Canaan Camp

Chapter Sixteen

The Mission

Canaan Camp, early morning, June 18

          They bumped over a gravel road northwest of Canaan in silence, still trying to process the sudden end of the life they had chosen.  Two hours ago they thought that they would spend the rest of their lives in the camp, and now, having forsaken family and friends for the Church, they were at a loss as to how they would continue their lives. 

           "Where are we going, Hodges?" asked John from the back.  "Where are these people supposed to stay?"

           "Don't worry.  The Church is taking care of all of you---for tonight.  There are motel reservations, but tomorrow you're on your own," replied Paget as he turned onto a county road. 

           "Why are we going this way instead of to the highway?" asked John.

           "Relax.  You're not the only ones who have to leave.  Until you pulled that stunt tonight everything was cool.  Now we're all going to be homeless."

          Paget pulled the van into a logging road that forked off to the right.

           "Where are we going, Brother Caleb?" asked the old lady sitting next to him.

           "Right here," he said as he pulled to a stop.  "For now, Granny."

196.

            He pulled a pistol from his belt and trained on the one's sitting in the back.

           "You're going to kill us!" she gasped.

           "Not unless I have to.  I've got something to drink in the glove compartment.  Get it out.  All you have to do is drink that."

           "You're poisoning us!" said John.

           "Don't be ridiculous.  All Joshua wants is for you be unconscious until it's too late to mess up our mission."

           "You're lying.  You're going to kill us."

          Paget backhanded him.

           "If I had my way I would.  At least I'd kill you," he said.  "But Joshua told me just to knock you out for the night.  Now you all got a choice.  You either take the stuff in the bottle or I will kill you."

           "You're going to do it anyway," said Phillips.

           "Don't be stupid, old man!  If I was going to do that anyway I'd just start shooting instead of sitting here and talking to you."

          Paget smiled thinly as he watched them struggling with it.  People always thought that they'd resist and go down fighting, but hit them up aside the head with sudden violence all they can do is beg and, in the end, go along.  From experience he knew that they would grasp at the hope he was offering because they wanted to believe him.  In the end people always did what he wanted them to do.

 

          It was after three when he pulled into the field of abandoned buses.  He negotiated the simple maze of retired vehicles until he reached the middle of the boneyard.  Moonlight glinted from the abandoned behemoths' glass and chrome.  In a few minutes he had all four of his unconscious riders out and on the grass.  The .45 had been a great intimidator, but it was too noisy for the time of night, so he took Peppy Pearson's .22 from his pocket.  Bending low he carefully placed the weapon just below the right ear and angled it carefully.  There was a satisfyingly small pop.  He rolled the Stick Man over.  The full moon reflected in half opened eyes.  Paget congratulated himself that there was no exit wound and almost no bleeding.  He finished the others efficiently and then picked up the shell casings before cramming the bodies in a belly compartment he had pried open on one of the buses.

 

Willamette Freemen Compound, June 18, 5:45 AM

          By dawn of the ninth day Oregon national guardsmen manned an outer perimeter, blocking roads to keep the media and spectators at least a mile from the compound.  Hazmat equipped special army units manned an inner perimeter still well back from the compound.  Only FBI and ATF personnel were inside the second perimeter.

          Hank Grossette had won the first round, not with the militia, but with the brass.  Waco shy, they supported his low-key approach, agreeing that any escalation should be clearly seen as instigated by the Freemen.  To that end, the armored vehicles and helicopters remained safely out of sight in hastily erected revetments beyond the outer perimeter.  The media was told only that the FBI was assisting the local authorities in their pursuit of Bobby Lee Paget, and the ATF was present to recover weapons stolen in Marked Tree, Arkansas.  So far, no one had tumbled to the connection with the missing nerve gas, but from experience, Grossette knew it was only a matter of time.  It surprised him that it still hadn't been leaked.  Nine days was a long time for the government to keep a secret.

197.

            "Are your pickets all in place?" asked Grossette, keying the microphone.

           "All in place, Sir," came the reply.  "Two positions are closer than planned.  Terrain made original deployment impractical."

           "How much closer, Colonel?" he asked, not quite comfortable with speaking in the clear without the normal procedure of designating positions by code name.  The scramble phone technology had outstripped his imagination.

           "Echo post is fifty clicks north and twenty east of the original, Romeo-Alpha one hundred and twenty northwest on the trail.  It was necessary for adequate fire coverage."

