Sims was sitting nearby on a stump, trying to explain to Tom why it wasn't a good idea to continue trying to pursue Greta on his own. "We're going to find Davis, and you two can team up again. We'll explain to him how important it is for you two to stick together."

"Well, you'll have to explain it to him very loud," said McTeague sourly. "He's dead. Two hunters just found him turning cold in Deerkill Creek, just upstream from the Rill."

"Damn," said Sims, his eyes narrowing.

"Really, he's dead?" said Tom. "How'd it happen?" He sounded more curious than upset.

"Not sure how it happened. I want you and Sims to get over there and take a look. I've got other business to attend to."

After Sims and Tom left, McTeague radioed Loopy. "I'm on the way over there," he said, "but I've got a problem I need you to handle. A couple of hunters will be bringing that girl named Tiffany. They've chickened out. They want to let her go." He paused, then continued, "Yes, it is very funny, indeed. Downright hilarious. But we've got to humor them. I know you roughed her up a bit last night, but I want you to be very courteous with her and them. Promise them she'll be okay. Tell them if they have any questions, I'll be at the bunkhouse in a few minutes."

He began walking at a brisk pace. Anyone watching him would have been impressed that a man so broad could move so swiftly, and with such a spring in his step. But inside, McTeague was weighed down with worry. A hunter dead. Two others who wanted to welsh on their deal with the Ranch. And a cunt on the run who could be dangerous. When he arrived at the bunkhouse, he found Loopy sitting on the steps. He had a big grin on his face, and he was holding a rope that was tied around Tiffany's slim neck. Another rope held her wrists together behind her. Her eyes were red from crying, and there was a welt on her left cheek.

"Where are our mighty hunters?"

"I done what you told me, Mr. McTeague," said Loopy. "I told them we'd keep her here a while, then let her go. And the sorry sons-a-bitches believed it. Just shook my hand sort of apologetically and headed for the hotel. The cunt here started wailing, of course, but they seemed glad to be rid of her."

"How'd did they catch you?" McTeague asked, turning to Tiffany.

She looked down and said softly, "I turned my ankle. They were right behind me."

"So, did they shoot you with a tranquilizer dart?"

"No, they just ran up and asked if I was okay. They were real gentlemen. Unlike this son-of-a-bitch." She glared angrily at Loopy.

McTeague sighed heavily. "What a day. What a thoroughly rotten day." He removed his hat and scratched his head. What should he do with her? If he killed her here, he or Loopy would have to carry her to the Abattoir. He decided to make her walk. Sure, the going would be slow with her twisted ankle, and she'd hear the screams of the others when they got close. But that might not be all bad. It's not like she would be able to run away.

In fact, why not give her a full tour of the facilities, including the annex where Distruggio collected his grisly harvest? And the pad outside, where the Medical Center helicopter came in to pick up its precious cargo. She had been troublesome from the start. Let her suffer and die with full knowledge of what was in store for her lovely little body. And since her hunters had no stomach for the job, he would do it himself with his bare hands. No whips or ropes or chains. No knives or electrified dildos. Just good, solid punches, with Loopy holding her upright. He needed a workout.



# # #



When Greta reached the second bunkhouse, she saw the fence gleaming about a hundred yards beyond it. Too close, she thought. The steel collar around her neck didn't tingle or give any other indication that it might be activating. But why take a chance? Her stomach told her why. She was weak with hunger. She had found a granola bar in the pocket of Davis's jacket and had eaten it greedily, but that hadn't come close to satisfying her.

The bunkhouse appeared deserted. Maybe there was a kitchen inside, with a pantry full of food. She tried a door on the near side. It was locked. But maybe she could find an unlocked window. She moved quietly around the building, reaching up and trying each window. No luck.

As she walked along the north side, she grew nervous. Here, she was closest to the fence. She wondered if, in some security building far away, an alarm was sounding and men were grabbing guns. Then, as she reached the east side of the building, she saw something that drove away all thought of danger: a small wagon, the kind she had seen earlier being pulled by electric carts. It was filled with cardboard boxes. She ripped one open. Toilet paper, roll after roll of it. She tried another. More toilet paper.

Then she spotted a plastic box with a blue lid. Inside were jars of olives, cocktail onions and maraschino cherries, and two cans of peanuts. She clutched the box to her chest and headed back into the woods to enjoy her feast.



