Canaan Camp

Chapter Nineteen

Tragedy and Statistic

Canaan Camp, June 22, 12:02 PM

           "You can't come into the camp without a warrant," objected the young man at the gate.

           "You're wrong.  I don't need a warrant," Richard informed him tersely while making sure to keep his voice steady and unthreatening.  "I'm here to talk to people, not to execute a search.  Your camp is part of Hawthorn County and therefore within the sheriff department's jurisdiction.  Son, we can go anywhere in the county, and if you interfere you will be committing a crime."

          It soon became apparent that the young man had no heart for a confrontation, and that the camp had no real protocol for keeping people out other than the lockless gate and a symbolic guard.  Richard noticed little activity at the camp as he took the winding graveled drive.  A small house sat on a drought-browned yard at the base of a hill crowned by a house not quite large enough to be called a mansion.  A young woman in loose fitting shorts and short-sleeved white blouse knelt at a galvanized washtub in the shade of a large box elder tree.  Except for the clothes, she could have stepped from a previous century.

          She looked up and brushed dark hair from her forehead when he pulled in.  She put down the canning jar she had been scrubbing and stood as he approached.  Richard judged her just shy of twenty, and despite his preoccupation, was struck by her beauty.  In the split second he allowed himself to dwell on that, she picked up on it the way women used to unwanted attention seem to do almost instinctively.  She reacted with a barely noticeable weariness, preparing to deal with a minor irritation, as if she would shoo a gnat from her eyes.  Yet, she smiled politely, an invitation for him to remember his business and state it.

           "I'm a deputy sheriff," he began, surprised that he found himself a bit daunted by her manner.  "Mind if I ask some questions?"

           "Is something wrong?" she asked.

           "I'm looking for a fugitive, a man called Bobby Lee Paget."

           "I don't know the name."

           "I doubt he'll be using it.  His name has been in the news for over a month.  You haven't heard about him."

           "The Church discourages listening to things from the outside," she said.  "One of our peculiarities."

          The tossed-in remark gave him pause, but he didn't have time to think about.

           "Then could you tell me if a stranger has come to the camp, say since early May?"

           "People join from time to time," she answered, seemingly preoccupied.  "What kind of person is this guy?"

           "A rather bad kind, I'm afraid.  He's killed at least five people down in Arkansas and three out in Oregon."

243.

           "A killer?  What makes you think he'd come here?"

          Richard looked into her eyes.  "Because people who don't pay attention to what goes on in the world are good people to stay with if you're hiding from the law.  People here don't have a lot outside contact, do they?"

           "No.  We came here to escape mainly," she said without a hint of defensiveness.

Her lack of self-righteousness surprised him.

           "I don't know a thing about your church, ma'am.  I can't imagine that you all would protect a man like this, but I think he's here.  So I'll ask you again, has a stranger come here in the last couple of months?"

          She hesitated.  "Tell me more about him."

           "He killed a family down in Marked Tree and then . . ."

           "No." she interrupted, "Tell me what he looks like."

          Richard's pulse quickened.  He fumbled the sketch from his shirt pocket.  As he unfolded it, he cursed silently.  In his haste he had picked up the wrong photocopy.  He handed her the five-year-old mug shot.

           "He looks different now," he began.  "Imagine him clean shaven, shorter hair.  He's a little taller than medium height, and he's more muscular now."

          She squinted at the picture, but didn't say anything.

           "That hair is black," he said.  "This is what he looked like five years ago."

          She nodded.  "Tell me again what he did," she said softly.

           "He killed a family of three back in April, and then killed two more people after that."

          Absently she rubbed the fingers of her left hand across the surface of a small oval necklace suspended from a tiny chain around her neck.  "You said he killed five in Arkansas."

           "He killed three in Marked Tree, two in Fayetteville, and then two more in Oregon.  Two of his victims were young women, one just a girl.  He took . . . a lot of time killing them.  If you can think of anyone---."

           "I think he's here," she said suddenly.

           "Now?"

          She nodded.  "A man named Cal Hodges came here in May or June.  This picture---it's him, I think.  He doesn't look like that now, but I've seen that look.  It's him."

244. 

           "He's here now?  You're sure."

           "I don't know if he's here today.  He's been staying with Father Joshua up there," she said, nodding toward the large house at the crest of the hill.  "They left last night I think."

           "Left?"  Richard asked, thinking that he had he finally tracked Paget down only to arrive too late.  "Wait.  He and your Father Joshua left?"

