Disclaimer: See Chapter One

A/N: Sorry about the rather abrupt ending of the previous chapter, but for continuity's sake I needed to save the details for Chapter Three. Hope you enjoy it.

Three

The girl's expression contorted in fear, and Charlie experienced a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach when he heard the crunch of gravel under someone's foot behind him. He spun around, attempting to rise to his feet at the same time, and barely had time for his eyes to register the sight of the club swinging directly at his face before it struck him on the forehead.

A brilliant light exploded inside his head, and he felt his body twisting in the air from the force of the impact, and then he was falling. He landed on his knees and elbows, his face only inches from the ground as he struggled to fight off the unconsciousness that was attempting to seize him in its grasp. He felt unnaturally weak, as if completely drained of energy, and his vision swam in and out of focus. Unable to maintain the effort to stay on his hands and knees, he slowly allowed his body to sink lower, so that his abdomen was resting on his thighs, which were tucked under him. His forehead rested on his hands, which were balled into fists on the ground. He knew that he was in a posture very similar to a fetal position, but he did not have the strength to alter it. It was as if every muscle in his body had ceased to function.

"You stay put!" the man snarled at the girl, who had apparently tried to use the moment of distraction to run off. His voice sounded abnormal to the injured professor, like it was coming to him from the end of a long metallic tunnel, but the volume and sharpness of it roused him slightly from the fog of oblivion that had nearly overtook him. "You move, and I'll bash your head in! Don't think I won't do it!"

Charlie was uncertain if the man was speaking to him or the girl, but he was in no condition to ask for clarification. At the moment, he wasn't able to move, even if he wanted to.

He wasn't sure what he expected to feel like after being hit over the head, but somehow, this wasn't like anything he had ever imagined. Not that he had ever sat around thinking about what it might feel like. There certainly wasn't that funny little circle of stars floating around his head like in the cartoons. In fact, there was nothing funny about this at all. His ears were ringing and there seemed to be a dark veil drifting across his eyes. He blinked rapidly and shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but that made the throbbing start. With a groan, he reached for the place on his forehead where the throbbing was centered, and gingerly pressed his fingertips against the soreness. There was no indication of a laceration, so he withdrew his fingers to verify that there was no blood present.

As he stared numbly at his fingertips, he was aware of the other man slowly circling him. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes toward the figure that shuffled slowly around him, watching the pair of heavy duty work shoes as they were placed one in front of the other, crunching the gravel on the floor of the arroyo as their owner walked. Vaguely, he was aware of the child whimpering nearby. Like him, she was afraid to move.

"Thought you could fool me, did you?" the man asked, menacingly. "That was pretty clever, scaring me off by pretending there was a search party after the girl. Guess you didn't figure I would stick around long enough to check it out, did you?"

Charlie closed his eyes briefly and grimaced, more from disappointment than from the pain. He should have been paying attention. He knew the guy had run off; it should have been easy enough to deduce that he would come back when he figured out the ruse. It had been too easy, and he had been reveling too much in his surprising success. He had let his guard down. That was why Don was the FBI agent, and he was the math consultant. If Don had been here, this would not have happened. Opening his eyes again, he watched his attacker, warily.

The man continued to circle him, something which was making the young professor feel decidedly nauseated. He thumped the club in the palm of his hand, repeatedly, a steady rhythm intended to intimidate. It was working. Charlie was terrified. He could feel himself shaking inside. His fingers were trembling, and in an effort to steady them he closed his hands around fistfuls of dirt, sand, and gravel, holding them tightly.

"What am I going to do with you?" the man asked, clearly enjoying the fear he saw on his victim's face. "I could kill you, you know. It would be very simple. And there are so many ways I could do it. I could do it quickly to spare you the pain, or I could do it slowly and watch you suffer." His taunting voice told the young professor that he would just as soon torture him slowly. After a moment, he squatted down on his heels beside the younger man and cocked his head, studying him with curiosity, noticing that his victim's face was youthful and attractive, framed by dark ringlets. "You're kinda cute, know that? All that curly hair and big brown eyes." He chuckled, pleased with the thought that had just entered his mind. "Maybe when I'm done with that little girl, I'll have a go at you, too."

Charlie froze. Even his heart seemed to skip a beat as his mind processed the information it had just received. It was not difficult to figure out exactly what the man was driving at. Peering out of the corners of his eyes, focusing on the club that the man had propped in front of him, he noticed that it was a piece of driftwood that had apparently been found in the arroyo.