           "Good.  Make sure that no one falls asleep out there."

           "Issuing the auto-injectors took care of that, Sir."

           "Your men should be all right.  My weather guy tells me that the conditions for a release in the open air aren't optimal.  As long as they're vigilant, they should have plenty of time to suit up."

           "Sir, should we prepare to tighten the perimeter?"

           "No.  We sit tight."

           "We're not going in?"

           "Definitely not," said Grossette, ending the communication.

          He stared up toward the compound and patted the atropine syrette in his pocket, wondering how long it would take the militia network to concoct an atrocity story if the idiots in the compound decided to kill themselves.

 

St. Louis, 10:00 AM

          Three men in light blue coveralls walked through the Convention street entrance of the domed structure.  One, a muscular man in his late twenties, carried a clipboard, effectively rendering the group invisible to the security guards and maintenance personnel alike.

           "In something this large, there isn't simply a central air conditioning system," said Collins as he led the way down a corridor near the arena.  "You can't just tie it all together.  You'd never be able to manage all the smaller spaces and the stadium as a unit."

198.

            Usually reticent, he was now in his element, comfortable discussing things with which he was familiar. 

           "The system cools and redistributes the air already inside.  There has to be a lot of air circulation, but you don't want it to be drafty.  On the other hand, you don't want it cold on the field and hot up in the seating.  People don't pay high dollar to be uncomfortable."

           "Does that mean we have to be inside the arena in order to release the gas?" asked Paget.

           "I doubt it.  With large crowds you have to be able to introduce fresh air too, even the stadium isn't completely sealed off from the rest of the building.  There will be intake vents around the arena inside the building.  If we had blue prints we could pinpoint them and just walk right in and release it when we wanted to."

          They came to a large open space where the escalators were located.

           "This is as good a bet as any," he said.

          Traversing the open corridor near the outside wall, he finally found a grate.

           "Awfully small.  I doubt that ones this size would feed the stadium.  Maybe they take air from the roof."

           "You don't know?" asked Paget in irritation.  "You're supposed to know this stuff."

           "Never worked on anything this big," he said.  "Without blueprints we'll probably have to release it directly in the stadium."

           "How can we do that?" asked Shane.

           "Let's go take a look," said Paget.

          His first view of the huge open space above the field brought a frown to Paget's face.  He had no idea that it would be so big.  It hadn't looked it on television.  Now he wondered if the gas would have any effect at all.

          Collins, thinking only in terms of laughing gas was even more skeptical.

          Shane had more personal concerns.  "Wouldn't it be better if we could find a place that was more hidden?" he asked.

           "Has anyone paid any attention to us yet?" asked Paget.  "I told you, no one takes notice of people dressed like they're working."  He clapped Shane on the back and laughed.  "The niggers won't even see you.  They won't pay any attention to something that looks like work."

          Paget looked toward the workmen erecting low scaffolding.

           "Look.  Here's what you do," he said.  "That's where they'll set up the speaker's platform.  Once they start their program you just roll the bottles in.  Use those curtains for cover.  Take them behind the platform over there and open the valves.  That's all there is to it."

           "I don't think that'll do much good, Brother Caleb," said Collins, who had been frowning as he looked around at the volume of open space.  "The nitrous oxide won't form a cloud or anything, it'll just sort of thin out and get lost in all this air."

199.

            Paget bit back a curse, trying to act calm.  He wanted to smash Collins in the mouth.

           "It might not have the effect we want," he said.  "But what have we lost if it doesn't, right?  At least we tried.  We could learn something that might help us next time."

          He smiled reassuringly at Shane.

           "We don't have to effect all of them.  All we got to do is get one or two of them started.  It'll be like a chain reaction."

          Collins was shaking his head more vigorously now.  "It won't work.  The place is too big.  You have to have a mask on and breath that stuff directly in for it to have an effect in here."

           "They don't give you straight laughing gas at the dentist, do they?" asked Paget, with a warning glance that silenced Collins.  "They mix it with oxygen or they'd suffocate the patient."

          He raised his hand to forestall a reply.

           "Just a minute, Collins.  Look at all maintenance people in here.  Shane, walk down there to the other end of the field and back.  I'll bet no one pays any attention to you."

          As soon as Shane was out of earshot, Paget placed a comradely hand on Collins' shoulder.

