“I could bring the mattress off the bed and put it near the fireplace for you. I’ll sleep on one of the sofas, a safe yard and a half away from you. But if you don’t want even that much togetherness, I’ll certainly understand.”
She came to her feet and dusted off the seat of her trousers. “Plan B makes perfect sense.”
“Glad you agree. I’ll get right on it.” He headed for the bedroom.
“Tierney?”
He stopped and turned back.
“Thank you for accepting my decision without further argument. You’re being awfully nice about it.”
He looked at her for several beats, then closed the distance between them in two long strides. “I’m not that nice.”
CHAPTER
13
EVER READ THE BOOK OF JEREMIAH, HOOT?”
“Jeremiah? No, sir. Not straight through. Selected verses only.”
SAC Begley closed his Bible. He’d been reading it for the last ten miles, which had taken Special Agent Wise almost two hours to navigate. “The Lord had a good man in Jeremiah.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Commissioned by Jehovah God to tell people things they didn’t want to hear and would just as soon not have known.”
Hoot’s knowledge of Old Testament prophets was hazy, so he agreed with Begley’s assessment with a noncommittal grunt.
“He’s killing them, you know.”
Trying desperately to keep the car on the road and stay on track with Begley at the same time, Hoot wondered if the antecedent to the pronoun “he” was the prophet, the Lord, or the unknown subject who was preying on the community of Cleary. He figured the unsub.
“You’re probably right, sir. Although, if he’s confining his activity to this area—and so far we haven’t linked this case to any in other parts of the country—one would think some remains would have been discovered by now.”
“Hell, but look at this ‘area.’ ” Begley rubbed his sleeve against the frosted passenger window to improve his view of the frozen landscape. “There are hundreds of square miles of solid forest out there. It’s rough, mountainous terrain. Rocky riverbeds. Caves. He’s even got wildlife on his side. For all we know he’s feeding those girls to bears.”
That triggered Hoot’s acid reflux. The last cup of coffee he’d drunk tasted sour in the back of his throat. “Let’s hope not, sir.”
“It’s a sparsely populated region. The son of a bitch that bombed Atlanta’s Olympic Park hid out here for years before they found him. No, Hoot, if I was killing young women, I’d choose country like this for my hunting grounds.” Pointing up ahead, he asked, “That it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoot had never been so happy to see a destination in his life. He’d been driving all night over roads that were more suited for a luge. At one interchange not too far out of Charlotte, a highway patrol car was blocking an entrance ramp. The officer got out and motioned for Hoot to back up. On Begley’s orders, Hoot stayed put.
The patrolman approached them, shouting angrily, “Don’t you see me motioning you? You can’t come this way. The highway’s closed.”
Hoot lowered his window. Begley leaned across him and flashed the patrolman his ID, explained that they were in hot pursuit of a felon, argued with the officer, pulled rank, and ultimately threatened to push his goddamn patrol car out of the fucking way if he didn’t fucking move it immediately. The officer moved his car.
Hoot had managed to get them over the ramp without spinning out, but the muscles in his neck and back had been tied in knots ever since. Begley seemed impervious to their peril. Either that or he trusted Hoot’s driving skills more than Hoot did.
Begley had allowed only two stops for snacks and coffee, which they took with them. At their last stop, Hoot had barely had time to zip up after using the urinal before Begley was knocking on the door and telling him to hurry it along.
Dawn had reduced the darkness only marginally. Cloud cover was thick and low. Fog and blowing snow limited visibility to a few feet. Hoot’s eyes were tired from straining to see beyond the hood ornament. His speed had maxed out at fifteen miles an hour. Driving any faster would have been suicidal. The freezing rain and sleet that had fallen yesterday were now being exacerbated by a heavy snowfall, the likes of which Hoot had seen only rarely in his thirty-seven years.
Before they interviewed Ben Tierney, he would have liked a shower, a shave, a pot of black coffee, and a hot, hearty breakfast. But as they approached the burg of Cleary, Begley instructed him to drive directly to the lodge on the outskirts of town.
The Whistler Falls Lodge was a collection of cabins on a small lake formed by the waterfall just above it. Deep snowdrifts had accumulated along the fence that encircled a playground. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the office. Except for that sign of human occupation, the place seemed a deserted snowscape.