The Wildman

Chapter THIRTEEN

Kaleidoscope





The night was cold and the wind gusted so strongly all sides Jeff had a hard time keeping his feet. The sensation of falling was dizzying, and he braced himself, struggling to maintain his composure as he stared at Evan and tried to think what to do.

“It all depends on a couple of things,” he said.

“Like what?”

“First off, we have to hope Ben hasn’t hidden the oars on us.”

“What are the chances of that?”

Jeff shrugged as he stared past the dining hall toward the lake as if he could somehow peel back the mist and darkness to see the boat and whether or not the oars were in it.

“He sure as hell seems to have covered all his bases,” Evan said, sounding both nervous and exhausted.

“Not really. If he had, we wouldn’t be alive now, would we?”

Evan hesitated before he replied, “I dunno. It all depends on what he had in mind for us.”

“That sure inspires confidence.”

Evan shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

Jeff couldn’t help but feel as though they were kids again, taunting each other with their foolish games of one-upmanship. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the problems at hand. They could pretend this was just a joke or a game, but—somehow—Ben had gotten Tyler to take his side, and he didn’t want to contemplate what would happen if they caught him and Evan.

“I say we head out to the baseball field,” Jeff said. “We can circle around through the woods, skirting where the meeting hall used to be. We might be able to get down to the boat without being seen.”

Evan considered the suggestion for a few seconds, then grunted and shook his head.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said.

“Why?” Jeff choked down a rush of anger, telling himself this wasn’t just another case of Evan trying to take charge.

“We can’t let the boat out of our sight,” Evan said. “If he hasn’t taken the oars yet, he will now because he’s gotta know that’s our next move.”

Jeff shrugged and said, “The oars are either there or they’re not. What difference does it make if he gets them now? He’s got the gun. We have to stay out of sight. If he walked up right now and took them, all we could do is watch.”

“But we might see where he stashes them,” Evan offered. “If he needs them later …”

“What if he takes them into the dining hall? He can put ‘em up in the rafters, and there wouldn’t be a damned thing we could do about it.”

“I know … I know,” Evan said.

Jeff realized how good it was to hear Evan agitated like this. It meant he was getting his strength and spirit back.

“Okay. Good point,” Jeff said. “So what do we do? Stand around here arguing all night?”

“No. I’ll go down to the boat,” Evan said simply.

“Whether the oars are there or not?”

“Uh-huh. And I’ll take it out onto the water and head away from the island. Ben’s sure to come after me. That will give you time to go into the dining hall and get the stuff we need.”

Jeff narrowed his eyes as he scanned the open area around the dining hall. It was frustrating not to have that sensation of heightened perception. The night and the surrounding woods seemed perfectly normal. He knew he must have been experiencing an adrenalin rush from the excitement of escape and pursuit, but at the time, it had seemed much more than that. So much more. Now that they had more practical and immediate problems to solve, it was as though his senses had shut down or—at least—returned to normal.

But it didn’t matter whether or not he could see Ben or sense where he was. Jeff knew he was somewhere nearby. Even if he couldn’t hear or see or smell him, he could feel the murderous rage inside Ben that seethed like boiling lava, seeking an outlet.

“You want a distraction, don’t you?” Evan said.

When Jeff didn’t answer, Evan jabbed him on the shoulder.

“Well …? Don’t you?”

“Yeah, but …” He took a breath. “It’s too risky.” But even as he said it, he knew there was no way around it. Evan’s idea seemed like their best plan.

Hell, it was their only plan.

He had to believe it would work out. But as he prepared to spring into action, he asked himself—Yeah … ask Mike and Fred how it’s working out for them …

* * *

“Ready … Set … Go!”

With that whispered command, Evan broke cover and started running toward the beach. Staying in the shadows, Jeff watched, his heart racing and his stomach churning with anticipation.

Evan was just a small, black shape moving against the night and then he was lost in the mist blowing in off the water. Jeff was left feeling as though Evan—like Fred and Mike—had been swallowed by the darkness never to return.

For what seemed like much too long a time, there was no sign of activity from within the dining hall. No shadows cast by the firelight shifted across the windows. No one exited the doorway.

Nothing.

“Damn,” Jeff muttered, clenching his fists in frustration.

If Ben was watching from the dining hall … if he knew they were out there … he would have responded by now.

