The Cold Nowhere

55

Stride slapped his palm against the computer monitor mounted to his dashboard. ‘Did I mention how much I hate technology?’

Serena rotated the keyboard and monitor toward herself. ‘Let me do it before you put a fist through the screen. What are you looking for?’

Stride ran his hands back through his hair. He didn’t want to believe what he suspected. ‘Bill Green says Marty beat him up in an alley near Curly’s,’ Stride said. ‘It was a couple weeks before Christmas ten years ago. I want to see if there was an incident report.’

‘Near Curly’s? That doesn’t narrow it down.’

‘Limit it to assault and gun reports,’ Stride said. ‘And check victim names against Green.’

‘What about Marty?’ Serena asked.

‘No, you won’t find him in there.’

Serena was puzzled. ‘Why not? Are you sure?’

‘I’m very sure.’

She didn’t argue, but she ran a search for both men and said, ‘There’s nothing in the system on either name in that time frame. Maybe there was no ICR.’

‘Green said the police responded. It has to be there.’

Serena took her fingers off the keyboard. ‘You want to tell me what I’m really looking for, Jonny?’

Stride felt the Expedition shudder. The wind was wild. Debris cascaded across the windshield. ‘Green said we let Marty walk,’ he said.

‘So? It sounded like a bar fight. That’s going to be a judgment call on whether the cop takes them in.’

‘Not if a gun was involved. No way we let that slide. Besides, it doesn’t matter. It was Marty Gamble.’

‘Meaning what?’ she asked.

‘Marty was on probation. He’d finally done time after he nearly killed Michaela, but he was back on the street. I was sure he was going to come after her again as soon as he had the chance. I wanted him. He was my top priority, and every one of my cops knew it. They knew his name. They knew his face. If he so much as took a leak against the side of a building I wanted him hauled in so we could get him revoked. If we could have nailed him for assault – with a handgun! – he would have been busted back for the rest of his time and probably another couple of years. The cop who brought him to me would have been a hero. I would have pinned a medal on his chest.’

‘No one did,’ Serena said.

‘No one did. Marty never hit the system.’

‘So Green’s lying. Or he never admitted that Marty was the one who beat him up.’

Stride said nothing.

Serena looked at him and her face darkened as she realized where his mind was taking him. ‘Or you had a bad cop,’ she said.

He pointed at the screen. She scrolled through the ten-year-old incident reports in silence, and he waited. It was still possible that Green had made up the story. It was still possible he’d kept quiet about Marty out of fear for his cousin’s retribution. But Stride didn’t think so. This was worse. This was one of his own. Someone inside would have known that Marty could be leveraged to do just about anything to stay out of jail. Someone inside would have known about Fong Dao’s burglary record. Someone inside would have known how to stage a murder-suicide without raising any questions.

‘December sixteen,’ Serena said. ‘There was a 911 call about an assault in progress. The time and location fit.’

‘How was it resolved?’ he asked.

‘That’s what’s odd. It came in as assault but the report was converted to drunk and disorderly, accidental injuries. No info on an assailant, no ID on the vic, definitely no gun. According to the follow-up, the vic declined medical treatment and disappeared. That’s it. Incident closed.’ She added, ‘This might not be the right report.’

‘Who responded?’ Stride asked. He thought: This was the call. Marty assaulted Bill Green. Someone buried it.

‘Do you remember your officer codes from ten years ago?’

‘No, but the table should be in the system.’

Serena clicked on the code. He watched her close her eyes. Her breath left her chest.

‘Who?’ he said softly.

‘It was Ken McCarty,’ she told him.

*

‘I’m nearly at your place,’ Maggie told Stride as she sped down the Point in the Corvette. ‘Brooke’s waiting there.’

‘Mags,’ he said.

She knew in the tone of his voice that something was very wrong.

She listened to him talk.

She listened to what he said.

She didn’t react. When he was done, she simply said, ‘Understood,’ and hung up the phone, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

Ken McCarty.

Her lover. Her friend. The baby cop she’d hired. Ken was dirty. Worse than dirty.

