

"Yes, because you have to.  But I'm not making anything up.  I would never do that."

"What would you not do?  And tell me why I should believe you," she demanded.  "You killed that boy in Somalia.  Did Mic do anything like that?"

"I believe he may have.  And it wasn't combat.  It was---"

"Oh I see.  You have another story."

"Just forget it."

"No, Richard.  Not after what you have done to me.  I will not forget it.  If there is something that proves what you are saying about him then tell me."

"I didn't see him do it, but I think he killed a woman over there."

"Let me guess.  You think he shot the woman he was trying to undress."

"No.  Kevin and I---Kevin is a friend of mine---found him with the body of a woman who had been bound and strangled.  He claimed it was a militia killing, but the militia didn't kill like that.  With them it was a bullet in the back of the head or a slit throat."

That is why Mic's drunken threat made him so desperate? she thought.  But maybe it is just an attempt to reinforce his original lie?

"He was in a . . . he was comfortable around the body, you know," he said, seeing it again.  "He sat there smoking . . . cracking jokes about her.  It made your skin crawl."

The image made her sick.

"So you saw terrible things like that.  But you didn't see him kill anyone, or did you?"

"Only in combat.  But he did.  I know it.  I think he may have been doing it a long time.  I had a friend in the sheriff's department check him out for me.  He turned up something that makes me suspect he might have killed a classmate back when he was in high school."

He is as obsessed with Mic as with me, she realized.

"Why would you do that?" she asked.

"Check on his past?  Because the night of the fight he told me how much of a rush it was to kill someone.  He said he found it out when he was just a kid.  Turns out that a girl who went to high school with him was murdered, and the case was never solved."

"And you are sure that he is the one who killed her."

"Knowing what you do now about him now, don't---"

"What do I really know?" she shouted, suddenly losing it.  "Everything you expect me to know comes from what you have told me!  How can I believe you after what you have done?"

"Check everything against your experiences with both him and me---your whole experience.  If I have told you a lie---I mean I know I deceived you to get you here, but other than that . . . well . . . I know.  Question me.  Ask anything you want.  I'll tell you the truth wherever it goes."

"You will only tell me what you want me to believe."

"Then catch me in a lie.  If you do, I'll take you back immediately."

She stared at him intently.

"How long did you plan all of this?"

"The night before I did it," he said immediately.

"That is why you asked me to go on the picnic."

"No.  At least not---"

"Yes!  You decided to do it then because you knew I would be vulnerable when I was alone with you."

He shook his head.

"No.  I decided after you told me that Mic had apologized and that you believed he was sincere.  I was afraid that if he could fool you so easily, then he could get you alone and do what he threatened."

"Yes," she said near tears.  "I am easily fooled.  No.  I am a fool."

"Jill, I---."

"Just stop!  Leave me alone."

Jill lay awake staring at the glowing fabric where the tent flap faced the fire.  Suddenly his shadow loomed.  With a gasp she reached for the .45.  Then she heard him put wood on the fire.  A moment later the shadow moved away and she heard him arranging his bedding near the door.  She clutched the pistol to her, careful to keep her finger from the touchy trigger.

You want me to believe that Mic has been a murderer since childhood.  You have seen him do all these terrible things, and then, he threatens to kill me, leaving you no choice but to abduct me.

She took a shuddering breath.

But what are you?  A sadist?  A schizophrenic? A damaged soldier?  Or do you really try to protect me as you say?  God, how I want to believe you!

Ridiculous!  She shook her head angrily.  I made one mistake when I got involved with him, and then I invited you into my life.  Why?  Why?

She thought of what he said about taking the boat back.

Why did you tell me that?

It suddenly occurred to her that she far preferred being alone on the island with Richard than with Mic.

I am as crazy as he is.

May 22

They sat by the fireplace sharing LIRP rations as dark fell.  Jill had spent the day questioning him as he had suggested.  She took much of what he said skeptically, but kept that to herself.  She had listened carefully to his words, but also to his tone, trying unsuccessfully to detect insincerity.  Through it all she kept reminding herself that just because he believed something that didn't mean that it was true.  His speculations about Mic's past were just that, speculation.  What made his ghastly suspicions most incredible, however, was that someone she knew could actually be capable of such things.  In the end she knew more about Richard, but had decided nothing.

