I knew he was going to come for me. Somewhere inside, I accepted it. Still, I had been hoping that, against all odds, he would never come. I knew better, but I hoped anyway.

Maybe something would happen to him before he got around to me. Maybe one of the others would get lucky. Maybe he would die in a plane crash. Maybe food poisoning would take him.

But then, I would never know. I would be cursed to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days. Maybe it would be better to just get this over with. But, on the other hand, I was not so anxious to die.

I'd been watching his progress. No one could ever keep tabs on him; not directly. But a trail of obituaries, running from one side of the country to the other, told me the fate of all the others. James Connelly, our pilot: drowned in a boating accident. David Russell, the navigator: dead from exposure in Yosemite. Tyrone LaMonte, sharp-shooter: accident with a rifle. Professor Neil Clemens, the world's foremost expert on the Mayan civilization: crushed under a collapsing library shelf.

And the others, all of them, had died in similar ways. One after another, he'd come for them, and killed them with their own strengths. Now I was the last. Professor Clemens had taught at Cornell, just a few hours south. His death was announced in yesterday's Ithaca Journal.

Some of us had tried to run, like David. Some of us had hid in our personal strongholds, the places of our greatest power and influence, like Neil. It didn't change anything.

He came for us, each in turn, and killed us. And now he was coming for me.

I lay back in my chair, watching the sun rise over the Adirondacks. I took a sip of my coffee, snuffed out my cigarette, and checked my pistol again. Safety off, chamber loaded.

I had no idea what he'd do to me. I'd been the money man. It was I who had financed the expedition. It was I who had told Neil to disregard the warnings surrounding the tomb's entrance. It was I, in that dusty place of darkness, who told the others to open the crypt if they wanted to be paid.

I told myself that maybe he would forget about me. Maybe I was unimportant in the scheme of things. I knew I was kidding myself.

My cabin was as isolated as one could get. It was a small wooden affair set up on the shores of Moose River, miles away from the nearest outpost of civilization. Not even the people of Inlet knew where I'd gone. There was no way he could find me here.

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