David Wiltse - Bone Deep

Becker had driven him to the watershed preserve of the reservoir and Kom labored up a hill, following a path as best he could, seeking a tunnel through the encroaching trees, a trail one arms'-span wide where the whiplike boughs would not seek his eyes and claw at his aching face.

Even in the dark, pursued by a specter, Kom knew where he was. He was approaching familiar ground-the orchard he had used as his private cemetery was on the other side of the hill, the reservoir beyond it. He would have an advantage there, he told himself. He knew the territory better than anyone. In some sections the trees were small, too low to hide behind. Becker was making a mistake herding him there. Kom would be on his own turf and he would turn and destroy Becker as he had done Kiwasee.

Halfway up the hill he stumbled again and this time he stayed down, groping with both hands until his fingers came upon a fallen limb.

Looking around, expecting to see Becker hovering only yards away, he rose, lifting the limb in both hands, and continued up the hill.

Come at me now, he thought murderously. Come waggle your finger at me now. This is not an elevator and this is not Dr. Stanley Kom, the good citizen, the pushover. I'm Cap'n Luv and I have a weapon. I am the man who killed the black man with a shovel-because I had to. And now I have to kill you. He felt a chuckle bubbling up within his chest. Adrenaline coursed through his veins with the crackle of electricity and he was himself again, Luv the indomitable. He knew he would overcome.

Lightning crashed and lit the night and Kom saw the end of the path where the trees fell away and nothing remained but the lowering sky.

There was open space there, room enough to make a stand, and he hurried up the hill, panting, desperate to be there. He carried the limb as a soldier would a rifle, comforted by its size and heft.

Becker waited atop the hill, leaning against the hole of a copper beech, indistinguishable in the dark from the tree itself. He heard Kom's labored breathing and could distinguish words now, muttered low in his throat. Kom was talking to himself with the tenor of a man who did not know he was speaking aloud. The tone was angry, defiant, paranoid, and sounded to Becker like the delusional rumblings of bag ladies and the willfully homeless. The earphones of the listening device hung uselessly around Becker's neck. He had dispensed with the machine long ago. Kom was moving too slowly, too noisily for Becker to need any help keeping track of him.

Kom struggled abreast of Becker, leaning a hand on the beech for support, not even glancing at Becker. Becker heard him say "love" and "the best" as he passed, taking the final few steps toward the edge of the cliff. From there he would have to swing right and follow the path along the cliff's edge for a hundred yards before it turned again and headed back down the hill.

But Kom did not turn to the right. He stopped on the slippery rocks that abutted the trail and turned to face the woods, lifting the limb like a weapon. He swung the limb back and forth in front of him a few times, snarling, swinging at shadows, fighting phantoms. Becker stood ten yards away, leaning against the tree, invisible to Kom, and watched with amusement as his quarry spent the last of his energy on the threatening air, He let the branch sag to the rocks at last, leaning on it and breathing heavily.

Lightning flashed again as Becker stepped forward, finger pointing, revealing him before he was ready. Kom screamed, swinging the limb as if galvanized by the thunderbolt. The limb smashed into Becker's leg just above the knee. Stunned, he watched Kom swing again, unable to move quickly enough to avoid it. The timber hit him in the leg once more and Becker knew as he fell that the bone was broken.

It was Kiwasee all over again, Kom told himself. He had won, he had destroyed the great Becker. Sensing triumph, he attacked in a frenzy, swinging once and scything the air as Becker rolled, then again, missing once more and hitting the trunk of the beech. The limb snapped in two, leaving the smaller end in Kom's hands. Kom looked at his suddenly diminished weapon, momentarily baffled.

Becker pulled himself up holding on to the tree and stood erect, giving Kom his full length as a target. Kom chose to go for his head and Becker ducked, then pushed off with his good leg, propelling himself under the swinging club and into Kom's chest. Kom gasped in teffor and recoiled, pulling them toward the edge of the precipice. Becker could feel Kom's breath on his face, could see his eyes, wide with fear and a kind of madness, rolling back like prey in the grip of its predator.

Becker seized him by the throat, and Kom dropped his weapon to clutch futilely at Becker's hands, trying to free himself. He was gasping words but Becker could not make them out amidst the turmoil of the struggle and the storm.

Kom struck at him ineffectually, then suddenly lurched backward as his heels slipped off the rock. His arms windmilled frantically, as if he might fly. He was held to the rocks only by his toes and Becker's grip on his neck. Ultimately, it was not enough as his soles slipped from the wet stone. Becker caught his belt as he fell and was slammed to his stomach atop the rock by Kom's free weight. Kom dangled over the precipice, his feet clawing the air.

It took Becker a moment to recover from the shock of his fall to the stone and the torrent of pain that lashed his leg, but he held his grip on Kom's throat and belt. He had been pulled to the edge himself so that his face looked into the blackness of the drop and his arms hung straight down, clinging to Kom. He spread his legs behind him, digging at the slippery stone with his knees and his toes, but he could still feel the inexorable pull of gravity dragging him slowly toward the edge.

Kom's every gyration pulled them both closer to disaster.

"Don't move," he said, and to his surprise Kom stopped squirming. Becker felt his gradual slide arrested as the toe of his one working foot found and caught a slight indentation in the stone.

Kom gargled something past Becker's restrictive grip and Becker realized he was saying, "John."

Becker eased his grip on Kom's throat enough so that the man could speak.

"It's all a mistake," Kom said. "A terrible misunderstanding. They loved me. They all loved me."

Becker tightened his grip on the neck, squeezing the carotid artery but leaving the throat clear. "Is this how you did it, Stanley? Did you squeeze them just like this?"

Lightning flashed and Becker could see Kom's eyes, wide, wild, and red, but no longer frightened. In the second's illumination, Becker thought he saw Kom grinning insanely at him.

"Is this the way?" Becker asked. "Is this what it felt like?" As he squeezed he saw Karen's face before him, her beauty covered with her own blood. His arms were shaking with the strain but jealousy and fury flooded him as he squeezed even harder.

Kom's head began to swim and he grabbed at the hand at his throat.

Just then Becker lost his toehold and felt himself sliding toward the edge. Pain streaked through his broken leg as it dragged across the rock. "If you struggle, I can't hold you," Becker cried.

"They loved me," Kom said. "They did it for me."

Becker's belt buckle caught a flaw in the stone's surface and he was checked for a moment, then gravity prevailed and he was dragged ever closer to the edge.

"I can't hold you," Becker said. He was surprised by the calmness in his tone. Kom, too, seemed perfectly controlled, as if they were both living between the spaces of time where a second was a lifetime and there was no reason for hurry or panic.

"You're my friend," Kom said. "You can save me, John. We're friends."

Becker's arms began to buck uncontrollably from the strain of holding on.