It was odd, how calm she felt at the news. How none of her emotions churned. She saw it for what it was; she’d been seduced and conned. There was no coincidence in Ken showing up in her office, no accident in his inviting her to dinner and charming his way into her bed. She was his pipeline. He was in town hunting for Cat, and he was using his old boss to keep tabs on what the police knew.

She’d let a bad cop, a thief and a murderer, fool her with his lies. She’d had wild sex with the very man she was hunting.

Still she felt nothing. Not anger. Not shame. She was dead inside. There was only one thing to do.

Find him.

Maggie dialed his cell phone, but the call went to voice mail. He’d turned it off to avoid the footprints of cell towers tracking him through the state. She knew what that meant. He wasn’t in Minneapolis anymore; he’d followed her north. He’d been going back and forth between the two cities for days, hiding out in a cold garage and driving a stolen black Charger.

Hunting. Killing.

He was here.

She parked south of Stride’s cottage on the bayside. When she got out, the wind cut through her burgundy jacket, but she didn’t feel the cold. She was almost in a trance. Across the street, in one of the cross-alleys that ended at the lakeside dunes, she spotted a white Kia Rio. Brooke’s car. She jogged across the street and checked it out, but the car was empty.

She spotted a picture of Brooke and Dory hanging from the mirror. A kitchen knife sat on the floor of the car.

‘Goddamn it, Brooke,’ she murmured.

It wasn’t hard to figure out how it started. Before Ken joined the Duluth Police, he’d been a campus cop at UMD. He knew the students and administrators; he knew the lay of the land. If someone had wanted the police to talk to one of the girls about escort trafficking on campus, Ken would have gotten the call. Keep it discreet. Keep it out of the headlines and the police logs. Just make it go away.

She wondered whether Ken simply blackmailed Brooke. Or whether he slept with her. Or both. Ken had a gift for manipulation. A girl like Brooke would have been scared to death to have a cop confronting her about turning tricks for tuition money. She would have done whatever he said. The perfect pawn.

It wasn’t even hard to figure out why Ken had risked everything for a big score. Maggie knew Ken back then. He was in love with money, but he didn’t have much. There had been rumors about his spending habits getting out of control, about debts, even about loan sharks, but when she grilled him about it, he’d promised that he had it covered. As far as she knew, he’d dug himself out, because the rumors stopped. She just never realized that his golden parachute involved Brooke, Lowball Lenny, and an ex-con named Marty Gamble.

He must have thought it was the perfect plan. It all would have worked if Rebekah Keck hadn’t come home early. If Marty hadn’t panicked and shot her. She told herself that Ken wasn’t violent, that he wouldn’t have harmed anyone if the burglary at Lenny’s hadn’t gone south in a bad way.

The trouble was, she didn’t believe it. Ken chose Marty for a reason. He could eliminate him, and no one would ever ask questions. Right from the beginning, Marty and Michaela were going to die.

Maggie stayed on the lake side of the street, hugging the trees, which swirled around her as she closed in on Stride’s house. Snow clung to the lawns and sidewalk and blew up in silver sprays under the streetlights. She looked for Ken’s car but didn’t see it, but she slid her gun into her hand anyway.

As she ducked between the trees, she saw a body near the corner of the house. Heel marks in the snow showed where the body been dragged out of view of the street. She ran closer and realized it was the policewoman she’d assigned to protect Cat. The young woman lay sprawled in the snow. Her brown hair was matted in blood where someone had struck her. She was unconscious, but Maggie checked her pulse and was relieved to find that she was still breathing.

She grabbed her phone and called for an ambulance. As she did, the woman began to revive on the wet ground. Her eyes fluttered. She groaned in pain and tried to get up. Seeing someone above her, she instinctively tried to fight, but Maggie grabbed her wrists.

‘Don’t move,’ Maggie told her. ‘It’s me. Help’s on the way.’

The policewoman settled back into the snow. Her eyes stayed open and began to focus.

‘Someone hit me from behind,’ she murmured.

‘I know. I have to check inside. I’ll be back.’

