She waited a full thirty minutes, counting each slow tedious second as if she were counting individual grains of sand, dropping one by one in an hour glass. Creeping down the backstairs because they creaked less, she halted briefly and listened to the silence of the serene house. The quiet was eerie, almost deafening in its intensity and Blythe felt her heart quicken painfully, hurting her chest, making breathing difficult. Fearful of losing her nerve, she hurried the rest of the way down and strode into the clubroom half expecting Heathe to be awake and waiting, half expecting him to be passed out in a deep alcohol induced slumber.

The heavy sounds of his snoring touched her ears before she reached him and a sense of relief swept over her at the sight of his slumped form. Bracing herself, she sheepishly reached out for the sweater thrown over the back of the love seat. It lifted easily then stopped as if snagged. She gave a light tug but it only stretched. Heathe's snoring stopped and she stood stone still, listening with panic coursing through her nerve endings until the buzz of his even breathing reassured her he was still out. Carefully, she peaked over the small couch and saw the arm of the sweater pinned beneath a massive shoulder. The pocket she sought was by his head, bulging with the keys to the office and hopefully her freedom.

With trepidation, Blythe slid a shaky hand into the pocket of the captive sweater and closed it over the keys. She was becoming more agitated and it was increasingly difficult to keep from being reckless, to force herself to react with slow deliberation. She took a couple of deep breaths and gradually withdrew the keys, clutching them tightly to keep them from jingling.

Tiptoeing into the hall, she rushed to the kitchen where she held them up to the light over the sink. Disappointment consumed her. There were only house keys on the ring, keys to the various rooms. She'd been positive the keys to her car or some other vehicle would have been there. There wasn't even a key marked for the gate as there had been on Nate's keyring nor was there a key to Heathe's Jeep. No help sprang out to her. But suddenly, a tiny beam of hope began to shine through the desolation and taking the keys, she stood before the menacing office door.

One by one, she inserted them into the lock until the sixth one clicked, releasing the deadbolt. Determination, mingling with desperation gave her strength to enter the forbidden room as she walked directly to the desk and switched on its small lamp. Blythe opened a drawer then another and another, rifling through the contents of each, but to no avail. Not once did she feel the cool metal of keys.

"Damn, damn, damn you, Nate," she cursed under her breath, frustration tempting her to slam the last drawer, no longer caring if she woke the sleeping giant in the adjoining room. But common sense grabbed hold of her rash hand, stopping her just as she was about to give the drawer a hefty shove. "Okay, Blythe, get control of yourself," she whispered, taking a deep breath. "Where else would he hide them?" She looked at the phone for the first time and fleetingly pondered calling for help but there wasn't enough time, not if she was going to get safely away from the ranch before Nate returned. Later, she thought, later when I'm a safe distance from here then there'll be plenty of time to use a phone. But she had to hurry now and turning to the gun case, she tried the barred glass doors. They were secured and no key on the ring, she still firmly clutched, was small enough to fit its tiny lock.

Blythe stared at the rifles and guns for a moment and the image of one of the shotguns being used to murder Samantha Stevens and her lover flashed unwillingly through her mind. A shiver ran over her and she shook her head to banish the vision which suddenly haunted her as annoyingly as one of her nightmares. She forced her attention on the long drawer beneath the double doors and pulling, it easily opened, revealing box upon box of shells. Reaching behind them, she groped around in the back where she couldn't see and touched something cold as her hand closed over the barrel of a small pistol. Hastily she pulled it out, part of her feeling protected and reassured, the other part queasy and threatened. Quickly she checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded.

Apprehension again seized her in its crushing grip. What was she to do now? She'd come too far to give up, to turn back. Moving by sheer nervous energy, led by instinct, she switched off the lamp and left the office, diligently locking the door behind her, the revolver still held tightly in her left hand. Placidly, she went upstairs, plumped some pillows then covered them with the bedclothes, making it look as if she lay buried beneath them sleeping. Blythe snatched her purse from the secretary, dropped the gun into it and used the stolen keys to lock the room after her. She flew down the backstairs, no longer able to contain her anxiety and ran from the house into the cold damp night.

