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of each. Lifted one, lit the rag with a little butane lighter he’d picked up along with everything else, and tossed it straight ahead along the trail.
    The small flame at its mouth traced a fiery arc through the air. Before it hit the ground and whoomph ed into an explosion of flame, Jack had the second one in hand, ready to light.
    Muscles tight, heart pounding, Jack blinked in the sudden glare as his eyes searched out the slightest sign of movement. Wavering shadows from the flickering light of the flames made everything look like it was moving. But nothing big and dark and solid appeared.
    Something small and shiny glittered on a branch just this side of the flames. Warily Jack approached it. His foot slipped on something along the way: The sharpened steel rod Bondy had used to torment the rakosh lay half-buried in the sand. He picked that up and carried it in his left hand like a spear. He had two weapons now. He felt like an Indian hunter, armed with an iron spear and a container of magic burning liquid.
    Closer to the flames now, he stepped over a fallen log and his foot landed on something soft and yielding. Glanced down and saw a very dead Hank staring up at him through glazed eyes. He let out an involuntary yelp and jumped back.
    After glancing around to make sure this wasn’t a trap, he took another look at Hank. Firelight glimmered in dead blue eyes that were fixed on the stars; the pallor of Hank’s bloodless face accentuated the dark rims of his shiners and blended almost perfectly with the sand under his head; his throat was a red pulpy hole and his right arm was missing at the shoulder.
    Jack swallowed hard. That could be me soon if I don’t watch it.
    Stepped over him and kept moving. The fire from the Molotov cocktail was burning low when he reached the branch. Some of the brush had caught fire but the flames weren’t spreading. Still they cast enough light to allow him to identify the shiny object.
    Scar-lip’s telltale collar.
    Jack whirled in near panic, alarm clamoring along his adrenalized nerves as he lit the second cocktail and scanned the area for signs of the rakosh.
    Nothing stirred.
    This was bad, very bad. In the middle of nowhere and he’d given himself away with the first bomb. Now tables were reversed: Scar-lip knew exactly where Jack was, while Jack was lost in the dark with only four cocktails left.
    Dark . . . that was the big problem. If he could find a safe place to hide for a few hours, the rising sun would level the playing field a little. But where?
    Looked around and fixed on a big tree towering above the pines ahead. That might be the answer.
    Jack tossed away the locator and hooked the straps of the canvas bag around his shoulders, knapsack style. Spear in one hand, burning Molotov in the other, he edged ahead in a half crouch, ready to spring in any direction. Sweat trickled down his back as he swung his gaze back and forth, watching, listening, but heard nothing beyond his own harsh, ragged breaths and his racing pulse drumming in his ears.
    Hopped over the dying flames of the first Molotov and saw that the trail opened onto a small clearing with the big tree at its center. Good chance Scar-lip was somewhere in or near the clearing, maybe behind the tree trunk. One good way to find out . . .
    Tossed the second firebomb—another flaming whoomph! but no sign of Scar-lip—yet. Had to get to that tree. Angled around so he could see behind it—nothing. Clearing empty.
    Dropped the iron spear—it would only get in his way—and hustled over to the trunk. Began to climb.
    Did rakoshi climb trees? Jack couldn’t see why not. Doubted they were afraid of heights. Kept climbing, moving as fast as his battered body allowed, ascending until the branches began to crack under his weight. Satisfied that the far heavier Scar-lip could never make it this far up, he settled down to wait.
    Checked the luminescent dial on his watch: just about 3:00
    A.M . When was sun up? Wished he paid