Children of the Storm

think of her name or what relation she was to him and, when he was honest, he could not exactly remember who he was, himself. He stood there in the pounding rain, sweating, his brow furrowed, desperately trying to recall what this was all about.
        Then the other child, the boy, came into sight, looking down into the ravine and, instantly, discovered his pursuer, turning to the woman to tell her that the gap had been closed.
        In the same moment, Jeremy remembered that he was a judge, that he had held a trial, that he had passed a sentence and must now see that it was carried out. The Doughertys must suffer, must understand what life was really like. That was fair.
        He took out his knife.
        The three people above turned away from him and disappeared into the trees, but he was not worried, for he knew he would have them shortly.
        He started across the pool, his knife held before him again, the blade gleaming in the rain.

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    THIRTY-THREE
        
        Sonya was not a violent woman; violence repelled her, for it was so closely associated with death and unhappiness. Yet, when she saw what must be done in order to save their lives, she did not hesitate, even briefly, to do it, though she knew that she might end up killing a man who had once been Bill Peterson.
        Perhaps it was just this thought, couched in just those terms, that made her able to perform a violent act against another living creature-the painful realization that he was no longer that man whom she had known and had felt affection for and, having gone so far over the edge of madness as he had, would never be that man again. Either Jeremy, the black side of his schizophrenic personality, would rule the mortal shell from now on, or he would become a catatonic case for the mental wards, a staring and helpless vegetable without any personality at all, far beyond the help of any branch of modern medicine. She would not, then, be killing a friend, but an absolute stranger. Indeed, if you wanted to be blunt about it, she would not even be attacking a man, but a thing, a living and moving being that was less than a wild animal.
        But she would have to act fast.
        She had maybe three minutes, or four.
        No longer.
        She put Tina down again, stood her on her feet and tried to make the little girl understand that she would no longer be carried.
        Tina blinked at her, on the verge of tears again.
         No, please, Sonya thought. Don't cry.
        If Tina didn't fully grasp the import of their situation now that Peterson had nearly caught up to them, her brother, Alex, did, for he grabbed hold of his sister's hand and held it tightly.
        Relieved, Sonya stood and pointed through the palm forest, in the general direction of Hawk House, and indicated that she would be along behind them in a minute or two.
        Alex turned away from her and tottered off, pulling Tina with him, not moving quickly but at least moving, not with much of a chance of survival but at least with a small chance, a tiny one. If she could stop Peterson without getting hurt herself, they would make it yet. But if she was hurt and could not catch up to them, they'd die. They'd die even if she'd killed the madman and he could no longer reach them, for they were almost sure to lose themselves in the storm and die of exposure during the long night ahead…
        Sonya turned away from them.
        Peterson had still not crested this hill; he was still down there in the ravine.
        She went quickly to the fallen coconuts and pulled away the palm boughs that half-concealed them. Each of the three fruits was as large as a cannon ball, and each looked about that deadly.
        She tried to pick up two coconuts at once.
        Couldn't do it.
        They were too big and heavy for that. She needed both hands for each of them, and she lost valuable seconds fumbling with two before she realized this.
        She dropped one of them.
        As quickly as she could, legs rubbery, she carried the other coconut to the edge of the hill, careful not to let herself be seen by Peterson, who must by now have crossed the pool below.
        She went back for the second coconut.
        She put it by the first.
        She retrieved the third, lined them up.
        Looking at it, she realized what a puny arsenal it was, and that she could hardly afford to miss him, even once. But she did not see what