Bryce had known cold before. He’d suffered through the Army’s Cold Weather Leader Course in Alaska, and later spent weeks training in the Canadian Rockies. This was on another level.
His lungs felt frozen, like he was inhaling dry ice. Every inch of exposed skin burned, nerve ends going numb with each gust of wind. It was pain on top of pain. He knew he had to keep moving, keep his muscles working. To stop in the open was to die. Unfortunately, the beatings he’d suffered had taken their toll, additives to his Arctic misery. Every step became a trial and his stride was uneven, his right boot dragging behind. He tried to take it as a positive when the pain in that foot gave way to numbness. The frigid floor of his cell seemed an oddly cozy memory.
Yet there was good news. Most important, he wasn’t lost. The visibility had improved, enough that he could make out the surrounding wind-racked hills. According to his map, the only road to Vayda Guba tracked the coastline. He guessed it was a dirt road, although a blanket of snow and ice buried any trace of the surface. Fortunately, even in the darkness, the profile of the raised roadbed was clear. Also reassuringly, on his right was the constant twilight reflection of the Barents Sea. Beyond that his map ended, uncharted waters beyond. On an ancient mariners’ chart, the border where dragons would be depicted—the edge of the known world.
Bryce didn’t believe in dragons, but there was danger from that direction—with no terrain or forest to break the flow, the wind swept in from the sea at near gale force. The hood and sleeves of his parka fluttered helplessly. It was torture of a new kind, this tormentor indifferent, less sadistic than Mengele, but no less vicious. And no less lethal.
He tried to nail down his position using the map and terrain features, but the undulating coastline and featureless hills made it all but impossible. He regretted not retrieving Mengele’s wristwatch before leaving—it would have allowed him to dead reckon. As it was, the distance and heading gleaned from the map were useless without time. How long had he been walking? Hours, surely.
He stumbled at the bottom of a depression, ice giving way under his numb right foot. Bryce spun and went down on one knee before stabilizing. He looked back accusingly and saw a gash in the ice, a seasonal channel that would carry the melt come spring. He struggled back to his feet, bones frozen, muscles aching. Each successive step seemed harder, his feet sucking into frozen muck.
His thoughts began to meander in a troubling way. In training, he’d learned that the onset symptoms of hypothermia varied from person to person. Every student had been forced to that edge to discover their personal indications. Bryce felt them now precisely as he had in Alaska: uncontrollable shivering, shallow breathing, mild confusion. The training exercise had ended there, warmth given to sustain life. Here he had only the promise of more cold.
A severe gust rushed up from the sea, nearly knocking him down. He set his head lower, tightened the hood around his chin. Out of the murky darkness, a shape materialized on the siding ahead. Other than the road, it was the first man-made object he’d seen in an hour. Its right-angle edges stood out against the curves of nature, and he recognized the remains of a tiny shed of some kind. It wasn’t much bigger than a large doghouse; one side had collapsed, a pair of rotted planks clutching out of the snow like hands from a grave. Bryce went closer, and inside he saw derelict machinery—an ancient pump, perhaps. He also noted one intact corner backing to the sea. A rare windbreak.
Bryce hesitated.
He desperately needed a break, relief from the wind. But would a delay surrender whatever head start he’d gained? He told himself that if he could rest for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, he would rally and make better time, an investment with positive returns. It might have been true. Then again, it might have been his chilled brain malfunctioning. Either way, Bryce relented. He crawled inside a space barely big enough to cover his frostbitten body. The wind was cut instantly.
He dreamed of building a fire, but it never went beyond that.
For the first time in what seemed like days, the real Bryce Ridgeway closed his eyes.
Sarah had been driving for hours, yet she felt no trace of weariness. No heavy eyelids. No drifting thoughts. No caffeine necessary. She was wired on adrenaline. Running on hope.
Her initial instructions had been to drive to Middletown, Virginia. Then, shortly before arriving, the horrid little phone vibrated again. Amended instructions were given: a turn toward West Virginia, into the Monongahela National Forest.
The new route ran into thickening woodlands, the road lacing through knolls, curling left and right. Sarah understood what was happening: she was being isolated, pulled away from everything familiar. Home, Claire, her neighborhood. Perhaps even Agent Burke. Still, she never hesitated. She complied blindly, unfalteringly with every new directive. She would do whatever it took to get Alyssa back.
As she steered through the quiet hills, her mind kept looping back to the most vexing question: Where was the real Bryce? Sarah was not mystical by nature, yet she felt that if Bryce had been killed, his soul laid to waste, she would somehow know. Maybe it was false hope. Perhaps even denial. Whatever the source, she would not give up on the thought. Just as she would never give up on their daughter.
Ten miles into West Virginia she stopped for gas. Standing at the pump in the cool mountain air, her eyes alert, Sarah weighed going into the convenience store to borrow a phone. She could call 911. Or Claire or the FBI. The Imposter had specifically warned her not to contact anyone, but how would he know? This was how she referenced him now: The Imposter.
Her eyes drifted to cars at the other pumps, then across the parking lot and road. Is he following me? Watching like he did outside the house? Was this whole mad journey only a way of making sure she was alone? Where would it end? What did he want?
So many questions.
A repulsive memory struck: she recalled being intimate with The Imposter on the night of their date. Even then Sarah had sensed something wrong, but she could never have imagined the source of her misgivings. Did it count as being unfaithful? One more excruciating paradox. One day, she told herself, I’ll confess my sin to Bryce.
Her thoughts turned back to the present. She wondered what Claire was doing. Could she be tracking her using EPIC? Sarah’s Camry was eight years old, and as far as she knew it wasn’t wired for GPS tracking. Still, Claire had shown her what EPIC could do: traffic cameras and toll footage to track license plates, even sort vehicles by makes and model. The system had helped build a map of The Imposter’s movements, which in turn had led to the condo.
But would it work now?
Here?
Sarah clicked off the pump after putting a very slow two gallons into her half-full tank. In the end, she decided against trying to borrow a phone. She wouldn’t do anything to put Alyssa at risk. She had to buy time, let the game play out. When she got back in the car and set out again, Sarah cracked the window. A chill wind swept in, heavy with the scent of forest and yesterday’s rain.
I have to trust Claire to find me, she thought. Just like Alyssa will be trusting me to come for her.