They listened, but it was quiet once again. When they resumed walking, the rustling started again. Joe heard Kathleen’s breathing beside him; she’d moved next to him. She whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Probably just a squirrel,” Joe said loudly, more to assuage Kathleen’s fears than anything else. He whispered into her ear, “Or some teenagers trying to freak us out. Let’s keep going.”
Her fingers trembling, she took his hand and kept the flashlight ahead of them. They went more slowly this time but kept a steady pace. Joe breathed easier upon seeing the rowboat at the end of the path. They were nearly there when they heard the stomping of heavy boots in the underbrush and the crash of someone coming out of the trees. The intruder came running at full speed and slammed into Joe, who was knocked to the ground with a force that took his breath away.
Kathleen screamed, and the attacker turned and went after her, smacking the flashlight out of her hand and pushing her down. The man was somewhat visible now—a large guy in dark clothing wearing a black ski mask. Joe was halfway to standing when the man returned, pulling him to his feet. From behind, the masked man put him in a choke hold, his arm tight around Joe’s neck. Joe felt something metal and cylindrical pressed against his temple. A gun. It had to be.
Overcome by terror, he forced out the words: “What is it that you want? Money? In my back pocket . . .”
The man spoke quietly. “Shut up.”
Kathleen got up and held her hands in the surrender position. With the flashlight on the ground, she was only a dim outline, but it was clear she saw the gun pressed against Joe’s head. “Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him. I have jewelry. My earrings are antique. Real pearls. I have money too. I’m going to slowly open my purse and get my money out for you.” Kathleen opened her purse and began to rifle through it.
Joe heard a growl in his ear and the man’s voice saying, “Tell her to take the boat and leave. If she stays, I’ll kill you first and then rape her.”
His heart knocking, Joe found his voice. “Kathleen, listen to me. You need to get in the rowboat and go back to the dance. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not leaving.”
The gun pressed tighter against Joe’s head, making him wince in pain. “Kathleen, believe me, you need to go, or he’s going to kill me.” Joe felt strangely detached, as if he were watching all this happen to someone else. It was confusing and crazy and horrible. He was in this vise grip, held prisoner by a complete stranger for no reason he could discern. On occasion, he’d considered how it was he might die, but he’d never imagined it would be like this.
She hesitated. “But if I go . . .”
“Please, Kathleen, I’m begging you. I’ll be fine. Please go.”
Without a word, she ran down the path, and a minute or so later, he heard the scrape of the boat being pushed away from the shore and the splash of the oars in the water. As soon as Joe knew she was safe, he began to struggle, trying to break free. Death was a foregone conclusion, whether he objected or not. He wasn’t giving up without a fight.
The way this man appeared out of nowhere, his frightening strength, and the presence of a gun brought back the terror of the Death Dream, with the added horror of having it happen in real life. Perhaps only a minute or so had passed since Kathleen had left—it was hard to say—but the gun was pressed so hard against his head, it felt like it was boring a hole in his skull. “Stop it,” Joe said, twisting his body. His voice seemed to remind the man of his existence, and he suddenly dragged Joe down the path.
When they got to the clearing, he threw Joe down on the ground and stomped on his chest. Pain shot through him as he heard the sickening crack of his breaking ribs. Looking up, Joe saw the man in outline standing over him, the gun pointed straight at him. The man mocked him with his own words. “‘Please, Kathleen, I’m begging you.’ You are pathetic.”
Joe forced words out through the pain. “What do you want?”
“You think you’re so great. You’re nothing. You’re scum.”
In agony, he clutched his front and said, “If I agree, can we end this?”
“Shut up!” He kicked at Joe’s legs. “You don’t talk unless I say you can.”
Joe’s mind raced, calculating how long it would take for Kathleen to get back to the other side of the lake and return with help. Half an hour? That was wishful thinking. It would certainly take longer than that. And who would she bring back with her? Any of the young men at the dance might be able to help. But against a madman with a gun?