Chapter 5

For a week it rained every day, keeping them in the cabin and dashing her hopes of an immediate departure.  Then the clouds rolled away.  And nothing happened.  Jill probed, trying to pin down a definite departure time, but he put her off, saying only that the weather wasn't right.  The continual frustration drove her to sullen silences punctuated by sporadic attempts to nurture the rapprochement she had engineered.  Richard was no happier.  To him the stay on Bonne Femme was like a tour of duty.  He suspected it would come to an end without a satisfactory resolution.  They were more alike than either realized.  They had confided, but each had held much back, he for fear of what she would think of him, and she for fear of reinforcing his delusion or fantasy.  Each also had second thoughts about what they had revealed.

Since finishing the paperbacks she had nowhere to lose herself.  There was too little to do and too much time to talk with nothing to say.  Since revealing her fear of Mic, she had put Richard off whenever he broached the subject of what to do about him, but her resolve was wavering.  Their relationship threatened to actually change despite her intent to only make him think that it had changed.  The illusion she had created seemed real.  Jill reminded herself that she was still his captive, and that her only goal was to escape.

June 4

Their twentieth day on Bonne Femme dawned clear, and by noon a warm southern breeze drew her to the cove where the boat lay shackled to its boulder.  Richard came down and found her atop the stone staring out across the lake toward Cartier.  He stopped well short and watched her, wishing things he had forfeited the right to wish.  Then he cleared his throat to get her attention before approaching.  She turned and took in his somber expression.

"Are you going to ask me what I'm thinking?" she asked.

"When are we going back, right?"

She turned back to look out over the choppy water.  "I used to think about that all the time.  Now I try not to."

"We can't go until the lake calms.  I'm sure there have been small craft warnings all week.  Be patient.  The winds will calm.  It's just windy a lot in the spring."

She nodded, unsure if it was the truth or just an excuse.

"I brought rainwater into the cabin for you," he said.  "If you want to clean up or wash your hair or anything.  I'll be down here until you call."

"Maybe I can bathe by swimming."

"You can't do that," he said with a laugh.  "The lake won't warm enough for swimming until late summer.  Even then it's uncomfortable."

Although he hadn't meant to be condescending, that's the way she took it.

"I am going up for some towels and a sweatshirt," she said stubbornly.  "Then I will swim."

"You're kidding?"

She brushed past him and went up the hill without answering.

Richard's only concern was that he had angered her by pointing out her folly, not that she would actually follow through.  In a few minutes, however, she came back clad in sweatshirt and shorts, clutching clothes and towels to her chest.

"Hey, I'm sorry for the way I said it, Jill, but you really can't swim in that cold water.  It's not safe."

"I am a very good swimmer.  I swam in the ocean many times as a child.  Now go away."

"I'll sit up there," he said, indicating an outcropping some thirty yards behind them.  "Just in case you . . . get a cramp or something."

"I need privacy if I am to bathe properly," she objected.

"Sorry.  I'm staying," he said.  "If you insist just stay to the left of that last boulder.  It's only a little over waist deep there."

She dropped towels and sweatshirt on a rock at the water's edge.

"There is no need to watch," she said irritably.  "I will not bathe nude."

There was no appropriate response for her comment, so he retreated and climbed to a boulder some thirty yards from the boat.  By the time he looked back Jill stood waist-deep with her back to him.

There was no acclimating to the frigid water, but Jill would not give him the satisfaction of shrinking from the ordeal.  She steeled herself for the shock, and then squatted suddenly, plunging herself to her neck.  After a few breath-stealing moments, she pushed forward and stroked overhand for a few yards, turned, and swam back.  She stayed long enough to prove him wrong, but completely forgot about bathing.  She came from the water shivering fiercely, with jaw clenched to keep her teeth from chattering.

"Go . . . go on up until I change," she called out, her chin quivering from the chill.

She quickly wrapped a towel around herself.

"You won't go back in the water?"

"No.  I have had enough swimming for . . . for the day."

"I'll put on some coffee just in case you want some," he said, resisting the urge to smile until he had turned his back.

When she was sure that he was gone, Jill faced the lake and stripped off the heavy sweatshirt, quickly toweled, and pulled a dry one on.  Then she dried her legs and wrapped a dry towel as an ersatz skirt.  She wound her hair in a third towel, slipped into her shoes, and hurried up to the cabin.

"Here," he said.

She took the coffee in both hands.  Beads of water trickled down her forehead.

"Would you mind going back down while I dry my hair and finish dressing," she asked, her chin still trembling.

"Just call when you're finished," he said, getting up from the fire.

At the door he turned.  "You would have made a hell of a Marine," he said.

She looked at him sourly without responding.

After towel-drying her hair, Jill dressed in a new sweatshirt and jeans.  Still chilled, she put more wood on the fire and sat close.  She brooded over a second cup of coffee.  He had teased as if they were on intimate terms.  Both his and her own behavior this morning irritated her.  It was far too pleasant for him, and she was falling into it.  At this rate he might never take her back.

Why should he when I'm doing exactly what he wants? she wondered.  I might as well have bathed in the nude.

He knocked.

"Is it okay to come in?" he called.

"What do you care?" she muttered.  Then louder:  "Yes.  Come in."

Her expression stopped him at the door.

"What's wrong?"

She put her cup down stood.  "I've listened to everything you've had to say, and I've told you I believe you may be right.  I cannot say more than that.  What else must I do in order to leave this place?"

"Nothing.  We'll go as soon as the wind lays."

She shook her head and started for the door, her anger obvious, the reason clear, but the cause of the change in her a total mystery to him.

"I'm going for a walk," she said as she brushed past.

"Wait.  Where are you going?"

"There's nowhere to go, Richard."

"To the northeast there's a cliff with a drop-off of about twelve feet onto solid bedrock."

"I will not fall from a cliff.  Do not worry.  You will not lose your . . . plaything."

"That's not what---  Look, just let me know which direction you're going."

"Do not follow me!" she shouted.

Her sudden vehemence sandbagged him.  Richard had no idea what she had imagined that he had done.  But it wasn't a something he had done, rather everything that he had done.  Having experienced terror himself, he imagined that he knew how she felt.  But he had no inkling of the horror of being suddenly and irrevocably at the mercy of someone impossible to resist, someone whose motives continued to be a fearful mystery.  Against all odds, Jill had come to terms with that.  What she couldn't come to terms with was his apparent contentment.

