37

The rider stepped out of the locomotive’s cab as the train slowed for the siding. He climbed down the ladder and watched the forest for the telltale break in the trees. The train drifted to a stop, a red signal in the distance. The rider dropped off the locomotive and into the snow. Hurried across the main track toward the forest on the other side.

His snowmobile lay hidden where he’d left it, as always. It was covered in snow, a foot at least, fresh. The rider pulled the cover off of the machine and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, reliable as always. The rider liked reliable. He liked trucks that never failed, trains that ran through freak storms. He liked law enforcement that never bothered to look too hard at a dead woman’s body.

And the law in the mountains was nothing if not reliable. The rider chose drug addicts, prostitutes, the homeless, and runaways. He chose women for whom an early death wasn’t an if question, but a when. He chose women the mountains wouldn’t miss, women who died easy. Women who nobody saw.

The rider had been careful when he took Pamela Moody. He’d worn a condom, as always. He’d wiped her truck for fingerprints, tried to avoid touching her body with his bare skin as much as he could. He’d tried his best; sometimes his anger took over when he was punishing these women. Sometimes he blacked out and couldn’t help what he did.

The odds were almost certain that nobody would find Pamela Moody’s body, at least not until spring thaw. The snow would bury her until the weather warmed, and then the animals would have their way with what remained. Maybe a hiker would stumble onto her bones sometime in the summer. Someone would find her truck. What story would they tell themselves?

She was a bar waitress. Maybe she turned tricks on the side. Maybe it was drugs, alcohol. She got drunk one night and drove off in a storm. It’s a miracle she made it as far as she did before . . .

Before the inevitable happened.

The rider sat astride his snowmobile, letting the engine warm. Dug into his pocket for his latest souvenir. He’d been creative this time. He’d been bold.

PAMELA MOODY, read the label on the inhaler. FOR ORAL INHALATION. TAKE AS DIRECTED.

The rider had waited until Pamela Moody was disposed of before he’d claimed the inhaler. He’d taken it from the floor of her truck, carried it with him to the train, studied it in the cab of the locomotive as the train rumbled westward. He saw Pamela Moody’s panicked eyes. Heard her frantic gasps for air. The memory pleased him. He would cherish it for a very long time.

The rider pocketed the inhaler. Reversed the snowmobile from its hiding place. Aimed it up the mountain, through the fresh snow. He was tired. He was eager to get home.