           "Hey, look.  As soon as I walked in here and took a look around, I realized what you did.  This ain't gonna work."

          Paget affected a chagrined look.

           "The kid looks up to me though.  Could you do me a favor and let me break it to him in my own way.  He's got his heart set on doing something for the Church, and . . . well, we'll probably just call it off.  Let me break it to him after we get back, okay?"

           "Of course I will, Brother Caleb."

          Before they left, Paget looked around the dome imagining it full of religious fanatics.  He saw first one, then a few, then a dozen collapsing as the nerve gas hit them.  Even if he didn't take down a lot of them, when they found Shane's body near the canisters, they would quickly trace him back to the Wilderness Church and Joshua.

 

Canaan Camp, June 18, 7:15 PM

          The day melted slowly into muted shadows, but lingering heat radiated from the ground as the sweet scent of honeysuckle mantling a persimmon and blackberry thicket hung in the air.  The native vine thrived in the August parch that seared the grass and shot the leaves from the trees before fall.  Unkempt ragweed and goldenrod flourished too, choking the fencerows and field margins.  Wild chicory and less comely weeds overhung the dusty gravel, scratching passing cars.  Like Father Joshua himself, Canaan Camp was falling into disrepair.  The Wilderness Church, like an exotic plant, was withering from neglect.

          Raven felt it slipping away.  Strangely, it came as no surprise.  It's what always happened when she was foolish enough to hope.  It was no more what she had hoped it was than Starry Dawn had been.  It had been a long time since she had thought of her mother.

200.

          "Going to get my act together, Baby," she heard her say.

          She had believed her the first few times.  She had dared to hope.

          Hope is the cruelest thing there is, she thought 

          She suddenly became aware that Shane was standing in the field across from the barracks.  Without knowing exactly why, she went across to him.

           "Like to take a walk?" he asked, meeting her half way.

           "Okay."

           "I've been thinking . . . about the things you told me," he said.

          Raven walked beside him mutely, head down, her face veiled by dark hair.

           "It doesn't matter to me," he continued.  "I already told you that, but . . . the thing is . . . you need to know that I'll never do anything to make you scared or . . . anything."

           "I know," she said.

          His pleading brought home a terrible truth:  she didn't want to lose Shane.  But what did she want him for?  A friend?  That's certainly not what he wanted.

          My life is so utterly messed up.  I guess I want to mess his up too, she thought bitterly.

          Shane continued talking, but Raven listened to only his voice, not his words as a horrible thought stole into her mind.

          Is the Church to me what drugs were to Starry Dawn?  Has everything been just a pleasant, but empty promise?  Have I run here just to escape who I am?  And what's this crazy thing with Shane, just more of the same?

           "Don't send me away, Raven," he said as if he had read her mind.  "I'll give you all the time you need---"

           "It's not a matter of time, Shane," she said distantly.  "And it's not you."

           "You don't think I understand, and perhaps I don't, but ---"

           "You don't."

           "You think I want to sleep with you, but . . . well, I do."  He couldn't believe he had actually said it.  "But that's only . . . some day, you know---when you're ready.  If it's possible.  But that's not what this is all about, Raven.  It's you.  It's you I want.  I want to marry you."

201.

            He had actually proposed.  She closed her eyes in exasperation. 

           "There's a hard fact here," she said.  "And it won't go away.  You're normal.  I'm not.  I know you mean what you're saying, but it's impossible."

           "Raven, you've got to listen to---"

           "Stop it!  If I listen to you, if we . . . there's nothing in it.  There can't be.  I've thought this through."

           "So have I.  I've---"

           "Been dreaming!  That's what you do!  You've never considered---look, do you really think you could live with . . . a . . . a frigid woman who . . . who can't even stand to be touched?"

          Shane surprised her with a smile.

           "This isn't funny," she said sharply.

           "You want it too."

           "Not what you want," she said.  "I know myself, Shane.  I won't be able to give it to you---not ever."

           "Ever is a long time, Raven.  Jacob waited fourteen years for Rachel."

           "That was different."

           "Okay, it was.  But I'll tell you something.  You are what I want.  Now I know I have a chance, and I ain't gonna walk away.  I ain't."

          When she didn't respond, he hurried on.

           "I love you, Raven.  And I know that you at least like me.  If that's all you'll ever do, well it's enough for me."

