"You're quiet when you move," Owen said, impressed. "You hunt?"
"A bit." Heck chuckled.
They found Emil sitting nervously, shifting weight from paw to paw. He calmed as soon as he saw his master.
Owen asked, "Purebred blood?"
"Edouard Montague of Longstreet the Third. He's as pure as they come."
"Quite a name."
"That's what he came with but it wouldn't do of course, not around here. So I call him Emil and he answers to it. If he ever mates a pure bitch I'll have to put his full name on the papers but till then it's our secret."
Walking back to the clearing beside Heck, Owen asked, "How'd you follow the scent if he was on a bicycle?"
"That's nothing for Emil. Hell, he's gone through a foot of snow in a blizzard. So you think maybe he's after your wife?"
"I don't really know. But it's too dangerous to leave in the hands of cops who don't know what they're doing."
This rankled Heck and he said, "You got your state troopers on the case, you know."
"Well, a lot of mistakes've been made, I should tell you." Owen glanced at Heck's pistol. "You mentioned a bounty. You're a professional tracker?"
"I hire out my dog, yep."
"How much's the reward?"
Hot-faced, eyes fixed on the dark forest, Heck said, "Ten thousand dollars." He spoke emphatically, as if making clear to Owen that even if he was just a hired hand he wasn't coming cheap.
"Well then," Owen said, "let's go catch this psycho and make you some money. What do you say?"
"Yessir."
Heck roused Emil with Hrubek's scent and off they went through the woods. The track was easy to follow now, with abundant ground scent in the moist forest. The dog's excitement and the uncanny atmosphere of the woods at night urged them forward in a kind of dazed ecstasy, and they could do nothing but give in to this lust. They crashed through the brush. Hrubek could've heard them coming from a hundred yards away but there was nothing to be done about it. They couldn't have both stealth and speed, and they chose the latter.
Michael watched her carefully, irritated that she was crying so much. It made him very anxious. The blond woman didn't speak. All the points of her face--her nose and chin and cheekbones--were red from the silent tears. She quivered and shredded a paper napkin between her fingers while Michael paced. "I had to take down your telephone. Stop that crying. The line's sure to be tapped anyway."
"What," she sobbed, "are you going to do to me?"
He walked through the living room, his huge muddy feet pounding on the boards. "This is a nice place. Stop crying! I like your eyes. You don't have masks on them. Where did you get it? The house, I'm speaking of."
She glanced at the small cap on his head. "What are you--?" He repeated his question sharply and she stammered, "My mama died and she left it to me. I've got a sister. It's half hers." As if he intended to steal it, she added, "We own it free and clear."
Michael lifted the Irish cap by the brim, courteously tipping it to her. He rubbed his hand over his smooth head. In the bright light a residue of the blue ink was still visible. He saw her staring at the cap as he replaced it. He smiled. "Fashionable, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry?"
He frowned. "My hat. Fashionable. Isn't it?"
"Yes," she exclaimed. "Very. Extremely."
"My car rolled over and over and over. She was a good car while she lasted." He walked closer and examined her body. He thought it was strange that although she was a woman she didn't frighten him. Maybe because she was so frail. He could lift her with one hand and could snap her neck as easily as he had the raccoon's earlier in the evening. What's that smell? Oh, it's woman. The smell of woman. This brought back an indistinct and troubling memory. He felt darkness around him, claustrophobia, fear. Rocks and water. Bad people. What was it? His anxiety notched up a few degrees. He also found he had a fierce erection. He sat down so that she wouldn't notice.
The wind slammed against the windows and the sound of the rain grew louder. The clatter of muskets, he thought. Lead balls cracking apart a thousand heads . . . He covered his ears at this unnerving sound. After a moment he realized that she was staring at him.
"People are after me," he said.
"You're a convict ?" she whispered. "You escaped from the prison over in Hamlin?"
"Nice try. Don't expect to get anything out of me.
You know too much as it is."
She shivered as he leaned forward and stroked her fine hair. "That's nice," he muttered. "And you're not wearing a fucking hat. Good . . . Good."
"Don't hurt me, please. I'll give you money. Anything . . ."