Jill tramped up through the cedars to a rocky knob behind the cabin.  Here the island was starkly beautiful.  Stunted old wind whipped cedars clung to the broken rock like oversized bonsais, their gnarled roots diving into crevasses in the exposed stone, testament to the tenaciousness of life.  The beauty, along with the sunlight, and gentle spring breeze went unnoticed, however, as she brooded over her plight.

He is so damned happy, she thought bitterly.

Through an opening in the trees she saw a large boat moving northeast in the shipping channel miles away.  Richard had told her that the big boats never approached the island for fear of grounding on the shoals.

"Maybe that's one thing he hasn't lied about," she said aloud.

She sat restlessly on a smooth slab of rock.  Sooner or later she would have to go back to the cabin and deal with him, but not yet.  Nor could she sit still.  She was too restless.  Down the hill she noticed an opening through the scraggly brush, and pushed herself up thinking that just walking until she tired might calm her.

"I might as well explore my prison," she said aloud.  She had been doing that increasingly.

The slope was deceptively steep, and her thighs ached with the strain of walking downhill.  Soon she found that she was moving uncomfortably fast.  But when she tried to slow her pace, loose gravel gave way and she began to slide.  She managed to stay upright by bracing herself on her downhill foot until it caught an embedded rock, rolling her right ankle and pitching her headlong.  Tumbling over brush and stone, she cried out, as the bole of a large tree flew past, barely missing her head.  She slid to a stop face up, angled downhill with her head below her feet.  Her diaphragm cramped painfully, preventing her lungs from drawing air.

When she could breath again, she groaned and struggled to a sitting position.  Then she examined herself for injury.  The tough denim jeans had protected her knees, but scrapes burned both forearms.  Nothing seemed to have been broken, and she found no deep cuts, but her left shoulder throbbed alarmingly.  When she tested it she found that it had a full range of motion, so she decided that it was only badly bruised.

She tried to stand.

"Damn!  Damn!  Damn!" she cried out as sharp pain shot through her right ankle.

She knew immediately that she couldn't walk, and reconsidered her assumption that she hadn't broken any bones.  Looking back, she saw that she had only gone a few dozen meters down the hill, but it looked depressingly far considering her injury.

I have to have his help to get back up to the cabin, she realized in disgust.

Then the real consequence occurred to her.

It will be another excuse to keep me here longer.

After cursing herself for the carelessness that resulted in her fall, she began to shout for him.  Unknown to her, Richard had gone down to the boat where the sound of the waves and the contrary wind kept him from hearing her.  For her part Jill was sure that he was purposely ignoring her calls for help in order to teach her a lesson.

When Jill hadn't returned by mid-afternoon Richard was tempted to go and look for her, but he decided against it for fear of irritating her further.  An hour later he changed his mind.  He found her sitting in the sun, back propped against a small tree.

"It's getting late," he said.  "I think you should come on back to the cabin before it gets dark."

"I am supposed to crawl I suppose," she said.

"Crawl?  Are you all right?"

"Don't tell me you did not hear me calling for you."

He scrambled down the slope heedless of his own safety, arriving in a shower of pebbles as he slid the last few yards.

"You fell?  I told you---"

"I know what you told me.  I think I broke my ankle."

"Let me take a look at it."  He knelt and frowned.  "I'll try not to hurt you, but I have to remove your shoe and sock."

He slowly removed the lace before carefully slipping off her shoe.  As gentle as he was, she still cried out.  He hesitated a moment before removing the sock.

"It's swollen pretty bad, but not discolored much," he said.  "Can you wiggle your toes?"

She complied.

"Doesn't completely rule out a fracture, but that's a good sign."

He lightly pinched her big toe.

"Can you feel this?"

"Of course."

"I think that's a good sign too.  My guess is it's just a sprain.  Probably nothing to worry about, but it's going to be painful for a few days."

He started to put her sock and shoe back on, but she stopped him.

"Let me do it," she said.

Richard looked doubtfully toward the crest of the hill until she had loosely tied her shoe.

"If I try to carry you back up there we could fall.  Can you stand?"

"I think, but even with your help I do not think I can go up the hill.  Is there another way?"

He considered but quickly rejected constructing a travois and trying to drag her up the steep hill.

"Yeah.  Stay here a minute.  I'll go check the way down to the shore from here.  Maybe we can go down and then work our way back to the cabin by going around to where the hill is less steep."

"It'll be rough going, but I think we can make it," he said when he got back.  "Let me help you up."

He grasped her under the arms and hauled her to her feet.  She leaned her weight against him only until she could grasp the tree to steady herself.  She stood with her right foot barely touching the ground, but even that hurt.

"I'm going to put my arm around your waist, and I want you to put your arm over my shoulder."

She hesitated only moment.

Nodding toward an opening down to the left, he said, "Now we're going to walk very carefully down that way."

"My ankle really hurts.  How long will it take to get back to the cabin?"

"Quite a while I'm afraid.  We'll do it in stages."

A painful hour and a half later they reached the lakeshore, where he helped her cross a stretch of weather-polished rock to a ledge no more than a foot from the lapping waves on the lee side of the island.

"Let's sit you down and see if we can't do something about that swelling."

When she removed her shoe and sock again, he saw that the ankle was not as swollen as he had feared, but was beginning to darken beneath the anklebone on the outside.

"The hemorrhage is severe, isn't it?" she said.

"Walking down hasn't helped.  Let's get your foot in the water."

"So that's why we came down to the ledge," she said as she scooted forward and pulled her pant leg up before gingerly sticking her foot into the lapping water.

"Ice water would be better for the swelling," he said.  "The lake runs only around fifty degrees this time of year."

"It seemed colder than that earlier," she said.

"I hope it's cold enough to fight the inflammation.  Will you be okay if I run back to the cabin and get some ibuprofen for the pain?"

"Of course.  I spent the entire afternoon by myself.  Bring some water please."

"Don't be alarmed if I'm not back right away.  It's not far as the crow flies, but there's no path.  Still, I shouldn't be too long."

A gust of wind ripped through the treetops as he picked his way through the lakeside rubble toward the deepening shadows.

"Bring back my coat," she called.

She heard him coming at dusk.  He emerged from the dark wearing the bomber jacket and carrying a can of water and the tent.  He dug through his pockets, handed her a bottle of ibuprofen, and uncapped the water for her.