          He thought about what had been done to her.

           "I'm not like any of those men," he continued.  "Surely you know that by now."

           "I do know, Shane.  My mind knows.  But you have no idea what it's like for me.  When you tried to hold me, something took over.  It's always like that.  When it happens I'm not even me anymore.  I'm a terrified little girl.  I can't fight it because---"

           "I know," he interrupted.

           "No.  You don't!  Let me tell you the rest of how it is.  Whenever I have to let it happen, when I can't stop one of them from . . . doing it.  Then I become nothing.  I'm just numb.  I know what's happening, but I just don't care anymore because I know I deserve it."

 202.

           "You don't."

           "My mother is a prostitute and so am I, Shane.  That's what you won't accept."

           "That's not who you are.  You were just a kid when all that happened.  It's all in the past.  It's long gone."

           "No.  I know it's not my fault, but it's what I am.  It's who I am.  Can't you see that?"

          Far from perceptive, Shane nevertheless saw that she was pushing him away to protect him.

           "Some day all that will be over," he said.  "Some day you'll heal.  Let me be with you until it ends."

           "And if it never ends?"

           "Then it won't be any worse than one of those arranged marriages they used to have.  We'll make it work.  We'll become comfortable with each other.  We're already friends, aren't we?  Lot's of married couples don't have that going for them."

          She shook her head, but the impossible thing he proposed appealed to her.  Perhaps it was because she desperately wanted to belong to something.

          I've got to be crazier than he is, she thought, but she said only, "It's too soon."

           "For what?"

           "For you to ask me to commit to something like that."

           "But you're not saying, ‘No.'"

           "And I'm not saying, ‘Yes' either."

 

Willamette Freemen Compound, June 18, 10:23 PM

           "This good news or bad, Ford?" asked Grossette, as he handed the communiqué from Treece back to the young agent.

           "You keep asking me the same question, Sir?"

           "But in different contexts.  You're my psych guy.  So, does this put us any closer to a resolution, or is it the beginning of Armageddon?"

           "Sending the women and kids out?  They're not thinking about capitulating."

           "No.  So they're either getting ready to do something really dumb, or they're anticipating an attack," mused Grossette.  "Tell everyone to keep his head down.  No one, and I mean no one, tries to improve his position or work his way closer.  And nobody gets the bright idea of putting a huey in the air or moving a tank up."

203.

           "Got it.  But this could mean something else, like that they're running short of food or anticipating a long siege."

           "Either way, I'm just glad they're getting families out of there."

           "Are we going to detain them?"

           "Just long enough to make sure they're not carrying anything out of there."

           "It could be bad PR.  No telling what they'll say to the media."

           "Price of a free country," said Grossette absently.  "Send the word that everyone is to keep the decontamination gear real close and ready for use however they do that.  And make sure that everyone has his atropine syrette on his person at all times."

           "You expect a release?"

           "Reading minds is your specialty, Ford.  So you tell me."

           "The rank and file won't be hot on the idea.  Treece?  I don't have a handle on him.  I'm just glad Tyler's not still alive and making the decision.  His profile is kind of scary.  He might push for a final solution."

           "Wrong allusion, Ford.  The holocaust wasn't suicide."

          Grossette looked up toward the darkened compound.  The hill was silhouetted against the bright swath of the Milky Way.

           "This is more like Masada."

 

Canaan Camp, 11:05 AM

          Raven hurried toward the barracks, holding the fabric of her ruined blouse away from her skin and trying not to breath the fumes.  The girl removing the dyed yarn from the fixative had accidentally sloshed her with the liquid.  She didn't know how caustic the liquid was, but since it began to burn immediately, she decided to shower and change.

Inside, she stripped quickly, leaving her discarded clothes in an untidy pile on the floor, pausing only long enough to put the blouse in a sink to soak before hurrying toward the shower room wearing only a robe.  As she adjusted the water, she examined the tender area below her right breast.  A hand-sized area was light red and felt like a sunburn.  She decided to spray it with the topical pain reliever that Cheryl, her fair skinned roommate kept.

          As she toweled herself, she examined it again and decided that it didn't seem to be getting worse.  She hurried from the shower room, bare-foot and with her unbelted robe loosely draped over her shoulders.

          Outside the shower room she came face to face with Paget.

204.

           "Oh!" she gasped, almost falling as she scrambled backward, clutching her robe closed.

