“Man is the hunter; woman is his game.”

She woke suddenly, not knowing where she was or what had woken her, until the prickly needles scratching her face and neck and the evergreen scent reminded her. She was so battered even breathing hurt. Welts of pain across her chest and stomach felt like she’d been whipped. Her left wrist throbbed like pain had a heartbeat. Something had woken her. She forced herself to be still and listen.

Leaves crunched. A stick broke. A man’s voice said, “Well, someone has been through here. See?”

“Not unless the deer around here wear shoes. Look.” A light swept back and forth, sifting through the branches in broken yellow streaks, like car lights through venetian blinds. “…starting here she was crawling. See those rounded indentations? Knees. And bleeding, too. See those drops?”

The other man gave a snort of laughter. “Tom, you’re a veritable Chingatchgook, you know that?”

But the other man was still talking. “Poor kid. After what happened, who can blame her for running? I’d run, too.”

“Yeah. Our girl’s got guts, getting herself as far away as she could, even if she had to crawl. But where the hell is she?”

Jenny liked inventing people from their voices. Conversations overheard in dressing rooms, talk drifting over restaurant partitions, people on the street and in lobbies. Right now it was better than thinking about pain. The deep, rumbly voice, she decided, was a very big man. Older. Probably graying. Comfortable with command but instinctively given to teaching. Not arrogant about position. The other man was younger, smaller, his voice lighter and more gentle. More impatient and impulsive, too, but empathic. And educated. Possibly too sensitive for his job. She also knew they were cops looking for her.

She wanted to be found and taken someplace warm and safe. Somewhere she could wash her face and kill this pain, could close her eyes and rest. But she didn’t know if she could trust anyone. Not anymore. The woman who’d called herself Nina had pretended to be nice and then someone had followed her and run her off the road. She didn’t know who “they” were, so she didn’t know how to protect herself. Even if these men were cops, and cops are supposed to be your friends, cops worked for the government, and she was sure government, at least politicians, were behind this.

Maybe she’d watched too many of Drew’s chase movies. The normal accident victim doesn’t refuse help from the cops. But the normal accident victim is usually the victim of an accident. She was not. She was living a chase movie, running from strangers who had already killed, or tried to kill, two members of her family. However enticing rescue was, however desperate she was to stop this pain, she’d stay put. When she could, she’d walk out of here, or crawl, if necessary, find out where she was, and call Britt. Britt would come, no matter what, just for the adventure of the thing.

Eventually she’d have to call Dandy, too, and give him the sad news about his car. Dandy was a generous man. Maybe it would be enough for him that she was safe. And she was supposed to report the accident to the police and Dandy’s insurance company, too. It wouldn’t sound so benign if she said, “I’m calling to report an attempted murder.”

“I’d better get some more guys up here searching,” the second voice said. A radio crackled. She heard the indistinct mumble of his voice, and then, more clearly, “Looks like it’s going to rain again.”

She had a cramp in her leg, the kind that goes from clenched fist painful to code red agony unless it’s dealt with. Slowly she tried to unbend it, her mouth buried in her sleeve in case she made noise. Just that slight movement and her body came alive with shooting pains. She groaned. The flashlight turned her way like a pain-seeking missile.

“You hear that?” the rumbly voice asked.

She closed her eyes, trying to stay still as their feet crashed through the brush around her. Don’t come any closer, she thought childishly. Go away and leave me alone.

The branches above her crackled and snapped as hands pulled them apart. A flashlight beam stabbed through her clenched lids. “Here she is! Over here! Tom! I’ve got her.” The younger guy, eager and excited. She sensed him bending down until he was close enough to touch her. Felt his cold hand on her neck, looking for a pulse. She flinched and opened her eyes, another involuntary groan drawn out of her. How could she possibly run from them when every move hurt?

He settled back on his heels. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t be scared. I’m Joe. Joe Trask. I’m here to help you. I’m a cop.”

Doesn’t he know that’s one of the common lies? Trust me, I’m a cop. “Do you have…” God. It even hurt to talk. “…identification?”

He looked surprised but pulled out a badge.

“Closer,” she whispered. “Where I can see it please.” He trained the light on it. It looked real enough. “Thanks.” She closed her eyes again.

“She’s conscious?” The one he’d called Tom came crashing up to them now, bending down with his own light to confirm her existence.

Joe mumbled an affirmative.

“Can she talk?”

