I land on my hands and knees while he scrabbles away, kicking snow. In the process he inadvertently jerks the trigger of his shotgun. The barrel flashes as an unaimed shell explodes from the chamber, scattering buckshot into the trees overhead. Broken branches and splintered bark rain down.

The gunshot wakes me up.

I’ve been treating Jewett the way I would treat some random asshat resisting arrest. Despite his having tried to kill me—twice!—I’m holding back. I’m pretending this is a high school wrestling match instead of a fight to the death. My restraint is going to get me killed.

My hand closes around the knife in my pocket and presses the button that causes the blade to spring out.

He’s struggling to get the barrel of the long gun around so he can pull the trigger again. I close one hand around his ankle. The heavy pack boot prevents me from cutting his Achilles tendon. So I go higher and slash his quad through layers of Gore-Tex and wool. I’m not aiming to sever his femoral artery. I only want to hurt him enough to gain possession of the firearm.

He screams, a surprisingly high-pitched scream, and reflexively presses a hand to the cut. I grab hold of the bungee sling and give the elasticized strap a good yank.

The weapon slips over his head. In the process his helmet pops off.

I’m sitting in the snow, but this time holding the shotgun butt, while my unmasked opponent gasps for air. He has a balaclava around his head. In the darkness I can’t make out identifying features except to note the paleness of his face.

I reposition my grip on the gun to get my finger in the trigger guard.

With one hand he clutches his bleeding thigh. With the other he massages his throat where he was clotheslined by the strap as I pulled it over the lip of his helmet. Then he straightens his shoulders. I raise the shotgun’s sights and with it the flashlight. In the blue-white beam I see a strand of red hair peeking out from beneath the balaclava.

That’s not Jewett.

The freckled, contorted face turns to me full of pain and anger, but absolutely no fear.

It is Tori Dillon.

24

Tori curled into her boyfriend’s armpit and pressed her left hand flat on his furry pectoral muscle. She was barefoot. Her toenails were painted with glittery polish that sparkled in the green light of the heat lamps.

I have a good memory for names and a better memory for faces. The Dillon twins definitely reminded me of someone else. It ate at me that I couldn’t make the connection.

“Are you sure we’ve never met, Tori?”

“You’d remember if we had, Mike.”

One of the snakes rubbed its scaled belly against the gravel in the heated box, the sound dry and rasping.