"I brought granola and matches."

He knelt beside her.

"It's too dark to see.  How's the ankle?"

Jill pulled her foot from the water and scooted back on the rock, grimacing at the pain.

"It is swollen and very painful."

He poured her a cup of water as she shook out three oval, red tablets.  While she took the ibuprofen he placed the rolled up tent on the rock in front of her.

"Put your sock on and use this to elevate your ankle," he said.  "I'll pitch the tent and build a fire when I get back."

He stripped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

"I'm going back for the sleeping bag and blankets."

"And remember my coat this time," she said as she tried to move her foot.  "Oh!  It's really getting stiff."

"Your body's just telling you to leave it alone so it can heal itself."

"Nonsense," she said irritably.  "It tightened because the hemorrhage has filled the joint with fluid.  Stop treating me like I'm simple."

"Well you're temper's still in working order," he said.  "Sorry.  I was just trying to lighten your mood."

"Leaving here will ‘lighten my mood' as you put it.  Is this going to be an excuse to delay going back?"

"The only thing delaying us is the wind."

"So you say," she muttered, looking away from him.

He decided to use the remaining daylight to gather driftwood and build a fire before leaving, a task he completed without further conversation.

"I'm going back now," he said once the fire was going.  "I'll set up the tent for you when I get back."

Jill's discomfort physically reinforced her conviction that an imminent return was only pretence.  All his solicitude seemed nothing more than a ploy meant to coax her into the relationship he desired.  Yet, he had forced her to do nothing but stay.  He said that there was only enough food for a few more weeks at the most, but there was nothing to stop him from going back for more.  The inescapable fact was that he could keep her on Bonne Femme indefinitely if he chose to.

It occurred to her that he had touched her today for the first time since he had pulled her from the water on the way out.  Until he found her today he had kept a discreet distance.  She hadn't been forced to back away or put more space between them.  Then she remembered the trip to the concert.  They had walked to the car, not so much as rubbing shoulders, much less holding hands, and at her door there had been no attempt at so much as a goodnight kiss.  He had seemed shy, almost unnaturally reserved, from the beginning.

Socially inept would be a better term.  Just the sort of man who might conceive of and carry out an abduction.

She replayed their trip down from where she had fallen, trying to remember something to confirm the idea that he was living out a fantasy here with her.  The only thing that stood out was the frequent pain that shot through her ankle whenever they lost their balance.  She couldn't recall his hand ever straying "unintentionally."  It hadn't wandered from her waist down to her hip or up to her breast.

"I wish you would just do it," she said aloud.

It wasn't true.  What she really wanted was something to make her believe him because if her real danger came from Mic, then she had Richard to protect her.  But if it came from Richard, she had no one.

I can't even trust my own judgment, she realized.

Richard found her close to the fire, sitting with her left leg tucked under and the right one extended so that the ankle rested on the tent roll.

"Let's switch," he said as he folded the blanket and exchanged it for the tent.

"Is that better?"

"It's fine," she said.

Before setting up the tent, he rolled a large stone up onto the ledge behind her and placed the sleeping bag against it as a backrest.  She scooted back, wincing as her heel slid across the blanket.

"That's better," she said.

After pitching the tent he set the coffee on and gathered more wood in near darkness while it brewed.  Jill sat silently as he cleared a spot across the fire from the tent and laid out the canvas and the second blanket.  When the camp was set for the night, they sat apart and shared stale breakfast bars and weak, gritty coffee.  He attributed her reticence to a combination of fatigue and pain.

Just above the trees, a planet blazed brightly in the blue-black.

"The wishing star," she murmured.  "But wishes are a waste of time."

He decided not to venture a response.

Later as the world darkened beneath the moonless sky, they sat by the fire, each alone with separate thoughts.  The air was deep winter transparent, the stars desert bright.  The vast expanse of the Milky Way spread its magnificence overhead.  A trick of the wind brought the distant rumble of an ore carrier in so clearly that it seemed to be approaching the island.  When it faded into the night, only the sound of lapping water filled the silence.  Jill stared east as the horizon melted into the darkness.

 "You can bring the boat around in the morning," she said suddenly.  "Why didn't we think of that sooner?"

"I can't," he said.  "The . . . shoals are worse on this side."

"The water does not look like there are shoals," she said suspiciously.  "I saw no submerged stones or rough looking water."

"The most dangerous are the ones you can't see.  They're all around the island, and I don't know the waters well on this side.  In fact the cove is the only place I know to bring in a boat," he said, hoping he sounded convincing.

He didn't want to add to her worries by telling her how little gasoline they had.  Should a head wind develop on their return they could run out and find themselves adrift which could be fatal to such a small craft.

She seemed lost in thought for a long moment.

"Too bad," she said finally.  "It would spare me much pain.  It is the price for being foolish."

"It wasn't foolish, just an accident," he said.

"I was not speaking of the fall."

After he arranged the sleeping bag inside the tent, he folded his jacket to make an elevated pad for her ankle.  With difficulty, she crawled in and immediately zipped the flap.

"Goodnight," he said.

She didn't respond.

After emptying the coffee pot and rinsing it with lake water, he banked the fire and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.  He delayed lying down, hoping that fatigue would allow sleep despite the uncomfortable rock.  Hours later he was still wide-awake trying to sort out the contradictory signs she had given him lately.  The truth of it was that he had no idea what she really thought.

He heard her murmur softly in her sleep, perhaps from pain, perhaps from a nightmare.  Today she had exhibited so many emotional swings that he couldn't judge where her head was.  She had admitted being frightened of Mic.  After bathing at the cove, she had loosened up and things seemed almost normal.  Then she was mysteriously angry and she took off.  While he was helping her down to the water things seemed okay.  Now she was angry again.

She didn't buy the shoals bit.  Maybe I should have just told her the truth.

Cartier, 8:15 PM

"She did not say where she goes," said Marta.  "She only said that she is going away with him."

Mic flashed his best smile.

"Well, if she calls or if you hear from my old buddy, just tell them that everything was just a misunderstanding and that there are no hard feelings.  That I still want us all to be friends."

"Yes.  I will do that."

"Good, but you haven't heard from them for . . . how long?"

"It makes three weeks."

"Three weeks?  That's some togetherness, isn't it?"

Mic held it together until he got to the car.  Then he pounded the wheel angrily and glared back toward Marta's house.