           "I saw you holding your arm when you came in," he said.  "I was worried that you were hurt.  I shouldn't have come in I guess, but I was concerned about you and I just wasn't thinking."

          He acted embarrassed, but his face wasn't red, and his eyes were too intense.

           "Sorry if I scared you, Sister Raven.  I'll just wait outside until you get dressed."

           "Why?" she stammered.  "Why do you need to wait?"

           "Well after doing something so stupid, I need to apologize more properly."

          She could tell by the way he looked at her that he had been watching while she was in the shower.

           "That's not necessary," she said tersely.

           "Okay," he said.  "Then . . . I'll just go.  I'm really sorry.  I just let my concern for you override my good sense.  I don't know what I was thinking coming in here like that. It was really stupid."

           "Yes it was," she said.

          He stiffened, the urge to backhand her boiling in him.  Then he smiled.

           "I'll just be going now that I know that you're all right," he said as he turned and strode down the hall and out the door.

          She hurried to her room and hastily got dressed, all the while listening for signs that he had re-entered the barracks.  With trembling fingers she buttoned the last button of her blouse, pulled on a clean pair of jeans and slipped on her sandals.  Wanting to get back to the safety of the shop, she didn't bother to brush her hair.

          He was waiting just outside, barring her way down the stairs.

           "How can I ever apologize properly, Sister Raven?" he asked.

          His expression didn't match his apology.

           "I told you there's no need," she said.

           "Sure there is," he said easily.  "I've offended you by invading your privacy.  I didn't mean to.  Believe me."

          His smile looked self-deprecating, but she wasn't buying it.

           "You're the last person here I would want to offend, Sister Raven."

          He reached toward her cheek, and Raven flinched away.

           "Sister Raven," he began.

           "I'm not your sister, Cal Hodges," she said in a trembling voice.  "I don't know why you came to Canaan, but you don't belong here!"

205.

           She wanted to rush past him, but couldn't make herself get that close to him.  She was trapped.

           "I want to be your friend," he began.

          Somehow Raven got the courage to step forward, squeezing herself through the space between him and the porch rail.  Though he made no move to stop her, he held his position, forcing her to brush against him as she escaped.

          Paget smiled as he watched her go, thinking about what he had glimpsed as she came from her shower.  The connection thrilled him.

          You're wearing Pale Babe's necklace for me, Miss Dusky.  Guess what else you're going to do for me?

 

12:45 

          The disgusting sound assaulted him as soon as he came in the house.  Through the bedroom door he saw the gape-mouthed scarecrow sprawled across the bed.  Paget closed the door and stabbed on the TV, turning up the volume.  The canned laughter of the black and white rerun grated almost as much as Joshua's snoring.  Passengers were getting off a dilapidated bus in some dismal desert town.  The bus conjured a replay of his work in the bus boneyard, which in turn took him back to more satisfying killing.  Memory of Pale Babe's throes tingled in his fingers.  He closed his eyes, slowing it, remembering the sounds and feelings.  Then he put his imagination to work.  With delicious anticipation he turned her hair black and enhanced her figure.

           "You're wearing it," he whispered.  "You're already mine."

          It was like the necklace had some sort of magical power.  Pale Babe became Miss Dusky; Miss Dusky became Pale Babe.  His dreams, his present, and his past merged seamlessly.  For a while he wasn't quite sure which parts were real and which fantasy.  He needed more.  A little stimulation was never enough.

          He got a magazine from his room and hurriedly thumbed through it for his favorite pictures.  The scenes of control and impending violence fascinated him, but he couldn't suppress the knowledge that they were only staged, that the women were posing.

         Not just posing, aping!  Whores!

         He imagined strung out prostitutes chomping gum like cows while the photographer tried to penetrate their stupidity long enough to get them to understand what they were supposed to be trying for.

          A new fantasy materialized, fully formed.

          I'm editing this real magazine, and I'm only using this prime stuff---no whores.  All the while I'm looking for the vulnerable ones, the ones with no roots or curious friends to ask questions when they disappear.  I'll run the shoots myself, and there won't be any need for posing.  All these eager little wannabe models will come running to me, and I'll promise to make ‘em stars.

 206.

         "Guess what?" he said aloud.  "You're a star.  Too bad you're also dead."

