Chapter Twenty-Eight

Maddie Cook holds the bib coat close to her body—her un-gloved hands stuffed deep inside her pockets. The waterproof boots are holding out, the bottoms of her pants wet and cold.

Walking beneath the pine and oak at the edge of the track, she follows her own wheel marks in the snow. Where the pine is close-grown, there's just enough cover to keep from sinking to her ankles. She can drop back further into the forest—but the trees are dense, progress will be too slow.

She thinks of the man, pointing a gun at her belly. She could be dead already, she tells herself.

She's alive. She'll stay alive.

She wonders about the woman. Time to do the right thing.

Her foot catches on a tree root—she trips, falls forward, to her knees.

Thrusting her bare hands into the snow, she pushes up as fast as she can. Her clothes can't get wet, she can’t afford for that to happen. She stands a second, feels her hands burn with cold—thrusts them in under her coat.

She feels a tear form at the corner of her eye.

No, no.

Fuck you, no.

She won't cry. She won't let that in.

She thinks of the hook-nosed bastard with the gun, thinks of ramming it into his ugly face. Following it up with a baseball bat, like the one in her son’s room.

She nods. Alright. Better. She works her painful hands into her pockets, moves forward again.

In her mind's eye she sees the track through the forest, sees its progress, thinks of features along the way, points she remembers. A stack of felled timber in a clearing—power lines to hill-top ranches. She pictures a stand of yellowbark pine that always catches her eye. A gulch of exposed granite, a burn from two years gone.

One foot after another. All she has to do.

Both of her feet are numb from cold—at least they're not wet.

Five more miles.

Five more miles till she reaches the logging road. The descent to the highway is at least another four. It’ll be choked with snow, she knows—she tries not to think about the descent.

Her face is sore, pain throbs in both ears. Snow is working its way down her collar, melting down the back of her neck.

The logging road is exposed, wind scoured, it’ll be deep in snow.

She glances out from under the canopy of pine.

The blond-haired boy was not much older than her own son. They'll have gotten down to the Rochford Road. They'll have driven down, snow or not, the SUV could get there, four wheel drive and winter tires.

The thought of the warm cab catches her just for a moment. She pushes it away.

She can follow tracks.

All she has to do. Put one foot in front of the other. Not rush, not think of cold and fear, not think of stopping. Not think about the feet she can no longer feel. Or the rawness of every exposed piece of skin.

She can walk the forest, walk the logging road, get down on the highway.

A sickening thought reaches her—will they keep it open?

God.

Please, God.

Let it be open.

On 16 West, dirty snow is piled on the double-wide median. Belaski drives in frozen wheel ruts, staring out through the salt-encrusted windshield.

Off the highway, openings show every mile or so; single-lane roads and tracks into the forest—barely any are marked or posted—private, he guesses, access to ranches and farms.

You'll have to pick one, he tells himself.

He pushes back against the driver seat, flexes out his arms.

Some will lead to unincorporated settlements, to scattered houses.

Behind him, there's no traffic. Nothing moving up ahead on the road.

He lets the SUV slow, the note of the motor dropping. The highway’s running north and east, through a wooded valley. A sign ahead reads; Rockerville 2 — Rapid City 13

An intersection is coming up, a road crossing. He studies the apron where the side-road meets with the highway. The churn of the plows has left a berm of thick snow. But road crews have cleared the intersecting exit and entrance-way.

He glances in the rear-view, comes off the gas.

He waits until the last moment.

For a split second, he thinks of the kid, Anthony, handcuffed in the trunk.

Nothing’s on the road behind him. He sweeps off the highway—not fast, not too slow.

Momentum carries the SUV across the lumps and frozen ridges at the edge of the road.

He glances again in the rear-view. Nobody there to see him turning off.

He steers along a single set of wheel tracks hugging the center of the road.

No sound from Anthony behind the rear seats. Silent, Belaski thinks. Some go silent.

The wipers flick back and forth on the windshield.

Close to the highway would be best—just far enough, not too far. In Rapid City, he can dump the Park Ranger SUV—he can pick up a vehicle at a rental office, so long as he doesn’t have the kid.

He thinks of Lauren DeLuca. She’d be scared for her brother—maybe she'd already have it figured out.

He strains to pick up on any feature ahead; the road is starting to climb—rising steady, trees taller now, dense, blocking out the light.

He sees another opening—a track into the forest. A green shield on a wooden post shows gold lettering, the outline of a tree.

U S Forest Service.

No vehicle has passed there.

He turns the steering wheel, eases the big Ford down the side track.

The depth of snow is greater, he feels it drag beneath him. Fresh snow is blowing in, showering the hood.

The track follows the contour of the hill, the sky nothing but a dull strip of light between the trees.

Reaching a wide turn, the trail splits into two—one fork disappearing into dark woods, the other climbing.

He pauses. Higher up the hill, between the old-growth pines he can see a clearing—two cabins set back at its rear.

He picks the uphill route, drives the Ford through a bank of snow.

Steering off the track at the clearing, he pulls up by the cabins, stops, opens up the driver’s door.

He steps out—the snow is mid-calf.

He wades through to the first cabin. It’s padlocked, shuttered windows on two walls.

He checks the second cabin—it’s the same as the first.

Crossing back to the Ford, he opens up the rear hatch.

Anthony blinks at him in the glare of light.

“Move your feet.” Belaski reaches in to the chainsaw, unhooks the ratchet-strap retainer—frees it. Hoists it out.

Anthony recoils, his eyes go wide.

Belaski unscrews the filler cap on the chainsaw—there’s gasoline in the reservoir.

He screws the cap back, flicks the switch to 'on', sets the choke.

He puts a knee on the engine cover. Pulls the starter cord, sharp.

It coughs, dies. He knocks off the choke, pulls again.

Anthony’s face is white; “Wait, wait, what’re you doing?”

The chainsaw spits into life.

Belaski whips it from the ground, guns it—thick oil spatters the glistening snow.