Maggie saw that Stride’s door was closed. She crouched low and led the way up the porch steps with her gun. At the door, she twisted the handle; it was unlocked. She pushed it open and slipped inside. The living room was empty. A lamp was knocked over; there had been a struggle. She eased around the doorway and cleared the first bedroom on her left, where Cat had been sleeping. From there, she quickly moved to each of the other rooms.

The house was cold and deserted. There were no more bodies, but there was no one here.

Distantly, above the howl of the wind and the roar of the lake, she heard a siren wailing down the Point as the ambulance raced closer. She dialed Stride as she ran back to the front of the house.

‘It’s me,’ she said.

‘We’re on our way downtown. Do you have her?’

‘No, they’re both gone. He’s got Brooke. And Cat, too.’





56

Ken McCarty waited with the headlights off. Sweat trickled down his forehead from his buzz cut, and his eyes danced back and forth to the mirror, watching for cars. It was late; they were alone. He kept his gun in his left hand, pointed across the steering wheel at Brooke. Cat squirmed in the back seat behind them, her mouth, wrists, and ankles bound with duct tape.

They sat behind the guardrails at the lift bridge. All the while, he talked. That was one thing Brooke remembered about Ken. He liked to talk. He talked about his parents, his dog, his car, his girlfriends, his stereo, his apartment, his clothes, his sunglasses, and his penis. He talked when he was threatening her. He talked when he was f*cking her.

Now, when he was getting ready to shoot her, he was still talking.

‘What are the odds, huh?’ he said, his knee bouncing nervously inside the car. ‘That son of a bitch Marty Gamble swipes a ring, and he has to pick the only thing that would ever blow up in our faces. Jesus, if only I’d had more time to find the girl that night.’

‘You’d have killed Cat?’ Brooke murmured. ‘A little girl? I can’t believe even you would do that.’

‘Loose ends, Brookie. You see what happens when you have loose ends? It’s not pretty.’

‘You planned to kill Marty all along, didn’t you?’

Ken craned his neck to stare up at the bridge. The deck hovered above them at the top of the span. She wondered if they could feel it sway up there, as the wind blew through the canal. In front of them, she saw ship lights. It wouldn’t be long now. She was running out of time.

‘Hey, everybody knew that he’d go off the deep end sooner or later,’ he said. ‘I just helped it along. I took him out for a drive to celebrate Fong’s arrest and got him so drunk he could hardly walk. That’s when I started telling him about Stride and Michaela and how Stride was bragging about his affair with her. Marty would have believed anything I told him. Next thing I knew he was screaming at me to drive over there. I let him go inside and I could hear him whaling on her. When I went inside, he was sitting against the wall, and she was bleeding from like a million holes.’

In the back seat, Cat kicked viciously at Ken. The car shook with her fury. Her bound legs reared up and landed a glancing blow on his head, dizzying him. Brooke grabbed for the gun, but she was too slow. Furious, Ken spun around; he held Brooke back with a hand around her throat and pointed the gun over the seats at Cat’s face.

‘Hey! Knock it off, you little bitch! Do you have any idea how much f*cking trouble you’ve caused me? One little teenage hooker! Unbelievable! Believe me, we’re going to have some fun before you disappear, baby, because I’ve earned it.’

He thumped back into his seat, breathing hard. He was losing control. The gun bounced in his hand as he drummed the steering wheel. He shouted at the bridge. ‘Come on, goddamn it! Come on!’

Brooke saw flashing lights beyond the open gap of the canal. She hoped it was a police car, but it was an ambulance, and she knew where it was heading. She wondered if the policewoman at Stride’s house was dead, if he’d killed her, if she had another victim on her conscience. How many was this now? She’d lost count.

‘For a long time, I wondered if you’d kill me,’ Brooke said.

‘I thought about it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

Ken grinned. ‘Hey, I always liked you, Brookie. Let’s face it, you were a great f*ck, too.’

