The man wasn’t looking at Sam; his gaze was fixed at nothing in particular, straight ahead of himself in the drifting smoke. He was in the same bizarre squatting position Sam had seen him in earlier, his arms stretched downward and his knuckles pressed to the ground. At this distance, Sam could see details he had missed before: the guy’s T-shirt was torn in several places, and the fabric was splotched and flecked with blood. The blue jeans were soaked, too, but with only a single giant stain running from the crotch to the knee—the big man had pissed himself profusely.

From someplace up the street—in the direction Sam had been moving—a woman screamed. The man in the bloody T-shirt snapped his head toward that sound—

And looked directly at Sam.

For a full second, nothing happened; it was long enough for Sam to hope the guy couldn’t see him in the tree’s shadow, that his gaze only seemed to be pointed at him.

Then the deadpan expression twisted into one of almost childlike anger—the face of a toddler throwing a tantrum—and the man lurched forward, straight toward him.

Sam broke from the tree and ran.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

In the first second or two, Sam had no thought in his head except to move as fast as possible. He had taken only a few running strides—angling away from the tree and into the street—when he saw the woman.

She was fifty feet away, straight ahead in the direction he was sprinting. She seemed to spot him in the same instant he saw her; she had been loping right down the middle of the road, aimless, but now she faltered, stared at him, and came bolting toward him.

As he took in all of these details—still running—his mind stayed focused on the man behind him.

If you stop for even a second, he’s got you.

The woman looked young—late twenties, give or take. She wore pink sweatpants and nothing else. Above the waist, her pale skin was scratched and bloody, not so different from the big man’s T-shirt. Sam was still heading straight toward her.

Behind him, he heard the man’s footsteps scuff onto the asphalt of the road. Close.

The woman screamed, the sound reminding Sam of a chimpanzee’s shriek in a nature documentary.

Sam jerked his head to the side and saw the only option he had: the Escort.

It sat there rumbling, its door open like an extended hand, ten or fifteen running steps to his right. He planted one foot mid-stride, pushed off of it and threw himself sideways. He heard the man behind him skid and lose his footing, just for a second, as he changed course to follow him.