"Lying puta!" he hissed.

He continued to fume as he drove away.  At the second corner, he took a left and parked.  It was dark.  No one was outside.  He could walk back and, if no one saw him on the way, he could force his way in when she opened the door again.  He could take her by the throat and choke the truth out of her.  Even if she didn't know where they were it would be worth it.  Fortunately, good sense came to his rescue.  It had been a long time, but Marta wasn't what he wanted.

"Still-hunting takes patience," he said as he turned the ignition key.  "They won't stay gone forever."

Waiting had its compensations:  delicious anticipation, sweet tension, and, most of all, the sly amusement that came from orchestrating each step.  The plan was coming together now.  He had imagined it, elaborated it countless times, and each time it was clearer, but each time there were subtle, delectable changes.

He smiled as he remembered how easily he had snatched her up while Ricky fumbled around like a putz.

Ricky was drooling for her, but she was too dazzled by me to even notice.

He had always be able to read emotions, even the ones he couldn't quite comprehend.  Fear was the easiest.  You could smell it.  Anger too.  He always knew when a guy was about to throw a punch.  Lust, especially with women, was easy too.  The whole body opened up.  That people got that all confused with whatever love was amazed him.  They were lying to themselves to justify the lust, which was really silly.  He chuckled at the absurdity of attaching all that romantic, fairy tale crap to the most basic of all instincts.  Male lust was nothing more than a hormonal drive to dominate, to possess the herd.  Female lust was the desire to be dominated and impregnated.  It was nothing more than herd instinct.  The strong took what he wanted, and the rest gave way if they knew what was good for them.  He loved a woman's fear as much as he loved taking his pleasure.  Taking his pleasure was a euphemism for most, but not for Mic.  It was quite literally his goal in life.  Scratch that.  It was his life.

Jill had frustrated him.  The slut was screwed up somehow or she would have given it up to him.  When Ricky picked her up after she got away, he had been ready to kill both of them.  Now, he was glad that it had happened.  He was happy that they were together and in love.  He imagined playing it out.

Go for it, Ricky, he thought.  Get deep into your little honey pot.  I'll take her from you as the first payment.  And you, you cold slut!  I want you to believe that he can protect you.  I'll remind you both while I'm taking my pleasure.  I'll laugh in your faces.

He drove to Jill's apartment, went by without slowing, and then continued around the block, his mind divided between the present and the past.

After West Virginia I thought it was all square, Ricky.  But I missed something, didn't I?

A nightmare had saved him, which was really odd, because he didn't have nightmares.  He had been back in the Mog, exhilarated by the prospect of a firefight.  Then they were all laughing and pointing at his crotch.  He looked down and saw the blood spurting.  Then he saw Ricky with a bloody machete and he was laughing at him!.  When he woke up he knew:  Ricky was part of it---probably one of the instigators.

"I'll show you the tape," he said, imagining it.

Look at this, Ricky.  This is the best part.  Now just keep an eye on her face.  Wonder who she was thinking about there, good buddy?  You or me?

He parked a few blocks away, walked down an alleyway, and approached through the backyard.  After picking the lock, he went inside.  First, he went to the computer and found the note saying she and Richard were going away.  In her e-mail in box were three messages from the Puta, none containing useful information.  The hard files contained only school stuff, databases, downloaded documents, drafts of research papers, and photos of some dried up old hag.

Mic searched through the drawers in the bedroom until he found a neatly folded silk negligee.  He held it by the spaghetti straps at arms length, examining it.  From atop the dresser, he snatched a perfume bottle, aimed it at the nightie, and pumped the atomizer angrily.  After bringing it to his face for a sniff, he sat on the bed clenching the delicate fabric in his fist.  He wanted to rip it apart, but that wouldn't do.

Bonne Femme, June 5

The cabin was less than a quarter of a mile away straight over the hill, but the indirect route they were forced to take would be closer to a mile, and over much more uneven ground with brush and rock outcroppings to circumvent.  Reinjury was a good possibility.  Jill thought it hopeful that the swelling had gone down---until she tested it.

"Oh!" she cried out.  "It's worse than yesterday."

"I was afraid it would be," he said.  "It might feel even worse tomorrow, but it ought to start getting better after that provided we don't reinjure it.  You need to rest it for a couple of days at least.  Maybe we should forget about going back to the cabin right away.  Could you handle it here for a couple of more days?"

Now that she had a modicum of hope that they would actually leave the island, delay was anathema to her.

"No.  Let's go back today," she said.  "Yesterday was not so bad."

"I'll have to carry you."

"Why not do it the way we did yesterday?"

"The slope puts me lower than you."

A fireman's carry would leave him a hand free to steady them, but the precarious position it required of her would be uncomfortable, frightening, and demeaning for her.  A piggyback carry over and around the rocks and brush didn't seem workable either.

"I think if I just pick you up and we take it in short stages we can make it.  We've got all day, so we can rest often.  The main thing is not to injure your ankle further."

Jill watched silently while he bundled the tent and wrapped the rest of the stuff in the tarpaulin, wondering if what he suggested was even possible.  Although six inches taller than she, he was lean and nowhere near as muscular-looking as Mic.  Besides that, he was still weak from his illness.

He held out his hand to help her up.

"I still think we should do it the way we did yesterday," she said.

Rather than argue he put his arm around her waist, and let her drape hers over his shoulder.  After a few halting side hill steps it was obvious to both that it wouldn't work.

"You cannot carry me."

"What do you weigh, maybe a hundred pounds?"

"One hundred and twelve pounds I think if I have the conversion from kilos right, but because of your horrible food, maybe less.  I am still too heavy for you to carry."

He swept her off her into what a romance novel would term a "lord's carry."  Given their location and circumstances, it was too much.

"This is silly," she said.  "Put me down."

"It's the only way to get back today."

"Then let's go.  Like everything else, I have no choice."

As he angled up the slope to get around an outcropping, Jill instinctively pulled herself closer.  He became acutely aware of her breast pressing against his chest.  The not unpleasant sensation, however, was soon forgotten as he concentrated on finding secure footing and maintaining his balance.  Before they had gone more than a dozen yards his back began to ache and his breath became labored.

"This is foolish," she said.  "There must be a better option."

"No," he panted.  "I can handle it.  You're as light as a . . . as a feather."

