The Woman by David Bishop Page A

highest and densest grass. She also knew where she would encounter flat stretches of sand without grass or berms. Some of those stretches were parted by the small streams of fresh water that endlessly wound down from the hills east of town, under the main road, across the beach and into the sea. A few of those streams fed tide pools, parts of the ecosystem that kept beach things living. Hopefully, these same forces would also help keep her living.
    The next time she looked for the man, he had left the surf line and was moving back toward the berms generally toward her condo. He must have concluded, she thought, having found no tracks on the firm sand that she had not gone into the surf or run upon the denser sand.
    He stopped.
    Then he stared off to Linda’s right, then exactly in her direction. Her heart raced. Then he looked off to her left. He was searching methodically, setting up the beach in visual grids, hoping that when he looked exactly toward her that she would panic and take flight like a flushed bird. She also knew that eventually she might have to do just that, but not yet. For now, she would continue her gradual progress up-beach with each opportunity. A few feet at a time, a yard, perhaps two, as much as she could whenever his behavior allowed her to move. She was in a game of hide-and-seek with death for the booby prize.
    He was about fifty yards from her. If he broke into a short hard sprint, he could halve that distance before she could get up and get moving at top speed. Her options were quickly disappearing. If he kept coming, she would soon need to rise up and run for her life. She had the gun but lacked the confidence to get in a shootout with a man she imagined to be a trained assassin.
    The wind was mild so she had to be careful about causing erratic movements in the grass. She continued to increase the space between them each time he looked away. Once with him facing toward the surf, she crab walked through an opening to reach another berm. She wanted to gain a hundred-yard lead before it became a footrace. With the hundred yards, she believed he would be unable to catch her. She had to assume he could run faster, but unless he was also a jogger, she figured he would be unable to endure a hot pace as long as she.
    Suddenly, without warning, he ran hard away from her, his fluid gait unlabored, even in the sand.
    Oh, Shit. He’s a runner .
    Linda grasped the opportunity to roll over another berm, crab across a patch of open sand, roll through the next berm, then, on all fours, she crossed one of the fresh streams. After one more berm, she stopped, turned, and looked back.
    He had stopped running. He was just standing, staring. He was definitely trying to flush her, to panic her into rising up. His strategy was good, but so far his direction had been bad. She looked one more time and, in the full moonlight, saw him change direction to run hard toward her.
    Each of his strides ate into her safety zone, now down to seventy-five yards, not the hundred she had hoped. For a moment, she held her position, hoping he would veer off or at least stop. When he didn’t, she knew.
    The time for sneaking had passed.
    Her feet began pushing small, soft piles of sand this way and that, her legs pistons forcing her forward. As she ran, she glanced back. He saw her. She knew he would. He had changed his angle slightly. He was now running directly at her.
    Her life had become escape tonight or die tonight.

Chapter 18
    The cat and mouse had ended. From here on, Linda’s life would be a flat-out race. She couldn’t treat it as a sprint, there was too far to go. She would need to pace herself some but make no mistake this was no jog. His stride would be longer than hers so she would need to run harder than he. Many years ago, she had run a short marathon called run-for-life. That one had been for charity. This time was literal, a run for her life.
    Linda hit full speed in a few strides. Then she angled toward the surf.