Feet rustled through leaves. My mind calibrated.
Fifty yards.
I jabbed at the canvas. Up, down. Up, down.
The rustling grew louder.
Thirty yards.
I thrust my boots into the opening, thrashed out with all my strength. The tearing sounded like a shriek in the stillness.
The rustling paused, resumed, faster, more reckless.
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
“Hold it right there.”
I pictured the gun, felt bullets slam into my flesh. It didn't matter. I'd either be dead now or dead later. Better to make a fight of it while there was still the chance to resist.
“Don't move.”
I flipped around, grabbed the edges I'd torn, and pulled with both hands. Then I lunged headfirst through the opening, tumbled facedown, rolled onto my feet, and stood on rubber legs, trying to focus.
“Madam, you are dead.”
I bolted away from the sound of the voice.
Keeping the gurgling of the river to my left, I ran through darkness dense as an endless tunnel, one arm in front of my face. Obstacles leaped at me without warning, forcing my feet on a zigzag path.
Again and again I stumbled on some form of planetary rubble. A rock older than life itself. A fallen trunk. A dead branch. I kept my balance. Burning fear gave rise to strength and speed.
The things of the night seemed to go silent. I heard no buzzing, no chirping, no padding of feet, just my own rasping breath. Behind me, footfalls, thrashing like some giant woodland beast.
Sweat soaked my clothing. Blood pounded in my ears.
My pursuer stayed with me, neither closing in nor falling back. Was he working a home court advantage? Was he the cat, I his mouse? Was he biding his time, confident the prey would be his?
My lungs burned, unable to take in enough air. A stabbing pain ripped my left side. Still, the blind urge to run.
One minute. Three. An eternity.
Then the muscles of my right thigh cramped. I slowed to a limping lope.
The cat slowed, too.
I tried to push on. It was no good. My legs and arms were going dead.
My pace dropped to a trot. Sweat trickled from my forehead and burned my eyes.
I saw the outline of a dark shape in front of my face. My outstretched hand slammed something solid. My elbow folded, and my cheek hit hard. Pain shot through my wrist. Blood moistened my palm and cheek.
With my good hand, I reached out and explored. Solid rock.
I probed farther.
More rock.
My heart shriveled.
I'd run up against a cliff wall. Water to my left. Dense trees to my right.
The cat knew. I had nowhere to go.
I pulled out the scalpel and held it behind me. Then I turned, back to the wall, and faced my attacker.
He spoke before I saw him.
“Bad routing.”
He was breathing hard, and I could smell the rancid odor of sweat and rage.
“Stay away from me!” I yelled with more bravado than I felt.
“Why should I do that?” Taunting.
I knew that voice. The caller at the morgue. But I'd also heard it in person. Where?
Crunching, then a black cutout appeared in the darkness.
“Don't take one step closer,” I hissed.
“You're in an odd position to give orders.”
“Come near me and I'll kill you.” I grasped the scalpel like a lifeline.