Wouldn’t he?

Unless he was still in the woods, searching for Evan around the infirmary. Or maybe he was waiting for them at the boat, hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce when they showed up.

The boat was their only possibility of escape, so that seemed most likely. Just wait them out …

And meanwhile, where was Tyler?

If he was helping Ben because he still believed Ben was really Evan or because of some promise Ben had made not to be hurt, he must be around here somewhere, too.

As far as Jeff knew, Ben might already have found Evan and silently killed him. He didn’t need a gun. He could have gotten a knife or some other weapon from the dining hall. This very second, Evan might be lying face down on the water-soaked sand, leaking blood that washed away in the runoff rainwater.

Tension and frustration coiled inside Jeff until he could no longer stand it. He broke cover and moved toward the dining hall. No matter what was going on, he had to act fast. One way or another, Ben and probably Tyler were going to be coming for him.

His feet made loud slopping sounds on the muddy ground as he approached the side of the building. Water gurgled as it ran off the roof, overflowing the gutters and pounding the ground into a muddy mess. Jeff went to one of the windows and, easing himself up cautiously, looked inside.

The glow of firelight seemed to mock him. The piles of clothing and bedding, all spread out in an arc around the blaze, looked so comfortable and innocent Jeff found it all but impossible to believe he was engaged in a fight for his life. Seeing what had been so normal until a short time ago filled him with an odd sense of unreality.

Come on … Just do what you gotta do, he told himself.

Still, he didn’t dare move. Narrowing his eyes, he stretched out his senses, trying to feel where Ben was, but the heightened perceptions were dulled again, if not gone. All he felt now was fear—fear that he and Evan weren’t going to survive … fear that Ben was going to outsmart him and kill them both … if Evan wasn’t already dead back on the beach.

Fighting a dark wave of despair, Jeff sneaked around to the side porch, keeping his back to the building. His heart was racing so fast it felt like the cold hands were wrapped around his throat and squeezing.

He hesitated at the foot of the porch when he looked up and saw the still, silent form of Mike, sprawled on his back next to the railing. Jeff was almost too afraid to walk past his dead friend, but he couldn’t waste any more time. Something—he had no idea what—was happening down on the beach. Either Evan had the boat and was preparing to launch, or else he was dead, and Ben was coming for him.

Sucking in his breath and holding it, Jeff stepped up onto the porch. The rotting wood sagged beneath his weight. Rusty nails made dull squeaking sounds as they pulled out of the wood. Jeff couldn’t stop glancing at Mike’s body, unable to believe his friend was really dead. And Fred’s was lying stone cold just inside the doorway.

This can’t be happening.

As he stepped over Mike’s corpse, Jeff half-expected him to roll over and grab him by the ankle before pulling him down … down to join him in death.

“F*ck this shit,” Jeff whispered as he jumped over the body and quickly entered the building. He didn’t even pause to note Fred’s body, where they had laid it in the hallway by the restroom door.

The smell of wood smoke tingled his nose, almost making him sneeze. The blast of warmth embraced him as if he had just stepped into a hot sauna, but he didn’t have time to luxuriate in the heat. He had to grab what he needed and get the hell out of here before Ben caught him.

As he rounded the corner into the main dining room, the sudden brightness after being outside in the dark for so long stung his eyes. He stumbled over something on the floor and almost fell. Wheeling around and dropping into a defensive crouch, he expected to see Ben standing there, gloating over how easily he had fallen into his trap.

What he saw instead was worse.

Much worse.

Tyler was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him. His head was hanging at an awkward angle to one side.

It was obvious he was dead.

A wide wash of liquid as dark as used motor oil covered the front of his jacket. His face was as pale as bone. Even the orange glow of the fire didn’t make it look warm. His tongue was hanging out of the side of his mouth like something he had been trying to eat and then spit back up. His eyes—wide open and glistening in the firelight—stared sightlessly at the floor. Even so, Jeff felt as though Tyler was looking straight at him, silently accusing him and pleading, asking Why … why did this have to happen to me?

“Because you f*cked up, my friend,” Jeff whispered as he knelt down beside Tyler. Shivering at the touch, he closed his friend’s eyes. There was nothing more he could do for him.

Tyler’s throat had been sliced from ear to ear. The blood no longer flowed from the wound, but it was still warm and sticky to the touch. He couldn’t have been dead long.

