'Got to go,' he said, lifting his weary frame, breathing deeply to retain his brave face.
He went into the garden, breath misting in the frosty air, through a back gate towards a lone oak tree, branches bare, standing sentry on a hill. A group of uniforms were already gathering and he could hear the lone yelp of a frustrated police dog. As he neared, he saw one of the cops bend down but he couldn't see what he was tending because it was beyond the brow of the small hill. He felt sick, he felt empty, and he felt forlorn. Another cop went down on his haunches.
A policewoman stationed outside the back gate called across to him. 'Look,' she said, pointing.
Foster followed her finger. On the straw-coloured grass were a few spots of blood. He said nothing. Just carried on walking towards the group on the hill. He plunged his hands deep in his voluminous pockets, so no one could see they were shaking.
He reached the crest of the hill. Foster closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them.
Nothing. Just a dirt track.
The two policemen were still on their haunches. One saw Foster.
'The scent stopped around here,' one explained. 'There are some fresh tyre tracks. A car, we reckon.'
Foster followed the snaking route of the dirt track. It seemed to run eastward away from the house back towards the main road.
'There are some spots of blood back there. Get forensics out here. I want the whole field roped off and a fingertip search started straight away.'
'Do you reckon it's the killer's car?' a cop in uniform asked.
'I do. He's got him. If he's not killed him here, then he needs him for something. Don't ask me what. But once he's got what he needs I know he'll kill him. He has to achieve atonement.' He glanced around the field, at the pale-blue sky and the denuded tree. We need to find him and find him today.'
14
The motel room was part of a single-storey, U-shaped complex looking out over a deserted car park. It smelled of cheap cigarettes and cheap sex. The threadbare carpet had seen the soles of a thousand shoes, and the bed linen - well, Nigel didn't want to think about what that had seen.
He wondered how many residents of Liberty had sought a fleeting moment of escape in these cabins, far from the prying eyes of the town elders, before a shameful retreat to their city of virginal white.
The fact they appeared to be the only guests did nothing to assuage a feeling of creeping dread. Heather found the most inconspicuous corner of the lot and stuck the car there. She tried to grill the guy on reception about the TCF but conversation was not his forte; he said he knew nothing about them apart from the whole lot being fruitcakes.
There was nothing else for them to do but hole up and wait for further instructions. Heather's room, being slightly less soiled than his, became their base.
Heather had tried to call Foster, to report what they had discovered in Liberty, but his phone was ringing out.
Heather was becoming increasingly agitated, pacing back and forth across the room trying to come up with an idea of what to do next. Nigel shared her frustration, the feeling of being so close yet so far away. He got hold of a telephone directory from reception, suggesting they see who in Liberty had a phone and start cold-calling for information, but Heather dismissed it. Nigel passed the time by flicking the television on, and meandered through a mass of channels. Back home, the prospect of doing the same would appall him, but here in a different culture he found escape in local news and weather broadcasts, adverts for local businesses and a host of religious programming.
Heather reclined on her bed, one eye on the set, the other on her phone, which was charging on a simple wooden table in the corner. Nigel occasionally wandered out for a cigarette, watching the light fade away, listening for cars on the road, watching with some relief their tail lights fade to black as they passed by in either direction. The sky was cloudless; the moon had already punched a hole in the night and a few stars were visible before the sun had even set. It was going to be cold.
Heather went for a shower. He offered to leave, to give her privacy, but she told him not to be silly. When she finally emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, it was dark outside. She was wearing just a towel, wet hair falling on her shoulders. Nigel, lying on one of the twin beds, tried not to stare. She went over and sat at the table, fanned her face. Water's hot, at least,' she said. Nigel nodded, kept his eyes on the TV set, showing a basketball game. It promised to be a frustrating night in more ways than one.
She watched the basketball for a while, then moved for a better view on the end of the bed Nigel was lying on. The game was reaching the final few seconds and the scores were level. Her phone rang, and she grabbed it quickly. It was Donna Faugenot, asking how the trip had gone. Heather filled her in with the details and ended the call. 'Don't want to be rude,' she explained. 'But if a call comes in from England I don't want to miss it.'
She looked at Nigel.
He felt uneasy.
'Think Donna had the hots for you,' she said playfully.
You think so?' he said, trying to sound disinterested.
'I do. Heck of a woman, Donna.'
'She is, isn't she? Not your stereotypical Latter-day Saint.
You know she's divorced?'
'I know,' Heather said. Her playful smile turned into a grin. 'I heard your conversation in the car.'
Nigel felt his heart almost stop. You did?' A knot welded tight in his stomach.
She nodded. 'Uh huh.'
He sat up. 'All of it?'
'Most of it.'
'Oh.' He didn't know what to say.
She shuffled back on the bed. He could smell her shampoo, her newly wet hair. Her smile went. She looked at him earnestly, bright-green eyes ablaze. 'Donna's right,' she said, looking right at him. 'Sometimes you've got to hang in there.' She leaned closer to him. 'Honey.' She smiled once more.
Nigel leaned forward, head swimming. Everything else melted away. He'd had enough of hanging on in there. He reached for her, and pulled her towards him. Their lips met and he felt a jolt through his entire system. His hand found the back of her head and pulled their lips tighter together. Her hands were on his shirt buttons. He heard himself groan, months of pent-up passion let go, and almost burst out laughing. In her eyes he saw a brief flicker of amusement but they soon closed again. His hand reached for the knot fixing her towel to her side.
Heather's phone started to ring.
Her eyes flashed open. 'Are you kidding me?' she said.
She pulled away, ran her hand through her hair, bit her bottom lip. 'I better answer it,' she whispered.
Nigel stood up, wanting to ram his fist into the face of whoever it was on the other end of the phone. Probably the guy on reception. 'Hello, Grant,' he heard her say, a trace of irritation in her voice. Foster, he thought. That changed things. Still, the moment had gone. And it had promised to be a bloody good moment.
He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. When he came back, Heather was off the phone, wearing a deep frown of concern.
What's wrong?' he asked.
'Gary Stamey has gone missing,' she replied. 'He was in the safe house. The cops protecting him were killed.'
'Jesus,' Nigel murmured.
'They fell silent. Nigel didn't know what to say.
The mood was broken by a knock on the door. Nigel glanced at Heather. She nodded. He went over to the door. There was another knock, gentler this time.
'Check before opening,' he heard Heather whisper. He looked through the spyhole.