The wind hurled smoke at me, making me cough harder as I lurched through the forest. While I’d been unconscious, the fire had spread rapidly, leaping from tree to tree. Bushes burst into flames. I zigzagged, trying to avoid flames on my right, only to discover that a new section of the forest was suddenly afire on my left.
I wanted to shout, “Kate! Jason!” But they’d been so afraid of me in the house that I doubted they’d answer me. If anything, I’d throw them into a greater panic. On the off chance that they did answer my shouts, Petey would hear them, would go to them.
Plus, if I shouted to Kate and Jason, Petey would hear
me,
would know where
I
was.
The fire roared around me. The smoke whirled past, driven by the wind. Fighting for breath, I stumbled into a clearing. Again, the fire leapt into the trees ahead of me.
How far had Kate and Jason managed to go? I remembered the stream that I’d followed into the forest. If I could reach it, if Kate and Jason could reach it, we had a chance.
Reach it?
How?
I’d been so distracted by my need to avoid the fire that I’d lost my bearings. The same with Kate and Jason. They might be fleeing in a circle.
I fumbled for the compass in my shirt pocket. Squinting in the smoke, I aligned myself in a northwest direction, the opposite of the southeast line that I’d used to approach the house. I put the compass back in my shirt, dodged a flaming branch falling toward me, and ran toward untouched trees northwest of me.
The noise from the fire was filled with pops and cracks as wood ignited. Dry stumps exploded from the heat. A huge chunk of bark and wood blew away from a tree on my right, and I dove to the ground, realizing that one of the blasts was from Petey’s shotgun.
I drew my pistol, dismayed by how violently my hand shook. In Denver, my instructor had warned that no matter how good a shooter was at target practice, nothing prepared one for controlling a gun in a kill—or—be—killed situation. When fear took charge, skill collapsed.
The fire swept closer. I couldn’t stay where I was. But as soon as I moved, Petey would shoot again. I thought of everything that Kate and Jason had suffered, of everything that I’d been through to find them. I thought of Petey leaving me to die in the mountains. Fury compacted my muscles. My hand stopped shaking.
I raced toward another tree. A shotgun blast tore a chunk from it. Immediately I did what Petey would have least expected, charging back toward the flames, toward the tree where I’d hidden. I had a sense of where he’d shot from, a clump of bushes that I now put three bullets into. Smoke enveloped me. I held my breath and used the smoke for cover, rushing toward those bushes, angrily putting three more bullets into them. But when I crashedb through, what I found wasn’t a body, only an empty shotgun shell.
I crouched, breathing hoarsely, scanning the undergrowth for movement. But everything was in motion as the heat from the flames added to the force of the wind. The empty shotgun shell. How many times had Petey shot at me? Two that I knew of. How many shells did a shotgun hold? In the gun store where I’d taken lessons, I recalled hearing that most held four in the magazine and one in the chamber. Petey’s shirt pockets hadn’t bulged from spare shotgun shells. As far as I knew, he had only three shots left.
My back felt so scorched that I had to rush toward farther cover. Staying low, I reached more bushes, took advantage of the smoke around me, and raced toward another tree stump.
Blam!
The top of the stump disintegrated. The shocking pain in my left shoulder felt as if hornets had stung me at enormous speed. I lurched back, shooting as I fell. I hit the ground, hoping that what had struck me were chunks of wood from the stump. But the blood on my shoulder warned me that I’d been struck by metal pellets. The only reason that my arm hadn’t been separated from my shoulder was that Petey had shot from a distance. In the confusion of the smoke and the flames, his aim had been thrown off. Only part of the spray had hit me.
The wound throbbed. I had trouble moving that arm. But I had no trouble moving the rest of me. I was so primed with fear and adrenaline that I rolled toward a fallen tree, knowing that I didn’t dare stay where I’d fallen. The fire again scorched my back. Its wind—driven smoke enveloped me. But it had to be enveloping Petey also. He wouldn’t be able to see me.
I pulled the compass from my shirt and checked it again. Straining not to cough and let Petey know where I was, I aligned the compass on a northwest route and shifted forward through the fast—moving haze. I couldn’t see more than five feet ahead of me. Prepared to shoot the instant I saw a threatening shadow, I worked farther through the forest, checking the compass frequently.
