Wary, he took a step closer.
Another step. He tightened his finger on the trigger. Then he saw the phone on the ground. Dammit, she’d figured out what he was doing and thrown it away. Now he had only her blood and the sounds of her running to tell him where she was. But he no longer heard her running.
Had she collapsed from loss of blood and the shock of having been shot?
He returned to the trail she’d left and followed at a cautious walk. As water dripped off the brim of his baseball cap, he scanned the trees on each side. He passed a tall boulder and checked behind it. The rain had finally washed away the blood, but her footprints were more obvious, collecting water.
He moved faster.
He came to the stream and saw where she’d slid down to it. When she’d struggled up the opposite side, she’d made deep furrows in the mud. He stepped over a fallen log, eased down the slippery bank, started across the stream, feeling how cold the water was, and suddenly gasped from a blow to his back that hurtled him into the water.
LIZ LUNGED FROM THE HOLLOW she’d scooped from the mud under the log.
A few minutes earlier, she’d crossed the stream and entered the trees on the opposite side. There she found a dead branch that fit into the hollow grip of the knife. Then she circled back to the stream, walked through the water, and crawled under the log.
As Max descended past her, aiming toward the trees on the opposite bank, she had thrust with the rigged spear. Adding her weight to it, she pushed with all her remaining strength and plunged the blade deeper into him.
He groaned and fell facedown into the stream.
Her hands had shook. Her lungs felt starved for oxygen.
Springing toward him, she shoved the spear even deeper into his back. He raised his face from the water and struggled. Using her uninjured arm, she grabbed a rock from the stream and struck it against the back of his head. He slumped, his face partially out of the water. She struck his head again, feeling the softness of blood under his hair.
She struck a third time.
A fourth.
She heard his skull crack.
She hit him again and again.
The rock went deeper into bone.
Shrieking, she straddled his back and pressed his face into the water, holding it under until long after his death shudder had stopped.
She needed all her strength to stand and stagger backward. When she slumped on the muddy bank, she kept her grip on the rock in case she needed to use it again.
She couldn’t stop shaking.
Finally, she decided to head back to the lodge and stop her bleeding. She placed a foot on his back and tugged the spear free. The effort of using her wounded arm made her groan. Max had dropped his pistol. She picked it up. As the rain fell, the forest again seemed enshrouded by mist, but she knew that the haze was really the consequence of blood loss.
She gave Max a fierce kick just to make sure he was dead.
Then she climbed the bank and followed her trail of blood.
SIMON DROVE OVER A RIDGE and saw an asphalt lane on the right, flanked by forest. He’d seen two driveways in the past five miles. They’d looked welcoming, with signs that advertised facilities for training and breeding horses. In contrast, this turnoff led to a reinforced steel gate and a fence with barbed wire along the top. He steered off the highway and stopped in front of the gate. A number pad was mounted to a pole.
He left the car and pressed the key fob, releasing the vehicle’s trunk. After carefully raising it, he smelled the vinegar stench of carbon dioxide.
But it wasn’t enough to hide another stench.
“You son of a bitch, I pissed my pants because of you,” Nick said.
He lay on his side, his arms taped behind him.
“What’s the code to open the gate?” he asked, ignoring the rain that struck him.
“Code? Gate? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you want me to close the trunk again? I’ll keep it shut a lot longer. Maybe the next time you’ll do something else in your pants. Or would you rather see your sister?”
“My sister. Oh, I want to see my sister for sure. The stupid skank.”
“Your happy reunion isn’t going to occur unless you tell me the code to open the gate.”
Nick recited four numbers.
He pressed them on the pad and heard a whir.
The gate started to open.
He returned to Nick and told him, “Bye for now.”
He shut the trunk, hopped into the car, and drove through the open gate. In the rearview mirror, he saw it closing behind him. The lane continued through the forest for quite a while. Then Simon rounded a curve and abruptly came to a large clearing. Beyond a gravel parking area stood a two-story log house. A few small buildings sat next to a swimming pool that had been covered for the winter. A bermed area contained a shooting range with metal silhouettes of human-shaped targets.
A drab van was parked in front of the house.
The front door hung open, suggesting that someone had entered or left in a hurry. He stepped out of the car and drew the pistol that he’d taken from the FBI agent. Ignoring the rain, he scanned the clearing. He didn’t dare call Liz’s name, lest his voice attract whoever had been holding her captive.
He took a step toward the lodge.
Movement attracted his attention to the far side of the clearing.
A figure emerged from the trees, staggering.
Whoever it was held a spear and was covered with mud so thick that the rain hadn’t dissolved it. The figure stumbled across the gravel and Simon saw blood on the right arm—and a suggestion of yellow on the figure’s legs.
Liz’s jogging suit was yellow.
He started to run toward her, only to be stopped by a gunshot and a bullet that tore up gravel in front of him. He spun toward the lodge’s porch where a tall woman, with long blond hair and Slavic features, aimed a pistol at him. She wore a beige pantsuit and a brown suede jacket.
“Drop the gun,” she told him.
He obeyed. “Marta?”
“Where the hell is Nick?”
“In the trunk.”
“Alive?”
“How else would I be able to exchange him for Liz?”
“Show me.”
At the edge of his vision, Simon was aware of Liz’s grotesque mud-covered figure continuing to stumble across the gravel. She dropped to one knee, then planted the blunt edge of the spear into the gravel and used it to draw herself up.
“Never mind about her,” Marta said, stepping closer with the gun. “Show me that Nick’s alive.”
He pressed the key fob and opened the trunk.
Peering in, he told Nick, “Your sister’s asking for you.”
Nick said something caustically angry in Russian.
He dragged him out and propped him on his feet. With legs taped together, the man had trouble standing.
“Cut him loose,” Marta ordered.
“I’ll need to reach for my pocketknife.”
“Be careful.”
He pulled out the knife and cut the tape that secured Demidov’s legs. The Russian spread them, steadying himself. Simon sliced the tape that bound the wrists.
“Now drop the knife,” Marta said.
He did so.
Demidov winced as he moved his arms slowly forward, giving the impression that his muscles were locked, then he removed the tape that remained on his wrists.
“This is all your fault.”
“I’m sorry, Nick. I admit I made a mistake. But I corrected it. I got you out.”
“The goddamned restaurants that the health department shut down. The courier you didn’t send, so I had to pick up the money on my own, which is why the feds were able to grab me at the warehouse. That stupid dry-cleaning shop. Every time I leave the office, my clothes stink.”