84

There were no hotels in Anchor Falls. They slept in the back of Norma’s Diner instead, a couple of booths toward the rear of the restaurant, the lights turned down low.

Windermere slept fitfully, curled up on the vinyl, her coat for a pillow. Woke at dawn to someone clearing his throat, opened her eyes and saw a couple of new faces, young men in heavy black FBI winter coats. They looked apologetic as she sat up wincing, massaging the back of her neck, blinking sleep away. It was a quarter after eight and the sun just rising.

“Sorry to wake you, Agent Windermere.” The agent on the left was the taller of the two, a heavier build and close-cropped hair. “They said we should talk to you as soon as we got here.”

Their names were Mundall and Wasserman. They shook hands with Windermere, with Stevens, told them they’d brought a helicopter crew, told them the Salt Lake City office would have a team in Whitefish by lunchtime.

“This guy was killing hookers, right?” Wasserman asked as Shelly brought them four cups of coffee. He was smaller than Mundall, keen eyes and a head of red hair.

“Not just hookers.” Windermere stood, stretched. “Transients, runaways, train hoppers. Drug addicts and bar waitresses. Anyone the public wouldn’t miss.”

“How’d he get away with it for so long?”

“Were you listening? This guy chooses nobodies. People figured the victims skipped town, ran off. Got drunk in snowstorms and froze to death. Hell, even the clear-cut homicides weren’t exactly priorities. Who really cares if a junkie gets popped, right?”

Mundall and Wassermann swapped looks, like they weren’t sure if the question was rhetorical.

“We care,” Windermere told them. “We don’t like murderers no matter who’s getting killed. And we’re going to expend every ounce of energy we have in finding this guy and bringing him in, clear?”

“Of course,” Mundall said. “Yeah. But how are we going to do it?”

Stevens shifted beside Windermere. “I had an idea.” He leaned forward, spread out his topographical map. Made a mark on it with his pen.

“This is about where Hurley’s road ended.” He traced the topography east, into the mountains. “There are two chains of mountains in the Whitefish Range,” he said. “Hurley’s cabin lies on the western slope of the range. Beyond the western chain, in the general direction of his trail, there’s this plateau here”—he pointed—“and then the eastern slope. And beyond the eastern slope—”

“Roads,” Windermere said, leaning over his shoulder.

Stevens nodded. “Logging roads. Campsites. The north fork of the Flathead River, running down from Canada all the way to the interstate. If Hurley can get through the eastern mountains, his escape options increase dramatically.”

“Okay,” Wasserman said. “So how does he get through?”

Stevens circled an area on the map, the central plateau and the eastern slope of the Whitefish Range. “There’s water here, Nicola Creek. Seems like it runs down from the plateau all the way to the North Fork Flathead. Makes a nice pass through the mountains, wide enough to traverse, from the look of it.”

He circled the spot again. “Nicola Creek,” he said. “If I were Leland Hurley, that’s where I’d be headed.”