Blood dripped from my left shoulder. I felt lightheaded. The fire was about to get ahead of me. Heat shoved me, urging me to move faster.
I was so busy watching the blowing smoke for a sign of Petey that I didn’t pay attention to the ground. The slope to the stream was about six feet deep. I’d have fallen into it if a deer hadn’t charged from the flames on my right. It startled me, crashing past me and down, splashing through water, then bounding up the opposite side.
I squirmed down to the water, feeling cool air. The stream was shallow. I crossed it, oblivious to my hiking boots and socks getting wet, concentrating on where Petey might be. On my right, farther along the stream, a shadow moved amid the smoke. I started to shoot but stifled the impulse, realizing that the shadow might belong to Kate as easily as to Petey.
I kept aiming. The smoke made my eyes water as I strained to see along the barrel. I stared at the smoke, waiting for the shadow to become more distinct.
The shadow disappeared. Whoever it was had climbed from the stream and continued through the forest. Keeping pace with it, I struggled up the slope and passed through smoky undergrowth, watching for the shadow to come into view again.
I kept thinking, If it was Kate, wouldn’t I have seen a smaller shadow with her: Jason?
Not if he was on the other side of her.
I had to be certain before I pulled the trigger. Creeping farther through the trees, I blinked tears from my smoke—irritated eyes and stared toward the indistinct forest on my right. Something moved. For an instant, I caught a glimpse of Petey’s beard. He raised his shotgun. I pulled the trigger.
Abruptly I was almost blinded as a gust of wind tossed flames overhead. Trees and bushes erupted into fire ahead of me. Feeling the explosion of heat singe my hair, I stumbled backward and this time did lose my balance. When I fell down the bank of the stream, I landed on my wounded shoulder. I strained not to cry out, rolling down to the water, coming to a painful stop.
It took all my effort to stand. I’d dropped my compass. I couldn’t find it. Not that I could get any help from it now. With the fire ahead and behind me, with Petey possibly on my right, the only safe direction was to the left along the stream. I had no idea if I’d hit him. But if I hadn’t, he’d need to take shelter in the stream, which meant that he’d stalk along it in my direction. All I had to do was find a curve in the stream, hide, and ambush him.
I couldn’t remember how many times I’d shot. My pistol might have been almost empty. Trying to keep my hands steady, I pressed a button on the side, dropped the magazine, grabbed the fifteen—round spare from the pouch on my belt, and slammed it into the grip, ready to shoot again.
My vision grayed. As the smoke thickened, I fought for air, realizing that the fire was sucking away oxygen. The flames squeezed closer. Afraid that I’d pass out, I worked along the stream, trying to stay on the bank, to avoid making noise in the water. But loss of blood added to my dizziness. I couldn’t control where my hiking boots landed, sometimes splashing in the water, sometimes slipping through mud.
Hot air seared my nostrils. I rounded a curve, its slope protecting me from the flames above me on my right. I lurched around another curve, and cool air struck my face. I’d reached a section of the stream that wasn’t yet bounded by fire. The coolness was the most luxuriant thing I’d ever felt. I sucked it into my lungs, hoping to clear my thoughts, to get rid of the spots that wavered in my vision.
As the fresh air took the gray from in front of my eyes, I staggered to a halt at the sight of footprints in the mud. Two sets of them. An adult’s. A child’s. They were following the stream, as
I
was.
Kate. Jason.
I whirled toward urgent footsteps splashing through the stream behind me. But as I aimed, it wasn’t Petey, but a panicked dog that scrambled into view. It raced out of sight along the stream. The air became hot again. The flames drew closer.
I ran in the direction of the footprints. A tree had fallen across the bank. I ducked under it, straightened on the other side, and groaned as something heavy walloped across my forehead. The blow sent me reeling back against the tree. Dazed, I sank to my knees in the water. Blood trickled down my face. I tried to clear my blurred vision.
Her eyes frantic from the drugs, Kate stood over me, a clublike branch raised to hit me again. Jason cowered behind her.
“No, Kate.” I was appalled by how distant my weakened voice sounded. “Don’t. It’s me.”
“You bastard!”