"I'm not gay." In his fear, his own voice sounded alien to him.

The man laughed. "So? Neither am I. But if there was one thing I learned in prison, it's that a good looking boy like you can be as good as a young untouched girl. Yep, when yer in prison, you make due with what'cha got. And them young offenders are easy to overpower. They scare easy, like you are right now. Ain't that right, boy?"

Charlie felt a twinge of resentment at the repeated use of the word "boy", but did not dare voice his objection.

Prison!

For the first time, he noticed that the man was wearing prison fatigues. He lifted his head a little higher to look directly at the man's face. Cold gray eyes stared back at him, and he recognized something familiar in that harsh round face that bristled with stubble. The man was grinning, and Charlie saw that several of his teeth were missing. Most of the rest were rotting, and he could smell the man's foul breath across the three feet or so that separated them. On his forearm was a skull and crossbones tattoo.

He felt his pulse step up a notch. He had seen that face and the tattoo in one of Don's case files. A prison escapee. What was his name? He concentrated on that file, trying to see the label in his mind. It came to him with a jolt. Jessup! Yes, that was it; Doyle Jessup; imprisoned six years ago for the brutal rapes of three young girls and the murder of one of them.

His lips parted as he stared at the harsh face, and his breathing accelerated with the confirmation that this man was extremely dangerous. Jessup was a hardened criminal who had somehow managed to escape from prison five days ago, killing one of his guards.

Jessup's smile faded, detecting the recognition on the younger man's face. "You know me, boy?"

Charlie looked away, quickly, focusing on the small brown pebbles directly beneath his nose. "No."

"Then why are you starin' at me like that?"

"I – I just . . . I'm sorry." That was a lame thing to say, he thought.

The man burst out laughing. "Yer scared o' me, ain't'cha?" He leaned closer to Charlie's face, so close that his foul breath nearly made the young professor wretch. He turned his face away, seeking more breathable air. "Yer gonna be a whole lot scareder by the time I get finished with ya," Jessup continued. "I ain't known for my gentleness." He leaned even closer, only inches from Charlie's dark curls, and he seemed annoyed that the young man's face was turned away from him. Grasping a handful of long curly hair, he wrenched Charlie's head around so that he was facing the convict and smelling that putrid breath again. He laughed with satisfaction when Charlie drew in a sharp, painful breath as his hair was pulled. "How does that sound, boy? Hmm? Maybe you'd even like to go first?"

Charlie stared into the convict's face with wide eyes, knowing fully well that Doyle Jessup enjoyed inflicting pain on his victims. He was already sampling that violent tendency as the convict continued to hold his hair in a tight grip that he feared would pull it right out of his head. The pictures in the file flashed into his mind; pictures of the girls he had raped, displaying the bruises and bite marks on various parts of their bodies, and he felt revulsion that this man intended to do to him and the young girl the same disgusting things he had done to his previous victims.

The convicted criminal was still grinning, delighted with the pain and terror he saw in those wide brown eyes. Roughly, he released his grip on his captive's hair, allowing the young professor to shrink down again.

Tearing his eyes away from that ugly face, Charlie closed them tightly and pressed his forehead against his fists again, trying to block out the horror of what had just happened and to shut his mind to what was about to happen. But as his forehead touched his hands, he became aware of the gravel and dirt that was still clutched in them. A twinge of hope stirred in his heart as his mind formulated a plan. It would have to count. He only had one shot; one chance to save his life and that of the little girl, for he knew that Jessup would probably kill them once he was finished with them.

Wrenching his body upright, he flung the contents of both hands directly into Jessup's face as hard as he could. Dirt and gravel sprayed into the convict's open mouth and eyes with enough force that it made his head jerk backward away from it.

With a bellow of pain and surprise, Jessup fell backward and sat down hard on the ground, clawing frantically at his eyes and coughing and spitting the dirt and gravel at the same time.

Scrambling to his feet, hoping his strength had returned enough to carry him to safety, Charlie grabbed the girl's hand and yanked her upright so abruptly that she cried out in fear, but she did not struggle against him, recognizing that he was her only hope of escaping the man who had kidnapped her. Clinging tightly to her rescuer's hand, she and Charlie ran as fast as they could away from the criminal and up the craggy slope of the arroyo.