He reached across the car and squeezed her breast like it was a stress ball. She winced inside at his touch, but she didn’t show him her revulsion. The sex between them had gone on for years. She never knew when he would show up or what he would do to her. Each time, she wondered if it was the last – if he would f*ck her and then strangle her and make her disappear. The sight of him terrified her; the touch of his hands made her want to leap out a window and kill herself. Even so, she couldn’t say a word to anyone.

‘I didn’t need people poking around in your background if you disappeared,’ he said. ‘Besides, I figured you had as much to lose as me, right? A girl who f*cks rich old goats for tuition money knows the sacrifices you have to make, and you weren’t going to give it all up. I was right, too, wasn’t I? When Margot showed up talking about Cat and the ring, you called me. I knew you’d never let that pretty face rot in jail. Good girl, Brookie.’

Good girl?

She’d thrown open Pandora’s box. She had no soul.

‘What happens now?’

He shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. It doesn’t look like I can trust you. You were ready to rat me out.’

‘People keep dying,’ she murmured.

‘You think I wanted it that way? Sometimes you do what you have to do.’

‘The police are going to figure it out. They probably already have.’

‘That’s your fault. You should have kept your cool. Now they know where to look.’

‘You won’t get away.’

‘You think I don’t know how to disappear? You think I haven’t made plans? No one’s going to find me. You can come along for the ride or you can wind up in a hole somewhere.’ He jerked his thumb at the back seat. ‘Right next to her.’

‘You’d let me come with you?’

He didn’t answer. He eyed the bridge again and pumped his fist. The bridge began to come down, not just on the canal, but on ten years of her life. He turned on the engine, which purred. Soon they would be out of the city, on the rural back roads. He probably already had his route planned. There would be a cabin waiting for them on the Wisconsin side, near a pretty lake. Secluded. Quiet. She had no illusions that he would let her live beyond the first night, no matter what he said. He would f*ck them both, and then he would kill them both.

Even so, she wanted him to think that she believed him. That they were partners.

‘Time to go,’ he said.

He let the ambulance roll past them in the opposite direction, and then he drove across the bridge as if nothing in the world were wrong. The gun was pointed at her chest again. He drove into the empty streets of Canal Park, and the wind made it look like a desert ghost town, blowing snow like dust and tumbleweeds across their path, from Grandma’s Restaurant toward the old brick factories.

‘Do you remember the first time?’ she asked.

He looked at her.

‘You and me,’ she said.

He grinned.

The first time. He’d left a message on her phone to meet him in a campus parking lot near one of the athletic fields. A cop in an unmarked sports car. At night. She’d had her heart in her mouth, wondering what he wanted, but there was no mystery in that. He knew. This young cop, barely older than her, knew all her secrets. He’d followed her and photographed her; he had everything it would take to expose her hidden life. She’d bawled like a kid, and then he’d said, with that sly grin, ‘It doesn’t have to go that way.’

He’d unzipped his fly, and she understood the way it would go. She didn’t care. She’d serviced him for months, and she’d thought of it as nothing more than an insurance policy, until he came to her on a snowy December night with a different plan. You need to do something for me.

A week later, she gave him the alarm code at Lenny’s house. 1789.

Ken stopped at the light. He waited to turn left on Railroad Street, which led south beside the concrete overpasses of I-35. She knew the road; it took them past Bayfront Park into the industrial zone, where the ships loaded and unloaded and the ore-filled rail cars rattled over the tracks. From there, the Blatnik Bridge arched over the bay into Superior, Wisconsin, in a part of the state that was mostly a wilderness of single-lane roads and deep forests.

You can wind up in a hole somewhere.

‘Are you tense?’ she asked, with a faint smile on her lips.

His head swiveled. ‘Huh?’

‘You know.’ She touched his thigh.

‘Hell, yeah.’

‘You’re right, I don’t want to sit in jail,’ she said. ‘I want to come with you.’

‘Show me how much.’

He unzipped. It was like the old days. The light changed, and he accelerated. She slid across the seat and bent her torso over him. Ken waggled the gun at her.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

She removed his shaft from his jeans and stroked him with her nails, getting him hard. His breath caught in his throat. She knew how to get a reaction. Beneath her, the car engine growled; he was going faster.

