Clare would have bet a year’s salary the Colt was buried in a snowdrift somewhere on Tenant Mountain. “Listen, Mrs. Fowler. I’m calling from Cody’s foster mother’s house. Your husband has taken the baby. If he comes back home or contacts you, try to keep him calm and get the baby away from him. Let the police know right away.”
It was so silent Clare thought for a moment the line had gone dead. “I understand,” Edith Fowler said finally. “I will.”
Clare rang off and headed back outside. Vaughn Fowler was unarmed. But she couldn’t shake the conviction that he meant to dispose of Cody once and for all.
“Did she know where he went?” Deborah McDonald asked as Clare hauled herself into the truck’s cab.
Where would he go? Where, when it was so easy to kill an infant? Clare pressed her fingers to her forehead. When you are threatened and on the run, you will tend to return to the same base of operations, “Hardball” Wright drawled. If not to the same spot, then to the same sort of terrain. Remember that. The enemy will. She opened her eyes. “I think he’s headed for the river. The trail from Payson’s Park or the old railroad bridge. I’m going to head there. Let the police know.” If Russ had any better ideas, he could chase after them without her. She ground the gears and backed out of the driveway, catching the McDonald’s mailbox with the rear bumper and setting it swinging wildly.
Traffic through the north end of town was agonizingly slow, but she didn’t know any other way toward where she and Russ had discovered Katie’s body. She swung onto the Cossayaharie road, Route 137, driving carefully, tamping down the urge to go faster and faster, afraid she might miss the turnoff to the park.
She nearly did miss it, mistaking the newly plowed entrance for a driveway. At the last moment, she turned the truck into a frame-shuddering turn and rolled down the lane toward the parking area. The county plow had cleared a large U out of the fresh snow before heading back to the main road. She couldn’t tell from where she sat if there were tracks heading down the trail. Leaving the truck running, she jumped from the cab and ran to the edge of the parking lot. Behind the ridge of snow thrown up by the plow, the trail leading down to the kill was unbroken by footprints or tire tracks. “Vaughn Fowler,” she hissed from between clenched teeth, “where are you?”
CHAPTER 30
Clare ranged up and down the edge of the parking lot to make sure Fowler hadn’t cut through the woods to join the trail further down. Her rubber boots weren’t meant for snow, and the treads slipped and slid as she searched for any sign of the man. Nothing. She muttered obscenities she hadn’t allowed herself to use in several years and climbed back into the truck. The engine on, she rested her head against the steering wheel and breathed deeply to calm herself. Could she be wrong about where Fowler was headed? After all, it would be easy to kill a baby anywhere—a story where ancient Romans had disposed of infants by smacking them into walls thrust itself into her consciousness. She wrenched her mind away from the horrific image and concentrated on Vaughn Fowler.
The riverside bank, the rest stop on a remote stretch of highway, an abandoned camp road high on a mountain. Every place he had killed or tried to kill had been isolated, a place where a body could disappear for hours. Or years. She sat up, rubbing at the crease in her forehead left by the wheel. Her instructor from Survival School had been right. Fowler was returning to the same sort of terrain. She had to try the abandoned railroad bridge.
She swung the pickup through the plowed area, turning left when she reached the road. Where was she going to find the thing? Russ had told her it was a half-mile upstream from the trail, but that didn’t necessarily translate into a half-mile drive up the road. There must have been train tracks leading straight toward the river, but where were they?
Ahead of her, high-voltage lines crossed Route 137, sparking memories of the times she had navigated small planes by following the clearly visible paths maintained by electric companies. She slowed the truck, then pulled over onto the shoulder. Metal transmission towers marched in a receding line down a wide right-of-way through the forest. It vanished over a gentle rise that led, if she wasn’t mistaken, toward the river. The kill. She couldn’t see any train tracks under the snow, but there were clear marks of snowmobiles crisscrossing beneath the towers and there, ahead of her and to the right, tire tracks along what must be the electric company’s access road.
She fumbled with a dial on the steering column, engaging the four-wheel-drive. She downshifted and rolled onto the snow, following the other tracks as closely as possible, praying hard that she wasn’t chasing after some die-hard fisherman or snowmobiling enthusiast.
The truck growled up the access road, crunching snow beneath its big tires, carrying her forward surely and steadily. As she crested the rise, it struck her that none of the squad cars would be able to follow her. Hot prickles ran up the insides of her arms and she bit her lip. Some of the officers had better have four-wheel-drive vehicles or she was going to be in a world of trouble. She refused to think about the possibility that the police might not be following her at all.
The right-of-way, and the tire tracks, curved gently to the left, disappearing from view in the thick stand of trees. She accelerated slightly, the rear tires whining a complaint. As she rounded the bend, the landscape opened startlingly before her: blue sky, white snow, black water. Dark green bridge. Dark blue Ford Explorer.
She slammed on the brakes, sending the truck into a skid that ended with a jarringly abrupt stop. She almost fell from the cab in her frantic need to get out. She could see him, perhaps halfway along the span of the bridge, silhouetted against the sky. Well-bundled up against the cold, carrying something.
“Mr. Fowler!” she screamed. Running through the snow to the bridge was like running in a nightmare, slipping and dragging and making almost no headway despite the efforts that left sweat running down her spine. “Stop!”
He did. She thrashed through the remaining few feet to the bridge and staggered onto the rails. She saw why he had been walking so slowly: the train track was supported on a huge trestle but open to the air. On either side of the railbed was a riveted steel walkway and parapet, something the rail workers must have crossed on decades ago. Between the scanty patches of snow that hadn’t been scoured off by the wind, she could see patches of rust eating away the green-painted metal. She decided to stay right where she was, on the half-foot-wide wooden ties.
Vaughn Fowler was facing her now, cradling a blanket-wrapped bundle with one arm. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, Reverend,” he said, his voice carrying clearly through the cold air. “As president of the vestry, I’m disappointed in your performance so far. Way too much time spent on a situation that is out of your area of concern.”
She heard nothing from inside the blanket. Shouldn’t the baby be crying after all this? She pressed her lips tightly together. Dear God, don’t let him be already dead. “My area of concern? It’s the people around me. The McWhorters. The Burnses.” She picked her way along another few crossbars, moving closer. “Your son. Your grandson. You.” She looked steadily at Fowler, searching his face for something she could reach with her words. “Let me help you.”
“Very comforting, coming from a woman who tried to kill me last night.” He held out a hand. “Stop there, Reverend.”
She stopped, her arms spread for balance. Beneath her feet, she could see the kill, black and glittering in the pale sunlight. Chunks of ice bobbed lazily in the slow current. “Are you going to try to shoot me again?” she asked.