The tent gave her neither the privacy not the security she needed, and she considered telling him that he was well enough to take it and begin spending nights at the shore.  What decided her against it was her overruling need to gain his confidence enough to get him to take her back to Cartier.  After washing the bowls and setting them aside, she took the last of the books to the firelight, noting the scant pages left with regret.

"We're running low on firewood," he said.  "I'll go bring some in."

Jill looked up from her book.

"Call when you get back, and I'll open the door for you."

Jill stared after him, and then placed her book facedown on the floor to keep the place.  While she made a final pot of coffee, it occurred to her that it was bizarre the way they had settled so quickly into a routine as predictable as that of any married couple.

The only thing missing is sex, thank goodness.

Is that what he is waiting for?  Is that what it will really take?

Maybe I am supposed to initiate it.  It makes sense.  Consensual sex would not be rape legally.  More importantly it wouldn't be rape psychologically.

She considered it.

Maybe that is his fantasy.  Bonne Femme---his own little paradise:  a cabin in the wilderness and me to share it with him.

But fantasies don't last forever.  What happens when he realizes that I cannot be what he wants me to be?

Unnerved by the question she had posed, Jill got up and paced about the cabin, wishing she had somewhere to run, somewhere to hide.

What was he actually doing at the college?  He admits wanting to meet me even before Mic came there.  He was stalking me.

Jill knew that she was attractive.  Men frequently looked at her.  She hadn't taken offence unless they stared rudely.  In fact, she had rather enjoyed being noticed.  Now the ogling seemed less harmless.

Is this what they all were thinking about, getting me alone---isolating me so that they could---

Stop it!  Men look at attractive women.  It is natural.

But he was always there.  He was waiting---

"Open up."

Jill jumped at the sudden sound of his voice.  She hesitated only a moment, then recovered her composure, and went to let him in.  As he took the armload of wood to the fireplace, she stared into the dark outside, wanting to rush out and let it hide her.  Richard looked past her at the darkly silhouetted cedars bobbing in the brisk wind.

"Just a late season Canadian front," he said reassuringly.  "Nothing to worry about.  It probably won't even freeze tonight.  Low in the thirties maybe---frost if it clears."

"It's spring," she said softly as she closed the door.  "Please tell me that we will not still be here when it turns cold again."

"You mean fall?  Of course not."

"I want to believe you, Richard," she said, realizing that it was true.  "About everything."

"But you don't."

She pulled a blanket over her shoulders like a shawl.

"I do not know what to believe anymore," she said, as she came to sit cross-legged before the fireplace.

"I know you will not . . . force me to do anything," she said without looking up, lest he see the truth in her eyes.

When he didn't respond she was sure that he saw through her duplicity.

"I was afraid that you would never feel safe around me again," he said.

She wanted to press him for an immediate return, but didn't trust herself to do it correctly.  She needed a little time to rehearse, to anticipate his objections, and to be ready with responses that would move him in the right direction.

"I'm really tired," she said.  "Let's not talk any more tonight."

"Sure.  I'll . . . We can talk in the morning then."

His relief had been pathetically obvious.  Now Jill began to see the outlines of what she would do.

Gazing into the fire, Richard heard Jill unzip her jeans as she undressed before crawling into the sleeping bag.  The thought of her nearly naked and so near him against her wishes made him ashamed of what he had done to her.

Men are supposed to make them feel safe, he thought despondently.

He hunched closer to the fire trying vainly to imagine a scenario in which she would forgive him.

After banking the fire, he stole quietly to his own pallet near the door.  He lay still long after she had settled down, but his back ached too much to allow sleep.  He readjusted his position carefully so as not to disturb her.

"Are you awake?" she asked softly.

"Yeah.  Is something wrong?"

When she didn't answer immediately he thought perhaps she had spoken in her sleep.

"I want to tell you about Mic and me . . . about something that happened."

He held his breath, suddenly afraid that she was about to confirm Mic's story about rough sex.

"There's no need," he said.

"It might make things clearer."

There's no way, he told himself.  She's not like that. 

