As she approached the next clearing, Callie munched on the second bite of her high-energy bar, specifically designed for marathon runners so that they did not begin metabolizing their own muscle tissues during the last few miles of a race. I wonder how long Amanda could run on her own muscle tissue, Callie mused. Probably "a fer piece,"as Uncle Jake would say.

Callie entered the clearing cautiously. No sign of Amanda. No "sense" of her, either. Callie realized that Amanda could very well have the skill to cloud her presence, but hoped that she wouldn't employ that skill.

Making her way to the center of the clearing, Callie saw something she didn't like at all.

"Shit!"

Her pointed sticks were still there.

And there.

And over there, too.

Broken into four pieces each.

Callie spun around and around, scanning the trees. Pointless to couch down - dangerous even. Stay ready to bolt at any moment.

If Amanda was nearby, she was hidden and cloaked in shadow.

Possible meanings behind the broken sticks: a) Amanda had guessed Callie would make for this clearing next, got there first, and broken the sticks; b) Amanda had her quarry's entire strategy figured out from the start and made an early tour of all the clearings, seen the sticks, and broken them; c) a humongous bunny rabbit had hopped up and down on the sticks and...

Fuck it. Doesn't matter when she broke them. They're gone. Definitely not worth the risk of going near the trees to make another pair.

Well, the sticks weren't much of a plan, anyway. I'm lucky it worked once. I've got plan B. Even less likely to work, but, if it does, better.

Nothing to do but wait.

Time? Two-eighteen. Over five and a half hours to go. It'll really be a drag if I have to spend five of them in one spot rotating like a beacon waiting for Amanda.

Waiting for Amanda.

Waiting.

Callie reached out for Amanda. She reconstructed the image in her mind of the bola-swinging tiger-woman rushing her, a study of precision and power.

Fix on that image. Remember the feeling I got from her. The appetite! The lust! The will to win!

Search for that feeling. It's out there. She's out there. Find it! Find her!

Yes!

I've got her! Not precisely, but she's there. Could be she's trying to cloak herself. Could be she's just far away. But she's there.

Long, long moments passed.

Callie resisted the temptation to look at her watch. No point measuring the agony, the delicious agony.

Yes, it was delicious, having that two-legged force of nature concentrating on her.

Suddenly, Callie felt a chill and heard, or imagined she heard, a deep female voice whisper Don't worry. It won't last much longer.

Callie actually shivered.

Stage whisper? Thought projection? Purely her own imagination?

Is my own mind working for Amanda?

No. She's near. I feel her. She wants me worse than ever.

Though she didn't look at her watch, Callie later calculated that it must have happened shortly before three o'clock.

The second face-to-face encounter.

From the southwest, with the sun right over her, stepping out from behind a tree, not running, not swinging her bola, the tiger-woman appeared, moving slowly, eyes locked on Callie's.

Amanda raised the bola and began to swing it, making her wrist movements vary, adding unpredictability to orbit.

Callie backed away slowly.

If I could back all the way to the trees... No, that won't work. Amanda's taking two steps forward for every step I take backward. She's closing the distance. Gotta pick a time and run.

But first, read her eyes. She isn't telegraphing anything, but she operates with a certain timing, even when she's trying not to. Get a sense of that and...

Go!

On your own. Pure instinct. That little clue you always had that starting pistol was about to go off. Feel Amanda's hand on the strap and...

It's all you got, girl. One to a customer.

Now!

On the day of the practice hunt with Colonel Stoneridge, Callie had sung a verse from Cole Porter's "Anything Goes," one with an obscure reference.

" 'When you hear that Lady Mendel standing up
" 'Now turns a handspring landing up-
" 'On her toes,
" 'Anything goes.' "

Callie went airborne like an Olympic gymnast in a floor routine, came down on her hands just in time to see the rocks of the bola a few feet from her face, flipped into the air again, and landed on her feet before the bola hit the ground just short of the trees in front of her.

Still on the run, she bent down and swooped up the bola with one hand.

Now, THAT'S got to piss Amanda off.

Five minutes later, when she slowed down enough to think about anything beside dodging trees, it occurred to her that A pissed-off Amanda might not be a good thing.

