you brought in state law enforcement. Of course it jumped to a
He shifted in the seat and the butt of his pistol dug into the small of his back. But it was where he always wore it. Sterling trusted his gun, his Bureau, and his nose. He had a nose like a good bird dog. A good bird dog could do more than smell a partridge or a turkey in the bushes; a good bird dog could smell its fear, and which way its fear would cause it to break, and when. It knew when the bird’s need to fly was going to overmaster its need to stay still, in its hide.
Blaisdell was in a hide, probably this defunct orphan home. That was all very well, but Blaisdell was going to break. Sterling’s nose told him so. And although the asshole had no wings, he had legs and he could run.
Sterling was also becoming sure that Blaisdell was in it alone. If there was someone else — the brains of the operation Sterling and Granger had taken for granted at first — they would have heard from him by now, if for no other reason than that Blaisdell was dumb as a stump. No, he was probably in it alone, and probably hunkered down in that old orphanage (like a half-assed homing pigeon, Sterling thought), certain no one would look for him there. No reason to believe they wouldn’t find him squatting like a scared quail behind a bush.
Except Blaisdell had his wind up. Sterling knew it.
He looked at his watch. It was just past 6:30.
The net would drop over a triangular area: along Route 9 to the west, a secondary road called Loon Cut on the north, and an old logging road to the southeast. When everyone was in position the net would begin to close, collapsing on Hetton House. The snow was a pain in the ass now, but it would give them cover when they moved in.
It sounded good, but —
“Can’t you roll this thing a little faster?” Sterling asked. He knew it was wrong to ask, wrong to push the guy, but he couldn’t help it.
The Trooper looked at the man sitting beside him. At Sterling’s small, pinched face and hot eyes. And he thought: This Type A fuck means to kill him, I think.
“Fasten your seatbelt, Agent Sterling,” he said.
“It is,” Sterling said. He thumbed it out like a vest.
The Statie sighed and stepped down a little harder on the gas.
Sterling gave the order at seven AM, and the assembled forces moved in. The snow was very deep — four feet in places — but the men floundered and came on, staying in radio contact with each other. No one complained. A child’s life was at stake. The falling snow gave everything a heightened, surreal urgency. They looked like figures in an old silent movie, a sepia melodrama where there was no doubt about who the villain was.
Sterling ran the operation like a good quarterback, staying on top of things by walkie-talkie. The men coming from the east had the easiest going, so he slowed them down to keep them in sync with those coming in from SR 9 and down Loon Hill from Loon Cut. Sterling wanted Hetton House surrounded, but he wanted more. He wanted every bush and grove of trees beaten for his bird on the way in.
“Sterling, this is Tanner. You copy?”
“Got you, Tanner. Come back.”
“We’re at the head of the road leading to the orphanage. Chain’s still across the road, but the lock’s been busted. He’s up there, all right. Over.”
“That’s a ten-four,” Sterling said. Excitement raced along his nerves in all directions. In spite of the cold, he felt sweat break in his crotch and armpits. “Do you see fresh tire tracks, come back?”
“No, sir. Over.”
“Carry on. Over and out.”
They had him. Sterling’s big fear had been that Blaisdell had beaten them again — driven out with the baby and beaten them again — but no.
He spoke softly into the walkie and the men moved faster, panting their way through the snow like dogs.
Blaze clambered over the wall between the Victory Garden and HH’s back yard. He ran to the door. His mind was in a frightful clamor. His nerves felt like bare feet on broken glass. George’s words echoed in his brain, coming at him over and over:
He ran up the stairs in mad leaps, skidded into the office, and began to load everything — clothes, food, bottles — into the cradle. Then he thundered back down the stairs and sprinted outside.
It was 7:30.
7:30.
“Hold it,” Sterling said quietly into his walkie-talkie. “Everybody just hold it for a minute. Granger? Bruce? Copy?”
The voice that came back sounded apologetic. “This is Corliss.”
“Corliss? I don’t want you, Corliss. I want Bruce. Over.”
“Agent Granger’s down, sir. Think he broke his leg. Over?”
“
“These woods are lousy with deadfalls, sir. He, ah, stumbled into one and it gave way. What should we do? Over.”
Time, slipping away. Vision in his mind of a great big hourglass filled with snow and Blaisdell slipping through the waist. On a fucking sled.
