Mortal Danger

back memories too frightening to explore, too intrusive to ignore. Every spring, the dark-haired woman felt a flash of another recollection, playing across her mind like a video clip. Try as she might, she could never erase it before it finished playing.
    May 1999
    The sun had become a narrow sliver on the western horizon, and then it was gone, swallowed up by the Pacific Ocean, and leaving the woods dark as pitch as she ran for her life. She couldn’t see where she was going, but that meant he couldn’t see her either. For that she was grateful. He had promised her that this was the night she was going to die, and she didn’t doubt his intention. Her only chance to survive was to reach her neighbors’ house before he caught up with her.
    She was barefoot and naked, but that didn’t matter. She barely felt the thorns and little stones on the forest floor, the sharp gravel of the long driveway, the scratches etched in her skin by the fir and pine boughs and the blackberries that sprang suddenly out of the dark all around her. She marveled that she had never run so fast in her life, almost levitating as she plunged through the trees and boulders. Adrenaline surged through her body despite the aching in her lungs; she was a constant hiker on the beach far below, but she hadn’t run for years.
    Now she ran. She thought she heard him behind her.
    It seemed impossible that this was the man she had admired, longed for, and been ecstatically happy with, back when the time they could be together had finally arrived. They had been through so much, and for a while it had looked like all their hopes and plans for the future were actually going to come true. She’d followed his lead without a single doubt, because he was strong, capable, and charismatic. And kind.
    Once, she could not even imagine leaving him, but nowshe wanted only to be free, and to keep from dying at his hands.
     
    It was May 29, 1999, the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, when it all fell apart.
    Most people who lived on the Oregon coast or who had traveled there for the holiday weekend were having picnics and camping out. It was the first three-day weekend of the year when they could reasonably expect the weather to be warm and sunny, and the whole coastline from Astoria to Brookings was wondrous as summer rapidly headed in. In the winter, Oregon beach towns were subdued, cloaked in misty rain and fog, and year-round residents enjoyed the peace that descended when the tourists left. Gold Beach was no different.
    The couple whose lives collided in a scene of horror had believed that Gold Beach would be their Shangri-la. On one of their many driving trips around the country, both of them had been taken with the little town. It seemed almost a Brigadoon of tranquility and natural beauty. Located about twenty miles from the California border on twisting Highway 101, Gold Beach had once been strictly a logging town with rugged roots, but its incredible views of the Pacific Ocean and the sea stacks—rock towers rising high above the surf—drew tourists, too.
    Californians flocked to Gold Beach, beachcombing from Cape Sebastian to Cape Ferrelo, enjoying the virtual wilderness just beyond town and the endless surging waves of the Pacific Ocean. Their increasing presence providentially offered a new industry to Gold Beach as the loggingfaded. Small businesses sprang up, catering to visitors with art, theater, and wine festivals.
    Steelhead and trout fishing had long been popular with true aficionados on the roaring Rogue River that coursed to the sea near Gold Beach, but jet boats soon offered sightseeing trips up the Rogue. Hollywood came to the Rogue River to make movies, and a number of famous stars built sylvan retreats there.
    Publicity penned glowingly by entrepreneurs pointed out that tiny Gold Beach had more hours of sun on any given day than any other town located on the Oregon and Washington coastlines. Old-timers hated to see the metamorphosis of Gold Beach from a place where everyone cared about one another to a tourist magnet, but they acknowledged that people had to have a way to make a living.
    On their first trip, one couple from California drove around Gold Beach, dined at a restaurant owned by locals, and fell in love with the small town. One of their goals was to come back someday, not as tourists but to live there.
    And they did.
    But by the time they returned to Gold Beach, their relationship was riddled with arguments, disappointments,