So it was down to the three of them—him, Evan, and Ben. The odds were still in Ben’s favor, but Jeff would see if he could change that.

But if he has a gun, Jeff thought, why didn’t he use it to kill Tyler?

Why slit his throat?

Is he low on ammunition … or maybe out?

Or did he not want to reveal himself with a gunshot?

Or had he enjoyed cutting Tyler’s throat?

These thoughts sent a chill through Jeff that bit deeper to the bone than the foul weather outside. If he had been any doubts before, this gruesome example of how far Ben would go made it clear just how dangerous the situation was.

Jeff took a shuddering breath, wincing at the stink of death that filled the room. Then he stood up. He had to move fast.

Keeping in a low crouch so Ben wouldn’t see him through the windows if he was outside, he went over to his pile of things and quickly rifled through them. His hands were shaking out of control, and his teeth were chattering as he grabbed his car keys, cell phone, and wallet, and stuffed them into his pants pockets. He ran to the corner of the room where they had stashed their supply of booze and grabbed an unopened bottle of rum. Before sliding it into his coat pocket, he couldn’t resist breaking the seal, screwing off the cap, and raising the bottle to his mouth.

He took a bigger gulp than expected. The liquor ran from the corners of his mouth and filled his chest and belly with blast furnace warmth so strong it staggered him. He narrowed his eyes, allowing the flickering glow in the room to shatter into thousands of wavering points of light.

He took another, smaller swig of rum, telling himself it was all he could allow himself. He had to stay sharp, focused. His hands were still shaking as he grabbed a clean, dry sweatshirt and T-shirt, shucked off his wet jacket, and slid the fresh clothes on. He considered putting on some dry pants. The one he was wearing were so saturated they practically slid off his hips, but he didn’t dare take any more time than absolutely necessary. He rolled up two pairs of pants and two pairs of dry socks, and stuffed them inside his jacket, zipping it up and hoping they would stay dry enough until he and Evan had a chance to change into them.

As he turned to leave, he noticed the cooking utensils Ben had used to prepare their meals. After a quick search, he realized the heavy carving knife was missing.

Of course it’s gone!

That’s what Ben used to slice Tyler’s throat.

Jeff shivered but resisted the temptation to take another shot of rum. He looked around one last time, feeling like there was something he was forgetting, but didn’t see anything else he could use. He didn’t want to overburden himself with too much stuff, anyway. If he and Evan got the drop on Ben, they could come back and take all the time they wanted to eat, drink, dry out, and warm up in front of the fire before they went to the mainland and notified the cops about what had happened out here.

“First things first,” he whispered, and his first priority was to find Evan and see what they could do about getting the boat.

* * *

Jeff felt as though he had been inside the dining hall for a long time, at least an hour, but he realized it must have been less than five minutes.

A lot could have happened in that time, though.

Ben hadn’t come for him, so that meant he likely was down on the shore, waiting with the boat. Darting from tree to tree and keeping to the shadows, Jeff ran to the beach where, earlier today—

Was it really today and not a couple of years ago?

—they had beached the boat after their aborted cruise around the island.

Jeff was all the more convinced Ben had faked the engine failure as part of his plan to isolate them. It might be a vain hope that they could get the boat going, but he clung to it, thinking maybe … just maybe …

The raging wind tore through the trees overhead, making the branches click as they swayed wildly back and forth. Gusts of wind drove into his face, chilling him. The rushing sound of wind filled the night, masking all other sounds. As Jeff looked around, hoping to catch some sign of Evan, he wondered why he no longer had that intense feeling of altered senses.

Had it been an illusion brought on by anxiety and tension, or had it been real? Had he been in touch with something magical or supernatural?

It was easy to imagine he had been transformed, that somehow Hobomock or some other ancient force of the forest had taken him over and given him the strength and perceptions he needed.

Now, it was gone, faded away, and he was what he had always been—a mere human who, even though he was out of shape and unprepared for this, was fighting for survival.

As he stared at the mist-covered lake, he wished he could get back in touch with whatever that feeling had been. He wished he could feel and hear and see and smell the night, but now, when he stared into the misty night, all he could see was darkness. A cold, terrible fear wrapped around his heart like a snake and squeezed.

