Page 117 of Nightwatching

As she pushed her blood, her muscles, to do more, more, more, she remembered that she, the sergeant, the camera weren’t the only witnesses. Weren’t the only ones who had seen the Corner.

The children. They’re next. Why else would he come back? And he’ll come back for them.

This shift into thinking of a larger purpose forced her brain away from acting on pure instinct. She felt it slip into its most trained groove, mapping distances, deconstructing space, variables, options unfolding, spinning out in imaginary dimensions and possibilities.

You can’t outrun him.

How far was he behind? How long had he been held back by his surprise at her flight? He would have had to put boots on before chasing after her. Had he delayed long enough to destroy the camera? Probably not. Probably he’d left it behind to pursue her. Probably he was close. Very close.

He’s at best fifty feet behind you. Likely closer. This is it. You’re all alone. No one can help you now.

Run.

Ahead was the trail, its snow-laden trees wrapping around the opening to form a black mouth.

Funnel him in. Swallow him up. Get him where you can see him. This is it. You’re not allowed to fail. This is it. Go.

As she plunged past the gravestones and into the greater, sheltered darkness of the forest trail, she tore off her mittens and let them fall to the snow. She yanked up her coat, not trusting her injured hands to unzip it without slowing her down. She pulled up her sweater, her undershirt, until the skin of her belly and back were exposed as she ran.

He’s just a man. Too confident in his own strength. His superiority. And what he doesn’t know can hurt him. You can do this. Because there’s no choice. Because you’re not allowed to fail.

She stopped abruptly at the darkest point of the trail, the low branch of a huge white pine shadowing her even from moonlight, and whipped around to face the Corner. He was at the opening of the path between thirty and forty feet away, loping so easily, so casually, through the snow toward her that for a moment she saw the mountain lion, the ease with which it, with which this predator, could catch and destroy her. How in a fraction of a moment he could rip apart her hastily sketched plan, her body itself.

“Wait!” she called out, and though her voice was thinned with fear, weakened by exertion, the Corner stopped running at the sound of its plaintive exhaustion. In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression, but outlined as he was by the now-distant lights of the house, she registered a curious tilt of his head, a moonlit spark of the yellow lion eyes on the blankness of the face. She had a flashback to the first time she’d seen him, rimmed in August sunlight.

Around their still figures the cold wind blew through the forest, dropping snow from high branches around them, flakes spinning down her collar and melting on her neck, melting on the awkwardly exposed skin of her stomach and lower back, her coat and sweater and shirt feeling like an odd life preserver rolled up around her middle.

Can he see you? See you enough to wonder what you’re doing?

“Good girl,” he said. “No point in running.”

The Corner began walking toward her.

“I remember you,” she said.

There was a long pause, only the sound of wind between them, and she wasn’t sure if he had heard the whisper of her voice through her heavy breathing, through her asphyxiating terror.

“Sometimes people do,” he said at last, sounding both dismissive and disappointed.

“People?”

His dark form was about twenty-five feet away, still moving slowly. A huge hand extended visible against the white of the snow, the Corner holding it out as though he were approaching a skittish horse. She reached behind her to the cold, hard place at the small of her back.

Can he see? Can he see?

Wait until you can see.

“People,” he echoed. “It’s my height. My size. It makes me memorable. It’s…inconvenient. But it hasn’t mattered.”

As he spoke, she wrapped the shaking fingers of her unhurt hand awkwardly around the cold grip and pulled. With a soft pop the gun came out of the holster clipped to her waistband at the small of her back. She held it tightly, sweaty and warm on the side where it had pressed against her skin while she slept in the tub, while the locksmith and alarm company secured the house, while she drove to and from the repair shop. The gun felt frozen colder than cold where pulling up her clothes had exposed it to air, except for the spot on the grip where she’d stuck one of the yellow and white Band-Aids.

She brought the gun slowly to her side, keeping it as close to her leg as possible to hide it from the Corner’s sight in the shadows. The shakiness of her hand worsened the closer he inched, trembling so violently she saw the linoleum floor of her dorm room. Felt it press against her cheek.

No. Not again. Hold on. Hold tight. Fear is just a physical reaction, as real as a slap to the face, a blow to the skull. You’ve taken that and more already. You have to do it, or you’ll lose, you’ll die. And so will they. This is not about you. He is very, very serious. This is it.

Her thumb pressed the Band-Aid. The feel of that soft stuck-on thing, the knowledge of its bright colors, the reminder of the children, their clean love, made her awful tremor kick down the slightestof notches. Her grip tightened. And still he moved closer, still he might lunge.

No. He’s enjoying himself too much to be quick.

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