"No.  He and a friend of mine left for St. Louis last night---or I think they did, and there may have been others who went.  There's some sort of religious meeting they plan to disrupt."

            "What are you talking about?"

            "They plan to disrupt some church gathering---I don't know how.  I just hope they don't."

           Richard had no idea as to what she was saying meant.  "A religious meeting?"

            "A revival or something.  Shane says some big minister has been attacking the Church.  He said they were going to make him look bad on television.  I told him that it wasn't right, but---"

            "Shane?  You mean Shane Sanders?"

            "Yes.  You know him?"

            "Yes.  My wife was his teacher at the junior college," he said, deciding not to tell her that her boyfriend had lied to him about Paget.

            "We had a fight before he left.  I hope he doesn't get in trouble.  This wasn't his idea.  He just . . . was fooled into this, by Cal Hodges."

            "Miss, this is very important.  Where exactly are they going in St. Louis?"

            "Shane didn't say."

            "You're sure they left last night?"

           She nodded.  "Shane came to see me before he went.  Is he going to be in a lot of trouble?"

            "It depends," he said.  "Is there anyone who might be able to tell me where Shane and this ‘Cal Hodges' went?"

            "Father Joshua.  At least I think he can, but . . . he's not himself lately.  He's not thinking . . . clearly anymore."

            "I need to talk to him," said Richard turning back toward his car.  "He's up at the house, right?"

245.

            "Yes.  I'll go up with you," she said moving to follow him.

            "No.  Stay here.  I may want to talk to you again later.  Your friend, Shane is in danger as well as trouble if this Hodges guy is Paget."

            "Danger?  What kind of danger?"

            "I don't have time to explain it.  You will wait here, won't you?"

           She nodded.

 

           Paget watched warily from inside the house.  When Raven nodded and inclined her head toward the house on the hill, he swore.

            "You're not going to do this to me," he hissed.  "You're going to get what you deserve, you slut.  You're going to get exactly what you deserve."

           He fingered the car keys as he peered through the curtains, waiting for the deputy to disappear through the door of the house at the top of the hill.  A footfall on the porch outside made his heart race.  He slipped the butterfly knife from his pocket and flicked it open, the blade locking into place with satisfying click.  He tiptoed to the side of the door, and when Raven stepped in he clamped a hand over her mouth, pulled her roughly against him, and kicked shut the door.

           A knife! she thought as she felt the blade at her throat.

           It was her last coherent thought.

            "Do you want to die?" Paget whispered harshly as he squeezed the lower half of her face and brutally jerked her head back.

           Raven shook her head tremulously, not in answer to the question, but in denial of what was happening.  Her knees gave way.  Paget cursed and jerked her back upright.  She felt no pain, nothing, only a hopelessness so beyond words that no thought was possible. 

           Paget's mind, however, was racing.

           I've got to get the hell out of here.  The damned deputy's probably called it in already.  Just slit her throat and leave.

           Then she trembled in his grasp, her shuddering like a bird in the clutches of a predator being eaten alive, and it was too much for him.  She would be the essence of what he had lived, breathed, and dreamt of for years.

           I've got to have her.  She's perfect. 

246.

           "Make a sound, and I'll cut your throat," he said as he took his hand from her mouth.

           He grasped her hair while keeping the knife just below her jaw and walked her to the table.

            "Open that bag."

           He had to repeat it twice and shake her before Raven bent forward to unzip the carry bag at her feet.

            "Take out the duct tape and tear off a piece about four inches long," he said, twisting the hair tangled in his fingers.

 

12:13 PM

           The elements of the scene came to him one at a time:  the smell of stale garbage, dark stains on the hardwood floor, then a gurgling snuffle coming from a darkened room ahead.  Revolver at cheek, Richard went warily toward the sound.  He ducked in quickly---and saw no one.  Then a wet, sucking noise coming from the far side of the disheveled bed slid into a frothy gurgle.  Alert for sudden movement, he held his sidearm at the ready and felt the wall for the light switch.  He flipped on the light, but got no reaction.  Coming around the bed he found an old man dressed only in pajama bottoms and lying prone, face swollen, blood streaking his face and chest.  His temple oozed blood, and pink froth came from both nostrils and the corners of his mouth.  None of the blood was caked, meaning the beating had taken place minutes, not hours ago.

           Ears tingling and hair at the back of his neck standing up, Richard whirled toward the door off to his right, certain that Paget was drawing down on him.

           Nothing there.

           He crept stealthily through the house, room at a time, until he had cleared it.  His relief was mixed with regret.  He had just missed Paget.  He ran down to his cruiser and called in, requesting an ambulance and was about to call for backup.