"Give me a penny."
"I have some savings. About three thousand but it's in the bank. You could meet me there at nine tomorrow. You're welcome to--"
Michael roared, "A penny!"
She dug frantically into her purse. He looked over her shoulder. "You don't have a microphone in there? A panic button or anything?"
She looked mystified then whispered, "No. I'm getting you the penny like you asked."
Guilty, Michael said, "Well, you can't be too careful."
He held out his massive hands and she dropped the coin into his palm. He held it up behind her head. "What seven-letter word is on the penny?"
"I don't know."
"Guess," he said petulantly.
She wrung her hands together. "E Pluribus Unum. In God We Trust. Legal Tender. No. United States. Oh, God, I can't think!" Then, sotto voce, she began murmuring the Lord's Prayer.
"It's right behind seven-letter Abraham Lincoln." Without looking at the coin he said, "The word is right behind him, seven letters, like the barrel of a gun pointed at his head."
He poked her scalp with a blunt finger. She closed her eyes and whispered, "I don't know."
Michael said, " 'Liberty.' " He dropped the penny on the floor. "I'm pretty hungry. What's to eat?"
She stopped crying. "You're hungry?" She gazed at the kitchen. "I have some roast beef, some vegetarian chili. . . . You're welcome to it."
He walked to the table and sat down, easing into the chair. He delicately opened a paper napkin. It covered only a part of his huge lap.
She asked, "Can I stand up?"
"How can you get me dinner if you don't stand up?"
She hurtled into the kitchen and busied herself preparing a plate while Michael sang, " 'For I love the bonnie blue gal who gave her heart to me.' " He played with the pepper mill. " 'Her arms, her arms, are where I want to be! . . .' "
She returned, setting a tray in front of him. Michael roared, " 'For I love the bonnie blue gal who gave--' " He stopped abruptly, picked up the fork and cut a piece off the beef. This, together with a portion of Jell-O, he put on the pink saucer and placed it in front of her.
She glanced at the food then looked inquiringly at him.
"I want you to eat that!" he said.
"I've already . . . Oh, you think it's poison."
"I don't think it's poison," he sneered. "I don't think there's a posse outside that window. I don't think you're a Pinkerton agent. But you can't be too careful. Now come on. Quit being a shit."
She ate. Then she smiled and went blank-faced again. He studied her for a moment and set his fork down. "Do you have some milk?"
"Milk? I have low-fat is all. Is that all right?"
"Some milk!" he blared, and she jumped to get it. When she returned he'd already started to eat. He drank the glass down, taking with it a mouthful of food. "I used to work in a dairy."
"Well, yes." She nodded politely. "That must be a nice place to work."
"It was very nice. Dr. Richard got me the job."
"Who is he?"
"He was my father."
"Your father was a doctor?"
"Well," he scoffed, "I don't mean a father like that."
"No," she agreed quickly, seeing the darkness fall over his face. He stopped eating. She told him she liked his tweed cap. He touched it and smiled.
"I like it too. I have hair but I cut it off."
"Why did you do that?"
"I can't tell you."
"No, don't tell me anything you don't want to."
"If I don't want to, I won't. You don't have to give me permission."
"I wasn't giving you permission. I didn't mean to sound like I was. You can do whatever you want."
"Don't I know it." Michael cleaned his plate.
"Would you like some more?"
"Milk. I'd like more milk." When she was in the kitchen he added, "Please."
As he took the tall glass from her he intoned in an FM disc jockey's voice, "A wholesome snack."
She barked a laugh and he smiled. As he poured the milk down she asked, "What are you doing?"
"I'm drinking milk," he answered with exasperation.
"No. I mean, what are you doing out tonight? There's supposed to be a storm like we haven't seen in a donkey's age."
"What's a donkey's age?" He squinted.
She stared at him with a vacant face. "Uhm, now that you ask, I don't exactly know. It means for a long time."
"Is it like an expression? Is it like a cliche ?"
"I guess so."
He stared down, his eyes as empty and filmy as the glass in his hand. "Did you know that 'anger' is fivesixths of 'danger'?"
