made started to recede, and she wondered if he had given up and was heading back the way he'd come-or if that was what he wanted her to think.
She dug in, quietly covering herself with duff, and lay still for another hour, fearing that he'd found a vantage point and would see her if she moved. Eventually, she became aware of the drone of aircraft-and then, that the sound was more constant than just an occasional passing plane.
It finally dawned on her that that was probably what had scared Jessup into retreating. She dared to start moving again, at first still crawling and pausing to listen every few yards, then moving into thick forest and running. At least another hour passed before she heard a helicopter approaching close enough for her to flag down. By then she was on the edge of exhaustion.
Now all law enforcement resources were closing in on the area, looking for Lon Jessup. The immediate question was whether his vehicle was still where he'd left it when they started walking-whether he had gone back to it and gotten out, or was still on foot.
Darcy had only gotten a glimpse of the place, just enough to see that it was under the shelter of some decaying timbers. Now she couldn't describe the location with any accuracy; she'd never been in that country before, and she only had a rough idea of the distance and direction she'd traveled while running away. But authorities had identified a couple of possible sites and searchers were already on their way in to check them; the aircraft had narrowed their flyover zone and other personnel were ringing the overall area, hoping to spot and intercept Jessup.
It didn't take long for the experienced local men to get to those areas and relay back digital photos. Darcy quickly recognized the sagging, timbered overhang of an abandoned mine shaft in a cliffside; the tunnel was long since caved in, but the entrance formed a pocket big enough to shield a vehicle from casual view. Fresh tire tracks confirmed the find.
But the vehicle and Lon Jessup were gone.
Darcy hadn't gotten a good take on what he'd been driving, either; wrapped up in the sleeping bag, she'd barely seen it. She thought it was something like a Suburban or Expedition, off-white or gray, another of the generically common rides that Jessup seemed to favor, for reasons that were coming clear. It probably wouldn't have helped much, anyway. Interstate 15 was only a half hour's drive south, with highways branching off in all directions and places where he could rent or steal another car.
Madbird received the news with his usual stony face.
'Goddamn shame he ain't still in them woods,' he said quietly.
Jessup had made a lucky decision to get the hell out of there. If he'd kept chasing Darcy long enough to get cut off from his vehicle, Madbird would have gone in after him, alone, and come back with his ears.
56
As the excitement settled down notch by notch, I started realizing that I was worn out and deflated, drained by the long nerve-racking day. There was nothing that I could do here. I said my good-byes, let Gary Varna know I'd be at my place if anything came along, and headed home.
Of course, I was hoping there'd be a phone message from Renee.
During the hours of waiting, I'd had plenty of time to think about how this might affect the situation between us.
Her father was finally absolved of Astrid's murder. It was virtually certain that the killer was the man who called himself Lon Jessup. Renee had triumphed. The years of ugly suspicion were ended, and the hidden menace that had hovered over her was exposed and on the run.
The question remained as to whether Jessup posed a long-term threat to her. At this point, it didn't seem that he had anything to gain by harming her. But a mind like that was unfathomable.
Even with an APB out for him and national law enforcement agencies joining the hunt, I wasn't at all confident that he'd ever be caught. His escape plan hadn't worked like he wanted; he'd been forced to jump the gun. If he'd succeeded at diverting attention to Fraker, he'd have had time to quietly fade away while the police were occupied with Fraker, going on vacation or a 'business trip' and never coming back. There'd have been no reason to connect Jessup to Darcy. If anyone eventually did get suspicious, he'd be long gone, and it was unlikely that they'd even try to pursue him.
Still, it was clear that he had the groundwork well laid. He'd gotten a head start of a couple of hours, and no doubt he had plenty of money stashed and another identity to slip into. Soon he'd be just another bland-faced, middle-aged, outwardly solid citizen with vague business interests. As long as he paid his way and didn't cause trouble, he'd be welcome most places in the world, no questions asked.
With any luck-and, I thought, in all likelihood-he wouldn't want to jeopardize his safety again, and he'd stay far away for the rest of his life.
That still left a lot of baggage for Renee and me to deal with, along with the other concerns of our very different lives-and the good man, Ian, who wanted to marry her.
The only thing that would resolve all that was time.
Driving out of town, I remembered that the larder in my cabin was bare, so I stopped at the usual market and bought deli fried chicken, potato salad, bacon and eggs for breakfast tomorrow, and a six-pack of Tecate beer. As I walked back across the parking lot to my truck, I realized that I was feeling and breathing the delicious spring air in a way I'd been oblivious to for the past weeks. I couldn't say that I'd achieved closure, but in spite of weariness, the worries that lingered, and problems that still lay ahead, a deep sense of of relief was penetrating into my being.
Then I heard a rumbling sound behind me. It was quiet-somehow stealthy-and approaching fast.
I turned to face it as its source came abreast of me-Ward Ackerman's big green rust bucket of a sedan. It was traveling ten or fifteen miles per hour, not aimed at me like he was going to run me down, but close enough to brush me. My instant thought was that he was going to slam on the brakes and jump out, and we'd go through another bullshit confrontation.
Instead, the son of a bitch threw open his door without slowing down. I just had time to cover my gut and chest with my right arm, like I was blocking a body punch. The door caught me hard enough to knock me clear off my feet and send me skidding, with the groceries flying in every direction.
Ward screamed something at me and stomped on the gas, screeching away and waving his raised middle finger out the open window.
But my bile was swept aside by a flood of illumination. My mind, all on its own, suddenly created-or maybe discovered-a realm called Pissant Purgatory, where all the nasty, sneaky little shitweasels like Ward would do time when they died. There were no burning flames, no demons with pitchforks. The punishment was that they were forced to hang around with others just like themselves, with no nonpissants to suck blood from.
I got up carefully, wary of my still-healing ribs. They let me know they'd been hit, but my elbow and upper arm had absorbed most of the shock. The only other part of me that felt impaired was my dignity. A couple of the eggs were broken, but otherwise the groceries were okay, too.
I gathered everything up, popped open a frothing can of beer, and drank it on the way home.
57
The last tree-lined stretch of Stumpleg Gulch Road opened into a football field-sized meadow at the front of my property. My father had set the precedent of leaving a few big firs around the cabin for shade, but otherwise clearing a swath as a fire break, and I kept it that way.
So as I drove up to the gate, I had a clear view of a surprising and unsettling sight. My black tomcat was crouched under the fence, not moving.
Like a lot of pets, he recognized the sound of familiar vehicles like mine and Madbird's, and he'd usually meet us, stalking around and yelling at us to say hello, or just complaining.