A half of an hour later, Jill clung tightly to his neck as he struggled upward to bypass a rocky outcropping blocking their way.  The running conversation he had attempted at first, informing her of intended directions and goals, had ebbed with his increasing fatigue.  Now he only gave occasional warnings about precarious ground and obstacles.  Some ten feet above the waterline and a mere fifty yards, as the crow flies, from where they had begun, he stopped and gently lowered her to a onto a rocky flat.

"I think I'll let you rest before we continue," he said, as he massaged the small of his back.  "Not too bad so far, was it?"

Jill looked back down the shore and frowned.  "Is that our camp?  That's as far as we came?"

"We're making progress.  Ready to go again?"

She noticed that he was still breathing heavily.

"Give me a moment more," she said.

"Would it be better if we turned you around so that you could hold on with the other hand?"

Something had seemed odd, but she couldn't put her finger on it.  Of course, being carried was odd, and being held in the arms of one's abductor was even odder, but there was something else, something unsettling about the way he held her.

"It was okay the way we were," she said absently.

"Stay here while I scout the way ahead.  I should have been doing that all along to avoid having to double back.  Besides it'll give you time to rest."

Jill had winced when she first felt her breasts being crushed against him, but the overwhelming feeling that she'd had was one of precariousness rather than of intimate contact.  Then she realized what it was that made her uneasy.  He was actually trying to avoid pulling her too close.  Her discomfort had been caused by his.

Another odd thing about a very odd man, she thought as he reemerged through the brush above her.

"Ready?" he asked.

"I suppose."

He grunted when he picked her up this time.

The sky had turned blue-black by the time they reached the cove.  Jill sat near the boat until he brought down water and granola bars.  Having nothing to drink all day, she still noted with distaste the faint iodine of the purification tablets.

"Cinnamon and apple," she muttered, as she munched a powder-dry breakfast bar.  "They come in other flavors you know.  Why did you get all the same kind?"

"I was in a hurry, and I wasn't thinking clearly."

Jill chewed silently, head down.

"I still cannot understand how you could have done all this.  I've tried to understand your thinking, but I cannot."

"A sane person trying to get into the head of an insane one?"

His frank suggestion brought her head up in surprise.

"Yes.  I thought that at first," she said.  "Now, I go from one extreme to another.  Sometimes, when you are explaining it, what you say sounds . . . fantastic, but feasible.  Then when I am alone it just seems fantastic and crazy."

"It is.  But it's real too.  Take my word for it.  Things can be crazy and real at the same time."

She knew he referred to Somalia.

"Don't be afraid of me, Jill.  I'm not crazy---and I don't have combat fatigue or whatever you want to call it.  I just have a load of guilt that's hard to live with.  That won't ever change, but it has nothing at all to do with what I've done to you.  I'm not going to try to tell you anything more about Mic.  I'm through.  You just have to go with what you know about each of us now.  You've seen the worst of me, but I know you can't be sure of that.  I don't know what you've seen of him, but I think it's probably enough."

"And you are telling me this because?"

"Because we're going back as soon as we can," he said, standing up.  "Wait here while I go get the stuff we left."

"If we are going back, just leave it," she said.

"It's not mine," he said.  "And I don't know how long we'll have to wait for the right wind."

Jill watched him pick his way across the rocks at the lake's edge, taking a more direct route back to last night's campsite, and marveled at how quickly her fear of him had evaporated.  When she thought about it objectively---and that seemed possible only when she was alone---it was absurd to dismiss what he had done.  And she didn't exactly.  Yet it was so easy to push it aside, to relax with him, and to pretend things were other than they were.  There were still times when she was sure that everything he told her was pure fantasy.  But even then she found it difficult to imagine that he was capable of harming her.

"You're an idiot, Jill," she said softly.

He dropped the gear at her feet and, without pausing, and said, "Well, are you ready to go up to the cabin?"

"I suppose," she said, allowing him to help her stand.

With barely a pause he picked her up and started up the hill.  He carried her inside and went back for the baggage.  She hobbled over and felt, to her surprise, a little heat from the ashes on the hearth.  Uncovering a few live embers, she began feeding in kindling.  It smoked promisingly, but failed to ignite until she bent to blow on it.  It flared to life just as he came inside.  He deposited the gear in the corner and sat on a storage container, finally succumbing to his fatigue.  She busied herself with the task longer than necessary.  With flames licking satisfactorily around the dry wood, she spoke without turning to face him.

"When do you think the wind will be right?"

"It's hard to say this time of year," he said as he popped open and set up the tent behind her.  "We could have gone today if we had gotten back in time."

"Promise me that we'll leave as soon as possible."

"I told you we would," he said as he threw the rolled up sleeping bag through the tent flap.

"I need something definite," she insisted:  Tomorrow, the next day, ten days from now.  Give me something I can count on."

"All I can tell you is that we'll go as soon as the wind is right."

"The wind will never be right!" she said sharply.  "It's calm today, calmer than when you brought me here.  We can leave now, Richard."

"It's fairly calm, but now the wind is from the wrong direction."

"So it has to be calm and blowing in the correct direction?"

"Yes.  There may not be enough gas.  That's the real reason I didn't come and get the boat to bring you back here today.  I didn't bring extra gas."

"I do not believe you."

She got up brusquely, limped over gingerly, threw back the tent flap, went in, and zipped shut the flap.  He sat in the dark listening to her arranging the sleeping bag.

"There is one other thing we need to discuss," he said.

When she didn't respond he continued.

"Jill, what are you going to do when we go back?  You don't have to tell me, but you have to decide."

June 6

The fire had died to embers by the time he crawled from his blankets.  The tent flap was still zipped closed.  He sat barefooted by the fireplace and stirred the ashes to harvest a few live coals as a nucleus for the morning fire.  Crackling kindling awakened her.  He heard her stirring, getting dressed.  She unzipped the flap and came out dressed in jeans and the loose fitting sweatshirt she had worn every other day between washings.

"I've got the coffee started.  You want lirps or granola this morning?"

"Couldn't you have brought something else?"

"I bought them because they keep, the lirps almost indefinitely."

"Yes, indefinitely was appropriate," she said, heading out to the privy.

He noticed that she was putting more weight on her sprained ankle.  He had downed a powdery granola bar and was sipping coffee when she came back in.

"The wind is not blowing strongly," she said.

It was early.  The wind was usually calm until the sun was well up, but he didn't think pointing that out would accomplish anything beneficial.

