Page 145 of Swept for Forever
“Then we make our own damn trail,” I said. “Because I’m not waiting for another one to go cold.”
He stood, his arms crossed. “I like you, Powell. But this? This is a powder keg. You light it, you’d better have one hell of a reason.”
“I’ve got the best reason.” My voice shook with fury. “Autumn is gone.Taken. Because people like Allan Spears think they’re above suspicion. And no one’s asking the hard questions because they’re all too scared.”
Boone looked pained, caught between duty and survival.
“I’m not saying you go knocking on his door,” I said. “I’m saying give me space to do what I have to do. Because if you won’t help me, I’ll tear through the Missoula PD myself until someone listens.”
Boone exhaled hard. “You’re gonna make my life hell, aren’t you?”
“I don’t care,” I growled. “She’s out there. And I’m not stopping. And don’t forget, don’t you want to find where Deborah Sinclair is?”
He swore under his breath. “Christ, Powell.”
42
AUTUMN
It was later than I thought. The sun had dipped just enough to shift the light. It was not evening yet, but late enough for time to matter. The water route had always been a gamble. Now it was more than that.
Maybe I should head back toward the lodge and take the path Big-Mouth and Pickle had used when they dropped me off. It was exposed with no cover, but dry. They’d driven that way, so it had to lead to a road. If I were careful and lucky, I might be able to hitch a ride. Just not with them.
But the decision was made for me.
Big-Mouth stood at the top of the embankment with one hand clamped to his head, probably still nursing that chair-shaped headache. His eyes swept the slope, hunting. Someone had let him out. That steel door had been bolted, I’d made sure. Maybe Pickle was back. If so, I was in trouble. Two against one.
I darted from tree to tree, but they were too sparse to hide me for long. He spotted me, and to my surprise, he handled the incline better than I thought he would.
There was no time.
I turned and ran straight for the river.
The cold hit first, jarring but not paralyzing. I kicked off, letting the current take me. It wasn’t violent here, more pull than fight, and enough to carry me away from him.
I kept my strokes steady. The river widened, then turned. On the far side of the bend, the bottom vanished, and my body dropped lower. There was no resistance beneath my feet, just water, thick and still.
Then came a pocket, darker than the rest. Slower. I dove once, a clean cut through the surface, testing it.
It was ten feet, maybe more.
I surfaced beyond that stretch, shifted course, and kept going until the lodge disappeared behind trees and fog. The current surged faster, and the surface turned restless and broken. It took more effort to steer now.
When I spotted a way out—a shallow slope cut between the rocks—I swam hard for it. Reaching it, I crawled up, mud clinging to my knees. I was soaked, but I wasn’t dead. And I wasn’t caught.
I scrambled uphill, my shoes squelching, my clothes sticking to my skin. Wind hit me in bursts. Late summer or not, I could feel it burrowing into my bones.
I needed shelter.
Now.
Branches clawed at my arms as I pushed through the underbrush. The ground beneath me was compacted and seemingly worn by boots or paws or both. There had to be something out here. I pushed on until the path split.
To the right was a narrow trail, barely visible, threading uphill through the trees.
I took it.
A dozen frozen steps later, I nearly cried.