“A little. She seems pretty weak, though. Weak or hurting badly. Can you believe it? She asked to see my badge.”

Tom bent closer now, close enough so his breath ruffled her hair and she could smell aftershave. Close enough so she could feel his body heat. She wanted to wrap it around herself. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jenny.”

“I’m Tom. Where are you hurt, Jenny?”

She could tell he was itching to get her out where he could do a more thorough inspection. “Everywhere,” she said. “Please don’t touch me.”

“We want to get you out of these woods before it rains. Get you to a hospital where they can take care of you. Do you remember what happened?”

Cold raindrops splashed her face. “Yes.”

“Damn!” the one called Joe muttered. “And my raincoat’s in the car.”

“What happened to you?” The big man sounded like he had all the time in the world.

“I was forced off the road by a car. Rammed.” She put her arm over her face to keep off the rain. There was more but it was too hard. Talking meant breathing. Breathing meant pain. She was no stranger to pain. She’d played field hockey and soccer, gone through the rigorous sports conditioning programs that, thanks to Title IX, were available to girls as well as boys. Been kicked in the back of the knee, whacked with sticks, shouldered, elbowed, knocked heads trying to reach the ball. She was no fragile blossom, but this was bad.

Branches crackled as he knelt beside her, his hands working their way under her body. “Now I’m going to pick you up.”

“No!”

“I’ll try not to hurt you.”

“But you can’t help it,” she whispered, pleading, trying to roll away from his hands. “Everything hurts.” It wouldn’t make any difference. They were certain they knew what was right. It would be wrong to leave her lying here in the rain. Their job was carrying her to safety. Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d die when he picked her up and she wouldn’t have to know about the rest. “Watch my wrist, please. I think it’s broken.”

He slid an arm under her shoulders and another under her knees and lifted. Her scream startled him so much he almost dropped her. She felt the hesitation in his arms, the sudden forward motion of his body. “There now, Jenny,” he murmured. “There now. Be brave. It won’t be long before we get you back where people can help you.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for a stretcher?” Joe asked.

“Leave her out in this rain another forty minutes? It’ll take at least that long. You walk beside me and light the way. She’s just a little bit of a thing. Light as a feather. And don’t forget her purse.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Isn’t that just like a woman? Rolls over five or six times, crawls out of a burning car, blood pouring down her face, and she remembers to bring her purse.”

She wanted to hit him but she was too busy trying not to scream. Setting her jaw and biting her lip, her swinging arm a pendulum of pain. “Please,” she said. “My arm.”

The man named Joe carefully folded her swinging arm onto her chest and the one named Tom tilted her so it wouldn’t roll loose.

After a while she got used to it, burying her face in his chest to stifle her moans. He was very gentle, holding his arms like a cradle to soften the jarring, when it would have been easier to carry her tight against his body. He was a very big man, just as Joe was the smaller, slender one, and he strode along so rapidly, even with his extra burden, that Joe was panting.

Eventually they reached the highway and a milling crowd, flashing lights, a fire truck, and an ambulance. A chaos of voices assaulted her ears. The bright lights hurt her eyes. She closed them and buried her face in his chest again. “Okay, Jenny, we’re going to put you in the ambulance now. I know it’s going to hurt. I’ll do my best.”

He handed her over to the ambulance attendants, got her purse from Joe, and climbed in beside her. She heard the two of them conferring. Then Joe left, the doors were shut and they were rolling through the night. The attendants began by asking her name and if she knew what had happened.

“The bad guys didn’t win,” she said. She could tell they didn’t get it.

They moved on to pulse and blood pressure and shining little lights in her eyes, running prying fingers over her body, tugging her clothes this way and that as they assessed the extent of the damage. It was intrusive and painful and not at all comforting. As they dealt with her body, doing embarrassing things and exposing her to cold air and the watching cop’s eyes, she moved away from things she couldn’t control and on to things she might—like what to do when she got to the hospital. She needed a bed, some quiet, and something to kill the pain. What she’d get was more of what she was getting. She’d be poked, prodded, punctured, questioned and exposed. Almost certainly separated from her purse and clothes.

So far, all the big trooper had done with her purse was set it on the floor, but the time would come when they’d go through her things and find her mother’s diary. Protecting that diary was critical. If she clung to her purse and made a fuss, it would focus their attention exactly where she didn’t want it focused. So what was she going to do?