Well, it's only fair. She broke my pointy stick thingies and I snatched her three-rocks-tied-together-throwing thingy. Straight-up trade.

But what do I do with this thing now that I've got it? Don't know how to use it and don't have time to learn. If I just drop it, Amanda can find it.

Callie tried throwing the bola up, hoping it would catch on a tree limb, but only tried that one time, discovering once again that gravity works.

She decided to keep the bola with her, but cut off two of the rocks and tethers. She wrapped the remainder around her waist. Not too much weight and it might come in handy.

Next move? Still think I have the best chance if she finds me in the open and I can get a running start. Head southeast, then sharp to west. Think I can find a clearing by dead reckoning. Stay alert. Sense. She's there. She was behind me, but now I think she's moving parallel to me.

Run!

Go for distance.

Feel that hunger-lust. That yearning for my flesh.

The first time I ever felt that feeling - if that had never happened, I wouldn't be here today.

Callie tried to calm herself. She pictured, without becoming immersed in the memory to the quiet afternoon she had spent with Colonel Stoneridge, telling him a short version of the story of her life as quarry. She skimmed over many details: for example, she had never told anyone the full story of her last encounter with Mort; also, as the Colonel seemed even more familiar with the culture of India than herself and partly to avoid embarrassment, she summarized her hunt with Felix in a few sentences; and, while she mentioned that she had enjoyed the company of R. Kiver's collection, she left out detailed sexual descriptions.

However, when she came to the part of her story that most directly led to her challenge to Amanda, she became much more fulsome in her narration and Stone, for his part, made more pointed comments.

She had begun this part of her story by describing her shocked reaction one hunter gave to her usual question, "What do you plan to do with my body after you've killed me?"

"Eat me?"

"Why, uh, yes." The hunter, a decent looking but non-athletic type, was quite surprised at Callie's apparent disbelief.

"You mean really eat me. You aren't using that as a sort of colloquialism for cunnilingus or something, are you?"

"No."

"So, you're talking about eating in the sense of ingesting and digesting, right?" Callie was experiencing tingles she couldn't account for. She had been feeling something special ever since his gaze had fallen upon her, but now that feeling intensified immensely.

"Yes. I would, of course, be very happy to eat you in the other sense after I bring you down with the drug ball and before I kill you, if you would enjoy that. Don't get me wrong: I really do like that sort of thing, but I prefer a responsive partner."

"How nice." After her many encounters with necrophiles, Callie did find this a refreshing change. Still, the idea of being eaten was having an odd effect on her.

"Now, don't tell me that this is the first time you've ever been hunted by a woman eater?"

"Well, actually, Mr. Noffager, it is."

"Please, Callie, call me Guy. Hmm. I find that rather surprising."

"Now that you mention it, I guess I do, too." Callie had heard that cannibalism was a relatively common motivation among hunters and, statistically speaking, she should have encountered someone like Guy before, as she had been running as quarry for six years. Perhaps hunters looked at her height and weight stats and decided that she would be rather slender pickings. Something more than mere curiosity prompted her to ask, "Well, uh, just how would you like to cook me, assuming you get me?"

Guy relaxed his posture, leaning on the picnic table with his elbows and sipped from the Styrofoam cup of coffee supplied by the ranger station. He could tell Callie was intrigued. She might be hooked.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to cook you in my favorite way, which would be to spit roast you alive. Now, don't panic - it isn't as bad as it might sound. And it isn't possible, anyway."

"Why not?" Callie asked, and wondered, And why do I find that disappointing? What the hell's wrong with me?

"Well, first of all, I'd have to get you rather early in the day. It takes time to build a large enough fire, the cooking itself takes hours, and, as for creating a proper spit - that's hardly a simple matter. Now, if this were a proper hunting lodge like they have in England, the equipment would already be in place, but I'm afraid we aren't quite that advanced in our practices.

"Second, your inability to move once you've been hit would be a real handicap in keeping you alive. It helps if the roaster can twist and turn a bit to accommodate the spit," Guy demonstrated with a few movements, which, when Callie imagined herself doing them, made her feel - heaven help her! - sexy. "And, unhappily, I don't have the means with me to make it painless for you. I really do think the experience should be as pleasurable as possible for the roaster as well as for the cook. Wouldn't you agree?