            "What are you doing at Canaan Camp," demanded Shug, breaking in on the communication.

            "I got a positive ID on Paget from one of the people out here.  He beat up their leader.  He's in bad shape.  I'll give him what first aid I can until the EMT's get here, but tell them to hurry.  I need to get after Paget."

            "They always hurry, Carter.  Are you sure Paget's out there?"

            "I'm sure, boss---one hundred per cent sure.  He beat up the old fellow not more than a half hour ago."

 

           Richard dampened a bathroom washcloth with cold water and removed enough blood to determine there were no serious cuts.  The old fellow probably had a concussion, but none of his outward wounds seemed life threatening.  Most worrisome was the internal damage.  Richard suspected that a broken rib had punctured a lung.

 

12:20 PM

            "Paget's there?"  Tanner's voice rose in disbelief.  "You're sure of that?" 

            "He was until last night at least---I've got a witness, one of the girls here identified him.  Right now I'm baby-sitting an old man here that's just taken a pretty severe beating.  If Paget didn't do it, I can't imagine who did.  So I'm pretty sure he's still here."

247.

            "Carter, there's something you should know---"

            "There's something you should know too," interrupted Richard.  "You may have another problem.  These fools seem to have cooked up some kind of . . . I don't know what---maybe a bomb or something."

            "It's worse than a bomb, Carter.  You need to keep those people from assembling.  Paget could---"

           Richard interrupted again.  "I don't think they're going to do it here.  Last night some of them went to St. Louis.  A girl here says they plan to disrupt some big religious meeting up there."

            "Oh my God!"

            "What?"

            "They've got nerve gas, Carter.  Paget brought it back from that militia compound.  That's why I wanted you to prevent any kind of a meeting there.  Look, I've got to get your news up the line.  Find out as much as you can, and stay where I can get in touch with you."

            "How are you going to stop them?"

            "Hell if I know.  Is that girl with you?"

             "No."

             "Get her on the line.  Maybe she knows something else.  And hurry.  We're running out of time."

             "What about Paget?"

             "Concentrate on the gas.  Get the girl on the line!"

             "Wait.  Someone just came in.  Maybe it's---" He turned to see the young gatekeeper gaping at him.  "No it's not her.  I'll go get her."

             "Call me back," said Tanner, clicking off.

 

             "Get in here," Richard said sharply to the young man.  "Your leader has been hurt.  You got to take care of him while I try to find the man who did it."

             "Father Joshua?" the man stuttered, seeming unable to comprehend what Richard was saying.

248.

            "He'll be all right.  An ambulance is on the way.  Now get over here."

            The young man came haltingly into the room, his mouth falling open at the sight of the battered old man on the floor struggling to breathe.

             "Don't try to put him on the bed," said Richard.  "I think he's got some broken ribs."

             "Who did this?"

             "A man you call Hodges."

             "Brother Caleb?  No."

             "He did, but I'm not going to argue with you.  Now get over here and take care of him until the ambulance arrives.  If he starts choking, clear his air passage.  Do you know how to do that?"

             "Yes.  I've had CPR."

 

            Richard used his cell instead of the radio.  Shively surprised him by taking in his fantastic report in stride.

             "I'll get the Patrol and put everyone I can on the roads to seal off the camp.  You think Paget's still there?"

             "I'm almost positive, Shug.  I've got to get the girl on the line for Tanner."

             "Do it."

 

12:25

            Paget watched the flashing lights from the inside the barn, relaxing momentarily when he saw that it was only an ambulance.  Then a patrol car came, then a second.  Finally a third stopped at the gate sideways to block the drive.  He could hear the girl moving in the trunk.  She was probably trying to find a way to get out, which was ridiculous with her wrists duct taped together at the small of her back.  He decided to put a stop to her nonsense anyway.

            When he opened the trunk, her eyes flew open and indrawn breath sucked in the duct tape over her mouth.  He wound his fingers in her hair, pulled her to a sitting position, and slapped her.

249.

            "Now be still in there," he said, before slinging her back down and shutting the deck lid.

 

12:27

            The car that had been parked outside the house was gone.

             "Ma'am," Richard called fearfully as he opened the door and went inside.  "Ma'am, are you here?"

            The girl's promise to wait had seemed sincere, but she had apparently run out on him.  Why?  She certainly wasn't in league with Paget or she would never have made the ID or sent him up to find the old man.