I managed to raise my right arm before she struck me again. The club whacked below my elbow, deflecting the blow, but the pain that shot through my arm made me fear that she’d broken it.
My pistol thudded onto the bank.
“No, Kate, it’s really me! Brad!”
“
Brad!
” Kate shrieked and struck again with the club.
I dove to the right, barely avoiding the blow. It smashed into the stream. She swung again. I rolled as she kept swinging.
She gaped at something behind me.
I followed her gaze.
Petey’s face showed above the tree that spanned the stream. His forehead was covered with soot. His hair and beard were singed. His shirt was blackened by smoke. Blood flowed from his left shoulder, where I’d evidently hit him the last time I’d pulled the trigger.
His shotgun rested on the horizontal tree, its barrel facing us.
Jason backed away.
“If you know what’s good for you, son, don’t take another step,” Petey told Jason.
I was on my back in the stream. My right arm was useless, probably broken from when Kate had struck it. My buckshot—punctured left arm was in similar agony, but at least it was mobile. Sweating from the effort, I groped for the knife on my belt.
Jason kept backing away.
“Listen to your father,” Petey said. “Stay put.”
Jason opened his mouth in a silent wail.
Then
Petey
wailed as I rolled under the tree and plunged the hunting knife into his thigh. The blade scraped bone. When he lurched back, his shotgun went off. The pellets whistled past my head. No! Afraid that the blast had hit Kate and Jason, I stabbed Petey’s thigh again. As his blood spurted over me, I redirected my aim toward his side.
But he rammed down with the butt of his shotgun, hitting my wounded shoulder. I almost passed out, able to do only one thing, to throw my weight against his legs and bring him down with me into the stream. I crawled onto him, stabbing toward his face, but he pushed me to the side and grabbed my throat, choking me so hard that I feared my larynx would break.
Smoke reached us. The fire crackled nearer. I plunged the knife into his wounded shoulder. In agony, he fell back, landing where he’d dropped his shotgun. He grabbed it, pumped out an empty cartridge, and pulled the trigger.
I lurched back from the blast that would blow my chest apart, but the shotgun made only a clicking sound. It was empty. Roaring, Petey swung it like a club, but loss of blood weakened him. The blow glanced off my leg. My left arm was in greater agony, much less mobile, as I thrust with the knife and missed.
A shot kicked up dirt.
We spun toward it.
Kate had crawled beneath the trees. Wavering to her feet, she held the pistol that I’d dropped. Doing her best to keep it steady, she looked as if, throughout her ordeal, a small part of her mind had remained lucid enough to fantasize about getting even. Normally, at close range, there wasn’t any trick to using the gun. Even though she knew nothing about pistols, all she had to do was look down the barrel and pull the trigger.
But she was drugged, and she’d already missed once, and now she mustered her concentration, her eyes dark above her hollow cheeks. The twin vision of her nightmare—two Peteys, two Brads—must have threatened the little sanity she had left.
“Help me,” Petey said. “I came here to save you. Shoot him.”
She hesitated, then turned the gun toward me.
“Please, Kate, don’t,” I said.
I watched her finger tighten on the trigger.
“Shoot him,” Petey said.
“I love you, Kate.”
“I’m your husband. Do what I tell you,” Petey said.
She turned toward Petey and shot him in the face.
She took a step closer, pulled the trigger, and this time missed. So she stumbled closer, until she was on top of him. At point—blank range, she shot him in the chest. The next bullet burst his throat. She didn’t aim at those parts. They just happened to be where the barrel wavered. She shot and kept shooting, too close not to hit him somewhere, his shoulder, his knees, his groin, riddling his body, until all fifteen bullets in the magazine had been expended and the slide on top of the pistol stayed back.
Tears rolled down her face.
I managed to stand.
But as I approached her, wanting to hold her, she staggered back in fright. She raised the pistol again and pulled the trigger repeatedly. Nothing happened. The gun was empty. But if there’d been any rounds left, she’d have killed me.
I tried to make a reassuring gesture. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you.”
But the dark frenzy in her eyes told me that she didn’t believe me.
“I won’t touch you,” I said. “But please let me help you. Please.” I felt heat behind me. I heard a crackling roar and looked over my shoulder at the fire. “We have to get out of here.”