"I'll go down and begin readying the boat.  I need to make sure the motor is in good condition, in case we can leave today.  I'll let you know when I come back up."

She was sure he would find something wrong.  But Richard didn't really need to check.  Both boat and motor were in excellent condition for their age.  The real reason he went down was to be alone.  It was difficult to think objectively when she was near.  He wanted two things for her, but they might prove to be mutually exclusive.  He wanted her feel secure and he wanted her to be secure.  She would never feel safe until he returned her to Cartier, but he didn't know that he could keep her safe when they got back without her cooperation---something he rated as a long shot at best.  But staying much longer was out of the question.

I've said all I can, he told himself.  She has to believe at least part of it.

He finished wiping down the outboard, and then tipped the boat to run the small amount of rainwater out the open drain hole.  As he waited for it to empty, the wind became a light offshore breeze.

"The wind has turned," he said as he came back inside.  "If it holds we can leave."

Her pulse quickened.

"Today?"

Her calm acceptance of immanent freedom disconcerted him.  He was sure that what he was about to suggest wouldn't be received so calmly.

"Mic has to see that you're not vulnerable when we get back," he said.

Jill nodded thoughtfully

"And how will he see that?" she asked, knowing before he said it what he was going to say.

"Well first of all . . . I think that when we go back we should tell everyone that we've been on a . . . vacation, just like the message to Marta said.  And when we get there . . . I think it would be best if you move into my place---only for protection."

"So it will be just like here?"

"No.  You'll be free to go anywhere you want and . . . I'll just be there for protection."

If I do not agree he will keep me here, she thought.

He saw what she was thinking in her eyes.

"Jill, hasn't being here all this time convinced you that my only intention is to protect you?"

"I believe that is why you brought me here," she said carefully.

"If I'm not close I can't protect you."

It's so close, she said to herself.  I cannot say the wrong thing and ruin it.

"Richard, leave me," she said.  "Go to the boat or something.  I need to think about this before I tell you anything."

She's close to letting me do it," he thought.  Just don't let me say or do something to mess it up.

"Sure," he said.  "I'll just go down and . . . I'll . . . check everything out again."

After he left Jill poured coffee and sipped it as she tried to find the right words to keep him from changing his mind.  It was simple really.  She had to agree or they would not return to Cartier.  He would just go for more supplies and the stay really would be indefinite.  Once back she had no intention of staying with him, or ever seeing him again for that matter.

"Richard Carter, my guardian angel!" she said aloud

She put her hand to her mouth and looked fearfully at the door.

I know what he is doing.  If I am living with him, then I cannot go to the police later because no one would believe that he abducted me.

She sat and poked idly at the fire.

He could have done anything he wanted, but he has not touched me.  But what does that prove?

It didn't prove anything of course except that he was not the monster she thought when he had first kidnapped her.  He hadn't actually attacked her, but he belonged in prison for what he had done to her.

And that is exactly where he is going to be.

The thought wasn't as satisfying as it should have been.  Irrationally, Jill felt that she owed him some sort of loyalty, which was ridiculous unless he was right about Mic.

He is obsessed with me, but I no longer fear him.

But is that logical?

"I do not have to make a decision yet," she murmured.

She found him sitting on the rocks, staring east toward the distant, invisible shoreline.  The sound of the lake surf covered her approach.  She hesitated a moment, and then climbed onto the rock beside him.

"Well?" he asked without removing his gaze from the placid lake.

"What you suggest makes sense---living together that is," she said.  "If you are telling the truth about him."

"I'll keep you safe," he said.  "That's all I want to do.  And I put it wrong earlier.  We won't be living together.  We'll be living in the same house---but you know separate."

"How will you keep me safe?"

"By making sure that you're never alone until I find out enough to put him away.  I worked at the sheriff's department, so I have some credibility there.  If I find anything to get them interested in him, then even if there isn't enough to have him arrested, it might scare him off, make him leave."

"You really think he killed someone?" she asked, suppressing her skepticism.

"A woman in Mogadishu and maybe a high school classmate before that."

"Richard, if there was anything to find, would not a . . . real policeman . . . have already discovered it?"

"He may never have been a suspect in the death of the high school kid.  Once they start looking at him, however, who knows?  DNA evidence might even exists tying him to the girl."

Jill looked out across the gently tossing waves.

"So I am supposed to live with you until he is arrested or until he leaves Cartier."

"I told you.  You won't live with me, Jill.  Only stay at my place.  I'll be there for you're protection, nothing else.  If being here with me has proven anything it's that I don't have . . . any other designs."

Jill didn't want to blow it by giving in too readily.  Giving in at all would seem false, yet she had no choice but to make him believe that she would comply.

"Then I will agree to it---on a trial basis."

He studied her, as she knew he would.  It was time to say what she had thought of on the way down the hill, but first she collected a handful of pebbles distractedly, as if trying to gather her thoughts.

"I told you how much he scared me the night I decided to stop seeing him, but to think that he may have actually done what you say . . . I mean it is possible---I think."

After taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, she looked into his eyes.

"I want to trust you, Richard.  I really do."

She tossed a pebble and then dropped her hands to her lap.  Her eyes searched his intently.

"Would you have done this if it involved anyone but me?"

When he hesitated she answered for him.

"No.  You would not.  It is because you are . . . in love with me.  Perhaps that clouds your judgment."

"I thought you believed me."

"I want to believe you.  Maybe that clouds my judgment.  All I know is that he frightens me and you do not---not now.  Still, how do I know what is real?  Maybe when things are normal everything will be clearer."

Things would be normal for her only when she was free, and free of him.

Cartier, 4:00 PM

College life sucked, Denise Abbot decided.  Ridding herself of her mother's ridiculous rules and Bent Creek's small town suffocation had been great.  The kids back there were totally juvenile and boring.  Their idea of fun was getting stoned at the lake, or cruising the same squalid strip night after night.  Pere Marquette had been fun, at first:  all night keggers, staying with whomever, and no one on her case.  But the college guys turned out to be older versions of the same unimaginative hicks she had left home to escape, and she was beginning to suspect that there weren't any real men around.  Life didn't have to be like in the movies, but it didn't have to be so damned banal either.  There was something out there on the edge, something exciting, and she was missing out on it.

