The circle of illumination lingers on a patch of snow on my side of the beaver lodge. Suddenly Jewett straightens. The light follows my windblown path back to the island. Once more, I retreat behind the cedar.

Now I hear the squelch of a hand-held radio. Not words. Just a series of button pushes: a wordless, indecipherable signal traveling over the airwaves to report what? That the target has been located?

Who’s he communicating with?

I have no time to watch and wait. I am injured and, except for the knife, unarmed. My enemy is on high alert and equipped with a long gun designed for house-to-house raids. I begin crawling into the trees.

Only when I reach the enormous root clump of a toppled pine, do I dare stand. It doesn’t occur to me that the tangled roots offer imperfect concealment—there are holes between the interlaced tendrils—and so when a blast of buckshot obliterates the deadwood ten inches from my head, I just about leap out of my skin.

Now I’m off at a full gallop, snapping branches and whipping evergreen boughs as I make instinctively for the one cover I remember: the narrow gap between the glacial erratic and the tree stand.

At least Jewett doesn’t seem have brought along his night-vision goggles or an infrared gunsight. (Why didn’t he bring them along?) He’d have no need of a tactical flashlight if he could pick out my heat signature.

I pull my injured leg over the ridgeback, only vaguely sure of my direction. To my side I see a beam of gauzy light from my pursuer’s gun. He’s hurrying, too. He should be tracking me slowly like the wounded animal I am, but he must be caught up in the thrill of the chase.

I nearly smash myself against the boulder, I’m going so hard.

Is this even the right rock?

I don’t see my boot prints, but as I circle the monolith, I come to the crevice where I rested. The impression of my body, like the bed of a stag, shows as a gray-blue shadow. I recognize the sentinel oak and the tree stand above.

I remind myself that Jewett must assume I’m armed. He can’t know that I lost my pistol in the river. Just because I haven’t returned fire doesn’t mean he can approach in safety.

Behind me, I see the brightening glow of the flashlight beam. I hear branches snap. Jewett has discovered my trail, and now he’s moving cautiously. He is hunting me like the dangerous prey I wish I were.

Looking up, I follow the ladder of spikes to that barely balanced chair fifteen feet above the ground.

I don’t have the strength to climb up there.

I need to find the strength.

What choice do I have?