CHAPTER III

Hal Watson struggled to keep his composure and his wits about him.

The good thing was, he tried to remind himself, he had survived the crash on the hillside and had managed to extricate himself from the car. That, in itself, was huge. He also had retrieved the gun—and he didn’t think he had suffered any severe injuries during the accident.

He was stiff and sore, but that was to be expected after such an ordeal.

On the minus side: He was still at the bottom of the ravine, night was coming on rapidly and it was threatening to storm—and he had no idea where in the hell he was.

He also had no idea if his captor was dead or had merely been knocked unconscious, so even though he had the advantage of the gun, that threat was still uppermost in his mind. He must get away from the car as quickly as possible.

He glanced about then peered at the darkening sky, trying to get his bearings. He could not even be sure which way was north. He only knew that when they had headed out of the city on Highway 89 and on into the wilderness, he had quickly lost all sense of direction with the frequent turnings in the narrow fire road.

He had never been much enamored of country life, having been raised in the city. He had never even belonged to the Boy Scouts as a lad. He had been completely wrapped up in his father’s grand ambitions for his future. Had stuck to the books, acquired a decent education, and had gone to work…all in the city.

And, the fact was, he had never camped out anywhere, either. Once his captor had directed him out of the city proper, he was at the total mercy of the crazy person brandishing a weapon in the back seat of his car.

He tried in vain not to think of the disastrous scene they’d left back at his house, before he had been forced at gunpoint into the car.

Put it straight out of your mind, he told himself. After all, what was done was done. There would be time for reflection and mourning later.

A part of him didn’t really want to survive right now. It would be much easier to lie down right here, on this cold, cold ground, and allow the elements to take him away from his pain.

But there was an even more compelling drive forcing him onward. If he didn’t survive, who would be left to tell the story of what had actually happened?

And the story must be told. Justice must prevail. It was in his DNA to see this vicious cycle through to the end.

Survive he must.

And that required some action. Movement.

It required that he not give up just yet.

But, he was stuck here—at the site of the car crash—with no clear idea of which way was out.

Trying to pull himself together, he looked about carefully and gave it some thought.

Was there anything still in the car he might find useful? There might be some tools in the trunk, but he hesitated to take the time to look. Also, if his tormentor somehow regained consciousness in the meantime, he might have to muster the strength to fight off yet another attack…and he doubted he had the energy left to do that.

No. It was far better to try and get out of this remote canyon and as far away from the automobile wreck as possible.

Hopefully he could find shelter of some sort along the way. Were there any summer cabins around here? He had no idea. But the sooner he began his upward trek out of here, the better.

As the lone figure began struggling and scrabbling up the long climb to the embankment and the road above, the snow began floating down in earnest, soft, heavy fluffy flakes, in a steady stream, quickly and quietly laying a thick disguising blanket over all.

Soon, he realized, all evidence of the car crash and its aftermath would be obliterated from sight—including the single trace of footprints moving uncertainly up the hillside.

In time, there would be no record left of what had happened here.