But Ed Schaeffer never found out his fellow deputy’s reaction to this good piece of police work; the woman’s screaming filled the woods and Jesse Corn’s radio went silent.

Lydia Johansson stumbled backward and screamed again as the boy leapt from the tall sedge and grabbed her arms with his pinching fingers.

“Oh, Jesus Lord, please don’t hurt me!” she begged.

“Shut up,” he raged in a whisper, looking around, jerking movements, malice in his eyes. He was tall and skinny, like most sixteen-year-olds in small Carolina towns, and very strong. His skin was red and welty—from a run-in with poison oak, it looked like—and he had a sloppy crew cut that looked like he’d done it himself.

“I just brought flowers … that’s all! I didn’t—”

“Shhhh,” he muttered.

But his long, dirty nails dug into her skin painfully and Lydia gave another scream. Angrily he clamped a hand over her mouth. She felt him press against her body, smelled his sour, unwashed odor.

She twisted her head away. “You’re hurting me!” she said in a wail.

“Just shut up!” His voice snapped like ice-coated branches tapping and flecks of spit dotted her face. He shook her furiously as if she were a disobedient dog. One of his sneakers slipped off in the struggle but he paid no attention to the loss and pressed his hand over her mouth again until she stopped fighting.

From the top of the hill Jesse Corn called, “Lydia? Where are you?”

“Shhhhh,” the boy warned again, eyes wide and crazy. “You scream and you’ll get hurt bad. You understand? Do you understand?” He reached into his pocket and showed her a knife.

She nodded.

He pulled her toward the river.

Oh, not there. Please, no, she thought to her guardian angel. Don’t let him take me there.

North of the Paquo …

Lydia glanced back and saw Jesse Corn standing by the roadside 100 yards away, hand shading his eyes from the low sun, surveying the landscape. “Lydia?” he called.

The boy pulled her faster. “Jesus Christ, come on!”

“Hey!” Jesse cried, seeing them at last. He started down the hill.

But they were already at the riverbank, where the boy’d hidden a small skiff under some reeds and grass. He shoved Lydia into the boat and pushed off, rowing hard to the far side of the river. He beached the boat and yanked her out. Then dragged her into the woods.

“Where’re we going?” she whispered.

“To see Mary Beth. You’re going to be with her.”

“Why?” Lydia whispered, sobbing now. “Why me?”

But he said nothing more, just clicked his nails together absently and pulled her after him.

“Ed,” came Jesse Corn’s urgent transmission. “Oh, it’s a mess. He’s got Lydia. I lost him.”

“He’s what?” Gasping from exertion, Ed Schaeffer stopped. He’d started jogging toward the river when he’d heard the scream.