There was nothing he could do for Fred, Mike, or Tyler, but he had to survive … He had an obligation to live and save himself and Evan, if he could. If it came down to it, he knew he would sacrifice Evan, too, but he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

As he approached the beach, he knew his options were limited. He would go down to the water’s edge and then move up the beach until he came to the boat. The mist closed in around him, and he could see no more than thirty or forty feet in any direction. All he knew was, the boat was up ahead. It had to be. The only real question was—who would be there when he got there—Evan or Ben?

As he ran, his feet sank into the wet sand and kicked up grit behind him. Waves stirred up by the wind hissed on the sand. He ran in a low crouch, thinking he would offer as small a target as possible if he bumped into Ben first. Before he saw anything, though, he heard a sound from up ahead.

A loud hissing, grinding sound and a faint splash.

It sounded like someone sliding something heavy—a boat, perhaps—across the sand.

Please … please be Evan, he thought desperately as he slowed his pace and approached more cautiously. Through swirls of mist, he saw the dark bulk of the boat up ahead and someone—he couldn’t tell who it was—moving around on it. He resisted the urge to call out. If it was Ben, the only response would be gunfire.

He stopped short and, scooching down, watched as the person struggled with an oar, trying to push the boat out onto the lake. Waves slapped against the side of the boat, rocking it as the person struggled to cast off.

Jeff didn’t move as he watched and waited.

It had to be Evan.

Ben would have no reason to be taking the boat out.

But if it was Evan, where had he gotten the oars?

Ben wasn’t so stupid he would have left them on the boat … Was he?

Maybe, in all the confusion, he hadn’t had time to take them.

Jeff stared into the swirling fog as it congealed in thick, white clots. He imagined he saw several figures, darting elusively in and out of view.

Is that Ben, or is it the unsettled spirit of Jimmy Foster?

Come on, Jeff told himself. Get a goddamned grip!

No matter how much he tried to tell himself his imagination was getting carried away, he was all but convinced he could sense if not actually see presences nearby.

If it’s the ghost of Jimmy Foster, is he angry … or sad … or lonely?

Maybe he was trying to communicate with Jeff and tell him how, after being out here all alone for so long, he was glad someone had remembered him and come back to join him.

The fog muffled whatever sounds Evan or Ben was making on the boat. All Jeff could see was a dark silhouette looming out of the mist. He got a quick, horrifying image of Charon, the boatman, preparing to ferry him and Evan across the River Styx to the Land of the Dead.

He’s come for all of us, Jeff thought as the damp cold reached inside his coat. For Mike and Fred and Tyler … and Evan and me!

Jeff was frozen where he stood, unsure if he should call out to the person on the boat or wait and see what happened next. Maybe Ben was moving the boat to hide it someplace else so they wouldn’t find it. Or maybe Evan was trying to get away so he could meet Jeff where they had agreed to meet.

It wasn’t long before Jeff got his answer.

The harsh, hissing sound of someone running on the beach filled the night. Off to one side, between him and the boat, a figure appeared, running swiftly toward the water’s edge. A split second later, a flash of white light followed by a report of a gun split the night.

The figure in the boat dropped down. Something clattered loudly when it hit the floorboards of the boat. Jeff didn’t know if Evan had been hit or was ducking for cover. Less than thirty feet from the boat, Ben drew to a stop. He stood knee-deep in the water with waves washing over his feet. Steadying his arm by holding his right arm at the elbow with his left hand, he took careful aim and then shot again—once … twice.

Bullets whined as splinters of wood blew up from the gunwales of the boat. Evan stood up unsteadily. The boat was rocking wildly from side to side. A moment later, he pitched over the side, followed by a loud splash. The momentum of his fall kicked the boat so it spun around in a wide, lazy arc.

Jeff wished he was close enough to see if Evan had been hit or not and, if he had been hit, how badly, but it didn’t matter. In his weakened condition, Evan wouldn’t last more than a few seconds in the ice cold water. The waves would sweep over him, and—like Jimmy Foster thirty-five years ago—he would go under.

So, Jeff thought grimly, Jimmy will have company on this stretch of deserted beach after all.

Evan’s ghost will keep him company, and Jeff knew, if he didn’t get off the island tonight, he would also join them.

Talk about a camp reunion, he thought with a sinister chuckle.