"Yes, of course." Callie wondered why that agreement came so naturally to her. Practically speaking, it was a nonsense statement, describing something that was impossible - wasn't it?

"But those considerations, important as they are, aren't the main reason why I wouldn't attempt it." Noffager sighed.

"Oh, well, what IS the main reason, then?" Callie asked, wondering And why do I care?

"Well, it would be a terrible waste. I couldn't possibly eat you all myself. I'd have to pack most of you, take you home by car and jet and then car again. It will be difficult enough to make sure your body 'travels well' simply being dead, let alone cooked. And it would be a sacrilege for any lover of girl meat to leave any part of a body like yours to scavengers. I mean, would you feed caviar to an alley cat?"

"No, of course not." Me? Caviar? What a nice thing to say! Wait! No, it's not! Or is it?

"I'm afraid the best I can do is pack you as well as I can, hope you stay fresh on the trip home, and then serve you at a hastily arranged special barbeque. A prize like you really should be shared among friends. You do see yourself as worthy of that, don't you?"

"I... I never thought about it, but, uh, yes." And why am I thinking about it now?

"Of course, all of those obstacles could be circumvented if you were to sign a waiver allowing me to take you out of the park alive but sedated." Guy leaned forward hopefully. "I don't suppose you would consider that, would you?"

"No, I'm afraid I wouldn't." Callie knew that dominants sometimes used hunts as a means of acquiring slaves. Some quarry did sign wavers that could lead to their enslavement, but it was generally assumed that, since the libertarian revolution, a good dominant could obtain willing slaves for much less than the cost of a hunt. Therefore, anyone who had to resort to shooting a woman with a drug ball in order to acquire a slave had to have something really nasty in mind.

"Probably wise of you, considering that you don't know me well," Noffager admitted. "Still, it's a pity. I think you would rather enjoy meeting the people who were going to feast on your flesh. The appreciation a woman receives before she goes onto the spit is really quite emotionally satisfying."

"I'm sure..." Callie realized what she was on the verge of accepting and quickly finished her sentence with "...that it's time for me to get my head start." She rose from the table and extended her hand. "Have a nice day."

Guy also rose and took her hand warmly, saying, "You, too. I'll see you later."

There was an absoluteness about that statement that somehow wasn't scary, and Callie felt no reason to disagree. She only smiled weakly, turned, and headed off for the woods.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she had not asked two of her usual questions, important ones.

When she turned around to go back to ask her questions, she saw that Guy had picked up the book he had been reading when she had first approached him. He was so engrossed in it that he was almost startled when she spoke his name.

"Mr. Noffager, uh, I mean Guy, I have two questions."

"Yes, Callie. What are they?" He closed his book and politely gave her his complete attention.

"Well, how do you plan to kill me once I'm immobilized?"

"Oh." There was an odd pause, as though he hadn't given much thought to what was usually one of the main payoffs for the hunter. "I'll, uh, cut your throat. Sharp knife, shouldn't hurt much. Hang you up by your feet so the blood drains out. Makes you easier to carry. Also, your body will travel better." Polite, matter of fact.

"My other question is - do you plan to have sex with me, either before or after you kill me?"

"Well, as I said, I prefer a responsive partner, but if you wish, you are attractive enough that I could rise to the occasion, probably without resorting to imagining how delicious you will look roasting over hot coals. I'd consider it as honoring your last request."

Callie found this an accommodating but tepid response. She liked enthusiasm in her lovers.

"Can you sing?" she asked.

"Uh, somewhat. I've never got a standing ovation."

"Do you know 'Night and Day'?"

"No."

"How about 'Begin the Beguine'?"

"Maybe the first line."

" 'In the Still of the Night'?"

"Nope."

" 'Every Time We Say Good-bye'?"

"No."

"Do you know ANY Cole Porter songs?"

"Didn't he write 'Let's Do It'?"

"Uh, yeah. Very cute song, but, considering the occasion, tell you what - just imagine me on a spit and fuck me. Okay?"

"It's a deal."

Callie took off for the woods.

In a way, it was the oddest day she had ever had as quarry.