Unwilling to let his captives get away, the man climbed to his feet and staggered after them several steps, but then stopped. Bent at the waist, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes, still trying to get the dirt out of them. He bellowed again in rage and pain, but he was clearly in no condition to give chase.

"I'm gonna kill you!" he shouted at the footfalls that retreated rapidly up the sloping ground. "Hear that, boy? I'm gonna hunt you down and kill you!"

Charlie heard the chilling threat, and when he reached the rim of the arroyo, he chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Jessup was still bent over at the waist trying to dig the debris out of his eyes with his grimy fingers, but it appeared he was only making it worse for himself, for he was groaning loudly in pain and frustration as he rubbed the dirt and gravel that was trapped beneath his eyelids. It was obvious that he had been completely disabled by Charlie's offensive maneuver, for it appeared he could not even get his eyes open. Eventually, he would recover as his own tears washed the dirt from his eyes, but by that time the professor hoped to have a comfortable distance between them.

Dismissing the criminal's physical agony as an unfortunate necessity, the price paid for his behavior, Charlie led the girl away from the arroyo and across the rugged terrain, hoping he was leading them to safety. But he knew that neither of them could keep up the pace very long.

Glancing up at the sky, he stopped abruptly, realizing that the direction they were running would take them back toward the highway where he had left the bicycle. That was no good; the abandoned highway offered no refuge. Altering course, he turned toward the direction of the cluster of buildings, his original destination. "This way," he said to the girl.

Panting and whimpering, the young girl clung to his hand and struggled to keep up, but she was rapidly tiring. She needed to stop and rest, but each time she slowed, the man pulled her along behind, forcing her to keep up.

"Please!" she begged. "I can't go any farther!"

Deeming that they were far enough away from their attacker to justify a brief rest, Charlie slowed down and stopped.

Gasping for breath, the girl pulled free of his hand, and moved a couple of steps away from him, establishing her personal boundary, then sank down on the hard ground. Turning away from her, his eyes scanned the area behind them, searching the desert for indications that they were being chased. The desert was calm and quiet, with no sign of their attacker. He knew it would be a while before Jessup was able to overcome the effects of the dirt and gravel in his eyes. Even after they were free of the debris, they would likely burn and sting for a while, making him very uncomfortable.

The adrenaline rush that had provided Charlie with the strength for his getaway was beginning to dissipate, and intense fatigue settled in its place. Panting in his exhaustion, he leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and willed his pounding heart to slow down. It was thudding loudly in his heaving chest, and he could feel it throbbing in his temples and pulsing at the point of injury on his forehead.

What were the odds that the convict would follow them? His mind focused on the probabilities, the variables. He might decide to leave the area to save his own hide. On the other hand, he was a convict who had made a threat against him. He might just intend to carry out that threat. How could you get into the mind of a convict? Don could do it; it was his job to understand the thought process of criminals. But Charlie was too gentle. It was not in his nature to comprehend such things.

He stared at the ground between his sneakers. It was hard and dry and covered with tiny bits of gravel. They had left no distinct footprints for him to follow and they had altered direction, both plusses. He would have to be an experienced tracker to follow them, and tracking was a fine art. Still, he was determined not to let his guard down this time. He had made that mistake once; next time he would be ready.

Gradually, his pulse and his breathing began to slow down to a more comfortable level. The throbbing in his head continued, but seemed to ease up again as his heart settled into a slower rhythm. Feeling a little better, he stood up straight again and turned his head to look at the young girl, who still sat on the ground trying to catch her breath. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you for helping me," she said, her voice small and scared. "He was . . . he was g-gonna . . . "

"I know," he replied, softly.

The girl sat quietly and watched the young man who had rescued her. Something in his posture and in his kind and gentle face suggested that he was someone she could trust. After immobilizing her kidnapper, he could have simply run off alone, leaving her to fend herself, but he had not. He had rescued her, and he had refused to allow her to fall behind as they ran. He probably could have traveled faster without her, but he would not leave her. "Can you see him?" she asked.

"No, no," he replied. "I think we got away. Okay, well, we can't stay here," he said, his voice sounding a lot more confident than he felt. He had no earthly idea what he was going to do to protect the girl if the convict should decide to hunt them down. Violence made him uncomfortable. Don was the experienced criminologist, the one who could stare them in the eye without cringing in fear. But Don wasn't there. There was only Charlie, the gentle mathematician. "There's a group of buildings somewhere northeast of us. They've been abandoned, but I'm hoping maybe one of the pay phones is still connected, and we can call for help." Glancing at the girl again, it occurred to him suddenly that she and her kidnapper had to have had used a means of transportation to carry them into the desert. Most likely, the guy had stolen a vehicle. "Unless . . . Did the guy drive?" he asked, hopefully. "Maybe we can hijack his car."

