Page 7

"Eighteen."

Another.

"Fifteen. Grey eyes. Grey in his beard. There's a scar on his jaw, old, left side." Her voice catches. "Twelve. He's got tattoos on his forearms. He's not smiling."

I keep walking. Slow, steady, letting her have every step of it.

"Ten meters. He walks like he's done this before. Like he's walked up on things that were running from him." She swallows. I hear it from here. "Eight. I'm not running."

"I know," I say.

"Five." It's barely a whisper now. "He knows. He's always known. He—"

I take the recorder out of her hand.

I don't turn it off. I set it down on the granite beside her with its red light blinking, and she looks at it and then up at me, and her pupils have gone so wide her eyes are almost black.

"Say the rest," I tell her.

"Zero," she whispers.

I take her face in both hands and kiss her.

She comes up off the rock into it like she's been waiting four days to be allowed, fists in my jacket, mouth open, making a sound against my lips that goes straight down my spine. I take it deeper. I've spent four nights on the other side of a wall listening to her breathe, and she tastes of cold and coffee and her, and I want it all.

"You talk too much," I say against her mouth.

"Make me stop."

I put her back against the granite.

The slab's taller than she is at this end, a wall of rock at her shoulder blades, and I pin her to it with my body and put my mouth on her throat. Her pulse slams under my lips. I get her jacket open and shove the green sweater up and she isn't wearing anything under it, and I stop, and look at her.

"You came up here like that."

"You said in the light." Her chin comes up. "Where I could see what I was getting. It seemed fair that you see something too."

The sound that comes out of me isn't a word.

Her tits are full and pale and pebbled with cold, and when I cover them with my hands she gasps at the heat. I work the nipples between my fingers until she's arching off the rock, and then I bend and take one into my mouth and suck hard, and she grabs the back of my head with both hands and cries out, and the valley takes it and carries it away down the ridge.

"Somebody'll hear you," I tell her.

"Good thing nobody's up here but you."

I open her jeans. I get my hand inside, down the front of her underwear, and she's soaked, hot and slick and swollen, and I stop with my fingers pressed against her and look at her face.

"How long has this pussy been craving me?"

"Since the road." Her voice cracks. "Since I heard you breathing on the tape. I've been like this for four days."

I hold her there, not moving, my fingers pressed against her, until she whimpers and tries to grind down onto my hand.

"Say it," I tell her.

"I want your fingers inside me," she says, her voice breaking on it. "Please."

I push two fingers into her. She clenches around them and her head knocks back against the granite, and I work her slowly, curling, my thumb dragging over her clit, and she comes apart in my hand inside a minute, loud, shuddering, her nails digging into my shoulders through my jacket.