The heavy fog tickled her face as she moved through its shrouding mist. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead but she pressed on, occasionally startled by the stark form of a blackjack looming out, its limbs twisting in odd symmetry, its ebony silhouette foreboding against the mystical cloud that blanketed the earth. Somewhere the moon shone, for an eerie silver glimmered through the mist, shimmering off the minute particles of moisture. All this Blythe saw in a detached surreal way as she mindlessly headed toward the stables. She no longer thought, following instead a compulsive need to go there, her heart thudding erratically all the while.

Onward she pushed until a few feet from the stable entrance, springing from the swirling fog like a chariot of rescue was the battered old pickup. As she moved towards it, her spirits soared. But her relief was short lived as an unexpected noise from behind made her stop in her tracks and whirl around. Again the noise, moving faster now, drawing closer with each second. She turned to dash for the truck, her mind spinning as she raced. How had they found her? How could Nate or Heathe have known which direction she'd gone? No one could have seen her through the dense fog.

The pursuers were at her back now and she could hear their clomping, over her own unsteady step. Her fingertips stretched for the door handle of the pickup and in her terror, she stumbled. A split second and she was down with the weight of her stalker pressing her into the ground. Struggling, her hands dug into her assailant, into prickly fur and her eyes shot open. Straddling her was Wolf, his unusual blue eyes looking sadly down into hers. Erine, standing patiently at his side, bent a maned head and nuzzled his cold wet nose against Blythe's neck.

"My God," she gasped, exasperation mingling with relief, "you guys scared the hell out of me. Why didn't you bark or something?" She let the air escape her lungs in a deep sigh then pushed Wolf off her and stood, brushing herself off. She had not time to mess with the dogs, not while images of the past shot round in her mind, images of Alfonso and the key breaking off in the ignition of the old green truck. Hopefully, no one had fixed it.

Quickly, she hopped in, scooted over to the driver's side and awkwardly felt around in the dark for the ignition switch. Touching it, she couldn't tell if the broken key was still lodged in it or not. Gathering her courage, she gave a twist. With a familiar clatter and roar, the engine turned over shakily, its rumbling and sputtering incensing Wolf and Erine who bristled and backed off to bark with rancor at the unstable vehicle.

"Be quiet!" Blythe said in a low voice. "Wolf, Erine, please hush." Aggravated, she tore from the dilapidated truck and rushed to the dogs. "It's alright boys, settle down." They pulled away from her and lunged at the pickup as if it were a faded green dragon they were keeping at bay and Blythe realized there was no way she was going to leave the ranch quietly as long as they kept up the ruckus. She had no choice but to go close to the house and the dogs were bound to follow, growling and barking the whole way. Grabbing their thick red collars, she dragged them to the open door. "Come on, boys, let's go for a ride."

Reluctantly and with much pulling and shoving, they climbed into the cab. Pushing them into the passenger's side, she settled into the driver's seat and was glad to see that though the windshield was still cracked and lodged precariously in place, someone had replaced the missing window where the dogs sat. At least she wouldn't have to worry about one of them jumping out.

Regally, the two mutts positioned themselves on the worn seat, their ears pricked, their tongues drooping wetly from so much barking, their hot breath coming in short pants that lightly filmed the broken windshield in little round patches. Blythe glanced at her protectors. "Hold on fellas," she warned, shifting into drive but the truck surged backwards and she slammed on the brakes, throwing Wolf and Erine into the dash. "Shit!" she swore, feeling immediately foolish. How could she have forgotten the Mexicans wired the transmission backwards when they were making repairs. Obviously, no one had thought it worth having fixed properly.

Fumbling for reverse, Blythe felt it slip into gear and heard the engine race. Slowly, she lifted her foot from the brake pedal and feeling the forward lurch, stepped on the gas. Jerking and sounding as if the engine was about to fall out, they took off, winding their way along the road that would take them near the house before veering around to the drive that led to the gate. Keeping the headlights off, Blythe could only see a few feet ahead and prayed that she'd not run into any unexpected objects or swerve from the road and find herself in a ditch.

Tediously, they crept along until coming to the huge iron gate that loomed suddenly out of the fog and Blythe finally pulled the knob which sent light beaming from dirt encrusted headlights. Only once since the murder had she walked this far from the main house, seeing no reason to attempt an escape on foot. Even if she'd been able to scale the stone wall or break through the gate, she was trapped out here, away from everyone and everything, so leaving the grounds of the ranch on foot had been considered her last option since there were several grueling miles of desolate isolation between it and any form of civilization. That's why Nate had taken her car keys, because without them she could never get away. Walking was too slow. They'd be certain to find her, to run her down as easily as tracking a wounded deer.