“Ouch!” Her scream startled the man who was manipulating her wrist. She felt like throwing up. “Please,” she begged. “I don’t know what you just did, but don’t do it again.”

She waited for the sickness to pass, forcing herself to plan. When she got to the hospital, the first thing she’d do was ask for the chaplain. She couldn’t think of anyone else who might not be in league with the bad guys. It wasn’t unreasonable for someone who’d nearly been murdered to need spiritual reassurance. She could only hope the chaplain believed in confidentiality. They were supposed to, but she looked young, and people were less likely to honor the rules when it came to kids.

If that happened, she’d move on to plan B, as yet unmade.

The EMT did something to her wrist again that really hurt. The intensity of the pain scared her. Could someone hurt this much and not be seriously injured? Everything inside her felt scrambled and broken. She held her good hand out toward the cop. “It hurts so much,” she said. “I’m scared.”

“You’re okay now,” he said, taking her small cold hand in his big warm one. “We’re going to take care of you. No one’s going to hurt you. Now, can you tell me anything about the car that hit you?”

She tried to remember. She’d been watching those headlights in her rearview mirror. Concentrating on them so hard she’d barely noticed the other vehicle coming up on her so fast. “There was a car following me. I was watching it so I didn’t see the second one. It came up so fast. It was big, like a Suburban, and dark. Wait. It was a Toyota. Landcruiser. He hit me hard. Twice. First time, I did okay. The second, I couldn’t keep the car on the road and then I was rolling over and over and over. I was afraid I was going to die.”

She took a long, shuddering breath. Sometimes having a vivid memory wasn’t a blessing. She was back in the car, being thrown around, seeing through the cracking windshield as the car rolled and headlights illuminated the topsy-turvy landscape. She felt her head banging against the window, her wrist coming loose from the wheel and slamming against everything, her shins and ankles knocking against things. Her body repeatedly thrown against the seatbelt, jerked and wrenched in all directions. The final crash, metal groaning as the car hit bottom and came to rest upside down. The sound of metal twisting. The clatter of broken glass. Disoriented, terrified, fumbling herself free, dropping onto the roof and crawling out the window through a sea of glass.

“I was afraid they’d come after me. I was afraid the car would burn. I tried to get away. Far enough so no one could find me.”

“Poor Jenny,” he said. “No wonder you were scared. But we couldn’t leave you out there in the rain and cold.”

She gripped his hand more tightly. “Everything hurts.”

“I’m sure it does. Seat belts and airbags save lives but they can leave nasty bruises. You won’t believe this, but you’re a very lucky girl.”

Because she wasn’t badly hurt? How did they know? And taken in the larger context, it was laughable.

“The car you were driving wasn’t yours,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

She’d meant to be cooperative and sweet and vulnerable, so he’d be inclined to indulge her when they got to the hospital and she asked for a chaplain. “I b… borrow… borrowed… f… from…” she began. She couldn’t get the words out. When she took a breath to speak, pain surged everywhere. “S… s… s… sorry. I can’t.”

Self-control fluttered away like bits of confetti. Killed her uncle. Tried to kill her mother. Tried to kill her. Tried to KILL her. One deep, quavering breath and the sobs came bursting out, wave after wrenching, shuddering wave. Just what she wanted to do before an audience of strangers, flat on her back in the glare of lights, helpless as a bug on a pin. This was what she’d planned to release when she was finally safe and alone. Not here. Not like this.

“Someone… tried to… k… k… kill… kill me… and I… I… I’m so… scared.” She turned her head sideways, trying to hide her face.

The big cop stopped trying to gather information, slid one thigh onto the edge of the stretcher, and pulled her gently against his chest. Ignoring the attendants’ protests, he folded his arms around her, chanting a rumbling mantra of “it’s okay,” into her hair. It was a long time before her tears were spent, and when the sobs subsided, she was more exhausted than she’d ever known.

When he released her, his movements so tender and careful, she slipped into a daze. Neither unconscious nor conscious. Falling into a deep, quiet place. Maybe they’d given her some drug, something to relieve the pain. Something that was stealing her wits, her consciousness, her will. It was too soon. Later, when she’d taken care of business, it would be fine. But she needed her mind a little longer.

Like a peasant gleaning for bits of grain, she searched through her body for bits of energy, gathering them for the task ahead. It was desperately hard work. She wanted to give up. But not yet. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay awake as the ambulance door burst open and she was carried inside.