Mortimer changed his plan, hardly even thought about it.

He circled the stump and grabbed the remaining woman, pulled her toward him. She drew breath for a scream, but Mortimer quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. His other arm went around her throat. She struggled, kicked.

Her hands came up, tried to claw his eyes, but he pulled her down, squeezed. He wanted to end it quickly, crushed her windpipe with his forearm. She went stiff briefly, then limp in his arms. He put her back in front of the stump, arranged her to look as if she’d curled up asleep. A crude spear leaned against the trunk and he grabbed it, darted back to his hiding place on the other side of the stump.

His hands shook; his breathing was shallow, verging on hyperventilation. He’d never killed anyone with his bare hands before. Up close. A woman.

He held the spear, squatting and ready to spring.

A long way off an owl hooted.

The other woman returned.

“Jesus, Lydia, you’re not supposed to sleep on guard duty. What if…Lydia?”

Mortimer went for her, spear held out front. He saw this one’s face and almost balked. She looked young, dark hair in a ponytail, expression wide-eyed and innocent like the naïve daughter on a feminine hygiene commercial. Her mouth fell open, and Mortimer struck.

The spearhead caught her square in the throat. Blood bubbled out of her mouth. He yanked out the spear, stabbed her again in the chest. She sank to her knees, coughed more blood and fell on top of her friend.

These hadn’t been the cannibals Mortimer had expected, not drooling savages with bones through the nose. They could have been members of the PTA. Soccer moms. God, forgive me.

Then he remembered the grotesque cookout only a few hours earlier.

He knelt next to the bodies, searched them. The one he’d speared had a good bowie knife with an eight-inch blade. He took it, strapped it to his belt. He coveted their dry clothing, but they were both too small. He checked their pockets, had hoped for the miracle of a book of matches. No luck.

Without thinking, Mortimer headed for the sleeping camp.

There was a gap in the bone fence wide enough for one person to walk through at a time. Mortimer went in, crouching low and grasping the spear with tight, nervous hands. The stench of scorched flesh mixed with campfire smoke still hung in the air.

In the dim, dirty orange light, Mortimer now saw a line of shabby huts on the other side of the compound, crude dwellings pieced together from mismatched scraps of wood. His eyes darted in all directions. Presumably, there were other guards. Mortimer kept to the shadows as he crept toward the poles where the limp bodies of his friends were still tied.

He went to Bill first, lifted his head, slapped his face lightly. Come on, man. Wake up.

Bill’s eyes creaked open slightly, regarded Mortimer at half-mast. When Bill saw who it was, his eyes shot open with surprise and hope. He opened his mouth to speak, and Mortimer put a hand over it, shook his head. Bill’s eyes slowly moved back and forth. He remembered where he was and nodded his head.

Mortimer sliced through the ropes with the bowie knife, and Bill collapsed to the ground. He silently began to rub the circulation back into his legs and wrists.

Tyler’s bright, clear eye was already open and alert. She wordlessly urged Mortimer to hurry. He cut her down, and she fell also, a grimace across her face as she bit back a groan. Being tied to a post for hours obviously hadn’t been very comfortable.

Mortimer freed the two muscle guys. One of the big men wept openly, and Mortimer shot him an angry glance, mouthed the words Shut up. Soon they were all on their feet, headed back for the gap in the fence.

Yells from behind, the whole camp suddenly and angrily rousing from sleep.

“Run!” Mortimer shouted.

He sprinted for the fence, the others staggering behind. Soon they were in the forest, running blind, tree branches lashing them in the darkness. Mortimer stumbled, righted himself, kept running. He risked a glance over his shoulder.

The glow of torches, shouts of pursuit.

“Scatter!” Bill yelled.

Mortimer didn’t wait to see where the others went. He picked a direction and ran, his arms and legs shouting hatred at him, his face and arms stinging from a dozen shallow cuts. He ran until the glow of torches faded. He ran until the shouts faded to a muffled murmur and then finally to nothing at all, until his own breathing and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears were the only sounds in the world.

And then he ran some more.

LADIES

XVII

Like so many nightmares, this one involved falling.

First he fell into water, deep and dark and cold, so far into the depths he thought he’d fallen to the center of the earth. But then he splashed through the other side, fell through the branches of a huge tree.

Aching limbs, sopping clothes.

Then something cottony soft broke his fall. Mortimer felt warm and dry. The nightmare feeling ebbed. Perhaps he was dead. That would be a relief. A soft light above him. A clean bright face, blue eyes, blonde hair glowing soft and gold like a halo. Clothed in raiment of white.

An angel. Taking me to Heaven.

She spoke, but Mortimer couldn’t understand. Maybe it was Latin. Ancient angel language.

What is it, little angel? Speak to me in your holy tongue.

“I asked if you wanted some soup,” the woman said.

Mortimer propped himself up on one elbow, rubbed a knuckle into his eyes. He lay in bed. Clean sheets. He looked around the room. Almost like a hospital room but softer, less sterile, flowered curtains, personal belongings, books and things spread about.

He looked at the woman, who was young and fresh faced. No more than twenty. She wore clean white pajamas. No, not pajamas. Hospital scrubs.

“Where am I?”

“Saint Sebastian’s of the Woods,” she said, her voice soothing, calm.

A hospital, thought Mortimer, or some sort of clinic. Thank God. He’d been found, or some good Samaritan had brought him. He flirted with the brief fantasy that the past nine years had all been a coma delusion, but that was going too far.

The room’s heavy curtains were drawn. The light came from a bulb in an overhead fixture.

His many cuts and scrapes had been cleaned. A bandage over a deeper slash under his left eye. A fresh bandage on his pinkie stump. He’d been bathed and wore a clean hospital gown. He ran a hand down the soft cotton.

“Your clothes are in the washing machine,” she said.

Washing machine. The words were almost alien to him. He remembered his first washer and dryer, a gift from Anne’s parents. It seemed the ultimate luxury when they no longer had to make those weekly trips to the Laundromat.

“Who are you?”

“Ruth. Who are you?”

“Mortimer. How did you find me?”

“Not me,” Ruth said. “Mother Lola. She said it was fate to find you just in time.”

How far had Mortimer fled in his blind panic? Five miles? More maybe. He remembered being dizzy, pressing on. He didn’t remember finally collapsing but figured he must have dropped from exhaustion.

“Did she find anyone else? I was with some other people.”

She shook her head. “Just you.”

Mortimer felt a pang of regret. He wondered if he’d see Bill again. Found that he hoped he would. The cowboy was the closest thing Mortimer had to a friend.

“It’s mushroom soup,” Ruth prompted.

He was hungry, famished in fact. “Okay.”

She smiled, childlike, as if she’d accomplished something by getting him to eat. “I’ll be right back.” She left, closed the door behind her.

He sat up, arranged his pillows.