Page 46 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

Fifteen minutes later, he took a shower and rinsed the dye away. Filson looked himself in the mirror as he dried off and laughed. “You haven’t been a ginger in years, Padraig,” he said. “It becomes you.”

After dressing, he went to a second bedroom. There he unlocked a locker, removed a box, unlocked that, removed another box, and unlocked that. Inside the third and smallest box, cradled in foam, was a weapon Filson had designed and built himself, using an old friend’s metal lathes and gunsmithing tools. It had been a simple job, really.

His research had shown that the average pair of human eyes were set roughly fifty-five to seventy-five millimeters apart,measured from the center of one pupil to the center of the other. Filson had used the average of sixty-five millimeters to set the distance between two .25-caliber pistol barrels he then joined to an action he’d designed, milled, and fitted so they operated like side-by-side shotguns, with a single trigger controlling both firing pins. It had a break-action breech as well.

He’d welded a reinforcing rod between the barrels to give them more stability and put a tritium aiming sight on it that glowed even in the pitch-dark. The pistol stock was custom-made, a composite he’d produced with a 3D printer based on measurements he’d taken of his own hand. The butt of it had a hole so the weapon could be hung on a hook.

He picked the gun up and shut the empty breech, surprised once again at how balanced, how right it felt in his hands. Maybe he’d missed his calling.I could have been a gunsmith,Filson thought.

He looked over at his reflection in a mirror on the closet’s sliding door. He ignored the dye job and studied his ravaged eyes and face, then took a long swig of the milk and whiskey, feeling it fire his tongue and cool his throat and gut.

Filson laughed at his reflection. “Nah, Padraig. No gunsmith. You were born for this life, weren’t you? You and your mad fishing father before you.”

Then he raised the double-barreled pistol and aimed the glowing green tritium sight at the reflection of the bridge of his repeatedly broken nose. When he squeezed the crisp trigger and heard the firing pins snap, he broke into a cackle that soon had him coughing harder than ever.

CHAPTER 44

Fairfax, Virginia

BREE, JANNIE, AND TINA DAWSONstood on the west side of Mantua Park at the entrance to the Gerry Connolly Cross County Trail, almost directly across the street from the Airbnb the missing Iliana Meadows had rented.

Bree had her phone out with the Google Maps application up. She looked at Tina. “Give me the directions she gave you.”

The cross-country runner got out her phone, found the text. “She says, ‘Enter across from condo. Trail follows Accotink Creek. Cross Barkley Drive. Go south to Prosperity Avenue. That’s a mile and a half. Turn around. An easy three miles.’” Tina choked a little. “Then she say, ‘Have fun! See you soon! We’ll order out!’”

“Don’t worry, Tina,” Bree said. “We’ll find her. She’s probably just sprained an ankle or something.”

They entered the park and took the trail down along Accotink Creek. It was pretty there that crisp autumn early evening. Many of the trees on the slopes along the creek and trail were in full fall color.

A steady wind blew, rustling the leaves and deepening the chill as they walked, looking up the trail and at the hillsides flanking it. They encountered a few runners and two moms hiking with babies on their backs.

They stopped all of them and showed each one a picture of Iliana. “She’d be wearing a jacket like this one,” Jannie said, pointing at Tina’s.

None of them had seen the cross-country runner or anyone with a similar jacket.

A few hundred yards on, a branch of the trail turned north toward Arlington Boulevard. Somewhere up there in the trees, a dog was yapping. The main path extended east and south toward Barkley Drive. They followed it, with Jannie and Tina calling for Iliana.

There was no response. They reached the intersection of the paths and Barkley Drive, which was busy with traffic. The trail disappeared into the woods south of it.

Bree said, “You know what? I’ll take the trail from here south to Prosperity. You two go back, see if we missed anything, then get in Tina’s car. You’ll come get me.”

Tina looked upset.

“What’s the matter?” Jannie asked.

The young woman said, “I have nowhere to stay tonight. I told Coach I was going to stay with Iliana.”

Bree exchanged glances with Jannie. “What coach was that?”

“Thayer,” she said. “He usually sets up our lodging.”

“You’ll stay with us tonight,” Jannie said. “We’re not far.”

Tina hesitated. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” Bree said. “Wait until you taste Jannie’s great-grandmother’s cooking.”

The young woman smiled. “Okay. I’d like that. It’s been a while since I had a home-cooked meal before a race.”

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