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The weather would get worse. Soon.
Gus looked out at the mist, fog and drizzle. The hardwoods with their brightly colored autumn leaves had given way to more and more evergreens. At just over four thousand feet, he and the fugitive would be above the tree line.
Gus said, “Most hypothermia deaths occur on days just like today.”
“That right?”
“It doesn’t have to be below zero to die of the cold.”
The fugitive hunched his shoulders as if to combat his shivering. He had a stubbly growth of beard, which made sense given the story he’d told Gus about escaping from a federal prison in Rhode Island two days ago. His dark eyes showed none of the discomfort he had to be feeling.
Gus wasn’t winded, and he was warm enough in his layers of moisture-wicking fabrics and his lined, waterproof jacket. He wore a wool hat, wind-resistant gloves, wool socks and waterproof hiking boots. His backpack was loaded with basic supplies, but he couldn’t reach back for anything, take it off, unzip a compartment.
If he did, the fugitive had said he’d shoot him.
The fugitive coughed, still breathing hard. Sweat trickled down his temples into his three-day stubble. “I’m not dying of the cold.”
“Try not to sweat,” Gus said. “Sweating is a cooling mechanism. The water evaporates on your skin and promotes heat loss. You don’t want that.”
“You want me to freeze to death.”
“No. I want you to give yourself up. Walk back down the mountain with me.”
The fugitive stepped back behind Gus and waved his gun, a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson that he must have picked up somewhere between prison and New Hampshire. “Get moving.”
“It’s a good idea to keep moving, but not so hard and fast that you sweat. It’s easier to stay warm than to get warm.”
“Shut up.”
Gus started back along the trail and heard the crunch of small stones as the fugitive fell in behind him. The trail dropped off sharply to their left, and in the valley below, the bright orange leaves of hardwoods managed to penetrate the gray. Every autumn, leaf-peepers flocked to northern New England to see the stu
Gus realized it wasn’t his bad luck that the one person in the White Mountains with a gun had found him. The fugitive had targeted him. Watched for him.
Why?
Before long, the valley would disappear in the fog and low cloud cover, and dusk came early this time of year. Even with the flashlight he had in his pack, Gus knew it would be increasingly difficult, perhaps impossible, to see from one trail marker to the next. The fugitive wouldn’t find his way on his own. He didn’t know Cold Ridge. Gus did. He’d lived in its shadows, hiked its trails his entire life—not counting his two years in the army. He’d come home at twenty expecting to get married, have a couple of kids.
Things had worked out differently.
Because of the ridge and its dangers.
“There’s a shoot-to-kill order out on me,” the fugitive said, matter-of-fact.
“No such thing.”
“Liar.”
Gus stepped over a smooth, slippery rock. “The purpose of deadly force isn’t to kill. Its purpose is to stop you—someone—from killing or seriously injuring someone else. It’s about public safety. It’s not about killing.”
The fugitive snorted. “Why not shoot me in the knee?”
“Shoot you in the knee, and you can still fire off a round or stab someone. Apply deadly force, and you can’t. But if you live—then you live. The purpose was to stop you, not to kill you.”
“You’d shoot to kill me if you had the chance.”
“Toss your gun off the ridge.” Although he wasn’t known for his patience, Gus kept his tone reasonable, persuasive. “Let’s walk back down the trail together. Keeping your gun pointed at me puts you at risk of getting shot yourself. If the police see you—”
“It’s just you and me up here. And the ghosts. Don’t try to fool me. I know we’re almost there.”
Yes, Gus thought as he led the fugitive around a familiar bend in the trail. They were almost there.
He slowed his pace, mindful of the slippery rock, and the fugitive moved in closer. “You’re picturing yourself firing your Glock into my chest, aren’t you?”
Gus didn’t own a Glock. “I’m picturing you wrapped up in a blanket in front of a nice fire in a woodstove. Safe. No worries about tripping and falling up here. No worries about hypothermia. No worries about getting yourself shot.”
“A .40-caliber Glock.” The fugitive’s teeth chattered, but derision had crept into his voice. “Isn’t that what you carry, Mr. Senior Deputy U.S. Marshal Winter?”
Gus maintained his steady pace. He saw now what had happened three hours ago.
The fugitive believed he’d snatched a federal agent.
Specifically, Gus’s nephew, Nate Winter, a senior deputy U.S. marshal visiting from Washington. He and Gus had similar builds and were just thirteen years apart in age. Wearing a hat, carrying a pack, Gus could understand how someone could think he was Nate.
He didn’t correct the fugitive’s mistake.
The trail became steeper, and the drizzle turned to light rain. Behind him, Gus could hear the fugitive shuddering and shivering, cursing at the cold. “You’re in first-stage hypothermia,” Gus said. “Shivering is your body’s way of trying to get warm. Your core temperature is already below normal. You’re still conscious and alert, but you won’t stay that way.”
“I’m fine. Keep walking.”
“As your core temperature drops below ninety, your coordination will become more and more impaired. You’ll become weaker. Lethargic. Confused.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“You’ll stop shivering.” Gus had explained the stages of hypothermia to countless hikers over the past thirty years. “You’ll be at an increased risk of cardiac arrest.”
“It won’t happen—”
“It is happening. It’s happening to you right now.”
“I’ll take your gear and leave you. You’ll freeze long before I do.”
“You need me to get you off this mountain alive,” Gus said calmly.
“All I have to do is go downhill.”
“It’s not that simple. You’re in a wilderness area. The main trails are to the south. Even if you managed to avoid falling off a cliff—even if you didn’t run out of potable water—and you made it off the mountain, you’d still be miles from the nearest help.”
The fugitive was breathing hard now. “More lies.”
“I’m just telling you how it is,” Gus said. “And no matter what you do—leave me, take me with you—you’ll still be wet and cold. It’ll be dark soon. Do you know how to protect yourself from the cold overnight?”
“Stop talking.”
Gus pretended to stumble slightly on the trail and deliberately ran into a half-dead spruce tree. A sharp sticklike lower branch dug into his cheek and drew blood. He gave an exaggerated yelp of pain and let a few drops of the blood drip onto the gray granite at his feet.
“Hold up.” The fugitive shoved his gun into Gus’s back and sniffled, but he didn’t stop shivering. “The blood. Clean it up. Use your glove. Do a good job.”
Squatting down on one knee, Gus used the thumb of his black, windproof glove to wipe up the blood, which was already mixing with the rain water.
The fugitive stood over him. “Think I’m stupid? I know what you’re doing. You’re leaving a trail for your marshal friends.” He squinted down at the cleaned-up blood spot. “Back on your feet. Don’t try that again.”
Gus shrugged as he rose up straight. “No one would notice a few drops of blood in this wilderness.”
“A search dog would.”
Gus pressed a gloved finger to the cut on his cheek, as if he didn’t dare let more blood fall onto the trail, but as he started back up the trail, he noted the snapped branch on the spruce with satisfaction. A search-and-rescue team wouldn’t miss it. Just as they wouldn’t miss the other clues he’d left during the past three hours.