Page 113 of The Oligarch's Daughter

A few minutes later, he saw something that set his heart clattering in his chest. Three men and two women wearing dark-blue windbreakers withFBIprinted in yellow letters on the back came around the corner of the building from behind him.

Were they here to apprehend him?

He considered his options. He could run—no, better to walk, casually, down Main Street, like a local who was supposed to be there, and then turn into the ski area behind the street. But several members of the five-person FBI team seemed to be watching the street, perhaps waiting for him to come from the Days Inn.

A minute later, Paul watched Lou emerge from the law firm’s ground-level door and walk toward the restaurant’s entrance. He still had the heavy dark brow and double chin Paul remembered, except now he wore a look of determination. He strutted like a rooster.

Paul watched as Lou walked up to what looked like the FBI team leader and said something to her. The woman and the other two FBI agents stationed outside the Pies-n-Thighs door then walked around the back of that building, no longer visible to anyone walking by. Lou entered the restaurant.

Paul waited. His burner phone rang.

Lou’s mobile phone number. “Grant,” Lou said, “I’m at Pies-n-Thighs. Are you coming?”

“I am. Just a little late, sorry. Something came up.”

“Okay. No problem. Listen, I’m glad you called.” Lou’s voice sounded odd—stilted, almost.

“I need your help,” Paul said.

“I know you do,” Lou said. “Look, I know you’ve been having a hard time, but I want you to know you’re not alone.” He sounded like a hostage reading from a statement prepared by his captors. “I’m here to help any way I can.”Had Lou Westing been in touch with the FBI?

“On my way,” Paul said and ended the call. It was time to move, maybe long past time.

He saw one of the FBI agents come from behind the building that housed the restaurant and cross the street, a hundred feet from where he was standing. Paul’s instinct was to run, but he knew that would only attract attention. His mouth had gone dry. He stuffed the binoculars into his backpack, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and began walking down Main Street, calmly, away from the guy in the windbreaker. He tried to act casually but knew they were watching the street.

A few doors down, he came upon the thrift shop where he’d purchased his replacement clothes and entered it.

“He’s back,” the woman at the desk said, smiling. “Everything fit okay?”

“Everything’s great,” he said. “I know this will sound weird, but do you happen to have another exit? There’s a woman I’m trying to avoid.”

The woman behind the desk peered at him for a minute, then laughed. “Oh, yeah? You could take the service entrance, dear. Sure.” And she pointed toward the rear of the shop.

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He tried not to limp too obviously as he slipped out the rear exit of the thrift shop. There was a hardened-dirt parking lot there and, immediately behind it, a thickly wooded area. That way, he knew, lay the Pemi Wilderness.

For perhaps a tenth of a second, Paul considered whether he should surrender. His instinct had always been to obey law enforcement. Most people would. Also, the FBI agents would expect him to try to evade them in town, on foot, and by vehicle. What they would not expect him to do was go back into the woods.

So that was precisely what he would do.

Paul wished he’d bought more articles of clothing than he had, but he hadn’t planned on this. He had a warm parka and a good new backpack and not much else. In his pockets he had an apple and a KIND bar (Double Dark Chocolate), the latter because it looked healthier than a Snickers, though he wasn’t sure.

But he had been taught a long time ago how to survive in the woods.

So he plunged into the forest. He went as fast as he could, but this wood was dense with vegetation. When he was far enough in that he knew he couldn’t be seen from the parking lot, he immediately set about building a debris shelter. This was challenging because if he gathered too much debris from where he was settling down, it would leave a telltale clearing. So he had to collect the branches and twigs from a few hundred feet away, which took considerable time. Slowly, he built a frame, stretched his tarp over it, and camouflaged it with branches and leaves. He stepped back, took an assessing look, was satisfied. Because the sun had begun to set, he got into the shelter and lay down, wearing his parka, and tried to rest.

Maybe they’d given up looking for him.

Yeah, right.

Finally, his thoughts stopped spinning enough for him to fall asleep.

It was the crackle of a two-way radio that jolted him awake. In the crackle, he distinctly heard his last name.

He’d been asleep for two hours. The light had gone. He remembered suddenly where he was.

Now he heard the tread of multiple pairs of feet on the forest floor, the snap of branches. His heartbeat thundered.

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