She found herself frequently stopping, resting, thinking about images Noffager had created in her mind.

Her body roasting over hot coals.

Hungry men and women gathered around, waiting to sink their teeth into her flesh, take it into their bodies.

Her body as meat. Hungered for, lusted after meat.

She looked down at her legs, imagined them glistening with basting, turning golden brown.

What would her roasting body smell like?

If she were to meet the people who would eat her, what would it be like to see the hunger in their eyes, to know that, as polite and charming as they were being, they were anxious to see her dead and served on a platter?

Several times, Callie found herself so lost in her reverie that she had to make a deliberate effort to snap herself out of it, remember that her life was at stake, get up, get moving, stay alert.

By the end of the day, she had become so angry with herself so many times, that whatever erotic fantasies she had enjoyed had been pushed out of her mind. She could masturbate over them once she got home.

She found a call box and rang in to be picked up. This time, she waited for the ranger. Her mind had wandered so much that she didn't think she could find her way back to the station.

Callie really wallowed in self-recrimination as she rode in the Jeep. The fact that she was still alive had to be chalked up to sheer luck. She had failed Uncle Jake: she had not given it her best and played to win. She resolved that once she got home, she would go straight to his farm and ask him to paddle her butt until she couldn't sit comfortably for a week, just as he had promised. She deserved it.

She knew there had been times that day when she so unalert that she would not have known it if Guy had been within twenty feet of her. In fact, she could not recall having once had that sharp awareness that said: Somebody is out to kill you; you are in the worst possible danger.

Callie relied on her instincts, her subliminal awareness, her spider-sense, or whatever else it might be called as much as on her speed to keep her alive. If she let those capabilities go on hiatus, she might as well hobble around with cement blocks on her feet.

The odd thing was that she had felt a very special vibe from Guy. Lust, of course, but something more, just as there had been with Robert Kiver, but, in Guy's case, that something extra was hunger. It had been so distinct that she was sure she could feel it a quarter mile away. And she had not felt that once during the entire hunt.

Was the idea of being eaten (and all the preps that went before it) so exciting that it had overtaken her completely, blocking out her survival skills?

Had a hunter found a way to make her beat herself?

Callie shuddered at the thought. Would she have to give up running in hunts if she wanted to live?

Fortunately for Callie's self-esteem and her future as quarry, another explanation for her peculiar sense of detachment concerning her safety presented itself as soon as she returned to the station.

Guy was seated at the same picnic table where she had left him that morning, reading the same book. Something had changed, though: he was now at the end of the book; he had barely started it in the morning. It was a thick book and Guy didn't show any signs of being a speed reader.

Add to that the fact that his clothing - even his shoes! - bore not a single indication that he had gone anywhere near the woods and Callie could reach only one conclusion.

He hadn't even tried to hunt her!

She was relieved to know that her survival senses had not necessarily failed her; they hadn't even been tested.

But she was also insulted that Guy, apparently, didn't find her worth the effort. But then, why was he still here?

"Well, Mr. Noffager, I hope the day wasn't too strenuous for you." She didn't have to make a special effort to be sarcastic. It came very naturally.

"Ah, Callie." Guy closed his book and looked up. "Please have a seat. May I go and get you a soda?"

No point being too unfriendly. "I'll sit, but pass on the drink." Once seated, she folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. "So, how's the book? Any good?"

"Very entertaining. Callie, I won't lie to you. I don't know beans about hunting. Can't track. Can't scent. And as for firing his thing," he said, laying his hand on the drug-ball gun, "my odds of hitting what I'm aiming at are about equal to drawing to a gap in the middle of a straight, assuming you play poker."

"I do. Had a good teacher. So, what are you doing here? Why pay for renting a whole forest preserve and a runner for a day, just to read a book? You know, a guy named Carnegie built a whole bunch of free places to read. They're called libraries."

"I know, I've endowed a few myself." Guy smiled. "Callie, I sign up for hunts so that I can meet young women who have, in a sense, put a price on their lives - or, at least, on risking them. I find such women interesting and I like to offer them propositions."

"That's cool," Callie said without meaning it as a compliment. "So, why didn't you spring your little proposition this morning? I enjoyed my walk in the woods, but you could have done your reading sitting in a comfortable armchair."

