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  He pulled the Firebird to the shoulder at the end of the steel mill property and gazed into the large area of land the mill encompassed. There were a lot of places a fugitive could hide. The ancillary buildings alone offered an abundance of possibilities.

  But that wouldn’t exactly be permanent. The buildings were in use, all contributing in one way or another to the running of the mill, and anyone hiding inside would be apt to be discovered at any time. As far as he knew, the police had already scoured the property, and their search had turned up nothing.

  Jake gazed past the mill to the line of trees a quarter mile away. From where he sat, it appeared to be a vast forest. When he had discovered Adam in the area the previous day, the fugitive had made it to the opposite side of the chain-link fence. Perhaps he was hiding out somewhere in the forest.

  He turned off the vehicle, pulled out his cell phone, and sent Annie a text message: “Checking in forest. Call me when you’re done canvassing.” He didn’t get a reply, and he assumed she was in the middle of an interview.

  Jake stepped from the vehicle and walked onto the empty land. It was a huge area, unused, likely owned by the mill should they have plans to expand. The even larger field behind the mill property also sat vacant, extending all the way to the forest. It was unlikely houses would be built so close to the mill, and he suspected the property was also destined for the mill’s expansion one day.

  He crossed the overgrown field and headed for the forest, wading through tall weeds, around pitted areas, and across gullies. He finally reached the tree line, and it didn’t take him long to discover the band of trees was but a facade for the miles of swamp within, extending toward the horizon to his left and to his right.

  The dark bog seemed impenetrable—ankle-deep mud in the most secure areas, with dismal and clouded waters thick with tall reeds, lily pads, and dying vegetation as far as he could see. It seemed unlikely anything but native swamp creatures could inhabit such a dense, overgrown portion of land.

  He walked down the tree line bordering the swamp, only to find more of the same inaccessible bog. He glanced back toward the mill site. He had traversed its entire length, and yet on both sides, the wetlands stretched on endlessly.

  He squinted, frowned, and strode toward a patch of weeds. They appeared to have been disturbed—broken, some trodden down. Other than an occasional loose dog, he knew of no large wildlife in this part of the country. He crouched down and examined the vegetation. Barely discernible but unmistakable, the path of injured greenery extended toward the city, and behind him, into the swampy land.

  There was no doubt someone had been here recently, and Jake had a suspicion it was Adam Thorburn.

  He rose to his feet and gazed toward the bog a moment before easing into the marshy land. He trod carefully on a solid piece of land jutting into the bog. He stopped. Ahead of him was nothing but mud, maybe quicksand, and further on, a pool of black water.

  To his left, a fallen tree extended across the muddy area to a solid-looking piece of land. He stepped onto the log. It was slippery in places. He walked carefully, balanced precariously for several steps, then leaped onto the dry land.

  From there, he skirted around the dark waters along what appeared to be a solid footpath. Before long, the path ended, and he hopped across a patch of oozing mud onto a rock. Ahead of him was another rock, then another, then he leaped onto a patch of dark green grass. It led him deeper into the swamp, and he hoped he could remember his way back.

  He followed the grassy strip for a few minutes and stopped short, dropping to a crouch. Dead ahead of him he spied a small building—a ten-by-ten hut, mounted on a handful of stalwart pillars. He listened for sounds of any human presence, but was only greeted by a bullfrog’s deep voice.

  He walked slowly toward the hut, careful to avoid fallen branches or loose vegetation. Ten feet short of the building, he crouched down beside a rosebush. To him, it looked like the same type of bush that grew along the rear of the Thorburn house. Adam Thorburn must have planted it there. Jake was on the right track, and he was sure now—this was where the fugitive was hiding out.

  But was Adam Thorburn there now?

  There was only one way to find out. There was no window in the side of the hut he faced, nor at the back. He crept forward, rounded the corner, and saw an undersized door with no knob, only a metal latch, a short, leather strap for a handle. He kept going. The far side of the building had a small hole cut in the wall to serve as a window.

  Crouching down, he crept to the window and stopped underneath it. He listened intently for a few moments, then slowly raised his head. There was no one in the rustic one-room building.

  Moving back to the door, he lifted the latch, swung it open, and stepped inside. The room was vacant save for an empty plastic grocery bag on a built-in shelf, along with bits of folded newspaper littering the floor. He examined the paper. It was from yesterday; Adam had been here recently.

  But where was he now, and would he come back?

  He pulled out his cell phone. No coverage. He tucked it away, stepped outside, and examined the immediate area. There was no indication of a trail other than the path he had come in on.

  He picked his way back slowly, stopping once or twice to recall the proper route, and soon exited at the tree line. He tried his cell again. Three bars. He dialed Annie’s number and waited, then frowned at the message: “Caller unavailable.”

  Why would she turn her phone off? He checked his messages and was informed she hadn’t received his last text. That didn’t make a lot of sense.

  He put his phone away and worked his way across the field, passed the steel mill, and exited onto the sidewalk along Steel Road. His car was at the other end of the block, and he tried to reach Annie’s phone again as he strode up the sidewalk. There was still no answer and his concern grew.

