Chapter 3

Greta was awakened by a raucous band of crows, and by something else: an insistent electronic beeping. It sounded so much like the alarm clock back at her apartment in Youngstown that she was confused when she opened her eyes and saw blue sky and trees above her. She sat up, and the crows began flying away — lazily, as if to show they weren't afraid of her.

She wondered what time it was.

Beep, beep. There it was again. It was coming from one of her shoes, a few feet from her. Then she remembered that she had put Davis's radio in her shoe the night before.

Beep, beep. Should she click it on and listen? Maybe they were trying to reach Davis. Maybe they didn't know he was dead. Maybe she could learn something that would help get through another day alive. Or maybe once she clicked on, they would somehow know exactly where she was.

Beep, beep. "Here goes nothing," she said to herself, as she punched the "on" button. What she heard was a conversation between two or three other parties. They seemed unaware that she had tuned in. "Cleared Sector Nine. No sign of her." "Okay, we're clear down here, too. Let's move on to Seven." "Jimbo, how are things at your end?" "We've looked in and all around Bunkhouse Two. She must have been here yesterday, because we found a supply cart with a bunch of open boxes. But she's long gone. We're going to move south."

Greta smiled. At last, she had caught a real break. They were combing the Ranch, sector by sector, and the area around Bunkhouse Two was clear, as far as they were concerned. If she could just get back there, she could break into the bunkhouse, sleep in a real bed, and have all the cocktail onions a girl could ask for.

She headed north. Which is precisely what McTeague hoped she would do. He knew she had taken Davis's radio, and he knew she had been to Bunkhouse Two. But where she was now was anyone's guess.

If they couldn't find her, maybe they could get her to come to them. The beeping and the radio conversation had been carefully planned. He wanted Greta to think she was eavesdropping. He wanted her to come out of hiding and make it to Bunkhouse Two. He wanted it so much that he had told the hunt crew, and that fatuous fat man, Tom, to steer clear if they saw her.

Let her come to Papa, he thought. I'll reel her in like a lovely little trout.

Greta moved cautiously through the trees, scanning the clearing ahead of her. There was no sign of life, except for a couple of barn swallows zipping back and forth over the near side of the bunkhouse. Still, she waited a little longer. Just to be safe, she thought. Then she laughed at herself. Who could be safe in a place like this?

She stepped into the clearing and walked purposefully toward the bunkhouse. As she turned a corner, there was a blur of something big moving fast, and that something smashed into her. She bumped into the wall and fell to her knees. When she looked up, she was looking into the cold grey eyes of McTeague.

"You're up awfully early for a Sunday morning," he said. She struggled to her feet and faced him, trying to be brave. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sims walking toward them. "You've caused us no end of trouble, young lady," McTeague said. Then, so fast she had no time to defend against it, he slapped her face.

It was the hardest she'd ever been slapped, and she tasted blood. He stepped back and drew his hunting knife.

"No," cried Sims. "Tom paid for his chance. You can't kill her yet."

"Oh, I'm not going to kill her," McTeague said. Then he plunged the knife into her left thigh. "I'm just going to give Fat Tom a fighting chance."

Greta fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Why this? Why didn't the son of a bitch just finish her off?

McTeague's voice cut through the fog of pain. He was talking on the radio. "Tom, we've had a bit of good luck. We're at Bunkhouse Two, and who did we run into but Greta herself. Seems she's had a bit of an accident. If you hurry over, you may catch her." He paused and listened to Tom's reply. "Read the goddam map, Tom. You're not far away. Just hurry over, and keep your eyes open." He looked down at Greta. "Start running, you miserable cunt. Start running and hope this fat pig of a hunter doesn't find you and do what I'd like to do to you."

She rose unsteadily to her feet. Her leg throbbed. Run? Hardly. She hobbled to the edge of the woods, turned and looked back at the two men. Sims was protesting and gesticulating. But McTeague was looking at her with the benign smile of a funeral director.

Tom had gotten the call from McTeague while hiking with Loopy along the edge of the Rill. McTeague and Sims hadn't wanted him to try to track down Greta unattended, so Loopy was tagging along to provide protection. Now, after hearing from McTeague, Tom moved with renewed energy. They had spotted Greta. Better yet, she was hurt. This time he had a chance.

They came to the edge of a clearing. In the woods on the other side, something was moving. Something pale. It was Greta, and indeed she appeared hurt. She stumbled, picked herself up and pushed on — toward them. Tom turned to Loopy.

"Let me handle this," he whispered. "I paid for it. Go on back to the hotel."

Loopy shrugged. Greta looked pretty harmless. He would have enjoyed watching the fun, but the customer is always right. He turned and walked away.

Greta came into the clearing without stopping or looking. She was in too much pain and too weak to take precautions. She just wanted to get as far away from McTeague as possible. Tom rushed her when she was only a few yards away.

She looked up, startled, then he tackled her. She fell to the ground, with Tom on top. She tried to hit and scratch him, but he grabbed her wrists and pressed them to the ground. His face was only inches from hers.