"I was very attracted to him.  I was charmed by his intelligence and self-assurance, but mainly it was his appearance.  He is a very handsome."

Nothing new there---girls were always attracted to Mic.

"You asked if I ever got the feeling that he wasn't what he pretended.  I didn't want to tell you, but . . . yes.  I did see that, almost from the beginning."

"Then why did you stay with him so long?"

Jill was relieved.  She wasn't having to invent anything.  So far, just a carefully worded version of the truth would do.

"Why did you not break away from him, Richard?"

"I told you.  As pathetic as it sounds, I did it just to be near you."

"But before that, was it not that he intimidated you?  Did you not find it difficult to get away from him?"

"I wasn't afraid of him.  He just doesn't pick up on subtleties," he said.

"No.  He ignores subtleties and makes one either go along with him or create an unpleasantness.  I didn't see this at first, but I realized that he was playing a role with me.  Once we got here I could not admit this to you.  You had taken all control from me.  I couldn't let myself believe you.  It was the only way I could fight you."

"I didn't want to control your life.  I don't," he said.

"He tried to control me, and you do control me.  Like you, he treated me well at first, took me where I wanted to go, and did what I wanted to do.  But things changed.  He began insisting that we spend every minute together.  He didn't want me to spend time with anyone else, not even Marta."

"Did he do anything physically to you?"

"Did he strike me?  No.  I think he is very insecure."

No that's wrong, he thought.  Completely wrong.

"He tried to isolate me because he feared losing me both to Marta and to you I think.  He was jealous of you, Richard."

He realized that she was trying to feed his ego in hopes that it would make him believe that he was winning her over.

"He wasn't worried about me," he said.

"Yes he was.  You should have heard how he talked about you when you were gone.  One day you and he were talking of your Marine experiences and telling funny stories like you always did.  You had to go to class, and as soon as you left, he turned to me and said in this stilted, falsely sympathetic voice, ‘Richard's a good guy, but he didn't have what it took over there.  I'm glad I don't have to trust him to cover my back anymore.'  He tried to make it sound as if he pitied you, but what he really wanted was to show me that he was superior."

"Mic enjoyed combat," he said.  "It scared the hell out of me then, and it sickens me to think of it now.  If that's being a coward, he told you the truth."

"You didn't run away.  I've heard the stories about those terrible firefights."

"That was Mic," he said dismissively.  "Fighting?  I'm not sure I did that.  I didn't run away, but I sure as hell wanted to.  Every . . . single . . . time."

Jill wasn't sure how he wanted her to react to his confession.

"Being afraid isn't cowardice."

"When it paralyzes you and someone dies it is."

A coldly logical part of her mind took satisfaction from the fact that he was opening up to her.  The more they seemed to bond, the more likely he was to believe her when she finally accepted what he wanted her to believe.

"All I know of war is that it must be terrible," she said.  "Dwelling on it does not make it less terrible, does it?"

"We were talking about Mic," he prompted, eager to leave the streets of Mogadishu.

"It was always about him, not me," she said.  "Never did he really want to know anything about me.  Do you know the reason I agreed to see you again after the concert?  It was because you seemed interested in me, not just my appearance."

"Anyway, he never did that," she continued.  "That's one reason I tried to get away from him."

There was another reason, but it hadn't come until after she tried to break their relationship.  Her mind went back to the night she tried to tell him that their relationship was pointless.

They sat in his car outside her apartment, and she struggled to find the right words to end it gracefully.  All evening she had been trying to work up the courage to tell him.  She had run out of time.

"Mic, I like you, but I think that's as far as it will ever go, and I don't think you really care all that much about me either.  It's time we admit that and go on with our lives," she said.

Mic laughed.

"That's not what you really want, Jill.  You're just confused."

"I'm not confused, Mic," she said sternly.  "I want to end this.  I have to."

"You're just in a bad mood or something," he said, gripping the nape of her neck. 

"Don't!" she said, trying to pull away.

He tightened his grip.

"Get your hands off me," she said angrily.

He suddenly released her, and then wound his fingers into her hair pulling her head backward.  His other hand flew to her throat and he leaned in, his face inches from hers.

"What's wrong with you?" he snarled.