"No, I didn't. But it surely is. How about that?"
"So there."
She broke the very dense silence by asking, "What did you do in the dairy?"
Michael's erection had not gone away. His penis hurt and this was beginning to anger him. He reached into his pocket and squeezed himself then stood and walked to the window. He said, "What's the biggest town near here that has a train station?"
"Well, Boyleston, I suppose. It's south about forty, fifty miles."
"How would I get there?"
"Go west to 315. It'll take you right there. That becomes Hubert Street and it goes right past the train station. Amtrak."
"In no time at all?"
"No time at all," she agreed. "Why are you going there?"
"I told you," he snapped. "I can't say!"
Her hands went into her lap.
Michael began rummaging through his backpack. "I'm sorry, I'm very sorry," he said to her. But he uttered these words, then repeated them, with such deep longing that it was clear he was apologizing not for being curt but rather for something else--something he was about to do, something far graver than bad manners. He sat down beside her, his thigh pressing hard against hers, and as she cried, he set a small white animal skull in her lap and, very gently, began stroking her hair.
Under clouds so fast and turbulent they seemed like special effects from a science-fiction movie, Portia L'Auberget inhaled the scents of decaying leaves and the musky lake. Several feet away her sister lifted the shovel and dropped a huge pile of gravel around the front wheels of the stranded car.
The young woman flexed her hands. They stung and she supposed the skin was starting to blister from the wet gloves. Her muscles were on fire. Her head ached from the pounding rain.
And she was troubled by something else, a vague thought--something other than the storm. At first she wondered if it might be the escape. Yet she'd never really believed that someone like Michael Hrubek could make it all the way to Ridgeton from the mental hospital, certainly not on a night like this.
No, some nebulous memory kept rising up disturbingly then vanishing. It seemed that it had something to do with this portion of the yard. She was picturing . . . what was it? Plants? Had there been a garden here of some sort? Ah, yes. It was here. The old vegetable garden.
Then she remembered Tom Wheeler.
How old had they been? Twelve or thirteen probably, both of them. One fall afternoon--maybe November, like tonight--the skinny red-haired boy had shown up in the yard. Portia strolled outside and they sat on the back steps. She managed simultaneously to both ignore and converse with him, teasing mercilessly. Finally he suggested that they go to the state park. "Why?" she asked. "I dunno," he responded. "Hang out, you know. Got the new Jefferson Airplane." He nodded lethargically at an eight-track-tape player at his feet. She told him no, she didn't want to, but a moment later she disappeared into the house and returned with a blanket.
He started for the state park.
"Uh-uh," Portia announced. "This way."
And led him to the vegetable garden. Here she spread the blanket in partial view of the house and lay down, kicking off her Keds and stretching sumptuously. But somebody might see, he protested. Somebody could be watching right now! She placed his hand on her breast and he stopped worrying about voyeurs. Portia lay on her back, surrounded by slug-chewed pumpkins and short blond cornstalks. Tommy beside her, covering her hot mouth with his; she had to breathe for long stretches through her nose. She now recalled smelling this same scent of wet, late fall. Drowsy flies strafed them. Finally, confusing him by not protesting, she allowed his pale, freckled hand to pass the elastic barrier. He glanced at the windows of the house then jabbed with a shaking finger, leaving inside her a glow of pain and on her bare hip a large wet spot that matched the one spreading across the front of his dungarees.
They lay awkwardly, side by side, for a few minutes then he suddenly whispered, "I think there's somebody there."
Though he'd said that only to escape and he rose quickly and vanished down the driveway. Hearing the resonant guitar licks fade, Portia grew dizzy as she watched the thick clouds pass overhead and wondered about the mysteries of bodies. She spent a long time unsuccessfully trying to convince herself to feel bad that he'd fled.
Portia now realized, with a twist in her belly, that it was not this memory of speedy Tommy Wheeler at all that was so troubling. It was Indian Leap.
She had almost not accompanied her sister and brother-in-law on the picnic. She had no interest in the out-of-doors, no interest in state parks--especially the park to which she'd been dragged by teachers on tedious field trips and in which she later spent hours gazing at treetops, as she lay beneath boyfriends, or friends of boyfriends, or sometimes strangers.