Well, she thought, they weren't so damn smart after all. Or maybe they were. Two chains bound the gates to a thick metal post set firmly in cement, each with its own keyed lock. In the middle where the gates joined the post, a bolted lock held them securely in place and it was triggered by an electronically coded switch box installed at the back of the tall stone fence. Through the bars, she could see another box set to the side of the drive with an intercom and speaker. Knowing it would be impossible to get through the heavily secured system, Blythe turned the truck to the left, deciding to follow the long expanse of fence. She would follow it all the way around the ranch if that's what it took to find a break in the stone barrier.

Somewhere there was one. Somewhere on the back side, it changed to barbed wire. She'd seen it while riding, had heard the men talking about the cattle crossings. Somewhere, she would find a way out, at least if Heathe didn't come to or Nate didn't come home and find her missing. She'd find a way, if they didn't find her first. Silently, Blythe thanked God for the fog, for the cover it would provide if the worst did happen, if the men became the hunters and she their pray.

#

Time moved as slowly as the creeping truck and it seemed like forever to Blythe before the stone wall finally ended and the barbed wire fence took its place. Both the odometer and speedometer were broken, so it was impossible to determine how far she'd traveled over the uneven ground, chugging through ditches and dried creek beds, bumping over rocks and prairie dog mounds. She could only hope the gas gauge was correct and the tank was actually three quarters full as it indicated. Occasionally, the fence line came into view and she caught glimpses of the graveled asphalt of the main road on the other side, but always a drainage ditch and the tautly strung wire separated the pickup from her means of escape.

Mist clung to the windshield and turning on the wipers, Blythe watched in disgust as they dragged across the glass, leaving filthy streaks from brittle old blades that had all but fallen apart. "Great!" she said aloud, more to herself than the dogs. "It's bad enough I can't see my bloody hand in front of my face because this damn fog's getting thicker, but these fucking blades make it worse."

Erine was closest to her and his ears pricked up as he whined, obviously excited she was no longer angry and finally showing them some attention.

Blythe acknowledged the boys then for the first time since starting the tedious journey, reaching out to give each a rough pat on the head. "I know, I know...I'm a bitch. It's not your all's fault. At least you love me. Thank goodness somebody..." Her voice trailed off as her attention shot back to the ground which grew less visible, the straight beams from the headlights doing little more than reflecting off the minute particles of fog as the pickup lurched upward and began to climb before quickly leveling out.

She hit the brakes. They were atop a small knoll and leery of what might be on the other side, she threw it into park and got out. To her relief, she found that they were on an old raised road and peering through the mist, ventured toward the fence. Extending just before and after the wire, was a rusty cattle guard and Blythe walked up and down the crossing. If there had ever been a gate there, it was gone now, replaced by barbed wire strung across to rickety poles on either side. Blythe lifted one of the strands and crawled under.

"Yes!" she yelled victoriously, making the dogs squirm nervously in the confines of the cab. Striding across the covered tinhorn spanning the ditch, she bent to feel the tar and gravel county road, as if to make sure it was real and not an apparition born from the mist, ready to dissolve at the slightest touch. Satisfied, she rushed back under the wire and to the pickup. Shoving the dogs back, she hopped in and eased the truck back and forth, turning the wheel ever so gently until its light shone on the fence and it sat flat and parallel with the road.

Carefully, Blythe backed up, keeping the tires straight. When they were several yards from the tightly strung wire and could no longer see it through the fog, she shifted again and floored the accelerator. In seconds, she felt the bump-bump of the cattle guard, then a slight resistance of the wire as the rotting posts pulled easily from the ground and they blasted over the tinhorn. The beautiful sound of the front tires crunching against gravel caused her to slam on the brakes to keep from overshooting the road and landing in the culvert on the other side.

Exhilaration swept over her and she laid her head on the steering wheel long enough to get her breath and adjust to the sense of relief. Raising up, she looked to her left and right, trying to get her bearings, but nothin of what little she could see looked familiar. Again, Blythe let instinct lead her and she turned to the right, back towards the entrance of the ranch. Eventually, she knew she'd recognize something and when she did, she'd head in the right direction, to help and to freedom. She would head to Ringwald.