"Yes," she replied. She climbed to her feet again. "It's parked right over . . . " She paused, looking frantically around at the desolate landscape. "I don't know. I don't know where it is. Everything looks the same! I think its back over there," she said, pointing back the way they had come.

Charlie shook his head. He had not noticed a vehicle parked at the side of the road. "I was walking down the highway for a long time, and I didn't see it."

"He drove off the highway for a long time. I guess he was afraid someone would drive past and see the car."

Charlie gazed longingly in the direction indicated, wishing for that vehicle, but he had no intention of going back the way they had come to search for it, for that opened up the possibility that they might encounter the convict again. His head was throbbing relentlessly, and he raised his hand again to probe the injury, wincing when his fingertips touched the sore spot.

"Did he hurt you bad?" she asked.

He withdrew the hand and looked at his fingertips. Still no sign of blood, but it was tender enough that he knew he would have a contusion, at the very least. "I don't think so. Maybe a minor concussion."

"Gee, you sure were brave," the little girl said, admiringly. "You didn't holler out or nothin' when he hit you!"

"I didn't?" Charlie asked, surprised.

"Nope. You just fell. I was afraid he'd killed you."

Reaching out, he took her hand again. "Come on. Our best bet is to see if there is a phone or something at the service station. If there is, we can call for help. My brother is an FBI agent."

"Think there will be a water fountain there?" she asked, timidly.

Water! At some point, he had lost his bottle of water. He could not even remember when or where he had dropped it. He stroked his temple with his fingertips, trying to think. Maybe on top of the bluff, when he had first seen the convict. Or maybe he had set it down when he knelt beside the girl, shortly before he was assaulted. Maybe he had dropped it when he had been struck with the club. Well, the end result was the same. Regardless of how he had lost it, they had no water.

He knew that it was highly unlikely that a water fountain was still in operation, and even if it was, it would probably be undrinkable. In answer to her question, he replied, "I don't know. What's your name?"

"Erica Davenport."

He smiled. "Nice to meet you, Erica. I'm Charlie."

"You said before that you are a professor. You don't look old enough to be a professor."

"I've been one for nearly ten years. I started teaching kinda young." His eyes scanned the desert again, recalling the words Jessup had shouted after them – I'm going to hunt you down and kill you! "I think we had better keep moving. I don't know if that guy will try to follow us or not, but I'd rather keep well ahead of him, just in case." He did not add that having a car put the criminal at a distinct advantage over the two of them on foot. On the other hand, maybe he would do the smart thing and just drive away.

Trustingly, she walked beside him as they made their way across the desolate landscape. Occasionally, he paused to note the position of the sun, and he muttered unintelligibly to himself as he made calculations in his mind, then he altered course slightly and proceeded.

"What are you doing?" she asked when he made yet another stop.

"I'm determining which direction the rest stop is, so that we don't get lost out here," he replied. "We have to make so many twists and curves because of the terrain that it's hard to stay on course."

"You can do that by looking at the sun?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm. You see, the sun follows a very precise course across the sky every single day. It changes as the seasons change, but those changes are very predictable, and based on the position of the sun at any given season at any particular time of the day, it is possible to calculate where you are in conjunction with a place you are trying to find. Now, I can't predict with absolute 100 percent precision where that rest stop is, but I can calculate its approximate location with enough accuracy to put us close enough to see it."

She listened to this jumble of words without comprehension. "That sounds pretty hard to do. Are you some kind of genius?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. At first she thought he was joking, but his expression was serious, and the answer was spoken in a manner that was simply straightforward, no brag just fact. "It's both a blessing and a curse," he added. "It got me beat up a lot when I was a kid."

"That's mean. Do you teach astronomy or something?" she asked.

He smiled. "No. I teach applied mathematics."

She wrinkled her nose in revulsion. "I hate math," she said vehemently.

"You hate math?" he asked in disbelief, pretending to be offended and horrified. "I can't even imagine such a thing! Math is the most useful tool in the world! With math, you can do almost anything!"

"Like what?" she challenged.

"Oh, I see I have a disbeliever on my hands. Okay, I will tell you all about math . . . ."