In the Bleak Midwinter

The right-of-way, and the tire tracks, curved gently to the left, disappearing from view in the thick stand of trees. She accelerated slightly, the rear tires whining a complaint. As she rounded the bend, the landscape opened startlingly before her: blue sky, white snow, black water. Dark green bridge. Dark blue Ford Explorer.

She slammed on the brakes, sending the truck into a skid that ended with a jarringly abrupt stop. She almost fell from the cab in her frantic need to get out. She could see him, perhaps halfway along the span of the bridge, silhouetted against the sky. Well-bundled up against the cold, carrying something.

“Mr. Fowler!” she screamed. Running through the snow to the bridge was like running in a nightmare, slipping and dragging and making almost no headway despite the efforts that left sweat running down her spine. “Stop!”

He did. She thrashed through the remaining few feet to the bridge and staggered onto the rails. She saw why he had been walking so slowly: the train track was supported on a huge trestle but open to the air. On either side of the railbed was a riveted steel walkway and parapet, something the rail workers must have crossed on decades ago. Between the scanty patches of snow that hadn’t been scoured off by the wind, she could see patches of rust eating away the green-painted metal. She decided to stay right where she was, on the half-foot-wide wooden ties.

Vaughn Fowler was facing her now, cradling a blanket-wrapped bundle with one arm. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, Reverend,” he said, his voice carrying clearly through the cold air. “As president of the vestry, I’m disappointed in your performance so far. Way too much time spent on a situation that is out of your area of concern.”

She heard nothing from inside the blanket. Shouldn’t the baby be crying after all this? She pressed her lips tightly together. Dear God, don’t let him be already dead. “My area of concern? It’s the people around me. The McWhorters. The Burnses.” She picked her way along another few crossbars, moving closer. “Your son. Your grandson. You.” She looked steadily at Fowler, searching his face for something she could reach with her words. “Let me help you.”

“Very comforting, coming from a woman who tried to kill me last night.” He held out a hand. “Stop there, Reverend.”

She stopped, her arms spread for balance. Beneath her feet, she could see the kill, black and glittering in the pale sunlight. Chunks of ice bobbed lazily in the slow current. “Are you going to try to shoot me again?” she asked.

Fowler laughed, a short, coughing sound. “Hardly. I lost my side arm when you ambushed me. Carried that Colt for twenty years, and lost it to a damn woman. A priest to boot. Damn, I liked that piece.” He narrowed his eyes. “You were good out there. I’m lucky to have survived with my feet and my balls intact.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“Bullshit. You meant to hurt me, and you did. I underestimated you, and I paid the price. Don’t apologize for being successful.”

“No, sir.” The acknowledgment was an automatic response to his tone of voice. She sure wasn’t going to reach him by appealing to him as a priest, but maybe she could engage him officer to officer. The longer they kept talking, the more likely it was Russ and his men could find them. “I thought taking your boots and flashlight to keep you from reaching your vehicle was good strategy, but obviously, it didn’t work.”

“I had a penlight in my snowmobile suit. Always carry backup equipment when you’re in the woods. As soon as I’d assessed the situation, I stopped chasing after you and headed straight for my snowmobile.”

“But . . . your feet . . .”

“Were damn cold by the time I reached my friend’s cabin. However, I was wearing insulated hunting socks. Next time you try to cripple someone, make sure you leave him with bare feet. Better still, just split his head open.”

“Sir, my objective was to slow you down, not to kill you.”

“Stupid objective. The only way to deal with an enemy is to take him out. Period. Otherwise, you’ll never know when he’ll jump back up and bite you in the ass.”

“Like Darrell McWhorter?”

His face crinkled in disgust. “Slimy bastard. Called me up and said he’d tell the cops about Wesley and his daughter if I didn’t pay him off. Ten thousand dollars. He thought Wes had killed her and he was still willing to overlook it for money. What a scumbag.”

A raven flew past the bridge, cawing loudly. She took another step along the railroad ties. “How did you persuade him to come with you to Albany, sir?”

“I told him I’d pay if he’d collect any telltale evidence from the girl’s apartment and hand it over. I knew he’d jump at the chance to find something more substantial to hold over my head.” He gave her a look that invited her to agree that the late Darrell McWhorter was an idiot. “I planned on getting rid of him in Albany; as it happened, a better opportunity presented itself.”

“So that was you who rifled through Katie’s things.”