The Sleeping Doll

flashed with a red glint from the low sun.
    “Who art in heaven. Hallowed be—”
    And then a tree fell.
    Or an avalanche of rock crashed onto the path.
    Or a flock of gulls, screaming in rage, landed on him.
    Daniel Pell grunted and slammed into the rocky ground.
    Samantha McCoy leapt off the killer, climbed to her feet and, hysterical, swung the solid tree branch onto his head and arms. Pell seemed astonished to see his little Mouse attacking him, the woman who scurried off to do everything he told her, who never told him no.
    Except once . . .
    Daniel slashed at her with the knife but she was too fast for him. He grabbed for the gun, which had fallen to the trail. But the rough branch connected hard again and again, bouncing off his head, tearing his ear. He wailed in pain. “Goddamn.” He struggled to his feet. Lashing out with his fist, he caught her in the knee with a solid blow and she dropped hard.
    Daniel dove for the gun, grabbed it. He scrabbled back, rose to his feet once more and swung the pistol muzzle her way. But Samantha rolled to her feet and struck with the branch again, two-handed. It connected with his shoulder. He stepped back, flinching.
    Two words from the past came back to Linda, seeing Sam fight. What Daniel used to say when he was proud of someone in the Family: “You held fast, lovely.”
    Hold fast  . . .
    Samantha lunged again, swinging the branch.
    But now Daniel had a solid stance. He managed to catch the branch with his left hand. For a moment they stared at each other, three feet apart, the wooden stick connecting them like a live wire. Daniel gave a sad smile and lifted the gun.
    “No,” Linda croaked.
    Samantha gave a smile too. And she pushed toward him, hard, and let go of the branch. Daniel stepped backward—into the air. He’d been standing on the edge of a cliff, twenty feet above another nature trail.
    He cried out, fell backward and tumbled down the rough rock face.
    Whether he survived or not, Linda didn’t know. Not at first. But then she supposed he must have. Samantha glanced down with a grimace, helped Linda to her feet. “We’ve got to go. Now.” And led her into the dense woods.
    •    •    •
    Exhausted, in agony, Samantha McCoy struggled to keep Linda upright.
    The woman was pale, but the bleeding wasn’t bad. The wound would be excruciating but she could at least walk.
    A whisper.
    “What?”
    “Thought you left me.”
    “No way. But he had the gun—I had to trick him.”
    “He’s going to kill us.” Linda still sounded amazed.
    “No, he’s not. Don’t talk. We have to hide.”
    “I can’t go on.”
    “Down by the water, the beach, there’re caves. We can hide in one. Until the police get here. Kathryn’s on her way. They’ll come after us.”
    “No, I can’t. It’s miles.”
    “It’s not that far. We can make it.”
    They continued for another fifty feet, then Sam felt Linda start to falter.
    “No, no . . . I can’t. I’m sorry.”
    Sam found some reserve of strength and managed to get Linda another twenty feet. But then she collapsed—at the worst possible place, a clearing visible for a hundred yards from all around. She expected Pell to appear at any moment. He could easily pick them off.
    A shallow trough in the rocks was nearby; it would hide them well enough.
    Whispers floating from Linda’s mouth.
    “What?” Sam asked.
    She leaned closer. Linda was speaking to Jesus, not her.
    “Come on, we’ve got to go.”
    “No, no, you go on. Please. I mean it. . . . You don’t need to make up for what happened. You just saved my life a minute ago. We’re even. I forgive you for what happened back in Seaside. I—”
    “Not now, Linda!” Sam snapped.
    The wounded woman tried to rise but then collapsed. “I can’t.”
    “You have to.”
    “Jesus’ll take care of me. You go on.”
    “Come on!”
    Linda closed her eyes and began to whisper a prayer.
    “You are not going to die here! Stand up!”
    She took a deep breath, nodded and, with Sam’s help, climbed to her feet. Together they staggered off the path, stumbling through brush and over roots as they made their way to the shallow ravine.
    They were on a promontory about fifty feet above the ocean. The crashing of the surf was nearly constant, a jet engine, not a pulse. Deafening too.
    The low sunlight hit them full on in a blinding, orange wash. Sam squinted and made out the ravine, very close now. They’d lie down in it, pull brush and