He was sure Ben didn’t know he was standing about twenty feet behind him. He was still focused on the boat, watching it drift away from the shore, carried along by gusts of wind and the currents that swept around the island. The mist closed in, and within seconds, the boat was gone from sight.

Jeff stared helplessly after it, positive that, even if a bullet hadn’t hit Evan, he was gone … forever.

All their efforts were wasted … had been for nothing.

It was just a matter of time before Ben hunted him down and killed him.

But even with the boat was gone, Jeff couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t allow it. He had to survive tonight so he could tell the authorities what had happened out here. All of his friends—now dead—had families and loved ones who would want to know how they had died. Jeff’s son would definitely mourn his loss, and his elderly parents would be inconsolable. He hoped even Susan would feel a pang of grief once he was gone.

“No,” he told himself. “That’s not going to happen.”

Even though his words were whisked away by the wind, he was filled with determination to get off this island.

And the boat might still be his answer.

It was out of sight, vanished as if it never existed, but Jeff hoped the wind would keep it close to shore. Riding the currents would bring it out to the tip of the island.

Jeff’s only chance was to get out to “The Pulpit” before Ben did. He had no idea if the oars were still on board or not, but that didn’t matter. Even if they weren’t, he would paddle back to the mainland using his hands if he had to or just drift until the wind carried him to shore.

Jeff started backing up slowly, praying Ben wouldn’t notice him. He was still standing in water, the water halfway up to his knees as he stared into the wall of mist. Jeff tried to see if Evan’s body was floating in the lake, but the mist was too dense. He didn’t see anything that looked like a body.

Jeff wondered if he should try to sneak up on Ben and take him from behind now, but he didn’t dare try. He was too weakened after running around in the cold and damp. He was no longer confident he could take Ben in a hand-to-hand fight.

Besides, it didn’t matter.

Ben still had the gun.

He had fired three shots. Jeff had no idea what kind of gun Ben had, but if reloaded recently, he should have at least three shots left before he’d have to reload again.

Moving backwards slowly and hoping the swirling fog would mask him before Ben saw him, Jeff left the beach. It was difficult to judge distances in the fog, but once he was about a hundred yards away from Ben, hopefully out of sight, he started running.

And he knew exactly where he was going.

* * *

He ran back toward the dining hall and then doubled back before heading off into the woods. He wasn’t as familiar with the trails beyond the perimeter of the campgrounds. His only hope was that Ben didn’t know them any better than he did.

His heart was pounding hard, and as he ran, he took in slow, even breaths to steady his nerves. The cold air burned inside his chest like liquid fire, and every muscle ached. He was close to if not already past the point of total exhaustion, but he would rather die of exposure than submit to Ben.

His feet made loud sucking sounds in the mud as he ran, but he was confident Ben had no idea where he was or where he was going. He crossed the open area where the meeting hall used to stand and crossed the service road that led to the ball fields and into the woods. Once the darkness of the forest enclosed him, he felt more secure. The sensory acuity he’d experienced before seemed to have come back, at least a little.

It was a distinct possibility Ben was heading to the same place he was. Ben was no fool. He had proven that. He no doubt wanted to retrieve the boat as much as Jeff did.

Or maybe he had already given up.

Maybe he had another way off the island and would use that.

Jeff had no way of knowing, and he didn’t care. His only focus was to get to “The Pulpit” and see if the wind and lake currents had carried the boat closer to shore. Chances were it had already drifted far out of sight, but he had to try.

This is like climbing a tree when you’re being chased, he thought with a sudden sinking in his stomach. One rule he had learned playing wide games at camp was: Never climb a tree because then you’re trapped.

It was the same with the tip of the island.

If he got out to “The Pulpit,” and Ben was behind him, he’d have nowhere to go … no place to run or hide.

He was betting everything on being right. As much as he was tempted to say screw it; the boat’s already gone, and turn around and go back into the woods, he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

The further he went from the campgrounds, the denser the underbrush became. As he dodged and weaved between the rain-soaked trees, exhaustion burned in his legs and arms. His neck was as stiff as an iron bar. He continually wiped sweat from his face, but that didn’t stop the night from becoming a whirling kaleidoscope of shadows and darker shapes that twisted around him in a frightening frenzy.

Jeff staggered through the woods, knowing or at least suspecting that he was well past exhaustion and possibly losing his mind. He wasn’t surprised that he didn’t grieve much for Tyler, Fred, and Mike. After all, he had hardly known them. But Evan’s death left a numb hollowness in the center of his chest.