          The whole thing was so lame that he was mildly disgusted with himself.  The hastily constructed fantasy only deepened his frustration.  He tossed the magazines to the floor, and went to the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of Joshua's rotgut wine.  The crap made him want to throw up, so he poured the rest of his drink down the drain and went to see if there was something in what was left from Peppy's stash that might do him some good.

 

Elm Street, near the Blue Creek College Campus, 4:32 PM

          Mrs. Hankins wasn't tending her flowers as usual, which was just as well.  Stephanie would have felt compelled to talk, and she was already late again.  Mrs. Fortner would understand, of course.  The bookstore owner always understood which was why Stephanie hated to disappoint her.  Clutching books to her chest as she hurried along the maple shaded residential sidewalk leading downhill from the campus.  Glancing at her watch, she failed to see the buckled concrete thrown up by a tree root.  Her sandaled foot gave way, pitching her forward.  She kept her balance, but spilled books and papers everywhere.

           "Crap," muttered the pretty blonde coed as she lowered herself into a sitting position on the grass, grimacing and rocking in the first bloom of pain.

          Paget had been watching her approach in the side view mirror of a church van.  Now he examined her intently, from the pained expression on her pretty face, to the tapering expanse of her long tanned legs.  He got quietly out, and went to her.  Her shoulder length hair slid forward, masking his approach.

           "Are you okay, Miss?" he asked as he knelt beside her

          Startled, Stephanie looked up to see a clean-shaven man with intelligent, concerned eyes.

           "Oh . . . uh.  Yes.  I just stepped on something and . . . I went down," she stammered, embarrassed by her undignified position.

           "I saw how you kept your balance.  You must be an athlete with that kind of coordination."  He extended a hand.  "Here.  Let me help you up,"

          What a way to meet an interesting man, she thought, as she shook her head.

           "Let me sit here for a moment," she said with a nervous laugh.  "It really hurts."

           "I'll bet," he said as he began gathering up her books and papers.

           "You don't have to do that," she said.  "I'll be okay in a minute."

           "Now I haven't done anything chivalrous in over a month.  You got to let me help a little."

207.

            He stacked the books beside her and then offered his hand again.

           "Thanks," she said allowing him to pull her to her feet, and frowning as a slight twinge shot through her ankle.  She rested a hand to his shoulder to steady herself, noting, despite her pain, the firmness of the muscles beneath the carefully rolled sleeve of his shirt.

           "What's wrong?" he asked.

           "I think it's sprained a little."

           "I can give you a lift if you want.  I'm parked just down the street."

           "I'll be all right in a moment.  Thanks for stopping to help.  That was really nice."

           "Nothing anyone wouldn't do," he said smiling what she took for a shy smile.  "By the way, I'm Carl Hastings."

           "I'm Stephanie Dobbs," she said.

           "Glad to meet you, Stephanie.  He looked at her intently.  "Are you going far?"

           "Just down to the book store around the corner," she said dropping her hand from his shoulder.  "And I'm late for work already."

           "You probably shouldn't walk on that more than necessary," putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her.  "And I know you shouldn't hurry.  Let me give you a ride."

          What he was saying was completely innocuous, but he was beginning to make her nervous.

           "I don't think so.  It's just a couple of blocks.  I'll walk it off."

           "I was a paramedic in the army," he said.  "I'm telling you now, you need to stay off that ankle.  Elevate it and put on an ice pack as soon as possible.  Even minor sprains need proper tending.  Keep the swelling down first, so no aspirin and don't apply any heat for a couple of days.  You'll want to ice it down, the sooner the better.  You probably shouldn't be going to work today."

           "Thanks for the advice, but I don't think it's that bad."

           "Well sit back down and let me take a look."

          He knelt without waiting for her to comply.  Feeling foolish standing in front of him, Stephanie looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then lowered herself to the grass again.

          He probed gently on both sides of her foot below the ankle.

           "Does it hurt when I put pressure here?" he asked as he lightly pinched his fingers together, his palm lying flat on the top of her foot.

 208.

           "A little," she said wincing.

           "Ummmm," he muttered nodding his head in apparent approval as he placed the fingers of both hands on either side of her leg above the ankle.

           "You may have stretched the ligaments a bit."

          He worked his hands up her left leg to just below the knee.

           "Flex your calf muscle and point you toes downward," he said.

          After the examination, she let him help her up again.

           "I think I'm all right.  Thanks for all your help and concern, but I've got to get to work."