She pulled down the mirror to check her hair, and then adjusted her blouse before stepping out to cross the rain glistened street to a brick building with blue and red neon signs festooning its large dark windows.  Once inside Tonto's, she scanned the dim interior, seeing only overweight dockworkers and grungy fishermen.  She garnered a few appreciative stares, none from anyone remotely interesting.

The bartender fish-eyed her as she slid onto a stool.

"Card, Miss," he said wearily.

She produced the altered ID from the small sequined purse on her lap.

It matched her face but he wasn't fooled.  She couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen, but he had done the legal thing, and if he threw her out she'd just find another bar.  He decided to let her stay.  Pretty girls were good for business.

"What'll it be, Miss Abbott?" he asked, shedding his responsibility the way a dog shakes off water, but with less visible effort.

"Scotch," she said taking out a cigarette.  "Neat."

"Right," he said dryly, wondering if she even knew what the old term meant.

Denise blew a plume of smoke in what she thought was a sophisticated manner, and made eye contact in the mirror with a man sitting two stools down.  His lazy-eyed smile, dusky good looks, and frank interest intrigued her.  She sipped the unfamiliar drink, and grimaced as the oily hot liquid burned its way down her throat.  Successfully fighting the overwhelming urge to cough, she opened her eyes to find him standing over her.

"Hi," he said, amused at the tears summoned by the scotch.

"Hi yourself," she said, swiveling to meet his gaze.

"I'd ask if you come here often, but every jerk this side of Podunk asks crap like that," he said.  "Had serious drinking in mind until you walked in."

She blinked away the tears.

"I changed that?" she asked.

The bartender stared in disapproval, but looked away when Mic threw him a warning glare.

"I'm going right over to that table," Mic said.  "Come on over and maybe we can think of something better to do than just sit in this dump all night."

Without waiting for her response, he turned walked slowly toward the dim corner.  She hesitated, but something inside resonated to his presumptuousness, and she followed him into the darkness.  She stood awkwardly before him until he looked up with an insolent smile.

"Sit," he commanded.

Half an hour and several drinks later he took her to his car.

"Get in," he said, as he went around to the drivers side.

"Where are you taking me?" she said woozily.

"Not knowing is half the fun, isn't it?" he said.

Bonne Femme, 8:00 PM

The late afternoon had been uncommonly warm after the light showers had fled eastward, so they pitched the tent and built a campfire at the cove.  Night fell, narrowing the world to the lapping waves and firelight.  As the breeze fell to intermittent whispers, the rising moon's reflection shimmered on the placid water while overhead the crooked W of Cassiopeia arched across the northeast.  Jill drew the dew damp blanket up over her shoulders and huddled closer to the fire.  The moonlight cast the stony shoreline into sharp relief against the black water, causing the low waves to sparkle as they broke upon the island's rocky crust.

"There were no rocks, but this reminds me of St. Nazair," she said.  "When I was a little girl, Aunt Mirabelle would take me there, and I would look out into the ocean."

Sharing the story was an intimacy that could make what she intended to do more difficult, but it could also reinforce what she wanted him to believe.  Escape was so close.

"I was trying to see the land of my grand'pere.  I knew one day I would come here."

"Your grandfather was American?"

"Yes.  Like you he was a soldier.  His glider crashed in the Normandy invasion.  Most inside were killed, but he had only a concussion and many scrapes and bruises.  They say he looked awful when he staggered into our farmyard and collapsed."

A wan smile played upon Jill's face.

"Like a peeled potato, he used to say.  For several days he was only conscious for a few moments at a time.  Grand'mere nursed him.  They were each only seventeen---children."

"Harboring an allied soldier put your family's lives in danger," he observed.  "What a brave thing to do."

"Yes.  The Germans would have executed them, but my great grandmother hated them because they had taken great grandfather to work building the Atlantic Wall.  He did not return, and we never discovered what happened to him.  The Germans also stole my family's meager supply of food, but armies always do that."

Turning the pages of her memory evoked a profound melancholy that left her vulnerable.  In the middle of her attempted seduction of him, she suddenly was seized with a desperate need to believe him despite what her good sense warned.  She continued, compelled now to share this with him.

"Grand'pere recovered quickly---too quickly for Grand'mere.  Two weeks after arriving he went back to the army.  She thought that she would never see him again.  After the war he came back to Bretagne.  She spoke no English and he no French, but they married in 1946, and he stayed.  He wanted to bring her here, and she would have come, but my arriere-grand'mere---my great grandmother---could not bear losing her daughter so soon after losing her husband.  Hoping that he would return was all she could find the strength to do."

"A sad story," said Richard.

"Great Grandmother's?  Yes.  Grandfather Shepard's story is a lovely one," she said.  "He was a wonderful man."

"Shepard?  Then he was your mother's father.  So do you have a large family back in Brittany?"

"Only Aunt Mirabelle and her brother, Uncle David now."

"Did your parents . . ."

"Aunt Mirabelle is my mother," she said.  "The other could not be bothered with a child, so I do not bother with her."

Her matter-of-fact vehemence left him without an appropriate response.

"My grand'pere loved this country," she said.  "He spoke of it often, but he never returned.  When I was a very little girl I would sit on his lap while he told stories of this lake and his home.  He lived near Luddington."

He realized that it must have been the reason she had chosen Pere Marquette.

"You can see the Luddington lighthouse from Cartier," he said.  "Have you been there?"

"Yes.  It is not quite as he described, but it is sixty years."

A determined frown bunched her brow.

"I always knew I would come here.  I studied very hard to prepare myself.  Richard, I will complete my degree here.  Aunt Mirabelle has sacrificed so much for me.  To use a phrase Grandfather taught me, I will not let anyone mess with my dreams."

Whatever her reason for sharing her story with him, Richard realized that it was an intimacy.  What it meant, he didn't know.  Perhaps she was just playing him, trying to make sure that he would carry through on his promise.

"The lake's staying calm," he said.  "So it's a go, I guess."

When Jill didn't respond he thought she must have fallen asleep.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes."

"We should go at night to avoid being seen in case we need this place again."

"I will not be coming back," she said quickly.

"Okay," he said as he stood.  "I've got to go and prepare things."

"You said the boat was ready," she said.

"It is.  I'm going to get the car ready.  I'll be back by dawn and we can leave tomorrow night."

"No," she said, scrambling up.  "I will go with you now."

