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He woke up lying with his torso on wet dirt and his lower extremities submerged in water. Wherever he was, it was pitch black and smelled of dead wood, mud, and something musty. His shoulder throbbed with pain, and he felt hot. He pushed back into the water and almost cried when the pain from his multiple wounds ripped through his body. He lowered his head below the surface, it felt cool and refreshed him. Where the hell am I?

He pushed himself out of the water and onto the muddy shelf. He lay back and remembered the bitch shooting him then the plunge into the water. He sank to the bottom and saw the dark mound. He clawed his way inside and remembered gasping for air and then feeling around until he felt the muddy shelf. With the memory came the knowledge of his location. He was inside the beaver lodge—the musty stink he smelled was probably beaver shit.

Fischer knew that as much as he’d like to stay where he was, he had to get out of there. He rolled back into the water and found the short tunnel that led to the entrance. It took his last reserve of strength to stretch his ravaged torso. He was unable to raise his left arm, so he swam with his right hand in front and, for a brief moment, panicked when he encountered an obstruction. With strength he didn’t think he had, Fischer clawed at the obstacle, all the while fighting back the terror every fisherman had of death by drowning. He wedged his feet into the soft mud bottom and surged forward, kicking hard, and the blockage fell away.

Fischer pulled himself out of the narrow opening and swam to the surface. He broke out of the grasp of the inky water and swam to the dam. He crawled out of the pond, collapsing on the narrow path that fishermen had made along the dam top.

He was unaware of how long he lay on the top of the barrier. But when he felt he had recovered sufficiently, he crawled to the swamp that surrounded the downstream side. He grabbed the trunk of a tree and pulled himself to his feet and stood beside the pond. After the primordial darkness of the beaver hut, the silhouette of which he could see clearly, the night seemed brilliant. The moon had yet to elevate over the trees, but there was enough light for him to walk. He found a one-inch-round stick that would serve as a staff and hobbled away from the dam to the base of the short cliff from which he’d tumbled.

Several times he wrenched his damaged shoulder as he scaled the ledge. He knew that the cops had most likely left someone in the area, and he stifled the desire to cry in agony. When he reached the summit, he laid on the ground. Both of his shoulders were fucked—one with the infected wound from the gaff and the other from the bullet—and he was sure that blood and pus seeped from them, as well as from the wounds in his back and side. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew in which direction the road lay. Once he was there, he knew how to get back to Howe Brook, where his wife surely awaited his return. As he started the trek to his sister’s, he thought of the bitch who had done so much damage to him. He pushed his pain aside by planning and visualizing the ways he was going to punish her once he had her.

He was also aware that it was suicidal to remain where he was; he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the beaver pond. Moving slowly so he wouldn’t draw the attention of any cops in the area, it took most of his remaining strength to walk back to the road.

It was daylight when Fischer arrived at Howe Brook. He hid in the forest and saw a strange vehicle in the yard. He sat against a tree and fought against his desire to sleep. His ravaged body screamed for rest, but he couldn’t allow it.

He burned with a fiery fever and had no idea how long he remained in a semi-comatose state beneath the tree before Ernestine came out of her cabin. He tried to call out, but all he could manage was a hoarse croaking sound that was immediately lost in the sound of the wind through the trees.

His first thought was to make his sister pay for betraying him. Then he realized that he was too weak to confront her. He needed to find someplace where he could hide . . . and heal. There would come a day when he could get even with them all: Ernestine, the bitch, and his unfaithful wife.