Page 125 of Finding Amanda

The road narrowed, the few homes on both sides hundreds of yards apart. He glanced at his map, peered toward the left, and searched for the driveway. It had to be here somewhere.

There, on the left. The brown mailbox had a half-inch of snow resting on top of it and blended in with the forest, but he could read the name painted on its side in bright white—Morass. Mark had almost missed the narrow snow-covered drive and decelerated slowly to keep his wheels from sliding. He turned into the driveway and stopped just a few feet from the road, shifting the truck into park.

Dialing Chris, he climbed out and walked to the front of his truck.

"You there?" Chris asked.

"Yeah. This is the place. But . . ." His heart plummeted as he studied the ground in the fading light. "No tire tracks. If they're here, they didn't come this way." He looked around, listened, sniffed the air. That worked in Afghanistan—with the heat in the desert, you could smell lingering body odor. All he smelled was somebody's fireplace. He leaned against his truck and dropped his head. "They're not here. I've lost her."

"Knock that crap off."

Mark pushed off from the truck and stood straight. "Yes, sir."

"West of the driveway maybe twenty-five yards, there's a path. Maybe another driveway? I can't tell from the satellite image."

"Okay." Mark jumped into the truck. "On my way."

"Meanwhile, I'm going to call the police, have them head in your direction."

"I don't want them barreling in. If he's here, that'll spook him."

"I understand. Still, you might need them. I'll have them send a cruiser but wait at a distance."

"Yes, sir. Thanks." Mark hung up the phone, slipped it into his jeans' pocket, and backed onto the street. He forced himself not to go too fast, barely touching the gas, peering to his left. Chris was right. He couldn't let his fear take over. Emotions would only cloud his judgment and hinder his instincts. He had to focus.

There. A narrow interruption in the trees. Very narrow—his truck wouldn't fit. He parked beyond the path, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, and climbed out. It wasn't completely dark yet, but with the deep cloud cover, the swirling snow and setting sun, he was having a hard time focusing on the ground. Approaching the front of the truck, he shined the light on the ground.

Tire tracks in the snow. Fresh tire tracks—Amanda was here.

He ran to the passenger side door and yanked it open. The marine in him had stored his knife and its sheath in the glove box. He cursed himself for taking his gun back to the safe deposit box. Nothing to do about it now. He clipped the black nylon sheath onto his belt.

He grabbed his fleece jacket from the backseat. Black. The best camouflage he could find at the moment. He slipped it over his gray sweatshirt. At least he'd be hidden in the dark. And Amanda might need the warmth of the coat when he found her.

If he found her.

No time for that.Focus.

With his flashlight in his left hand, he closed the door and sprinted up the winding lane. A silver sedan was parked a quarter mile up the road. Mark approached it silently, scanning the forest around him. No sounds. No movement except the soft flutter of snow. He approached the car and swept the beam of his flashlight along the ground.

Huge footprints littered the snow on the driver's side. Someone—most likely Sheppard—had opened the back door. Deep ridges. Boots. He'd come prepared.

Mark studied another mark in the snow—a crescent about five inches long.

The marks had been left by the sharp edge of a shovel's blade. He swallowed the nausea. He had to stay sharp.

Behind the car, different footprints appeared. She was here. Alive. She'd been in the trunk.

The trunk was open, her red scarf the only evidence she'd been there. He could picture his wife's tiny body scrunched up in there.

Sheppard was going to die.

Mark crouched down and studied Amanda's footprints.Long narrow triangles punctuated with a round indentation. Boots, but not the hiking kind. The leather kind. The high-heeled kind. He swore softly. She had no chance of escaping Sheppard in those boots.

At least she'd be warm.

A picture filled his mind. Amanda lying at the bottom of a shallow grave wearing her wool coat, dark blue jeans, and sticking out beneath them, those boots. Her eyes were open but unseeing. Dirt and snow rained down on her from above.

No. There was no time for thinking. Only action.

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