# # #



Greta's worry about setting off an alarm had been justified. McTeague had just finished beating Tiffany to a bloody pulp when his radio beeped. It was Security. They had picked up a brief signal from the north fence near Bunkhouse Two, then nothing. Silence.

She must have realized she was too close, McTeague thought. Clever lass. So now she would probably head back down the Rill, where there was plenty of tree cover. Maybe Sims could intercept her. Except he was with Fat Tommy, and that would slow him down. He flipped the radio to Sims's channel and beeped. Sims quickly responded. He was no longer at the creek. He and Tom, with some help from a security detail, had carried Davis's body to the infirmary.

That meant no one was close to where Greta likely was headed. Damn. The bitch had been trouble from the get-go. He'd just have to try to find her himself. And he'd take Loopy along for company.

"What's your choice, Loopy, darts or the shotgun?"

"Don't matter to me, Mr. McTeague," said Loopy. "I'm not so much interested in shooting her as getting her down and fucking her to death."

"Then let's give it our best," said McTeague, slapping him on the shoulder. By God, he loved joining in the hunt, even though that prig Sims disapproved.



# # #



But McTeague had guessed wrong. Greta had not headed back down the Rill, at least not very far. About half a mile from the bunkhouse she headed west, climbing a steep, heavily wooded hill. As best she could tell from the map, this hill would curve southwest and then south, the ground rising all the way. The southern face seemed to be the highest spot at the Ranch.

She stopped after about half an hour and sat on a broad stone that formed a bench projecting from the hillside. She opened a bottle of olives and ate them all, followed by a handful of peanuts. Now she wished she had explored the supply wagon more carefully. It would have been nice to have a Diet Pepsi or even a beer. Oh, well, she'd have to make do with the fluids the olives and onions and cherries were packed in.

It was peaceful on the hillside. Birds were chirping, ground squirrels scurried busily, and at one point she had seen a doe through the trees. The deer looked at her intently, as if trying to read her mind - or send her a message - then it fled in graceful leaps.

Buzzards wheeled high above her. The cleanup crew, Greta thought. Dirty work, but someone's got to do it.

She put the empty olive jar back into the box and continued climbing the hill. The woods now were mostly pines. Nice smell, she thought. When she reached the crest, she found she had a great view of the Ranch - at least the southern half of it. But since the south face of the hill dropped off in a steep cliff, and she was at the edge of it, anyone looking up from below wouldn't have much trouble spotting her, too. Still, she found it difficult to tear herself away. How could such horrors occur in such a beautiful place? Here were hills and forests full of birds and deer - and madmen. What a puzzle.

She heard someone yell in the distance. It was a man, down in the valley near the stream. Had he seen her? Who was he calling to? She froze. Would moving simply draw attention to her atop this cliff? Maybe they hadn't seen her yet.

Two other men came out of the woods and joined the first. They seemed to be looking up at her, but how could she tell from this distance? Then they turned and headed south, away from her. She sank slowly to her knees and exhaled. Thank God.



# # #



The setting sun cast long shadows across the path from the bunkhouse to the hotel. Sims and McTeague were quarrelling.

"She's not going anywhere," said Sims. "I mean, this is a big place, but it's a 5,200-acre prison. She can't get off the premises without us knowing. What's more, she hasn't had any food. She's getting weaker and weaker. Let's take our time and do a thorough search."

"I don't like it," countered McTeague. "She's not the helpless creature you make her out to be. She killed Davis. I don't know how, but she killed him. And she's managed to avoid being seen for nearly eight hours now. We checked her background some more. She did a lot of camping. Even hunted with her grandfather when she was a kid. I say we let the dogs go after her."

"I'm not against using dogs," said Sims. "But not your bloody mastiffs. They're a danger to everyone at the Ranch. I know a fellow in McDowell County who has a couple of outstanding Plott hounds. I'll give him a call and see if they're available."

"And what if they track her down and she does to them what she did to Davis? Did you think of that? Say what you will about my mastiffs, Ginger and Jeebies aren't going to end up losers in a fight. If they find her - when they find her - they'll rip that slut apart."

"Okay," said Sims, wearily. "But just give me a chance with the hounds first. If they're not available, or if they try and fail, then Ginger and Jeebies can have their fun." And so can you, he thought to himself.