Faster.

She took him in her mouth, tasting salt and sweat. Underneath her bobbing head, her hands massaged the wrinkly skin of his scrotum and the firm chestnuts floating inside. He moaned. His hand pushed her head down, so far that she felt herself gagging. He had one hand, his gun hand, on the wheel. She felt the veer of the car; he couldn’t steer straight.

Faster.

Brooke knew it was now or never. She snapped her fingers shut like a hawk’s claw, digging her sharp nails into his testicles, eliciting a primal scream. Simultaneously, she cracked her head upward into his chin, rifling his neck backward. She threw her left hand into his skull and drove it into the cold, hard window of the car. With her other hand she let go of his balls and spun the wheel, wrenching the car into a sharp turn. The car, still going forty miles an hour, shot off the road onto the dirt and ice of the grassy field beside the freeway.

The car hit a light pole, which broke with a screech of metal and hit the hood like a falling body. Brooke flew forward, hitting the dashboard, bouncing backwards. With a chemical sear, the airbag exploded into Ken’s face and the car lurched to a stop. Disoriented, Brooke found herself face-down near his feet. Something hard and heavy – the gun – grazed her skull and disappeared under the seat as if sliding on ice.

Her head spun, but she pushed herself up and yanked the handle on the passenger door. It opened and she tumbled outward, falling into snow and weeds. She spotted Ken slumped in the driver’s seat, already groaning and recovering. With no time to waste, she opened the rear door and dragged Cat outside into the cold. The girl was bruised from the impact, but she wasn’t hurt. Brooke tore at the duct tape around the girl’s ankles and as the tape split, Cat thrust her legs apart, freeing herself. Brooke didn’t take the time to work on the girl’s hands. She helped Cat stand.

‘Hurry,’ she hissed.

As they began to run, Brooke saw Ken’s eyes inside the car. They were open now, and there was murder in them.

She and Cat sprinted along a snow-covered line of railroad tracks only steps from the twin overpasses of I-35. The roar of engines above their heads was a constant throb. They were no more than a hundred yards from the streets of downtown Duluth on the other side of the freeway.

People would find them there. People would rescue them.

She pulled Cat across the tracks toward the city. The crushed rock under their feet was slick. The ground sloped downhill toward the freeway foundations, and they made tiny, dancing steps on the frozen earth, skidding to a stop at the giant wall of the northbound overpass. Dead brush around them was wet with snow drifts. They hugged the wall, inching sideways on a slippery stretch of concrete no more than a foot wide. Where the wall ended, they reached a narrow creek that tunneled between the two overpasses. The water was glazed over with ice. Lights on the highway overhead cast long shadows. They could see an SOO train parked on the tracks of the Depot, and beyond it the city loomed, bright and close. Freedom was a quick skate across the water.

Brooke stepped onto the creek. So did Cat. The ice gave way with a crack; their feet landed in three inches of murky, numbing water. Before they could take another step, a loud crack boomed above the noise of the cars. The wall on the other side of the creek exploded in dust.

Another crack. Another.

He was shooting at them. The next bullet was so close that she felt a sting on her ear. When she touched her hand there, her fingers came away with blood. Brooke was paralyzed, but Cat yanked her under a concrete arch that made a roof over the frozen creek, where they were blocked from view. They were below the freeway, like pygmies in a giant land, with miles of roadbed stretching no more than four feet over their head.

A one-sided iron ladder, propped against the wall, led out of the water and into the secret no-man’s land between the two sides of the interstate.

‘Come on,’ Cat urged her. ‘We’ll hide in the graffiti graveyard.’





57

‘Gunshots,’ Stride said.

They headed north into the city on Michigan Street. When he heard the distinctive pop-pop of shots in quick succession, he braked sharply and pulled to the curb near the depot. As they listened, the gun went silent.

‘Where?’ Serena asked.

‘Somewhere near the tracks.’

