And ran, the dogs moving ahead of him.
He didn’t have keys for any of the snowmobiles; he had to run the distance. But he kept pace with Boris and Natasha, glad the snow was no deeper than a few inches.
He felt his lungs burning but that didn’t slow him.
He should have known! Should have known when he talked with Emmy that she had stayed with Kimball because she needed the job to carry out the plan—and that her hatred for him had grown and grown. She was a prime target for a man like Tate Morley. A young woman who was never appreciated by anyone else, who desperately needed love. She would have had all the possible business resources to begin and carry on a correspondence with Tate Morley in prison—scrambled emails, throwaway cash phones and letters...all those coded letters the Bureau had combed through. From so many maniacs corresponding with a killer—Jane Doe or Becca Marle among them and also Marc Kimball...but really, Emmy Vincenzo. As long as she toed the line, Kimball wouldn’t have questioned business expenses; he had enough correspondence himself.
All carried out by his assistant.
He doubted that Emmy had actually committed the murders; she had merely made the arrangements. Maybe she’d fallen in love with him, watching his trial, reading about him, seeing him on television. She had set everything in motion for him to arrive; she had arranged for warm clothing and tools and a place to stay. She’d known timing; she’d known all about the reality show.
And she’d known Black Bear Island.
He should have seen it!
She had killed Kimball, right when help had come. Of course, even the Bureau’s top psychologists would have thought that a normal reaction. Bullets had flown; the moments were filled with high anxiety. She had been terrified; she’d already been beaten and abused.
But he should have seen it.
Running, running, running...they reached the Mansion.
“Boris, Natasha! Secret!” he said.
The dogs crouched low and stayed behind him as they approached the house.
The front door was open; he carefully walked in. He knew almost instantly that no one was there; the house had a feel—cavernous and empty.
“Boris, Natasha—search!” he told them. He said the last with pain.
What if Clara was here? What if she was already...
He wouldn’t say it; he wouldn’t think it.
The dogs ran up the stairs and throughout the house; Thor quickly checked the downstairs rooms. In the kitchen, he saw the open door there.
Clara had found her way out.
She was alive, and she was out there.
*
Clara ran...
And ran.
She was afraid to look back and she didn’t do so for the longest time.
Emmy was far shorter than she was—and Clara was a good runner.
But while she could outrun Emmy, she couldn’t outrun a bullet, so she had to dodge her way across the terrain as she headed for the Alaska Hut.
She’d done so once before, run in sheer terror for her life. And now she was doing it again, her footsteps crunching in the snow, her breath a billow before her, body on fire against the cold that curled around her.
She heard a shot; she plowed ahead, leaping over a snowbank, then slammed down to the earth, her heart thundering. She held still for a split second and looked back. The shot had been wide. She found herself counting bullets...
Why? Who the hell knew what kind of a gun Emmy had?
Looking back, she could see that the girl was still far away. And she was looking for her now—she didn’t see her ahead. Emmy might have mapped the island and seen to it that Tate Morley had everything he needed here, but she didn’t seem to be much of a tracker. She wasn’t looking for footprints—she was staring across the distance.
She was halfway, Clara thought. Halfway to the Alaska Hut, where she’d find Justin and Magda. They would help her...they would let her in.
Justin would have a method of defense.
She had to get there; she had to reach it. But, as soon as she rose...
She heard another shot; had Emmy seen her? She crept along, facedown in the snow.
She lifted her head and peered into the distance; Emmy had paused. She seemed to be studying the gun. Clara decided that she had to take the time and run again.
Had the gun jammed? Pray God!
Clara stood and she began to run and run...
The Alaska Hut was just ahead of her.
She was suddenly aware of barking and baying...
Dogs!
“Clara!”
She turned around. Now Emmy was looking backward—looking at the two large huskies bounding at her. Clara could hear someone shouting; she heard a gun go off...
Suddenly, she was running in reverse.
Thor was there; his FBI Glock aimed at Emmy as the dogs raced up to her, barking a warning.
But Emmy raised her gun anyway.
She wasn’t going to shoot; she was going to slam it down on Natasha’s head.
Clara was amazed by her own renewed burst of speed.