  Reaching his vehicle, he climbed inside, hoping there was a simple explanation for his inability to reach his wife. He started the car and drove around the block, from Steel Road to Mill Street and back again, peering at each house with hopes of seeing Annie at the door interviewing the owner.

  Perhaps she had moved onto an adjoining street. He checked the surrounding areas, rounding block after block, but she was nowhere to be seen. As he continued to patrol the neighborhood, he checked his phone constantly. A deep unease gnawed at him, a fear something had happened to Annie.

  There was only one thing to do; he would have to retrace her route. He would start at the beginning of the street, talk with anyone who was home, and work his way to the end of the block and around to the next, if necessary.

  He parked the Firebird at one end of the street, stepped out, and began his long search for Annie.

  Chapter 37

  Thursday, 11:54 a.m.

  ADAM THORBURN was concerned for his safety. He was getting in deeper and deeper, with everything becoming more and more complicated.

  Not only did he have Annie Lincoln locked in the basement of the house, but a few minutes ago, as he’d set out for the hut in the swamp, he had seen Jake Lincoln heading his way, coming through the fields from the bog.

  Had the investigator discovered his hideout? As he ducked down behind a bush and watched Jake come toward him, the look on the big guy’s face told him he had. Before long, the Firebird circled the block, no doubt looking for him.

  And now, as Adam sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, he had no idea what to do. He might be safe in the abandoned house for now, but how long would it be before they knocked the door down, and perhaps shot him dead like the dog he was? Maybe that would be for the best, anyway.

  He stood and walked into the living room, pacing the soiled carpet silently. Annie had been banging at the door and calling his name earlier, but she had given up when he didn’t answer. He had remained as quiet as possible, and she’d likely assumed he had left the house. He didn’t want to hear her voice right now.

  Not that he disliked her. Not at all. She was the only
one who showed any compassion toward him. Whether or not she was sincere he didn’t know, but he liked her nonetheless and didn’t intend her any harm. But he also needed to keep himself safe from being captured, and the only way to do that, at least for now, was to confine her to the basement.

  He lay on the couch and covered his head with the blanket, suddenly overtaken by fear. He shook uncontrollably for a few minutes, his breathing shallow and rapid. When the attack subsided, he wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow and wished he were dead.

  Reaching behind his back, he removed the pistol, turning it over and over in his hands. Just one shot—it would be so easy, and then his anguish would be over.

  He held the pistol to his temple and put a shaking finger on the trigger. Just one shot. Do it. DO IT!

  His whole hand trembled as he gripped the pistol and gritted his teeth.

  “Pull the trigger, Adam.”

  “No, Adam. Put the gun down.”

  He held his breath, closed his eyes, and his finger tightened on the trigger, his mind consumed by the inner battle. The power of his will against a trembling hand.

  “The only way to find true peace is to put a bullet in your brain. You must pull the trigger, Adam.”

  “No, Adam, no. There’s still hope.”

  “It’s the only way out. Trust me, Adam. Pull the trigger.”

  “No. Stop. Put the gun down.”

  Adam dropped his head and wept, his pistol hand falling to his side, the weapon slipping to the floor. He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and stood, raised both fists above his head, and opened his mouth to scream. But no sound came out, and he collapsed to the floor, emotionally exhausted.

  Soon, he stirred and opened his eyes. The weapon lay inches from his face, and he cursed his lack of inner strength and wished he’d never been born. He was a blight on society, not worthy of life, and too weak to do what needed to be done.

  Reaching out wearily, he picked up the weapon and stood to his feet, tucking the gun behind his belt. There had to be an easier way. Some means to end it all without having to do it himself—he had no courage, no spine, and no guts to do the job.

  Maybe if he made his way to the police station, he could barge in, his gun blazing, and let the cops fill him full of holes. That would surely be a way out, and it wouldn’t take a lot of willpower. But then, knowing his luck, something would go wrong, and he would live through it, probably spending the rest of his life in prison confined to a wheelchair—or worse, staring at the ceiling half-paralyzed.

  No, that wasn’t the answer. If he found a way, it would have to be certain and final, with no margin of error.

  He turned and looked through the front window toward the street. He longed to be out in the fresh air, on his own, but his home in the swamp had been discovered, and there was no other safe place he could go.

  He took a sudden, sharp breath and ducked down. Jake Lincoln was coming up the sidewalk. Had he discovered him? Was he checking all the houses on the street?

  Adam looked around desperately, then raced into the kitchen, dove to the side door, and spun the lock. He ran back to the living room and huddled in a corner, holding his breath.

  In a few moments, a knocking sounded at the side door. He waited in fear, hardly daring to breathe. There was another knock, then an extended silence, and he breathed again.

  He crept to the side door and looked out cautiously. He could see the big man’s back as he moved up the sidewalk, rounding the block, heading toward Steel Road. It was a closer call than he expected, and he was in danger because of Annie. But he couldn’t let her go yet. Not until he figured a way out of his dire situation—whether dead or alive, he didn’t care, as long as he wasn’t captured and imprisoned.