"Because, my dear Callie, I wanted you to have the day to contemplate the idea of being eaten. You did think about it, right?"

"The matter crossed my mind," Callie admitted. "So, what's the proposition?"

"Callie, how would you like a year of living in complete luxury? No work. No responsibility. Perfect comfort. Your every need, and most all of your desires, met for you?"

"Sounds great. Except for the catch, which you haven't mentioned yet." Callie was now forcing unfriendliness because Guy did have charm, and she was pretty sure she didn't want to succumb to it.

"At the end of the year, you would be spit-roasted alive and eaten by people who had become your friends and, if you chose, your lovers during that year."

Callie didn't want to give the idea a second's worth of serious consideration, but, rather than give it a cold refusal, she chose to make light of it by giving a joking response.

"Well, maybe if you made the bait five years in the lap of luxury, I might bite."

Much to her surprise, Noffager gave her a serious answer.

"I'm afraid that's a bit impractical," he said, shaking his head. "It's not just the expense and the inflationary precedent it would set. You see, a lot can happen to a woman's body in five years, much of it not very good. While you seem very proud of your body and would no doubt make an effort to stay in shape, it's hard to imagine that, in five years, you wouldn't succumb to some temptation toward wretched excess.

"There is an aesthetic reason why I seek roasters among women who run in hunts. You see, most of the volunteers we get through advertising on the Internet - and, yes, we do get quite a few - tend to be on the voluptuous side. They're usually attractive, even beautiful, and they cook up marvelously, their bodies being full of tasty marbling. But one does, from time to time, enjoy the sight of a well-muscled woman riding the spit. And, of course, lean meat, well-prepared, has such a nice texture. Nearly all of the women who run as quarry are, to some degree, athletic, though I admit you are, by far, the best example I have ever encountered."

"Thank you." Callie was genuinely appreciative of the praise. "But I'm afraid I want to live a lot longer than a year."

"Well," Guy confessed, "I'll admit that I was attempting to 'low ball' you with that offer. I had to give it a try. Two years is the standard for a live roaster, at least among my ciricle. Now, we do have women on one-year contracts, but they aren't roasted alive; they are free to choose another form of demise. In your case, you are such an extraordinary specimen that I'm sure I can go a bit outside the standard, without being hooted at by my peers. Are you open to negotiation?"

"I don't think so." Callie tried to sound firm.

"Well, let me ask you if you would accept an invitation to an event that takes place in two weeks?"

"What sort of event?" As if I didn't know - what I don't know is why I'm asking, why I'm keeping this conversation going.

"I'm roasting a fine young woman named Dee Dee in two weeks. Now, Dee Dee has been on a one-year contract, meaning that she gets to choose her own means of demise and, I can assure you, her choice is most interesting. She'll be oven roasted, by the way, so you won't get the full experience of a spit-roasting, but I promise you a very fine dinner."

"I've never eaten human meat," Callie said.

"Oh, then, please, do come. Dee Dee would be so delighted to know that she would be your first. See, her roasting will take place on a Saturday afternoon and I would like you to come at least as early as Friday morning and meet Dee Dee, get to know her. Ask her about her life this past year. Ask if she has any regrets. Besides Dee Dee, you'll meet some other wonderful people. It will be a swell party. I'll pay all your expenses and you'll be under no obligation at all. You'll be free to leave anytime. You can even bring a friend. Please say you'll come."

"I... I'll think about it," Callie replied.

"I share your outrage at this woman-eating chap for not taking the hunt seriously." Colonel Stoneridge shook his head in disgust at Callie's report. "Nothing more disappointing and disrespectful than to find that your opponent in the contest has not had his head in the game."

"I hope," Callie responded, "that you aren't disappointed in my performance today."

"Oh, no, not at all, my dear," Stone assured her. "I was fully aware that your main concern was gathering information rather than avoiding capture by me, but you are quite light on your feet and, by habit, you avoided leaving a terribly obvious trail. That, in itself, was an interesting thing to observe: your almost automatic stealthiness. No worries. But, tell me, did you accept this bounder's invitation?"

"Well, yes," Callie replied.