“Holy shit. A peavey. You think he wants us to see him?”
Carlyle didn’t take his eyes off their target. “I think he’s sending us a message: You idiots will never catch me.”
“What’s with the goddamn costume?”
“It’s not a costume, it’s a mask, a way for him to assume a different identity, someone with skills he doesn’t have.”
“But why that particular get-up?”
“It’s what loggers wore a hundred years ago. They told people they were dressed like aristocrats because they were doing a job no one else could do. Those men survived unimaginable conditions. He may be saying he’s just as tough as they were.” Carlyle stared at the figure on the far side of the valley. “This is worse than I thought.”
“We’ve got a maniac standing a hundred yards across from us. How could it be worse?”
“The disguise intensifies his self-delusion. He may be switching personalities and losing contact with reality.”
Suddenly, the figure across the way stepped into the sunlight and stared at them.
Wells said, “What’s he doing?”
“Maybe daring us to stop him.”
“How do we know he won’t attack us?”
“Everything he’s done so far suggests he’s only after the Marshalls.”
“You sure he’s not going to come charging across that trestle and cut our throats with that thing?”
“He likes the game he’s playing.
“So why’s he tormenting us?”
“To show us who’s in control.”
When Carlyle looked across the gorge again, the figure had disappeared into the trees.
“He must have a place near here. We won’t find him unless he wants us to.”
“So how do we draw him out?”
Carlyle stood up and began walking up the hill toward the trestle. “The same way we did it before. With bait he absolutely can’t resist.”
At 3:00 p.m., Carlyle and Wells were back at the main road. Wells said, “Look to your left.”
Two state troopers were moving toward them, both in combat fatigues and black boots. The one in front had on a lieutenant’s bar with a nametag, “Morris.” His backup, carrying a twelve gauge and a Glock, never took his eyes off the track and the surrounding woods.
Morris said, “We knew you’d pull another stunt like this.”
The backup said, “Sir, I’d prefer we step away from the road. It would be safer if we moved out of the sun.”
“How did you find out we were here?” Carlyle said.
“Abel Elliot told us to keep an eye on you. One of my men saw you leave Indian Lake this morning.”
Wells glanced at the guy with the Glock and the shotgun. “What’s with the armor?”
“You don’t enter a virtual war zone without protection. I came to say you can stop this wild-goose chase of yours.”
“Why’s that?” Carlyle said.
“One of my men discovered fresh footprints and a spool of fishing line on the Indian where Sanders died.”
“What makes you so sure it’s fresh evidence?”
“A forensics team said the tracks were a day old.”
“Where exactly did you find this stuff?”
“Just upstream of Guide’s Hole. Right where Sanders went in.”
“How does this affect your plans?”
“We’re moving all personnel back there. If I know Elliot, he’ll want you to move your operation upstream also.”
Wells turned to Carlyle. “You want to tell him or should I?”
“Tell me what?” Morris said.
“We just spotted our guy near the trestle.” Carlyle described their hike into the gorge and the person who emerged from the woods across from them.
Morris scowled. “What in hell makes you so certain I should reposition my men down to this sector?”
“This guy’s still on the loose because he keeps moving to new territory. Trust me, Harris is his next target.”
Morris dug a furrow in the ground with the heel of his boot. “Give me some solid evidence. Something I can take to my superiors.”
“Tell him about the costumes,” Wells said.
“He doesn’t appear now without wearing a disguise,” Carlyle said. “I think it’s a sign that he’s undergone a major psychotic break. And that may cause him to become reckless.”
“You’re goddamn lucky he didn’t come across the bridge after you,” Morris said.
“He wants to drive people away from the gorge, not bring them into it.”
“Let’s suppose for a second that you’re right. That he’s planning another attack. What would you do if you were in my place?”
“I’d have two crews, one at a staging area in North River and another in Riparius in case he eludes us. And a chopper ready to fly into the meadow just south of Harris.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“I’ve been studying people like him for a decade and watching this guy night and day for over two weeks. I’m pretty certain that I’ve got a plan that will draw him into a trap.”
When Carlyle got back to the house two hours later, he and Beth had dinner. “How did your work go today?” he said.
“It never gets any easier. You start the morning hoping to create something entirely wonderful. Then, after a half-dozen false starts, all your energy and optimism are gone.” There was blue paint on her hair and glasses, tobacco stains on the fingers of her right hand.
Carlyle had watched her fall into a depression before. “How long before I can see what you’ve been working on?” he said.
“Not for another month. Maybe longer if it doesn’t get any better.”
Carlyle finished his coffee and cleared the table.
“When this business in Warrensburg is finished, we can get back to a normal life. Spend all day on the escarpment, have a picnic, just wander around.” They had hiked or skied up there every week for the past three years, never growing tired of the trails that wound through the woods. In autumn, when yellow and red maple leaves lay thick under their boots, they walked for hours, saying little, content to simply be together.
Beth did the dishes. “Did you find your letter?”
Carlyle stared at his hands. “I saw it on the table in the hall when I came in.”
Beth shut off the water. “What did they say?”
He pulled the letter