He turned into an alley that led to the railway yard. His wheels bumped over the maze of tracks. The alley dead-ended at I-35, and he followed a gravel road beside a line-up of old passenger cars and Wisconsin Central engines. The freeway above them was lit by streetlights, but the area around the tracks was black. He turned on his high beams, giving the train cars a white glow. The loose rock under his tires was loud as he inched through the rail yard.

He stopped, leaving the lights on. When he opened his door, the wind ripped it out of his hand. Serena got out on the other side. They both slid their weapons from their holsters.

Stride followed the wall of the freeway overpass and gestured to Serena to remain on the other side of the alley, in the shadow of the trains. The two of them crept south, the wind fighting them, drowning out the noise. Cars shot by on I-35 a few feet over his head. He saw Serena clearing the space between each rail car.

They were alone.

Then he heard it, distant and muffled, as if coming from inside a wall. A young girl screamed, and the scream cut off sharply into silence. He was sure he recognized the pitch of the voice.

It was Cat.

Serena ran across the road to join him. Thirty yards ahead of them, the wall beside the interstate ended and the weedy ground sloped downward under the roadbed. On the other side of the freeway was the harbor.

‘Do you know where they are?’ she whispered.

‘Sounds like the graffiti graveyard.’

He led the way to the end of the freeway wall and stole a look around the corner. He was conscious of his truck headlights illuminating him from behind and throwing his shadow like a giant. The sunken area between the freeway beds was dark. He heard water dripping. The winter branches of a bent tree scratched his face as it fluttered in the wind.

Stride inched his way down the slope. Serena followed. He reached a dirty creek, which stretched like a ribbon between six-foot walls under the southbound lanes. The creek water was frozen. Boulders and rusted debris jutted out of the ice. He saw a ladder leaning on the east wall. Where light from the freeway spilled over the maze of concrete, graffiti art bloomed in a wild, psychedelic maze of colors. It was everywhere, covering everything.

He listened and heard nothing, but somewhere over the wall, a cone of light speared through the darkness. A flashlight. He cupped his hand over Serena’s ear and whispered. ‘Stay with the creek.’

Stride crossed to the opposite side of the canal, wincing as the ice broke, flooding his shoes with frigid water. Serena stayed behind him, almost invisible, following the wall on the fringe of the creek. He balanced a wet boot on the slippery steel of the ladder and pushed up one step. The ladder vibrated. He climbed two more steps and then shunted over the top of the wall. With a squishy thud, he dropped into snow and mud.

In the land ahead of him, a shot exploded through the darkness.

*

Cat watched the flashlight go on and off as Ken McCarty crept closer to them. She pressed her lips shut, trying not to scream again.

The graffiti graveyard was a grassy shelter tucked between the north–south overpasses. The ladder up the stone wall from the creek was the only way in, but once inside, the enclosure stretched for hundreds of yards, with drivers speeding north and south just overhead, unaware of the odd playground beneath them. The homeless came here, along with druggies and artists. The ground was littered with hypodermic needles, broken glass and aerosol cans. Every wall and column was covered with elaborate spray-painted designs, like a multicolored museum.

Cat squeezed herself behind one of the concrete pillars that propped up the roadbeds. Brooke stood behind another pillar ten feet away. There were other people around them. Despite the cold, she saw blanket-shrouded bundles huddled against the walls. In the occasional flash of light, their eyes glittered at her like cats.

The flashlight swept the ground on either side of the pillar where she stood. She pushed her ankles together to keep the beam from finding her. She heard another shot, and the noise was deafening inside the concrete jungle. She knew what he was doing. He wanted them to move, to run, to show themselves. She clapped her hands over her ears and held her breath.

Each flash of light, on and off, teased her with examples of graffiti art around her, making the paintings on the concrete look scary and alive.

Flash. A smoking monkey with suspicious, squinting eyes.

Flash. A green-and-blue chain of spiked barbed wire.

Flash. A row of bone-white skulls with black eye sockets.

Flash. A fanged spider.

Flash. A single sentence scrawled in drippy red, covering up a golden devil-robot. Alone we are nothing.