I should have done something … I could have saved him, he kept thinking, but he tried to force such thoughts from his mind because they would weaken him. He had to stay sharp so he would survive.

After running until he couldn’t any longer, he paused and leaned against a tree, panting so heavily his breath steamed in the night. He peeled back the sleeve of his raincoat and glanced at his wristwatch, surprised to see it was only a little past nine o’clock at night.

Had his watch stopped?

Was it broken?

He shook his arm and tapped the crystal. When he looked more closely, he saw the luminous second hand was still sweeping around the watch face.

How could it be only nine o’clock?

If someone had asked what time it was, he would have guessed it was close to morning … or at least well past midnight. He knew he’d been stressed past the point of rational thought. That was the only possible explanation for why he’d had that psychedelic experience of feeling as though all of his senses were much sharper than usual.

He leaned over, bracing both hands on his knees, and labored to catch his breath. He knew he had to keep running, but he didn’t think he had the strength. If he could just get out to “The Pulpit” where he thought—he hoped and prayed—the boat had drifted.

Leaning his head back, he looked up at the night sky. Clouds were racing by in thick, twisting luminous clumps that alternately covered and uncovered the face of the moon.

Jeff chuckled to himself when, once again, an odd, indescribable sensation welled up inside him.

The year was heading into winter when life all but ceased, but something … a powerful force was pulsing all around him in the darkness.

Is this what Hobomock is? Jeff wondered. The spirit of the wild?

Maybe Hobomock wasn’t an Indian demon after all. Those were just scary stories his counselor had told them to frighten them. Instead of the usual ghost stories or urban legends like “The Hook,” Mark had concocted stories from the bare bones of some ancient Indian legends he’d heard.

No matter what he or anyone else called it, Jeff couldn’t deny there was something dark and mysterious moving in the dark forest. It prowled like a hungry beast, stalking him. It wasn’t just the threat of Ben coming after him … it was something else … something more … something so large and nameless and powerful he couldn’t even conceive of it. It wasn’t really evil. If anything, it was so far beyond human scope it didn’t take notice of any pitiful human beings.

Whatever small, rational parts were left of his mind, Jeff knew he’d never be able to understand or explain what he was experiencing.

It wasn’t just the feeling of spirits in the forest. There was a sense of danger … of impending doom … of powers and beings beyond his feeble capacity to understand. But even if he couldn’t comprehend them, he knew the world did. The world was aware that winter was coming, and that death was a natural conclusion to life.

Jeff fully accepted that he might die tonight, and on a deep level he was at peace with the idea that Ben would find him and kill him.

He was aware that this feeling might involve some kind of prescience.

Maybe his role now—his obligation in life—was to accept things the way they were. Life was so much bigger than he could possibly imagine or comprehend. The surge of life and death, of powers moving far beyond his understanding and control gripped him and made him tremble. He couldn’t think about them for long without feeling as though he was tumbling backwards in an endless fall into a deep, dark well.

You’re losing it, ole’ buddy ole’ pal, he told himself.

But then another, fainter voice in the back of his mind whispered, No you’re not … You have to keep trying … It’s your responsibility to live …

Jeff gasped and shook his head, shivering as he wiped sweat from his face. Dampness saturated clothes, making them feel like dead hands clinging to his skin … dead hands that dragged him down and wouldn’t let go. He imagined thousands of leeches, clinging to his skin, tearing at his flesh. He could feel the blood, streaming down his sides in wide ribbons. Weighted down by the darkness and gloom around him and inside him, it was an immense struggle not to give up hope.

Where there’s life there’s hope, he told himself.

Ben was out there in the darkness, searching for him. As Jeff turned and looked behind him, the peculiar feeling he’d had earlier that night returned in full force. His vision and sense of hearing were suddenly amplified. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with thick, damp air. A warm spark of life glowed in the center of his chest, growing stronger.

Raising his hands in front of his face, he clenched them into fists, squeezing them until his wrists ached. His skin was slick with moisture and glistened as though coated with oil. He watched as shimmering rainbows flowed across his skin. Muscles, veins, and tendons throbbed beneath his skin, and he was infused with an uncanny sense of power.

Far off in the distance, he felt as much as heard and saw someone thrashing through the dense underbrush.

