Free Devil-Devil by Graeme Kent

his childhood digging for crawfish in the mud there. If necessary, he could lead the other man round in circles for hours, until he was so tired and lost that he would be begging for someone to come in and fetch him out.
    At last the stalker found the ridge and hauled himself gratefully up on to the path. He was still too far away for Kella to be able to distinguish his outline properly. In order further to encourage the man, Kella stood up. The stalker let off another shot without aiming, firing so quickly that the bullet came nowhere near the sergeant. Kella dropped back behind the tree trunk.
    Suddenly, to his alarm, he heard Sister Conchita calling his name. He could see the sister standing uncertainly among the trees on the ridge, her white habit standing out vividly against the dark background. She hesitated and then started running towards the sound of the last shot.
    Kella shouted to her to go back. The sister continued to run. She thinks I’m in trouble, thought Kella. She doesn’t know where she is, or what is going on, but she’s coming to help me.
    Sister Conchita was heading in the general direction of the elevated ridge path but in the darkness she misjudged the angle and floundered into the stinking swamp. She stopped, but then pushed forward again, almost waist-deep in the mud and brackish water. Crazy with courage, thought Kella. It was a pity about the complete lack of common sense.
    The stalker was looking back in obvious bewilderment over his shoulder at the nun. To distract him Kella stood up again and started running along the ridge. He ran upright, in order to present the man with a target. No shots came. Kella stopped and looked round. The shooter had turned and was heading back purposefully towards the sister.
    Kella swore softly. The stalker was now on the ridge and able to make good progress, while Sister Conchita’s movements were hampered by the all-pervading mud and ankle-deep water of the swamp.
    Kella changed direction and sprinted back along the ridge towards the retreating man with the rifle, shouting meaninglessly as he did so, in order to distract him. The stalker looked back and hesitated. Realizing that the police sergeant would be on him before he could reach the nun, he turned and deliberately raised his rifle to his shoulder.
    Kella hurled himself off the ridge into the swamp below. The rifle exploded. Kella felt as if he had been savaged in his right shoulder by a cornered wild pig. He sprawled on the ground, pain jolting through his chest and upper arm. His mud-soaked shirt turned even darker as blood started to pump out of the wound.
    The moon scudded back behind a cloud. He could see nothing. Kella forced himself to his feet and staggered through the night in the general direction of the marksman. At the same time he shouted to Sister Conchita to go back to the dry high ground, where the trees grew thickly.
    Waves of nausea swept over the sergeant. Once, he fell to his knees and had to drag himself to his feet again and reel onwards. He remained down in the swamp, trying to shelter in the shadow of the ridge, presenting as small a target as possible and listening intently for the sound of the stalker’s approaching footsteps. Kella was guessing that the man would come back to finish off the job, in case his last shot had not killed the policeman.
    Tensely Kella waited beneath the ridge. After a few moments he heard the cautious shuffle of the man walking back along the ridge above him. Kella was too tired and weak to crawl up on to the ridge. Instead, he hauled himself along the side, squirming a painful few inches at a time, using his left hand to gain a purchase on the bank above. He stopped and used the same hand to take his penknife from his pocket. Opening it with his teeth, he waited until the stalker was directly above him. Kella gathered his remaining strength and propelled himself upwards, at the same time striking out viciously with his knife at the