Cat stared at Brooke, who pointed a finger northward. Ken was getting closer; they had to move or they would be trapped here. When the light went off, they skidded across icy ground, jumping past three more pillars and ducking into cover just as the flashlight shot across their feet, nearly exposing them. Each time the light came from a different angle. He was zigzagging as he tracked them north. Soon he would be so close that they would be able to hear his footsteps.

They were more than a hundred yards from where they had started. It was cold, and they clung to each other, shivering.

‘He won’t stop,’ Brooke whispered in Cat’s ear. ‘He’ll find us, and he’ll kill us.’

‘We have to double back,’ Cat said.

She knew there was only one way to escape. They had to cross the graveyard to the southbound overpass, climb the wall, and drop down into the frigid creek. They could slip past him in the water, back toward the railway yard and the downtown streets. They would be safe, unless he heard them and found them there. If he did, there was nowhere to run.

‘The creek,’ Cat said.

Brooke nodded.

The graveyard was dark. His flashlight was off. They didn’t hear him coming; he was somewhere in the field of concrete, waiting and watching. Above their heads, a highway light made crazy shadows and lit up the graffiti. As cars passed, the light flickered like a strobe. They had to cross a stretch of dead grass to move from the northbound to the southbound lanes, and there was no way to dodge the light. If he was looking when they ran, he would see them like black silhouettes. They had to risk it.

Maybe he was a hundred feet away.

Maybe he was right there, with the gun.

They dashed across the snow. Their running footsteps through the wet drifts sounded loud. The light stretched out their bodies on the ground. They crossed from the shelter of one cross-beam to the next cross-beam in no more than two seconds, and they stopped, listening. Cat expected to hear him running. She expected to feel the flashlight beam dazzling her eyes. Instead, there was silence.

‘Come on,’ she said.

They crossed to the wall bordering the creek. Cat pulled herself up, scraping her hand on sharp gravel. She swung her legs around, dangling them over the water below her. Brooke had trouble with the climb, and Cat extended one of her hands to help her. When they were both on top of the wall, they took a breath and jumped. It wasn’t far, but the ice cracked like a bullet and cold water splashed up to their ankles. The bed of the creek was slimy and uneven with hidden debris.

The walls bordering the creek were barely eight feet apart and six feet tall. No light made it down there; it was like an underground tunnel. They couldn’t see the archway far ahead of them; they walked in nothingness. The only thing real was the touch of Brooke’s hand; their fingers were laced tightly together.

The wind didn’t reach the creek, but they heard it above them, wailing like a wounded animal. The air was freezing, and the ice bath made a bitter chill that traveled up Cat’s body. Her bones shook; she couldn’t stop herself from trembling. After a minute in the water, she no longer felt her feet, and she began to stumble in her boots. Each step broke through the glaze of ice, and no matter how quiet they tried to be, she felt as if they were shouting their presence to him.

Suddenly, she was blinded.

The flashlight beam, ten feet away, lit them up, turning night to day. They froze and covered their eyes. Running was pointless; they couldn’t escape. Cat squinted and tried to see behind the light; at first, all she could see was a hand holding a gun, pointed across the short space at her chest. She thought about her baby. She wondered if her mother was right and if there was a heaven somewhere.

The light tilted up and Cat saw the face of the person behind it. Not Ken McCarty. Not someone evil. It was Serena.

Silently, Cat leapt across the short space and felt herself wrapped up in Serena’s arms. She wept into her shoulder with relief. Serena kept the light on Brooke and the gun leveled across the water. Cat took her wrist gently and pointed the gun down.

‘It’s okay, she’s okay, she helped me.’

Brooke raised her arms in the air in surrender.

‘Where is he?’ Serena whispered.

‘Up there somewhere. Is Stride here?’

‘Yes. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

Serena turned. Her flashlight swung with her, and in its glow they all saw a hunched figure on top of the creek wall, ready to spring. She raised her gun, but it was too late to aim and fire. Ken McCarty jumped with arms spread, flying down through the air like a vampire bat, landing squarely on Serena’s chest and driving her backward into the water.

The gun dropped. The flashlight dropped.

The creek was black again.