Chapter 7

Saturday, June 26, 2:35 p.m.

Emma, dressed in cutoffs and a light blue jersey, left the house and drove away in her car. Phelps hastened on foot the half-block distance to the Chevy, and followed.

The day was hot and humid, following on after the three long days of heavy rain, and the brief dash to his car had raised perspiration that dripped down Phelps' face as he started the engine. The ancient Chevy was stifling after its long wait in the sun.

Phelps had no difficulty keeping Emma's car in sight as she drove the short distance to the junction of the town's converging rivers and again crossed the bridge joining the highway that led to the beach.

Following at a considerable distance, he observed her turning off the highway at the same side road she and the bird watchers had used several days before. Phelps knew that there were no significant options, from that turnoff, other than to proceed down the dirt road on which he had followed her before. He stayed well behind Emma's car.

He entered the dirt road, noticing that its earlier well-groomed appearance had been altered drastically by the recent heavy rains. The roadway was full of deep ruts and awash with standing water. He saw Emma stop her car at approximately the same point where the minivan had been parked during her group's previous visit to the area.

She left the car and walked toward the woods to the right of the roadway. This time, Phelps did not attempt to approach and pass; instead, he stopped his car immediately, parking alongside the road, well-back from Emma's car. Cursing the muddy footing, he paralleled Emma's movement into the woods.

Phelps was surprised to see, only 50 yards from the road, a large, round pond. It was at least a quarter-mile in diameter, and was bordered on all sides by brush and trees. He had not even noticed the pond during the earlier visit to this wooded area.

The bulk of the pond occupied the area between his position and the point at which Emma had entered the woods. The water obviously was shallow, since reeds and stumps dotted its entire surface. He realized it was little more than a swamp. There was incessant chatter from wild birds and geese in and around the pond, and as he approached the shoreline, he heard the sound of other animals -- frogs, presumably -- splashing into the water.

From the water's edge, Phelps looked in the direction Emma had gone and caught a glimpse of her, over the water. She was stationed, camera ready, in a cleared area near the shoreline. She was still a significant distance from his own position. The undergrowth was considerable, but the girl was easily visible over the water. He moved closer, following the shoreline, keeping down and using available cover.

What an incredible stroke of luck, Phelps thought, to track the girl, alone, to this remote location. She wasn't dressed as brazenly as she'd been when he'd first seen her, but her abbreviated cutoffs and the light blouse were provocative. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the high humidity had melded the blouse to her body. Her nipples were clearly visible through the soaked fabric.

Phelps found himself hoping that the high promise of their first encounter could be repeated, here in the wild.

The girl continued to take pictures. Her camera was equipped with an elaborate telescopic lens and she was facing away from Phelps' line of approach, intent upon photographing a large, long-limbed bird near the shoreline.

Phelps was able to gain the small clearing where she was standing before Emma noticed his presence. He said nothing. Emma, turning to him, was startled and discomfited at the arrival of a stranger.

"Hello!" Phelps shouted with forced joviality.

Emma stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a bird watcher, too," he replied.

Emma frowned. "You're no birder. You're the man I saw at Wal-Mart," she said, coldly. "I saw you again the next day, and then at the beach! You're following me!"

"I did follow you," Phelps said gently, switching tactics. "Can you blame me? You're lovely."

"It's scary, seeing you like this," Emma said. "You're scaring me!... I know it wasn't right -- what I did at the store. You've gotten the wrong idea about me. And it's my fault. I'm not like that."

"You were 'like that, ' the first time I saw you."

"I know. You think I was teasing you. I guess I was. But -- it wasn't supposed to be like that! It was just a game! I was wrong to tease you, but... you have to understand, I didn't mean anything by it... I didn't mean to provoke you, or to get you to follow

me... Please..."

"My dear young woman, you don't have to be afraid of me," Phelps said in a cultured, reassuring tone. "It's true, I followed you here. I wanted to see you again! I wanted to get to know you. I assure you, I'm quite harmless!"

"You just don't understand," Emma pleaded. "This is all my fault. I know how it must have seemed to you. At the store. I really don't blame you -- not at all! After what I did, why wouldn't you assume I was interested? But... I wasn't. I'm not -- interested.

... In meeting you here, or anywhere!"

Emma's voice was quavering, but she continued to try to reason with the man. "Well, it's just terribly embarrassing. What I was doing, at the store... it wasn't meant to be real! Please -- try to understand!"

Phelps could see that the girl's terror was growing. Any thought he had entertained about a relationship with her, based on mutual attraction, had quickly disappeared.

He wasn't really surprised at the girl's reaction. He had known. He had known.

"I think I understand," he said calmly. "You're explaining to me that you show your tits to strange men because it's a turn-on for you. Is that it?" His words were deliberately harsh and unforgiving.

"I -- I feel terrible about it now," she replied, crestfallen. "I don't know how better to explain it to you. What you said is true... I mean... it was a turn-on. Right now, it seems crazy to me, and -- awful! Right now, I -- well, I'm just sorry. I'm sorry I provoked you. It was -- wrong."

"Well then, shall we kiss and make up?" Phelps' words were spoken cruelly, with heavy irony. Emma's body slumped. She seemed about to burst into tears.

"Tell you what," Phelps said cheerfully. "We won't kiss and make up. You just give me that camera of yours, strip off that little wet shirt of yours, and I'll take a few pictures to remember you by... how's that?"