It was Ben, but Jeff no longer feared him. He accepted that he might die tonight, but ultimately, none of it mattered. It was all part of life. The only difference was, unlike Mike and Tyler and Fred, he wasn’t going to accept it meekly. He definitely wasn’t going to let death creep up on him unawares.

He would resist to the end.

Ducking low, he moved through the brush toward the shoreline. This far from the campgrounds, there was no beach, just a jumble of granite boulders and scrub brush that ringed the island. He had no idea how far it was to the tip of the island, and disappointment filled his heart when he thought that the boat most likely had already blown past the island and was far from shore. But he moved forward with grim determination, positive that even if he was trapped on the tip of the island, he would fight like a cornered rat to the last ounce of strength remaining in him.

* * *

Trees and bushes whipped past him in the darkness, swatting his face and hands like stinging lashes. Before long, his face was bleeding from dozens of tiny slices. The blood mixed with sweat as it streamed down his face and neck. He licked his lips and tasted the coppery tang of blood. Up ahead, he could hear the rushing waves as they crashed against the shore. He knew he was close to “The Pulpit.”

Behind him, he could also feel Ben’s presence closing the distance between them. The night vibrated with dark energy that, Jeff feared, would soon drag him under, no matter how hard he fought back. He jolted to a stop when he suddenly broke out of the forest and saw the hulking silhouette of “The Pulpit” looming black against the night.

And there, on the shore, washed up and lying among the rocks like it had been placed there especially for him, was the boat.

Jeff couldn’t believe his eyes.

The boat rocked violently back and forth, making loud grinding against the rocks as waves battered against it. White collars of foam flew high into the air and were whisked away by the wind. The boat was rapidly filling with water, but Jeff was confident it would float. He listened for a moment and heard Ben coming up steadily behind him.

The rocks on the shore were wet and slick as Jeff scrambled down to the boat. Ice-cold water numbed him when he waded out into it, but he ignored the shock as he struggled to push the boat off the rocks and into the open water. He turned it around so the bow was heading into the wind and surf.

And there, lying on the floor of the boat athwart the seats, was a single oar.

“Thank you, Evan,” he whispered to the sky as he gripped the gunwales and heaved himself up into the boat. He groaned as he collapsed onto the floor and for a while just lay, breathing deeply and shivering as he stared up at the sky.

I’m not going to make it, he thought, and as if in answer, a gunshot suddenly rang out in the night.

A bullet clipped the side of the boat just as a second shot sounded and sent splinters of wood flying. Jeff heaved himself off the boat’s floor. He had no idea if he had been hit or not. He was in such a state of shock that, for all he knew, the bullet could have passed clean through him without him feeling it.

“You won’t make it, you son of a bitch!”

Ben’s voice was almost lost beneath the roaring wind and waves that crashed against side of the boat.

Jeff looked back at the shore. After a moment, he saw a dark figure scrambling up onto “The Pulpit.” The boat rocked wildly from side to side in the surf, less than fifty feet from the rock. If Ben got up there in time, he’d have a clear shot at him.

Jeff slipped the oar into the oarlock while looking around for the other oar, but it was nowhere in sight. It must have fallen overboard when Evan was shot. Jeff grabbed the oar from the oarlock and, sitting close to the port side, started using it like a canoe paddle.

It was difficult if not impossible to paddle into the wind. He could only imagine what kind of target he presented to Ben. Looking frantically over his shoulder, he saw Ben perched on “The Pulpit.” He cringed as he waited to see the gun flash and feel the hot sting of the bullet when it hit him an instant before the report of the pistol rolled through the night.

When it didn’t come, he wanted to believe Ben had run out of ammunition or couldn’t see him, but then, from the top of the rock, a bright flash cut through the mist. The bullet hit the water less than three feet from the boat, followed by the report of the gun.

Jeff dropped to the floor of the boat, but he quickly realized that had been a mistake. As soon as he stopped paddling, the boat turned in the wind and started drifting back toward the island. He would have to risk getting a bullet in the back if he was going to paddle away from here.

With his jaw set in grim determination, he strained at the oar, moving it from one side of the boat to the other to keep moving in as straight a line as possible toward the mainland. He had no idea where the dock and paunch ramp were. His only concern was to get out of range. Then he worry about finding the dock and his car, and driving to the nearest town to report what had happened.

