Montauk Point
Ruby focused on the spire of the lighthouse ahead, her snowshoes shish-shish-shishing as she ran. The eyeholes on her balaclava were frosted with frozen perspiration, but she was warm in the carefully picked clothing; given the right gear, she could live outside for weeks. But this wasn’t cold. Not in any real sense of the word. When it came to freezing, there wasn’t a place in the world that could compete with the hills of Wyoming.
Her rifle was across her back, and each time she took a step, she felt it pull a little to the left. But she was making good time and wondered how much of a break she’d get before the police showed up—first the locals, then the FBI. At least she had plenty of ammunition.
They would be looking for her by now. Even a little local sheriff’s department would know that she had been the one to kill Dr. Page’s wife and those two deputies. There would be a few standard procedures like a roadblock and house-to-house searches. But these were easterners, and they wouldn’t be smart enough to bring dogs out after her. Not that they’d be great in the snow, but they’d force her to move faster. No, using dogs required smarts, which was definitely missing in these people. They were good at killing unarmed families, but when it came to someone who knew what they were doing, their success rate dropped predictably. No matter what tactics they used to hunt her down, they’d eventually find themselves here, on this hill, facing the lighthouse.
Facing her.
She crossed the parking lot, steering clear of the one lone car in the corner, left here a few days ago judging by the thick wedge of snow capping the roof. The plow hadn’t come by in several hours, and she was leaving a clear trail—but what the snow didn’t fill in, the wind would take away.
They wouldn’t know she was here until she started shooting. And by then, it would be too late.
As long as she didn’t wait for them to surround her, she had a chance. If she controlled the high ground, she controlled them. The trick would be in keeping them from setting up snipers; if she could do that, they didn’t have a chance. At least for a while.
She climbed the small knoll that bordered the parking lot, crossed Old Montauk Highway, and headed up Lighthouse Road toward the Christmas-light-decorated spire on the hill. She looked for tracks, but the drive was scoured bare—no one had been up here for hours.
The lighthouse and main building looked like a postcard, and at any other time she would have stopped to admire the scene; if there was one thing Myrna had taught her, it was to enjoy what little time you had because it could all be taken away in an instant.
She jogged up Lighthouse Road. Her core temperature was up, and she could feel a puff of hot air forced out of her collar with each step, her body now a sweat-generating piston.
She wasn’t even winded by the time she crested the hill and made the front steps of the access building. She expected the door to be locked but the parks people left it open—they probably didn’t expect any burglars out here, which saved her a few seconds. (There wasn’t a commercially available lock that she couldn’t pick.) Once inside, she blocked the door with the Coke machine, wondering why it wasn’t plugged in. The defense wouldn’t stop a battering ram, or even a single determined man, but it would offer her protection from gunfire if she had to come down here.
With the barricade in place, she moved through the building to the base of the tower. There were 137 steps to the top, which stood 110 feet above grade, giving a perfect 360-degree view that would make her nearly invincible. At least until they brought the siege equipment like they had at Waco. But how many would be dead by then?
The answer was, of course, plenty.
She shed her backpack and rifle, laying the big Remington down on the pack; she never stood her rifle against, or leaned it on, anything—Myrna had taught her that was the best way to knock it over and pooch the sights. And without a scope, the rifle was almost useless.
And there were still bad people to kill.
She went to the back exit and pushed the other vending machine in front of the door. The parks department had shuttered up the windows, so that was something she wouldn’t have to do; this was as protected as she would get. If they wanted to storm the hill, she had no problem with that. She’d paint the fields around the lighthouse with their blood.
It wasn’t much warmer inside, but there was less wind, which helped. She wasn’t moving now, and in a few minutes her core temperature would drop and her sweat would cool on her skin and she’d start to shiver. But she’d fight through it. She always did.
The lighthouse was automated, and the parks people only checked on it twice a day—the last time two hours ago. (She had seen the parks SUV pass by Page’s beach house.) So she’d be alone until the police made it this way.
Ruby shouldered the pack and picked up her rifle for the 137-step trek to the top of the world.
She was halfway through her second complete loop up the stairs when a voice somewhere in the dark ahead said, “Hello, Ruby.”