Part 5
The plowed lane ended half a mile from the cabin. Beyond it, the county crew had cut a narrow passage through the drifts, barely wider than the veterinary truck. Snowbanks rose above the hood. Mara drove in low gear while bare branches dragged the roof like fingernails.
Naomi Reed remained on the satellite line with a state dispatcher patched in. Every few minutes Mara gave a mile marker or named a landmark—the collapsed hay barn, the green mailbox, the culvert with striped posts. Other people repeated the information and wrote it down. The sound of them doing so steadied her more than she expected.
In the back, the pulse oximeter lost its signal whenever the truck jolted or Eli’s hand grew cold. Mara stopped trusting the numbers and watched his breathing, skin color, and the delay before he answered his name.
“Tell me about the pain.”
“Still there.”
“That was not the question.”
“Sharper when the truck leans left. No trouble breathing.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“Only when you drive into holes.”
“That one was a road.”
His laugh was brief and surprised, as if the sound had escaped the wrong man. Mara caught herself looking at him in the mirror and returned her attention to the rutted lane.
They passed the north arm of Alder Lake, where wind had combed the ice clean in long gray strips. Beyond the trees, a bent county sign marked the spring-fed inlet at Old Mill Spur: THIN ICE—KEEP OFF. The wrecked vehicle lay out of sight around the bend, but Sadie’s voice came back with the vibration of the tires: Then don’t.
At the old rail crossing, the satellite call began to break apart. Naomi’s voice arrived in clipped syllables. The state dispatcher told Mara that responders had left the salt shed and were coming south, less than twenty minutes away.
“We are approaching Old Mill Spur Road,” Mara said. “A quarter mile south of the crossing.”
“Copy. If you lose—stay with—”
Static swallowed the rest.
Old Mill Spur had once served a timber depot before the tracks were pulled up. The remaining gravel lane descended to a loading area beside the lake, then joined the county road at a blind curve. Mara rounded that curve and braked.
A logging truck stood crosswise across both lanes. Its cab was empty. The snowmobile tracks from the cabin ended in churned slush beside its rear tires. Fresh truck tracks led from the shoulder into the old depot.
The tracks told Mara how Tom had timed it. One of his searchers had watched her drive turn north, then used the timber trail to reach the spur before she did.
Mara shifted into reverse.
A gray pickup came around the bend behind her and stopped nose to nose with the snowbank. Two men got out. One stayed near the pickup with his hand inside his coat. The other walked forward bareheaded despite the snow.
Thomas Mercer looked less formidable than his voice. He was of medium height, clean-shaven, dressed in a dark wool overcoat that would have been sensible in Boston and was already wet at the hem. His face shared some of Eli’s structure around the brow. Eli’s eyes had gone first to doors and windows; Tom looked only at the people.
Mara keyed the radio. “State dispatch, roadblock at Old Mill Spur. Two men, possibly armed.”
Only static answered. She repeated it, then entered the same message on the clinic truck’s satellite emergency beacon. The screen read ALERT QUEUED—NO LINK.
Tom stopped several yards from the driver’s door and held up an empty hand.
“Ms. Ellison, leave the key on the hood. I will move the pickup so you can turn around at the east junction.”
“Move both vehicles and we’ll wait for state police.”
“That helps no one.”
The second man drew a handgun. Tom turned his head.
“Down,” he said.
The man hesitated, then lowered the muzzle toward the snow. It was not kindness. Tom needed the key, and he needed Eli alive long enough to make it useful. Still, the correction told Mara he preferred obedience to chaos—the same distinction Eli had once used to distance himself from what his orders did.
Eli pushed himself upright in the back. “Let her go, Tom.”
Tom came closer to the window. For a moment the two cousins simply looked at each other through the glass.
“You look terrible,” Tom said.
“You always did hate unfinished work.”
Pain moved across Tom’s face before anger covered it. “Do you remember the winter your father disappeared for three days? You sat in his office waiting for the phone to ring. I found him in a casino outside Montreal and brought him home before the board knew. I have been finishing your family’s work since I was nineteen.”
“You were my family.”
“I still am. That is the part your prosecutor will never understand.”
Eli reached for the door handle. Mara locked it.
“No.”
“He will break the glass.”
“Responders are coming.”
“And he is standing eight feet from you.”
Tom heard enough through the window to answer. “I do not want her, Eli. I want what you stole.”
“The key is not yours.”
“There he is.” Tom’s mild voice sharpened. “You signed every expansion and left me to carry the ugly work. Now you hand over the ledger and call it honesty.”
Eli’s hand remained on the latch. “I signed those orders. I am still going through with this.”
The man beside the pickup raised his gun again, this time toward Mara’s windshield. Tom did not correct him.
Mara unlocked the doors.
Outside, the cold struck like a second storm. Tom’s man took the satellite phone from Eli and switched it off. He ripped the radio microphone and the beacon control head from the dash; the queued alert vanished with the dark display. Then he took the steel document box and searched the truck while Tom watched Eli struggle down. Eli refused help until his knees nearly failed. At last he allowed Mara to put his arm across her shoulders.
Tom led them off the road into the abandoned loading yard. Snow covered the old rail bed, and beyond it Alder Lake spread flat and pale beneath a lowering sky. The logging truck hid them from anyone approaching on the county road.
“The key,” Tom said.
Mara held the document-box key in her pocket. Eli met her eyes. He did not command, plead, or promise. After a moment, she opened the box herself and removed the sealed metal device.
She closed and relocked the box with the unloaded pistol still inside.
Eli took it from her. “She leaves in the truck.”
“Once I verify this.”
“Now.”
Tom kept his eyes on Eli for several seconds, then nodded toward the gray pickup.
Mara took one step toward it. The armed man moved across her path.
“You said I could leave,” she said.
“Once I verify the key,” Tom replied. “Until then, stay where I can see you.”
Eli placed the metal key in his cousin’s palm. Tom closed his fingers around it. For the first time that morning, relief loosened his face. “Call your attorney,” he said. “Tell him to lock the mirror and end the interview.” Eli leaned harder against Mara, but his voice held. “Naomi already has the index,” Eli said. “And my statement…”
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