          He handed her books to her, and then accompanied her down the street.

           "So you attend the college.  What's your major?"

           "Undeclared so far.  I've been thinking about journalism.  How about you?  Maybe you should go to med school."

           "You think?"

           "You're compassionate," she said.  "We need doctors like that."

           "Look, Stephanie.  I'm still worried about that ankle," he said as they came abreast of the van.  "Get in and let me give you a lift to work."

           "Come on," he said as he opened the passenger side door to the van.

           "No, Carl.  I really appreciated it but . . . I don't really know you . . . and a girl has to be careful, you know."

           He put his hands to his head and closed his eyes, shaking his head in acknowledgment of what she was stammering to say.

           "Of course.  What was I thinking?" he said.  "Those girls that guy killed.  Man, have I ever made your day worse!  My gosh, and I'm even driving a van."

           "Oh no.  I wasn't thinking anything like that," she stammered.

           "No.  It's okay.  You're right."

          He smiled winningly.

           "I've got a confession to make, Stephanie.  I'd like to see you again.  If you don't think I'm being too forward.  How about we meet at that place they call the The Horseshoe?  No, wait.  How old are you?"

209.

            Stephanie smiled in relief.  "I'm old enough to be in a bar," she said.  "twenty-one."

           "Is that a yes?"

           "That's a yes, Carl.  When?"

           "Let me check when I have to work," he said moving to open the rear door of the van.

          With his back to her, he peered at a piece of paper.  "Crap.  I can't read it without my glasses.  How are your eyes?"

           "They're fine.  Let me see," said Stephanie, coming closer.

          She reached for the paper, but it slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the ground.  Then she noticed the pistol.

"Get in the van," he said evenly.

She froze, her mouth forming a perfect "O," as her body refused to do what her frantic mind was screaming for it to do.  Thrill coursed through him.  She was almost under his control.  A combination of threats and promises would make her comply until it was too late for resistance.

           "Get in the van," he repeated, seizing the nape of her neck.  "If you do what you're told I won't have to hurt you."

          Thoughts whirled chaotically in her head.

           "Do what I want, and I'll let you go afterwards."

          She knew he was lying.  Everything else was a blur as half formed thoughts and vivid fears tumbled through her mind like the debris cloud of a tornado.

           "Come on," he coaxed.  "I'm not that other guy.  I just need a woman.  I won't hurt you.  I promise.  I would never hurt anyone as pretty as you are unless I was forced to."

          Stephanie took a shaky step toward the open door.  At last a coherent thought penetrated her shocked confusion.

          Whatever you do, don't let him take you anywhere.  Your chances of survival go way down if you let him transport you.

          No!" she screamed lurching sideways.

          His nails cut deeply into her neck, but she didn't feel it.

          Surprised by her sudden recovery, Paget lost his hold on her neck, but captured her wrist.  As he yanked her toward the open door of the van, she fell to her knees.  Although no match for him, she kicked, wriggled, and flailed like cat held over water.  A fist to the side of her head stunned her and she collapsed.

210.

          "Hey!  What's going on over there?"

          Paget whipped around to see two men pounding toward him.  For a moment he considered shooting them, but quickly assessed his chances of getting them both with Pearson's puny .22 as not good.  He released the unconscious girl, dove into the van, and scrambled forward to the driver's seat.

          The men reached the scene just as the engine caught.  He fired two shots through open side door, knowing that even if he didn't hit anyone it would stop cold any silliness like trying to jump into the van.  Predictably, both dove for cover.  Two blocks away, he stopped to close the door.  Boiling with anger, he considered returning.

          Run them down.  Shoot them between the eyes.  Then throw her into the van and finish what I started.

          Of course it was all nonsense.  Driving carefully, he took a circuitous route back to the camp.  Paget was angry at himself for botching it, but he was incapable of blaming himself for long.  Nothing was ever really his fault.  Other people were always messing things up.

          Everything would have been fine if the little slut had let me give her a ride.  If I find out where you live, I'll pay you a little visit as soon as you get back from talking to the cops.

          That was nonsense too.

          Someone's going to pay.  And I know just who:  someone with a cute little silver necklace hanging between her knockers.

          The old-fashioned slang word conveyed a contempt that satisfied like a well-connected punch.  And this time it wasn't nonsense.  He could do it.  He would do it.