No, it was essentially a decision by default. She was fed up with the quiet anxiety of solo life in Manhattan: The dinners of turkey sandwiches and coleslaw. The companionship of rented movies. The tired come-ons in bars and at parties, delivered as if the men actually thought she hadn't heard it all a thousand times before. Socializing with lean, ponytailed girlfriends who'd discard you in an instant if doing so moved them an inch closer to a Better Job or an Available Man.
So, on that May 1, she'd reluctantly packed bagels and lox and cream cheese and magazines and bikini and sunscreen. She endured the surly rent-a-car clerk, she endured the traffic, she endured the tense company of the poor, shy Claire. She suffered through all the stress of a day in the country. Yet there was one aspect of the trip that didn't require enduring. Robert Gillespie, Portia thought at first, was hardly a catch. As she sat in the back of his 4x4 with Lis and Claire, en route to Indian Leap, she reviewed his ledger and came up mostly with debits: only marginally cute, fifteen pounds overweight, too smooth, too pompous, too talkative, a wife who was a complete cipher.
There was, Portia realized, no logical basis for finding him irresistible. But irresistible he was. While Lis had dozed in the back of the truck and while dull Dorothy liberally applied her oh-puh-leaze red nail polish, Robert deluged Portia with questions. Where did she live, did she like the city, did she know this or that restaurant, did she like her job? It was all a come-on. Of course it was. But still . . . And his liquid eyes danced with excitement as they talked. Portia recalled thinking helplessly, Oh, it's true: seduce my mind and my body will follow.
By the time they arrived at the park, Portia L'Auberget was his for the asking.
As they walked along the path from the parking lot to the car, he glanced at her running shoes and discreetly asked--in a way that was both intimate and lighthearted--if they might take a run together.
She responded, "Ma
ybe."
He took this to mean yes. "Let me leave before you," he whispered. "Then I'll meet you near the old cave. Give me ten minutes. Then follow me."
"Maybe."
When they got to the beach she appraised her power over him and decided not to abdicate a single bit of it. She did a few fast stretches then jogged away first, blatantly ignoring him. She ran a half mile to the secluded gully he'd mentioned. Past the cave was a stand of pine trees, beneath which was an inviting nest of soft needles, some green, some ruddy. Portia sat on a nearby rock, wondering if he'd join her. Maybe he'd retaliate for her defiance by remaining with his wife and Lis. She'd certainly have more respect for him if he did. Yet Portia L'Auberget had no particular desire, or need, to respect men, especially men like Robert Gillespie, and decided he fucking well better show; she'd make his day miserable if he didn't. She examined the small clearing, which was gloomy and shadowed by the steep walls of pale rock rising on either side of the trees. Overhead the sky had turned heavily overcast. Much less romantic, she reflected, than a Club Med beach in Curacao or Nassau. On the other hand there were no condoms littering the ground here.
She scooted from the rock to the needle bed, separated from sight of the clearing by a tall line of bushes and young hemlocks. A half hour passed, then forty minutes, and finally Robert came jogging toward her. He caught his breath and earned many points by not saying a word to Portia about disregarding his instructions. He was studying his chest, pouting.
She laughed. "What?"
"My wife says I'm getting tits." Portia pulled off her T-shirt and sports bra. "Let's compare."
They rolled back under the pine trees. Robert kissed her firmly, stroking her bare nipples with the backs of his hands. He closed his fingers around hers and placed them on her breasts. She began fondling herself while his tongue slid down to her navel then continued to her thighs and knees. He remained there, teasing, until Portia finally seized his head in both hands and directed it firmly between her legs. Her thighs rose as her head pressed back hard into the pine bed, needles fixing themselves in her sweat-damp hair. Staring through half-closed lids at the speeding clouds she gasped for breath. He rolled on top of her, and their mouths met hard, brutally. He had just entwined her legs around his waist and was thrusting into her savagely when a branch snapped near their heads.
Claire walked out of a stand of trees and stopped, frozen, six feet from them. Her hand rose to her mouth in shock.