#

The muffled ring of the phone penetrated Heathe's drunken sleep. Over and over it clanged, piercing into his heavy head until awareness seeped in and his eyes shot open. Staggering, he got to his feet. Still the incessant ringing, growing sharper as his mind cleared. Heathe glanced at his watch. He'd been out a long time. Where was Nate? Why wasn't he back yet? The ringing, he thought numbly, maybe that was his errant boss. How long had it been ringing?

He grabbed his sweater from the back of the love seat and ran toward the office. "Shit," he mumbled as he reached into its pocket and found it empty. He stuck a big hand anxiously in the pocket of his pants. Nothing. Holding the sweater upside down, he shook. Nothing clanked to the stone floor and an uneasiness began sobering him. Still the phone clamored and he hurried to the stairway, leaping a few steps up until he could reach the backside of a beam from which he withdrew the spare key to the office.

Now he shook with haste, with a need to answer the phone. He was clumsy and the key almost slipped from his fingers. Finally getting it unlocked, he threw the door open and it rebounded from the wall with a crash that went unheeded. Heathe's arm was outstretched as his body lurched for the phone. "Hello!" he gasped.

"Where the hell have you been?" Nate's angry voice demanded. He could hear the labored breathing. "Heathe? What the hell's goin on? Are you okay? Where's Blythe?"

Heathe took a big gulp then let the air out. "Blythe went to her room. I...I fell asleep." He switched on the lamp and his eyes drifted to the gun case, to its open drawer. "Aw, shit! Hold on," he swore, dropping the receiver and flying through the house up to Blythe's room. The door was locked, so he knocked several times and called out to her. There was no response and he rushed down the hall, through the master bedroom and adjoining bath but the door there was locked too. Heathe went from there to the balcony but he couldn't see much from the window in the darkness. Without thought or hesitation, he put his fist through the glass of the French door and reached a bloody knuckled hand in to unlatch it. Swinging it wide, he strode across the room, flipped on the light and threw back the bedcovers. As he'd dreaded, she was gone.

#

"Nathan, I—"

"What the fuck's goin' on?" Nate burst in. "What's happening there? Where's Blythe?"

"She's gone! I check her room. She's not there."

"What do you mean gone? How? Where could she of..."

"The keys...she must of gotten 'em outa my pocket when I was asleep. She's been in the office, boss. The gun cabinet drawer's open."

There was a brittle silence before Nate spoke. "She had to of called someone or she's on foot. I have her keys with me. What about your Jeep?"

"No, I've checked. Those keys are still in my pants pocket."

"There's nothin' else she could have taken unless..." Nate's voice trailed off.

"What is it?" Heathe was anxious.

"The pickup, where'd we leave it last?"

The indication was clear. With it she wouldn't need a key. "It's parked at the stables. But she'd never go down there alone after—"

"Don't underestimate her! She's been to hell and back and she's tough enough to do whatever it takes." Nate hesitated. "I'm bettin' I'm right and I'm also bettin' she's gone to Weber. We've got to try and stop her. I just hope we're not too late."

"Why? What've ya found?"

"The ring in the picture, it's the same one that's in her dream. But it's no dagger cutting across it, it's a lightning bolt and it was on Weber's hand less than a year before her rape. We found the printing date when it was blown up."

"Holy Mother of God," Heathe said under his breath, making the sign of the cross with his free hand. "Then she really is in danger! We gotta call the police. We have to stop her!"

"I tried it! I went to some buddies of J.T.'s. They listened politely, smiled condescendingly and told me they'd check into it as they patronizingly ushered me out of the station. I'm at Leonard's house now."

"Leonard's? What the hell are you doin' there? He'd like to nail you, not Weber!"

"That's exactly what I was counting on. That he dislikes me enough to try to prove me wrong. But he's not here. I've been talking to his wife. I think she believes me. Listen, we've gotta hurry. You're about thirty minutes closer to Ringwald than I am. Check on the pickup. If it's gone, head for there. If not, start combing the area. Maybe she's on foot. I'm leavin' here now. Mrs. Leonard is gonna keep tryin' to reach her husband. If I don't see you in Ringwald, I'll check back later."