From there, he skirted around the dark waters along what appeared to be a solid footpath. Before long, the path ended, and he hopped across a patch of oozing mud onto a rock. Ahead of him was another rock, then another, then he leaped onto a patch of dark green grass. It led him deeper into the swamp, and he hoped he could remember his way back.

He followed the grassy strip for a few minutes and stopped short, dropping to a crouch. Dead ahead of him he spied a small building—a ten-by-ten hut, mounted on a handful of stalwart pillars. He listened for sounds of any human presence, but was only greeted by a bullfrog’s deep voice.

He walked slowly toward the hut, careful to avoid fallen branches or loose vegetation. Ten feet short of the building, he crouched down beside a rosebush. To him, it looked like the same type of bush that grew along the rear of the Thorburn house. Adam Thorburn must have planted it there. Jake was on the right track, and he was sure now—this was where the fugitive was hiding out.

But was Adam Thorburn there now?

There was only one way to find out. There was no window in the side of the hut he faced, nor at the back. He crept forward, rounded the corner, and saw an undersized door with no knob, only a metal latch, a short, leather strap for a handle. He kept going. The far side of the building had a small hole cut in the wall to serve as a window.

Crouching down, he crept to the window and stopped underneath it. He listened intently for a few moments, then slowly raised his head. There was no one in the rustic one-room building.

Moving back to the door, he lifted the latch, swung it open, and stepped inside. The room was vacant save for an empty plastic grocery bag on a built-in shelf, along with bits of folded newspaper littering the floor. He examined the paper. It was from yesterday; Adam had been here recently.

But where was he now, and would he come back?

He pulled out his cell phone. No coverage. He tucked it away, stepped outside, and examined the immediate area. There was no indication of a trail other than the path he had come in on.

He picked his way back slowly, stopping once or twice to recall the proper route, and soon exited at the tree line. He tried his cell again. Three bars. He dialed Annie’s number and waited, then frowned at the message: “Caller unavailable.”

Why would she turn her phone off? He checked his messages and was informed she hadn’t received his last text. That didn’t make a lot of sense.

He put his phone away and worked his way across the field, passed the steel mill, and exited onto the sidewalk along Steel Road. His car was at the other end of the block, and he tried to reach Annie’s phone again as he strode up the sidewalk. There was still no answer and his concern grew.

Reaching his vehicle, he climbed inside, hoping there was a simple explanation for his inability to reach his wife. He started the car and drove around the block, from Steel Road to Mill Street and back again, peering at each house with hopes of seeing Annie at the door interviewing the owner.

Perhaps she had moved onto an adjoining street. He checked the surrounding areas, rounding block after block, but she was nowhere to be seen. As he continued to patrol the neighborhood, he checked his phone constantly. A deep unease gnawed at him, a fear something had happened to Annie.

There was only one thing to do; he would have to retrace her route. He would start at the beginning of the street, talk with anyone who was home, and work his way to the end of the block and around to the next, if necessary.

He parked the Firebird at one end of the street, stepped out, and began his long search for Annie.

Chapter 37

Thursday, 11:54 a.m.

ADAM THORBURN was concerned for his safety. He was getting in deeper and deeper, with everything becoming more and more complicated.

Not only did he have Annie Lincoln locked in the basement of the house, but a few minutes ago, as he’d set out for the hut in the swamp, he had seen Jake Lincoln heading his way, coming through the fields from the bog.

Had the investigator discovered his hideout? As he ducked down behind a bush and watched Jake come toward him, the look on the big guy’s face told him he had. Before long, the Firebird circled the block, no doubt looking for him.

And now, as Adam sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, he had no idea what to do. He might be safe in the abandoned house for now, but how long would it be before they knocked the door down, and perhaps shot him dead like the dog he was? Maybe that would be for the best, anyway.

He stood and walked into the living room, pacing the soiled carpet silently. Annie had been banging at the door and calling his name earlier, but she had given up when he didn’t answer. He had remained as quiet as possible, and she’d likely assumed he had left the house. He didn’t want to hear her voice right now.

Not that he disliked her. Not at all. She was the only one who showed any compassion toward him. Whether or not she was sincere he didn’t know, but he liked her nonetheless and didn’t intend her any harm. But he also needed to keep himself safe from being captured, and the only way to do that, at least for now, was to confine her to the basement.

He lay on the couch and covered his head with the blanket, suddenly overtaken by fear. He shook uncontrollably for a few minutes, his breathing shallow and rapid. When the attack subsided, he wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow and wished he were dead.

Reaching behind his back, he removed the pistol, turning it over and over in his hands. Just one shot—it would be so easy, and then his anguish would be over.

He held the pistol to his temple and put a shaking finger on the trigger. Just one shot. Do it. DO IT!

His whole hand trembled as he gripped the pistol and gritted his teeth.

“Pull the trigger, Adam.”

“No, Adam. Put the gun down.”

He held his breath, closed his eyes, and his finger tightened on the trigger, his mind consumed by the inner battle. The power of his will against a trembling hand.

“The only way to find true peace is to put a bullet in your brain. You must pull the trigger, Adam.”

“No, Adam, no. There’s still hope.”

“It’s the only way out. Trust me, Adam. Pull the trigger.”

“No. Stop. Put the gun down.”

Adam dropped his head and wept, his pistol hand falling to his side, the weapon slipping to the floor. He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and stood, raised both fists above his head, and opened his mouth to scream. But no sound came out, and he collapsed to the floor, emotionally exhausted.

Soon, he stirred and opened his eyes. The weapon lay inches from his face, and he cursed his lack of inner strength and wished he’d never been born. He was a blight on society, not worthy of life, and too weak to do what needed to be done.

Reaching out wearily, he picked up the weapon and stood to his feet, tucking the gun behind his belt. There had to be an easier way. Some means to end it all without having to do it himself—he had no courage, no spine, and no guts to do the job.

Maybe if he made his way to the police station, he could barge in, his gun blazing, and let the cops fill him full of holes. That would surely be a way out, and it wouldn’t take a lot of willpower. But then, knowing his luck, something would go wrong, and he would live through it, probably spending the rest of his life in prison confined to a wheelchair—or worse, staring at the ceiling half-paralyzed.

No, that wasn’t the answer. If he found a way, it would have to be certain and final, with no margin of error.