He released her, and she threw open the door and stumbled out.  Fearing that he would drag her back into the car, she scrambled away, losing a shoe, and falling to her knees.  She ran to reach the safety of her apartment.

"See you tomorrow, Babe," he called after her as if nothing had happened.

"Hey," called Richard.  "Did I say something to upset you?"

"The night we broke up he frightened me.  That's why I asked you to help."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was private.  I was ashamed for having involved you.  Then you fought and I thought it was my fault.  After that I couldn't tell you what he did to me because I didn't want anything else to happen."

"What did he do to you?"

She hadn't intended to tell him, but now she saw that confiding in him would help her build the trust she needed.

"He did not strike me, but he did . . . become physical.  He grabbed my hair . . . and he put his hand . . . he didn't choke me, but . . . I thought he was going to."

It was no act or even exaggeration, but now she saw a way to use the revelation to her advantage.

"If I had told you earlier then perhaps you would have realized that I would believe your warning and bringing me here would not have been necessary."

"Except for the apology," he said.

"The apology?"

"Mic's.  That's what really scared me.  He doesn't apologize.  When you told me about that, I knew he was just trying to put you off your guard.  I knew I had to do something quickly."

"Oh no," she gasped as the horrible truth hit her.

"There was no apology," she said.  "I just told you that because I wanted no more trouble between you.  I didn't want that to get worse."

Thinking through the implications, he saw that her deception made no real difference.  Mic was still Mic.  What he had said was still the same.  The threat was still real.

"I made you do this," she said.

"It doesn't matter.  What he did to you that night does.  All you did was make me think that he was going to do it as soon as he got the chance.  I couldn't risk you . . . I couldn't risk a reconciliation.  Maybe now you can understand why I did this . . . crazy thing.  If I was crazy it was crazy with fear for you."

As Richard had, Jill decided that the new information hadn't changed the basic nature of the situation.  Mic might be more dangerous than she had imagined, although what she had imagined was bad enough, but her first priority was to get off the island and away from Richard.  She continued, hoping that she could sound convincing, and glad that she was speaking from inside the tent so that he couldn't see her face.

"I can understand that intellectually, theoretically.  But being here is still a nightmare for me---one that does not go away when I awake.  I want to believe you, Richard, but that is totally irrational.  If anyone has ever given me reason to distrust him it is you."

"I don't blame you for thinking that I'm crazy.  I only wish it were true, that all of this is nothing more than my imagination."

"Perhaps it is not only imagination."

She almost told him that she believed everything, but that would be a suspiciously sudden conversion..

"I honestly do not know what to believe," she said.  "Nothing seems certain anymore.  Being here is . . . disorienting.  You have taken everything from me.  This is a world that you have created, one you control.  How can I know what is real?"

"I didn't bring you here to brainwash you, only to keep you safe.  That's what you must understand.  Surely you can see that by now."

Jill shifted in the sleeping bag.  It was time to take a step back.

"What you do not understand is that whatever you make me believe while we are here cannot last.  Everything could seem different once we're back.  No.  That's not quite true.  I know things now that I didn't know before.  We both do."

"I'm going to take you back.  I don't know the time, but I know when.  I'll do it as soon as I know I can keep you safe when we get there."

"Which brings us back to my question from earlier today.  What is the second part of your plan?"

"I've got to be near enough to protect you.  I need your cooperation for that."

"Then we may leave soon?" she asked hopefully.

"As soon as we decide on something workable for when we get back."

If she could get him to take her back, it didn't matter what he thought would happen.  She would get away from him and then decide what she to do.  The first step was just to get off the island.

"We can decide that now," she said.

Richard suddenly realized that something was wrong.  It had gone too smoothly, and much too quickly.

"We've both learned a lot today, Jill.  Let's both sleep on it.  We each need to think everything through before we decide anything."

Somehow she had aroused his suspicion.  She was angry with herself, but determined to salvage as much as she could from her efforts.

"Yes," she said.  "Neither of us should rush to a decision."

"I'm glad you're not terrified anymore."

"I have only learned to cope with this, Richard," she said, trying to strike the right balance.  "I know you want me to feel safe, but I cannot until you free me."