During all this, a car passes, an SUV, a truck, and no one stops, no one even seems to slow down, no one blows a horn to spook the rapist bastard. The wind is shrieking, torrents of rain lashing, sky blazing, shadows leaping, thin scarves of fog whipping past from the sea, but surely one of the motorists saw them, at least one, yet they are gone, see no evil, and at the moment the southbound lanes are deserted. She is alone, it’s all up to her, and in spite of the punch she took, she hasn’t dropped the tire iron, which she swings up from the ground, straight between his legs. It’s a hard crotch shot, not as hard as she would have liked, but he’s bad enough hurt to gasp and relent and stagger backward two or three steps.

David cries out, “Run, run, run while you can!” But the storm is louder than his voice. He rolls his head from side to side in anguish and opens his eyes and sees the motel bed reflected in the mirrored closet door, the nightstand lamp aglow, a man sitting bedside on the straight-backed chair that has been moved from the small writing desk. The man is Ronny Jessup. No. No, he’s Patrick Corley. Patrick Corley for real. No dream. He leans forward. Something in his hand. He presses the object to David’s forehead. It’s icy cold. The motel room becomes the storm-swept night again.

Emily’s got to go for it, there’s no other choice. If she dashes onto the highway, some see-no-evil type will run her down, sure as shit. So she moves on her attacker and swings the tire iron, swings for the bleachers, and scores a hit on his right side. The raincoat cushions the blow, but he cries out. She’s damaged him. She’s exhilarated! She swings again, going for his head, a smaller target, a chance she has to take. The wet steel slips through her dripping hands. The iron spins over his head and clatters on the pavement behind him. Oh, Lord God, help me. There’s nothing now but to run. She’s moving fast toward the west, toward the railing and the meadows below. He can’t run as quick as she can, not in his condition. She runs for exercise, she’s a gazelle, while he’s a lumbering beast. The dark meadows offer not only escape, but also places to hide, and beyond lies a beach where she can run flat out.

Maybe it’s his rage, his rage and insanity, but he finds enough strength to plunge after her and grab her again and throw her down against the railing. He swings his massive fist at the side of her head. The blow brings pain and a darkness deeper than the night.

Oh, Davey, Davey, Davey!