He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the supply wagon. She murmured incoherently. "Quiet, honey," he said softly. "You're going to be okay. Just be real quiet." He covered her with a bed sheet, but within seconds blood had seeped through. He grabbed a dark blue woolen blanket and spread it over her. Then he started up the cart and headed for an abandoned cabin he used for assignations with several women on the staff. No one came around the cabin except him and his occasional lovers, and he would gladly forego lovemaking until he had nursed Greta back to health.

Somewhere in the woods dogs were barking, then Troy heard someone scream for help. You're on your own, buddy, he thought. I've done all the rescuing I'm going to do today.



# # #



The mastiffs weren't especially adept at tracking game, but this was an easy assignment. The trail was fresh and the scent overpowering. They loped along, slowing occasionally to sniff the ground or piss on a bush, and within a few minutes they spotted a fat human walking ahead.

Tom turned and froze when he heard the first bark. Two huge dogs were headed straight for him.

"Down boy, down boy. Holy shit! HELP!"

Those were his last words. What followed were wild gurgles and screams, as the dogs did their deadly work. One attacked his face and throat. The other went for where the scent from Greta's shorts was strongest. Tom's jugular and testicles were severed at almost the same instant.



# # #



It had been eight days since Greta had fled into the woods, trailing blood. Eight days of intensive searching. And nothing.

"This is unacceptable," said C. Marston Moulton, chairman of the foundation that owned the Ranch. He was also vice chairman of the Medical Center and senior partner in one of the state's most powerful law firms. He was presiding at a meeting of the executive committee and the senior staff in a conference room at the Ranch.

"We've lost two hunters and now a hunt master. And we can't find a helpless, injured young cunt. We're not dealing here with Wonder Woman, for Christ's sake. What the hell kind of outfit is this?"

McTeague squirmed in his chair and was about to speak. But Jimbo Robbins, head of security, saw an opening. "The way I see it, Mr. Moulton, she's most likely dead. Mr. McTeague says he stabbed her pretty deep. I suspect she wandered off into the woods and bled to death. By now the coyotes and raccoons and buzzards and all the other birdies and beasties have pretty much stripped away all the soft parts."

"Very graphic, Mr. Robbins," said Moulton. "Thank you for sharing - especially just before lunch. But if we want to be grisly, consider this: If she is, in fact, a rotting corpse, how come the Plott hounds that the late and unlamented Mr. Sims finally brought in from McDowell County didn't find her? How come the bloodhounds I had shipped in from Tennessee failed as well?"

Robbins fell silent.

"Mr. Moulton," said McTeague. "I'm as upset as you are at how things turned out. Especially the loss of Tom Dishman to the mastiffs. I told Sims it was a bad idea, turning the dogs loose. It wasn't their fault. It was just a case of bad human judgment."

"It certainly was," said Moulton, "though I still think Sims should have been given a chance to defend himself to the board. Your summary execution looks to me like a case of bad judgment, too."

McTeague's face reddened, but he didn't respond.

"Well, that's all water over the dam, sir," said Robbins. He was enjoying McTeague's discomfort and wanted to exploit what looked like a possible opening for advancement. "Our goal now is to find her and, if she's alive, kill her. The collar she's wearing cannot be removed without a key, at least not without removing her head." He chuckled, but no one else smiled. "It has a tiny transmitter," he continued, "and when radio units attached to the steel fence posts pick up the signal, they amplify it and send it to Security. My suggestion is that we remove several of those fence post units and carry them through the woods, sector by sector, and see if we get a beep."

Moulton thought this over and said, "Good idea. How long do the batteries in the collars last?"

Robbins triumphant smile faded. "I don't know, sir. We always change them before each hunt. I'll find out." He turned to Loopy, who was sitting against a wall. "Go get the specs on the Q-3 system, will you? They're on top of my desk."

"If I may," said McTeague, "I'd like to suggest another step, a complementary step. We've checked all the buildings, of course, except those used by staff. I'm not making any accusations, but it's possible someone on staff is hiding her. It's unlikely, but let's make sure."

"I'm surprised you haven't already done that," said Moulton. "Well, by all means, get on with it. And if anyone did, in fact, help this young woman, they must be terminated, too."

"Of course," said McTeague.

The conversation shifted to other topics, including how to deal with increasingly insistent questions from the survivors of the two hunters. Already, there was talk of lawsuits.

Loopy returned and handed a folder to Robbins. Robbins examined them and appeared shaken. "Five days, six at most," he said, almost in a whisper. "The batteries in the collar are probably spent."

Moulton took a sip from a glass of ice water and said, "That means she might not be on premises at all. She could have gotten past the fence without our knowing."

"That's unlikely, sir," Robbins said defensively. "She was hurt bad, and she would have had to get through coiled razor wire. She would've been sliced to pieces."

Moulton rose. "I'm tired of excuses and might-have-beens. I want results. I want the bereaved families satisfied - without shelling out a lot of money. I want our whole security system overhauled. And I want that cunt found. Fast."



# # #



Greta's recovery was slow but steady. The infirmary nurse, Roberta, would do anything for Parris, and frequently had. Now she gave him antibiotics, bandages and pills for pain and fever. She had even slipped over to the cabin one evening to put stitches in the wound in Greta's leg and to bandage her behind.

"She's got a nice ass," Roberta said with a wry smile. "You spend much time there?"

"I hardly know her, Bobbie," said Parris. "I mean, okay, I did screw her once, the first day she was here, but that's all. I brought her here because I just felt sorry for her. Jesus Christ, you can't just let someone get eaten by buzzards. Especially when they're still alive."

On the day the board and senior staff were meeting in the conference room, Parris had slipped over to the cabin with a plastic container full of tomato and artichoke soup and several chicken sandwiches. Greta's appetite had returned, though she was still weak and shaky. After lunch, as Parris sat in a rocking chair, Greta knelt before him and gave him a long, slow blow job. It was the best he'd ever had. Then he took her to bed, and gently licked her pussy until she came. He wanted to lie next to her and sleep the afternoon away, but he was scheduled to go on duty at the desk at two o'clock. A corporate board retreat was to begin that evening, and guests would be checking in all afternoon.

When he closed and locked the front door of the cabin, he saw McTeague and Loopy approaching.

"Hello, Troy," said McTeague. "What brings you here?"

"The usual," Parris said, blushing.

"Anyone we know?" McTeague asked, teasingly.

"Yes, but I'm too much of a gentleman to tell."