Fourteen

HIS big hands grabbed my shoulders, and like so many young men had been, I was now in his power. Except I had a knife in my hand. He pulled me up and up, until I was almost off my feet. In the twilight it was hard to make out details but I could see the white of his shirtfront, where his unbuttoned coat flapped open, and I swung my arm as hard as I could. The knife went into his skin easily enough but skidded along a bone, maybe his rib, and he screamed as the blood welled through his shirt.

He dropped me and I ran. He caught up with me after a second, though; he was quicker to recover from the shock than I expected. He tackled me, and I twisted, coming up on my side and swinging the knife back. This time I got him in the shoulder and it went in much farther. He really did scream, and heaved off of me, scrambling to his feet. We were close to the edge of the lake then, and I saw a sign or two—we were in some sort of public fishing area. I backed up closer to the water because he was coming at me and I didn’t have a choice.

He’d done all the talking up till now. “Come get me, you bastard,” I said. “Come get me, rapist.”

“They loved it,” he said, amazingly. “They loved it.”

“Sure,” I said. “Who doesn’t like being chained and burned and sliced before sex?”

“No,” he said, panting, “not the boys. Tom. Tom and Chuck.”

“Okay, you make me sick,” I said. “You going to stand there and make me sick some more, asshole?”

And he charged. He can’t have been stupid, because he had a good job and he did it well enough to keep it, but he was stupid that night because of the strain and the pain and the freezing temperature, and he did lunge right at me. I leaped to one side and as he shot by I shoved him as hard as I could using both hands, even with the broken arm screaming at me. He landed right at the lake’s edge, so I hadn’t been close enough, damn it. I’d wanted him to go into the chilly water. But he wasn’t getting up, and I took off. All those years of running finally gave me a reward for good behavior.

I was in the trees and working my way around the lake toward the inhabited cabin, the one with lights, which—I was almost certain—was the Hamiltons’.

I thought I heard him a million times. I hid for ten minutes, not moving, at least once; and maybe more than that. I was in too much pain to make sense, too cold to reason. I still had the knife, and though I thought of dropping it, I was scared to be without it in case he caught up with me. When I remembered how it had felt when the knife went into him, I had to stop and throw up. This was a queasy case. I didn’t remember ever getting the heaves over any case before. Probably, I thought, I could excuse myself for it over the knifing. But I’d gotten sick outside the barn, too. Maybe it was the torturing, not the knifing?