            Something gleamed on the carpet near the door.  He bent to pick it up, and then called Tanner.

             "The girl's gone," he said as soon as the agent answered.  "I think Paget took her.  I just found a necklace with a broken chain on the floor of the cabin where I left her."

             "Then I guess we're on our own," said the agent.  "You get back to me if you find her or anything that can help."

            As soon as Tanner cut the connection, Richard radioed in.

             "We're looking for a late model, dark blue Ford sedan," he said.  "There are probably two people in it, a male and female, but one or the other may be ducked out of sight.  The car probably has a Wilderness Church emblem, the one with a travel trailer logo."

 

            The road was clearly visible from the house, and, had he looked out the window, he would no doubt have seen the car leaving.  Common sense told him that if it had gone out the main gate deputies already on the road would stand a better chance of catching up with it than he would.  In the other direction the road curved behind the house where the girl had been, and led through trees toward an old barn and woods beyond.  Before signing off, he advised that he was following it. 

            The girl could have taken the car herself.  He hoped so.  Maybe he'd find it and her at another house down the way, but he was almost certain that Paget had taken her and the car.  He sped down the road billowing dust in his wake.  Just past a barn perched on a hill to his right, the road turned into the woods.  A quarter of a mile further, Richard pulled into a clearing flanked by sawdust piles and stacks of rough cut lumber and neatly piled logs.  Half a dozen young men, stripped to the waist, manned the sawmill at the dead end of the road.  Beyond were only rough paths hacked through the stump lot led through the mill yard, terrain too rough for anything smaller than a log skidder.  No car, blue or otherwise, was in sight.

250.

             "Carter, where are you," the sheriff's voice erupted from the radio.

Richard keyed the microphone.  "I'm at a saw mill at the end of the road leading west from the house.  He couldn't have gone this way.  Boss, I'm sure Paget's got a woman with him."

             "A hostage?"

             "My best guess," said Richard, backing around quickly and unknowingly snapping the fatigued metal of his whip antenna on a protruding low limb.

            When he didn't hear the Sheriff respond, he wrote it off to his preoccupation.  At the sheriff's office, Shug took Richard's lack of response to repeated queries as a sign that Richard had entered an area of radio interference, a dead spot that plagued the antiquated two-way radios that the cash-strapped county used.

 

St. Louis, 12:40

            Agents stood uneasily around the van on Convention Street.

             "So that's about it," said the agent in charge.  "It's old technology, but as lethal as anything newer.  It's colorless, odorless---nine seconds exposure is fatal.  You ought to be able to ID Paget, but we have only a cursory description of the other suspect.  He's a white male in his late teens and he has short brown hair.  To complicate matters, there might be other accomplices.  We just don't know.  And we don't know exactly what to look for, but our best bet is to look for gas canisters of some kind."

            He smiled wryly.

             "They say we should look for someone acting suspiciously or looking out of place.  Sound familiar?  We don't know how well planned their operation is, but it seems logical that the gas will be released via the air conditioning.  Unfortunately, we don't have blueprints for the building or time to wait for them.  So we don't know where they are, and we don't have time to wait for a Hazmat team.  We're it."

             "We do have these," he said as he handed out the yellow auto-injectors.  "The atropine helps if you don't receive a massive amount of the Sarin, but I won't lie to you.  If you get a serious exposure, they may not do enough good.  As far as the masks go, I can't tell you how helpful they'll be.  Keep them on your hip until you know there's a release."

             "How will we know, sir?" asked the youngest agent.

             "People start dropping," he said simply.

251.

             "Why not just evacuate the building?"

             "They think that an evacuation could trigger an immediate release.  Finding him or them before a release is probably out best bet.  I guess that's the thinking."

             "Why not have the maintenance people help us?"

             "They're afraid that someone on the staff might be involved too.  We're really short on good information." 

            The truth was that no one had had the time to think the operation through.  So, armed only with the maintenance supervisor's verbal description and hastily scrawled diagram of the building, six brave men went into the stadium hoping to avert disaster.  Each man knew the risks, and had his own reason for volunteering.  Who knows why heroes run toward the danger instead of away?

            Because they were so few, they couldn't even form two-man teams.  Each agent would be isolated, armed only with his sidearm, personal communication device, a bulky gas mask beneath his suit jacket, and two atropine syrettes.  The plan was simple.  Identify the targets, get close, and take preemptive shots to take them down before they could release the nerve gas.

