Standing in the darkness, Ben stared at the minivan’s rear tire, which was buried to the axle—and sinking in thick, oozing mud. The rain had started falling hard two hours earlier, making the already difficult road leading into the Nicolet National Forest even more treacherous, and now that narrow track was swallowing the minivan whole. Nine miles down the road sat a modest parcel of land that, according to the records at the county seat, was all that was left of the one-hundred-sixty-acre homestead that had been owned by the Lee family for three generations.
The towering pines and hardwood trees of maple and hemlock were part of a vast forest that surrounded the roadway for thousands of acres in any direction. Looking again at the listing van, Ben realized he had no other alternative. He wrapped the forty-caliber and extra magazines in a sweatshirt, then tucked them into his backpack and strapped it on. He gingerly tested the leaf-strewn floor of a forest that had last been thinned by lumberjacks a hundred years ago and since then never altered in any substantial way. The surface felt slick, but he could keep his footing, and it seemed safer than the road. He patted the hood of the minivan as if saying farewell to a loyal horse, tightened the straps of his pack and headed into the forest at a fairly brisk pace, trying for a comfortable eight minutes per mile.
He soon fell into a good rhythm. Deeper in the forest, the canopy of trees served as a roof and his footing became more solid. Feeling strong, he opened up his gait. He’d left Newberg forty hours before and driven close to seven hundred miles. After his run-in with the trooper, Ben had made his way back to Florence County using less-populated roads. He’d snuck into the library, a stone’s throw from the sheriff’s office, thirty minutes before closing and convinced the librarian on duty to give him an extra half hour after that. The one-room country library didn’t have computers, but Ben still knew how to work a microfiche.
In that hour he found a brief newspaper account of a drug-related murder, and that led to a good bit of information about a young man named Harlan Lee. Sure enough, nearly eighteen years ago Lee had pleaded guilty to murder and been sentenced to twenty-five years. With time off for good behavior, Ben figured Harlan could be out by now. Ben also found the obituary for Harlan’s father, Jedidiah, who died several years after Harlan was locked away. County land records indicated there was a parcel of land a few miles south of the Michigan border that was owned by the Lee family. Ben imagined that would be the best place to look for Harlan Lee.
In two days Ben had slept less than two hours, but fatigue was not a factor. His mind was clear and he’d get plenty of sleep if he ended up dead. But until then, there was work to do.
An hour into his run, guided only by his instinct and the stars, Ben heard the sound of a revving engine. He stopped to listen more closely. By the sound of it, it was a truck, probably a four-by-four, and it was hard at work. The engine cut off. Silence, then the crack of gunfire from the same direction. One shot, a pause, then several more. Ben knew he was close to the scene. A few hundred yards away, maybe less.
This is it, he thought. The confrontation was at hand. Ben hunkered low to the ground and headed toward the sounds of the battle.