I remember how Du Pont camouflaged the van with a net, leaves, and branches.

I strip off the dress so I’m naked again. I wad it up and hide it in the mud. Then I keep crawling. While I crawl, I deliberately get as muddy as possible. I smear dirt in my hair and on my skin.

I’m coming to the edge of the meadow. I look for the deepest darkest, thickest brush. Somewhere I can hide. Somewhere I can move unseen.

I’ll have to get out of this channel and run across open ground. I know as soon as I break cover, Du Pont might shoot me. But if I stay where I am, he’s sure to track me down. He saw where I dropped. He knows I haven’t moved far.

I take three deep breaths to steady my racing heart.

Then I burst up from the grass and run toward the woods. I drop and slide under the bushes, like a baseball player sliding into home plate. Right as I drop, a bullet whistles over my head, embedding itself in the trunk of an elm.

I lay still in the thick brush, gasping for breath. Waiting for more bullets.

None come. He missed me. And he can’t see me now.

But I’m sure he’s already chasing after me.

I wait thirty more seconds, catching my breath. Then I jump up and start running again.

42

Dante

When Simone breaks cover, my natural inclination is to watch and see where she runs. But I force myself to look in the opposite direction, to search for Du Pont instead. Sure enough, I see a muzzle flash over on the far side of the meadow as he fires at her.

I shoulder my rifle, searching for him through the scope. I know where he shot from. I just have to find him.

I can’t see anything. I’m looking, looking, my eyes straining for the slightest motion. Then I spot not a figure, but a shape. The motherfucker is wearing a ghillie suit. It’s brown and shaggy, blending in perfectly with the dark, wet woods.

I fire at him, a fraction of a second too late. I didn’t have his exact position. I missed.

He’s melted away into the woods, circling around to where Simone went down. He’s closer to her than I am. He’ll get there faster.

I start sprinting around the opposite side of the meadow, praying that he didn’t hit her with that shot, praying that she can keep away from him a little longer.

As I’m running, I’m jumping over logs and brush, pushing my way through the forest where there isn’t any path. I’m trying to be quiet, but I’ve got to be fast, too.

What I’m not doing is paying attention.

As I run through the woods, I hit something that feels tense and springy. Before I know what’s happening, a massive log comes swinging down at me, hitting me on the head and shoulder. It throws me through the air, slamming me into a pine.

It’s so sudden that I hardly know what’s happening. I black out for a second, coming around to a ringing in my ears, and hot, wet blood running down the side of my neck.

My right arm hangs down, unresponsive. That fucking log dislocated my shoulder.

It was a deadfall. The kind of trap you set for deer or even cougars. I blundered right into it.

This scares me for two reasons—one, Du Pont just fucked up my firing hand. And two, if there’s one trap, there could be more. Du Pont could be driving Simone right into them.

I’ve got to fix my arm. I’ll be useless without it.

I’ve never dislocated my shoulder before, but I’ve seen it happen to other people. I know I’ve got to pop it back into joint.

Grabbing my limp, flopping wrist in my other hand, I pull my arm forward and up in a hard, jerking motion. Even though I’m trying to stay quiet, I can’t help the roar of pain that comes out of me. My shoulder feels like it’s been doused in gasoline and set ablaze.

Just as abruptly, as it pops back into place, the pain dissipates. It doesn’t feel good—the joint throbs with every heartbeat. But I can move my right hand again.

I have to find my rifle. It went flying when the log hit me. I find it a dozen feet away, spattered with mud, and I check to make sure the barrel is clear of debris. Then I sling it over my shoulder and start jogging again, more carefully now, looking out for other snares.

I hope Raylan’s okay. I haven’t seen any sign of him yet.

I’m coming around to the spot where Simone left the meadow. I slow down, scanning the brush with my scope. I’m looking for her, and also for Du Pont. When you’re searching for somebody you know is camouflaged, you don’t look for color or pattern, or individual features like a face or hands. What you look for is a shape. The rounded shape of shoulders and back.

I look for motion, too. But it’s difficult, because the last leaves clinging to the trees are rustling dryly, the branches are moving in the breeze and the trunks of the thin, spindly saplings are scratching together. There’s birds and squirrels chirping and squeaking, creating echoing noise that bounces around in the confined space.

I see a flock of starlings up in the top of a lightning-blasted pine.

As I approach, the birds look down at me warily, stirring on their perches.

That gives me an idea.

I run at them, swinging my arms in the air.

The whole flock soars up in the air, circling and whirling as a single mass. They fly over the trees, turning one way and another, looking for somewhere safe to come down.

As I watch, they take a hard turn away from a spot in the woods off to the north. They avoid it as one mind, heading in the opposite direction and coming down in another lonely, empty tree instead.

The birds saw something on the ground. Or more accurately, someone . . .

I turn to the north and start running again.

43

Simone

Run, or hide?

That’s the question.

I sprint through the woods, branches and thorns scratching at my bare skin.

I don’t know how to run without leaving a trail. I’m sure I’m smearing mud and blood everywhere I go, leaving footprints and broken branches in my wake. I don’t know how to avoid it.

If I hide, Du Pont will follow my trail, then shoot me.

If I keep running, he’ll see me or hear me.

At least the air is warming up just a little. I’m no longer giving out clouds of breath every time I exhale.

I hear something that sounds like a groan, way off in the woods. I don’t know if it’s animal or human. At this point, I’d prefer an animal.

On the other side of me, much closer, I hear a sharp snap, like a person treading on a twig.

Immediately I drop down behind the closest tree, huddled up as small as I can get, listening.

At first I hear nothing. Just long silence, with the slight hissing of a breeze in the trees.

Then I hear the sound of someone moving, over on my right side. It’s obvious they’re trying to move slowly and quietly, but I hear them all the same. My senses always get stronger when I’m stressed.

On the light breeze, I catch the unmistakable scent of Du Pont’s aftershave.

He’s very, very close.

It’s torture hiding behind this tree. Part of me thinks he’s already spotted me, and he’s closing in. The other part of me believes that my only hope is to stay perfectly still while he passes by.

I close my eyes. I keep my mouth shut. Covered in mud, I’m almost exactly the color of the bark and the soft, loamy ground. Only my white teeth and eyes would give me away.