  Emotionally drained, he went into the bathroom and doused his head with water. He stared at himself in the mirror, letting the cool water drip down his face. He’d lost a little weight, his face becoming gaunt, a dark shadowing under his eyes. He sighed and wiped his face on his sleeve. He didn’t even have a toothbrush, but at least he could take a shower. Living in the house would’ve been ideal, but it was no longer a viable option—just one more thing he’d messed up.

  He wandered back to the living room and looked out the window. From outside, anyone passing by could see right into the room. He didn’t dare cover the window with a blanket or sheet. Someone in the area would be sure to notice a difference; the house had been vacant so long. He would have to be careful; he could’ve easily been seen by Jake Lincoln earlier.

  He maneuvered the couch across the floor, away from its spot under the front window, and dropped down onto it. At least the electricity was still on; he didn’t expect it would be disconnected. The owners had to maintain some heat in the winter or the water in the pipes could freeze and, over a period of years, the floors might buckle. That was a good thing, but he would have to be careful not to use the power often or the owners would notice it on their invoice.

  Annie was being strangely silent. She no longer knocked on the basement door or called his name. There were no windows in the basement, so there was no way out other than the door. Perhaps she assumed he was gone from the house and was waiting for him to return. She wasn’t in any danger down there, and he expected she knew that. He had made it clear he meant her no harm.

  He would be sure to check on her later, maybe bring her some food and water. It was the least he could do. But in the meantime, he had some thinking to do. If he didn’t come up with a plan soon, he would be discovered and put in the place he dreaded the most—behind bars.

  Chapter 38

  Thursday, 12:15 p.m.

  HANK HAD SPENT the morning tracking down the rest of the people who knew Adam Thorburn. It was a near success, with only three or four eluding his search. Hank warned each one he reached to be on their guard; however, no further information to aid him in his pursuit of the fugitive had been forthcoming.

  Earlier, Captain Diego had notified Hank the press was itching for an official statement. Officers were busy fielding calls from a fearful public demanding the killer be stopped, and the mayor was leaning on the captain to bring an end to the situation immediately.

  Diego had scheduled a news conference for 12:30, the press had been notified, and the pressure Hank felt was temporarily relieved. But inwardly, he took it hard. His heart ached for the families of the victims, and the increasing anger he always felt in situations like this was something he found impossible to overcome.

  He slid a blank piece of paper in front of him, leaned in, and picked up a pen. He didn’t have a lot he could share at the moment, but he wrote down pointers to a half dozen things he would touch on, his chief concern being to alleviate the fears of the public. He tucked the notes into a file folder and went to Diego’s office. The captain was on the phone, and he hung up when Hank stepped inside.

  “All ready, Captain.”

  Diego nodded and pushed back from his desk. “Lead the way, Hank.”

  Hank paused in front of the doors leading from the precinct. The press had gathered in full force, many of them arriving some time ago, all anticipating the latest news they could pass on to the public.

  News vans and reporters’ vehicles lined the street, microphones and cameras were fine-tuned, and questions were devised and perfected. Several curious onlookers stood nearby wondering what the fuss was all about.

  For much of the press, reporting the latest shocking news was about ratings, market share, or making a name for themselves. For Hank, it was personal. Not only was his professional future continually on the line, but it was his bound duty to bring a murderer to justice, a responsibility he took seriously.

  Hank stepped aside and glanced at Diego. The captain nodded, straightened his tie, and pushed the door open. Hank followed him down the steps and approached the make-shift podium, covered with microphones. Diego stood to one side as Hank placed his folder on the stand, flipped it open, and cleared his throat.
r />   “Thank you all for coming. I’ll make a brief statement and then take your questions.”

  Hank’s eyes scanned the crowd. He recalled most of the faces, the most recognizable being Lisa Krunk, in her usual spot at the front of the group, Don at her side. She caught his eye and nodded at him as if there were some big secret between them. Lisa always considered herself leader of the pack, worthy of special recognition in some way Hank didn’t understand.

  He continued, “As you’re almost certainly aware, this past Monday evening, a woman, Mrs. Nina White, was brutally murdered. The identity of a suspect immediately became apparent. He has thus far eluded us, and we believe he struck again on Tuesday evening when Mr. Raymond Ronson was murdered.”

  The gathered group looked bored. They already knew everything Hank had said, and they seemed to be anticipating some new information. Hank continued, “I want to assure the public we’re getting close to catching this individual before he kills another innocent citizen.”

  Hank held up a picture of Adam Thorburn. “I’ll be distributing this photo to all of you, but I urge the public, if you see this man, please call 9-1-1 immediately. Do not try to apprehend him as he might be armed and is certainly dangerous.”

  He paused, closed the folder, and looked back up. “I’ll take your questions now.”

  All hands shot up. Hank pointed to a reporter in the second row.

  “Detective Corning, why is it taking you so long to apprehend Thorburn?”

  “It’s only been three days and the city offers a lot of places for a fugitive to hide. We’re confident he’ll surface soon. He’ll need food, and he’s on some medication he won’t be able to obtain on his own. And we’re following up certain leads we believe will track him down before long.”

  Hank pointed to another reporter.

  “Considering both murders have taken place in schools, what precautions have been used to safeguard our children?”