 

Inside the Dome, 12:45

            Dressed in the same coveralls he had worn during reconnaissance of the building, Shane wheeled the tanks, now labeled "C02" toward the arena, as the singing of thousands of voices echoed faintly, providing a backdrop to his footsteps.  Still looking for a good place to release the gas, he expected to be challenged at any moment.  Now that he was alone, what he was doing had an unpleasantly familiar feel to it.  It reminded him of the school arson when crazy James had actually set a fire when no one else really expected him to.  Today, the craziness was his alone to do, and he was beginning to have second thoughts. 

252.

            Raven's words echoed in his mind.  "You can't do a ‘wrong' thing for a ‘right' reason"

            But Father Joshua says the deceivers have to be stopped.  Besides, the laughing gas won't really hurt anyone.  Caleb says it will only disinhibit them, make them act like they naturally do when white people aren't around.

            Growing up, Shane's only exposure to blacks was from the movies and television.  Prior to his humiliation at the Sears Center, he had cast them in stereotypical but benign roles in his thinking.  While in juvenile, however, the shy country boy had been intimidated by the tough inner city kids who had immediately seen his weakness.  He carried away from the experience a burning shame that nurtured his nascent prejudice.  The nagging feeling that what he was about to do was wrong was not because he recognized it as racist, but because it seemed sneaky and underhanded.

            No.  Caleb's right, he told himself, thrusting aside his uneasiness.  This is war!  We're doing God's work.  We're defending the faith.

            His first view of the arena dismayed him.  The dais seemed even further from the entrance than during the reconnaissance.  He could feel a slight breeze in his face.  If he released the gas where he stood, it would be swept out into the corridor, but if he took the canisters down onto the floor, he'd be in plain sight.  Someone would be sure to get suspicious.  Then he remembered seeing something outside that might work, and he wheeled the canisters back up the service ramp.

 

12:48

            Special Agent Hicks walked down the concourse, checking for unlocked doors and looking for "anything out of place," though he had no idea what that might be.  If Paget showed, he felt reasonably sure he could spot him.  The others were amateurs, and that might help.  Being nervous, he expected their furtive glances and hesitant behavior to betray them.  His hand unconsciously wandered repeatedly from the pouch containing his gas mask to the syrettes in his pocket and back again.  He could think of a lot of places he'd rather be at the moment.

            A janitor in light blue coveralls walked past wheeling a large plastic trashcan.  He thought momentarily that trash shouldn't be heavy enough to require the use of a dolly, but then decided that if a man had to handle them all day alone it would make sense to do it that way.  It might even be in the work rules to guard against workmen's comp claims.

During the briefing they were told to look for common-looking gas bottles, although it was possible the terrorists might have booby-trapped the original artillery rounds.  In any event, the device (or devices) wouldn't be small, like the lunch box dispersers the Japanese subway terrorists had used, so they should be easy to spot.

            The problem comes, he thought as he continued toward the arena, if there are two perps with two separate devices.  If so, they won't be together, so if we catch one, we gotta make sure he doesn't communicate with the other.

            That called for a headshot, and getting close enough for a headshot meant getting too close to the nerve agent.

            Hicks comforted himself with the thought that the roof should be secured by now.  The main air intakes for the arena were located up there, inaccessible for anyone without the appropriate keys, but easily accessible by the team coming in by helicopter.  His mind drifted again to the totally useless regret that there hadn't been time to call in an appropriately trained anti-terrorist unit.

253.

            Why in the world did I volunteer for this?  Janie'll never speak to me again if I go and get myself killed.

            The joke, as lame as it was, helped.  He put aside thoughts of mortality and scanned the floor of the arena.

 

12:52

            Shane hefted the second canister into the trash container, and then stuffed trash bags into the space between and around the canisters to prevent them from shifting.

            Okay, that's step one, he said to himself.  Now let's find a place close.

            Checking his watch he saw that he had eight minutes until the show began.  Caleb had told him to open the valves after the sermon started.  He remembered how they had all cracked up thinking about what it would look like on television.  Somehow it didn't seem quite so funny now.  He tried to push away the thought that Raven might be right.

            It'll serve you right for making fun of the Church, he said, addressing the black preacher mentally.

            Unease and exhilaration battled for control of his nerves.  Raven's objections had brought back the qualms he'd had before Father Joshua had justified the mission by citing scripture.

            Elijah mocked the prophets of Baal, Shane.  When they were deceiving the children of Israel, he first showed everyone that they had no power, and then he ridiculed them for their misplaced enthusiasm.  They howled and cut themselves, thinking their idiocy and emotion would awaken their false god.  Afterwards, Elijah hacked them all to death.  All we're doing is making fun of them.