"You can't.  I need to fix the car and make sure it'll start, stuff like that.  If I knew everything would go smoothly we could leave right now, but I don't want to risk it."

"Do not leave me here!"

"Nothing can happen.  There's no one here but you.  I'll be back before daybreak unless the wind comes up.  If that happens you may have to wait a day or two, but as soon as it calms I'll be here to take you home."

"Why can I not go tonight?" she demanded.  "And why do you have to fix the car?"

"I took the wheels off when I hid it in the junk yard.  I have to see if it runs, top off the tank in the boat, get an extra can of gas . . . a lot to do in a short time."

She shook her head vehemently.

"You are only going back for more supplies."

"Why would I tell you we were going back just to disappoint you?  Wouldn't that just prove that I've been lying the whole time?  If I were going back for supplies why wouldn't I just do it without telling you?"

It made sense, but she knew he was hiding something.

"You are lying."

"I'm not lying.  It's the gas.  I told you we were short.  I don't know if there's enough to get there with two in the boat."

"How much difference can it make?"

"Enough.  Especially if the wind changes."

"But---"

"I have to insist on this, Jill.  This is the way it has to be.  I'm not risking your life no matter what it makes you think of me."

He called out one last time telling her that he'd be back before dawn, but he got no response whatsoever.  After feeling his rear pocket to make sure the plastic bag was still there, he cranked the big Merc to life.

The throaty roar shattered the silence.  Jill watched the boat make a slow turn at idle speed.  Then he opened the throttle and sped into the darkness.  When the roar became a low drone and finally faded beneath the sound of the softly lapping waves, she trudged back to the campfire.  An owl hooted mournfully high in the trees off to the northwest as she arranged the sleeping bag across her shoulders for padding against her boulder backrest.  Sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket, she held the pistol in her lap.  Its heft comforted her in a way she would never have imagined before being carried off to Bonne Femme.

June 7

Her head fell forward, jolting her awake.  She pushed the button on her watch, and peered at the ghostly dial.  It was four forty-eight, and he should be back.  The freshening breeze blew hair across her face.  She pushed it away, and frowned toward the bright morning star twinkling above the surface of the lake.  Shivering against the pre-dawn chill, she pulled the sleeping bag tighter and looked at her watch again.

"What could he be doing?" she said aloud.

Suddenly it occurred to her that he had gone back to kill Mic.

That's why he wouldn't let me go.

"That is ridiculous!  Richard cannot kill anyone."

But Mic could kill him.  Suddenly she was sure of it.  That's what happened!

Unable to remain motionless, she threw off the sleeping bag and began to pace while dueling scenarios played through her mind:  Mic dead and Richard in police custody, Richard dead and Mic on his way to Bonne Femme.  Adrenaline pulsed through her body, leaving her edgy, weak, and sick with dread.  The pistol was dead weight in her small hand.  She couldn't stop moving, but she deliberately slowed both her pace and her breathing.  Her racing heart, however, refused to cooperate.

He is doing exactly what he said he would do, she reassured herself.

She bit her lip, almost drawing blood.

Tomorrow I will be back.  Everything will be sane and ordinary.

She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed a silent prayer.

Please let him be okay.

Another shock.

Why shoulf I care?

Only because I cannot leave here without his help.  That is why.

"It is the only reason I care at all," she said angrily.

"You put me through hell!" she screamed.  "You deserve whatever happens to you!"

A stiff southern breeze came with the dawn, and still there was no sign of him.  The sun peeked over the horizon, its reflection diffused to a greasy streak upon the troubled water.  Jill's long hair whipped across her face as she squinted anxiously into the glare.  She thought she heard a muffled rumble woven into the sound of the gusting wind and splashing waves, but it may have been only conjured by wishful thinking.  Gradually, it became real---distinct and tangible.  A boat was approaching.  But from the wrong direction!

An icy certainty gripped her.

Mic!  Please, don't let it be Mic! 

She scrambled into hiding behind a boulder, clutching the pistol in trembling hands, its muzzle pointed skyward.

The engine cut to a slow rumble and grew louder, making directly for her.

She took a deep breath, and stealthily raised her head.

It was Richard.  She relaxed her grip and the heavy automatic slipped from her grasp.  He saw her and smiled.  Until she exhaled she hadn't realized that she had been holding her breath.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as the engine coughed to a stop.  "The wind took me north.  I almost missed the island."

She came down as quickly as her ankle would allow.  For a moment he imagined that she would throw herself into his arms in a welcoming embrace, but she stopped short and looked fearfully past him into the rear of the boat to see what he had brought back.

"Are we still leaving tonight?" she asked.

"Of course.  I brought plenty of extra gas.  Unless this wind gets worse we'll leave just before dark.  I think you'll be back there tomorrow," he said.  "Are you going to let me protect you?"

"Yes," she said immediately.

He shouldn't have even asked.

"Maybe you will and maybe you won't," he said.  "Whatever you do, stay away from him even if you have to go back to Brittany."

It occurred to her that Richard would not be prosecuted for abducting her if she were to leave the country.

Later Richard sat leaning against the side of the fireplace, fatigued, but unable to sleep.  Jill sat on the floor barely tasting the cold coffee she sipped while trying to think things through.  If he carried through on his promise, she would soon have to make the irrevocable decision to report him to the police or not.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

She shook her head to put him off.

He pushed himself to a standing position and offered her his hand.

"Come on.  Let's start getting the boat ready."

Jill ignored his hand.  As she started to get up, she saw a plastic sandwich bag on the floor.  Inside was a folded piece of paper.

"What's this?" she asked, picking it up.

"Nothing," he said, reaching to take it from her.

She pulled it back, and turned away to open it.  The neatly printed message was chillingly succinct:

To JR Reese, Breton County Sheriff's Department:

If I'm dead, Mic Boyd did it (unless I drowned).  Jill Belbenoit is on Bonne Femme with no way to get back.  She will tell you what happened.  Please contact Kevin Lucas in Covington, Indiana and let him know.  Tell him he needs to speak with Jill.

Richard Carter, June 6

"I didn't think anything would really happen," he explained.  "But if anything did, then the police or a coroner would have found the note and . . . you wouldn't have been stranded here."

"Who is this Kevin Lucas?"

"A friend.  He's a good man."

"He knows about me?"

"Not that I brought you here."

"What would he do if something did happen to you?"

"The same thing I'm trying to do.  He knows Mic too."