"This is it, bitch," he said. "This is when you check out." He released her wrists, sat up and punched her in the jaw. She went limp. Tom struggled to his feet. Then he saw the stab wound in her thigh. Nasty, he thought. Let's see if she's really out. He stepped heavily on her leg. She groaned and tried to sit up. He stepped back and kicked her in the chest.

Then, as she turned over and tried to crawl away from him, he stomped twice on her lower back. She quit moving. Tom was breathing heavily. Between his exertion and sexual arousal, he felt almost dizzy.

Gotta think this through, he told himself. He regretted having sent Loopy away. He would be handy right now, to carry Greta to the Abattoir. Maybe he could radio for help, he thought. But he discovered his radio was missing. Must have fallen off during the hike. Well, he still had six feet of nylon rope in his backpack and a hunting knife on his belt.

He pulled Greta's wrists together behind her and began tying them. He didn't know much about knots, but he devised something he felt would hold.

Greta was stirring again. She seemed to have trouble breathing. He pulled off her pants and shoes and flung them into the bushes. Then he stuck his hand into her pussy. He wiggled his fingers, trying to get her wet. Greta's mind was out of commission, but her body was still responsive. Quickly, her pussy was lubricated. Tom unzipped his shorts and fucked her.

Afterward, he leaned down next to her and drew his knife. He held it close to her face. "I'm going to get some company so we can all enjoy you, sweetie pie. And when I get back, I'm going to carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey."

He laughed at the notion of her trussed up on a platter. Then he gave her one last, savage kick in the side and headed northeast. That should take him to McTeague and Sims. Read the goddam map, McTeague had said. Well, he had read it, and he knew exactly where he was going.

Greta lay quiet for several minutes, until she was sure Tom was gone. Then she began struggling with the rope that held her. The knot was clumsy, complicated and ineffective. It didn't take her long to slip one hand free.

When she got to her feet, a wave of nausea almost sent her back to the ground. How could she go on?

How could she not?

Tom had headed toward the bunkhouse, so they would be coming from the northeast. They'd probably figure she was headed downstream. Instead, she went due east.

The woods grew thinner, which meant she was becoming easier to spot, but she pushed on. And when she came to an asphalt path that ran from north to south, she turned south without thinking. She didn't notice when a shadow glided across her path, but she saw it when it returned half a minute later. Something big, she thought. Big wings. Then she felt sick again, and the thought of whatever it was overhead disappeared.

But that something didn't disappear. It was a buzzard, and it had become interested in Greta the moment she staggered out of the woods and onto the path. Whatever this pale two-legged animal was, it was clearly in distress. Experience and instinct told the buzzard that this was a meal, or soon would be. It swooped lower and picked up the scent of blood.

The buzzard's excitement grew as Greta fell face first onto the path. It glided down and landed clumsily a few feet from her. The black bird approached cautiously. Just then, another shadow glided across the path, and a second buzzard landed on the other side of this promising new form of road kill.

The first buzzard moved closer, looking for Greta's eyes. However primitive its brain, it knew that plucking out the eyes disabled still living animals quickly and sent them into shock. Also, eyes were tasty.

Greta smelt a foul odor. She looked up just as the buzzard lunged at her. She slapped its head away and tried to roll to safety, bumping into second bird, which scrambled to get out of her way.

The buzzards retreated and watched. This was going to take some time, but they were in no hurry. Greta pushed herself up until she was on her hands and knees. She looked down and saw blood still flowing from her stab wound. This made her dizzy again, and she sank back to the pavement.

The buzzards waddled closer. One extended its neck and bit into Greta's bare behind. She moaned and twitched but couldn't fight back. The other hopped onto her extended forearm, leaned forward and ripped off the upper part of her left ear. The pain no longer registered. Greta lay motionless.

More shadows passed over this gathering, and within seconds two more buzzards had landed. They arranged themselves as if at an intimate dinner party, two on each side of the table. They sensed Greta was beyond resistance. One grabbed her shoulder in its powerful beak and yanked her over, onto her back, exposing her face, breasts and belly. The others closed in.

"It was right here. I left her right here."

"Are you sure, Tom," said McTeague. His voice was calm, but Sims took one look at him and knew a storm was brewing.

Tom was running around the clearing in growing confusion. "I left her tied up," he said. "And she was unconscious. Someone must have come and taken her away."

McTeague's face darkened.

"Wait," said Tom. "There's her shorts. And a shoe. See, I told you this is where I nailed the bitch."

"Okay," said McTeague. "We'll take over now. You just get back to the hotel. Anywhere but here. I want you out of my sight."

Tom was set to protest, but Sims, standing behind McTeague, motioned him to keep quiet. He turned angrily and marched off in a direction he hoped would take him to the hotel. It was time to get the hell out of this rip-off joint. This whole expensive enterprise had been a disaster.

McTeague lifted his radio and spoke quietly. "We're in a clearing about 50 yards from Tower Four. Bring Ginger and Jeebies." He picked up Greta's shorts.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Gunter?" Sims asked. "There are people wandering all over the Ranch right now. Those dogs are dangerous."