* * *

The wind was hard and cold, blowing straight into his face and cutting like a thousand tiny razors. Water slopped up over the sides of the boat. At least three inches sloshed around on the floor, soaking Jeff up to the ankles. He was so numbed by the cold and exhaustion he hardly noticed it.

Even once the fog closed in and he was out of sight of the island, he couldn’t stop thinking that he was going to die tonight no matter what he did. If Ben didn’t shoot him, the cold was going to kill him. He hoped dying of hypothermia—if it came to that—would be as pleasant toward the end as he’d heard it was.

That, or maybe he’d drown.

That’s what he should do.

Why not just say f*ck it and drop over the side of the boat and sink? From everything he had heard and read from people who had almost drowned, there was an unbelievable feeling of relaxation toward the end. Once your lungs were filled with water and the lights dimmed in your oxygen-starved brain, it was supposed to be downright euphoric.

With thoughts like this sifting through his mind, Jeff kept paddling, shifting the oar awkwardly from one side of the boat to the other as he cringed, waiting for a bullet to hit him.

You never hear the shot that kills you.

At least there was that mercy.

Ben did fire several more times, but either he missed by quite a distance or else the wind and waves were too loud for Jeff to hear how close the bullets came. Looking back, he saw another couple of faint muzzle flashes through the mist, but the sound of the gun was all but lost beneath the howling wind.

“I just might make it … I just might make it,” he kept saying as he strained on the oar.

He could no longer feel hands, and his neck and shoulders felt as though cold iron rods had pierced them. His teeth chattered loudly no matter how hard he tried to clench his jaw to stop them.

A surge of panic filled him when he realized how much water had collected in the bottom of the boat. It was now halfway up to his knees and rising fast.

There must be a serious leak. Maybe a bullet hole was taking in water. Again, a surge of panic filled him. He had no idea how close he was to the shore. The wall of dense, luminous gray fog surrounded him. The only thing keeping him oriented was the water churning around his feet. If it weren’t for that, he would have free floating in a dimensionless, eternal darkness.

It was easy to imagine he was already dead. He could no longer feel any part of his body. He only kept paddling because his body was functioning on automatic. He realized he was crying. Tears streamed from his eyes, burning his face as the cold wind whipped his breath away. Exhaustion wrung out every fiber of his being.

But I made it, he told himself. I got away!

He may not know where he was, but he was heading for the mainland. He suddenly panicked, thinking he may have lost his car keys and cell phone. He was only slightly reassured when he slapped his upper thigh and felt—or thought he felt—the bulge of the keys and phone in his pants pocket. He reached into his jacket pocket for the bottle of run and smiled grimly when he clutched the cold glass but then was crest-fallen to realize the bottle had broken. Rum as well as rainwater soaked him. The jeans and socks he’d stashed under his jacket had fallen out at some point, but still, all he could think was—I did it … I’m gonna make it, goddamn it.

He tried to imagine what Ben would do next. As far as he knew, Ben was trapped on the island and would have to stay there until the cops arrived in the morning.

How’s he going to explain those three bodies?

How’s he going to explain it when—and if—Evan’s body washes ashore with a bullet in it that matches Ben’s pistol?

It’s all over … and I won!

All he had to do was get to the shore and find his way back to his car. He doubted his cell phone would work after getting soaked, but he would drive to the nearest town with the car heater on full blast to thaw himself out.

And then he’d get some food. He couldn’t imagine how incredible a cup of coffee and hot bowl of soup was going to taste. He smacked his lips, luxuriating in anticipation of the sensations real food would give him.

And clean clothes … clean, dry clothes …

What would it feel like to put on something clean and dry after this?

He imagined the soft caress of clean cotton against his skin. Moaning softly, he raised his hand and caressed his cheek, thinking it was as soft as silk.

An icy tremor made his body shudder as he pictured all the comforts he would experience soon … soon … but before he could sink any further in his delirium, the boat lurched to an abrupt stop. A harsh, grinding sound filled the night, rattling Jeff’s teeth as the sudden halt threw him forward. The oar fell from his hand into the water and drifted away out of sight as he pitched forward. He didn’t know he was falling until his head slammed against the side of the boat—hard. White stars sprayed across his vision as he dropped face-first into the water on the floor of the boat and lost consciousness.