            That should have been the end of it, but it wasn't.  Shane wondered why he had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't really doing anything wrong.  The answer, of course, was Raven.  She had said it was wrong.

            Soldiers can't have second thoughts, he told himself.  Put the mission first.  She's just a woman, and women are the weaker vessel.

            He glanced at his watch again.  A queasy sensation stirred in his gut.  The time was drawing near.

            If only Raven could support me, he lamented.  I wouldn't even care if I got caught. 

            Women don't understand combat, Shane, Brother Caleb had explained.  They're weak and easily deceived.

            The way Caleb talked about Raven irritated him.

            She might be wrong about this, but Caleb's wrong about her.  Raven isn't weak.  What I was scared of at Sears really did happen to her, and despite all that horror, look at what she is.

254.

            He had to do his duty, but it would be so much easier if only she would have supported him.

            Caleb's right about one thing, he thought as if speaking to her.  You can't get much done without getting your hands dirty.

            Unbidden, her words came again, clearly, as if she were standing next to him.

            You can't do a ‘wrong' thing for a ‘right' reason.

            In an effort to brush aside his misgivings, he grasped one of the valves and tried to twist it counter clockwise.

             "They must have tightened it with a monkey wrench," he muttered.

            Caleb had warned him that trying to open the valves too soon could break the seal and cause the gas to bleed away prematurely, but he needed to make sure the valves would open when the time came.  He extracted the lock-grip pliers from his coverall pocket and grasped the balky valve in its jaws.  Pulling hard, he felt it give way and heard a satisfying hiss.  Shane reclosed the valve, and then broke the seal on the second container, pleased with himself for anticipating a potential problem.

            Too late for second thoughts, he said to himself.  Let's do it.

 

The Gate to the bus boneyard near Canaan Camp, 1:00

            Paget swore, repeating himself as he ran out of ways to describe the idiots who had sealed the junkyard.

             "Who the hell is going to steal a broken down bus?" he screamed as he battered the gatepost with a tire tool.

            Sweat beaded on his red face, and he had raised blisters working to pry out the numerous oversized staples.  It infuriated him that the owners of the property had installed the waist high cable to keep people from driving in while leaving the gate on the other side wide open.

             "What the hell kind of sense does that make?" he said, stopping to catch his breath.

            He looked at the heat shimmering off the dark blue trunk of the car.

             "I should have left you in there, you dumb whore," he hissed at the sitting mutely in the ditch and shaded by the overgrown ragweeds.  "I ought to put you in there and let you suffocate."

            He glared at the cable.  He had managed to batter apart the huge staples holding the cable, and had pried the loop near the top of post, but now it would go no further.  A mere quarter of an inch from the top, and the damned thing wouldn't budge another fraction.  Paget loosed another volley of cursing as he swung the tire iron in frenzied frustration.  Finally spent, he hurled it into the lot beyond the gate, hitting his hand on the taut cable with his follow through.  Wincing in pain, he continued to curse as he had been doing almost constantly since he had found the cable across the gate.

255.

              He scowled at the girl who sat exactly as she had since he'd thrown her into the ditch.

             "You're gonna pay for this," he growled between clenched teeth.

            She didn't respond, her eyes focused past him in the middle distance.

             "You're gonna pay real good!"

            He yanked her to her feet, grabbed her by the neck, and propelled her toward the car.  She stumbled headlong, somehow maintaining her balance despite the fact that her wrists were taped together at the small of her back.  She turned just enough to absorb the impact with her shoulder instead of ramming her face into the car.  Paget wrenched open the door, thrust her roughly inside, and slammed it shut.

            He started the car and eased it forward.  The cable cleared the hood, but hit the windshield a little better than half way up.  He backed down the road some fifty feet and stopped.  Then he shifted into drive and sped forward, cutting to the right and hitting the cable at a forty-five degree angle.  Raven ducked reflexively as the cable slammed into the windshield.  With a loud screech and a muffled pop, they slewed through the gate somehow missing the huge railroad tie gateposts.

            She rocked forward with the impact, but didn't hit the dash.  When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see the windshield still intact.  A large crack ran diagonally across it, but it hadn't shattered.

             "About damned time!" said Paget, barely slowing as he drove across the field.

            Soon they were out of sight from the road.  Raven saw row after row of busses parked end to end in lines stretching to the far off woods at the end of the field.

             "Alone at last, Miss Dusky," he said with grim satisfaction as they bumped over the uneven ground.  "Guess what happens now."