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ONE HUNDRED TWO

BLAIR DIALS THE PHONE as he drives. Silas finally answers.

“Her cell phone’s back on,” he tells Silas. “I got a location. Where are you?”

“By the hospital, like you wanted.”

“Okay, well, best I can tell from the cell-site location — you’re not gonna believe this. Remember the bridge that guy drove off of? How this whole thing start —”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“That’s where she is. She’s on the fucking bridge!”

“The bridge? She’s just parked on the bridge?”

“Far as I can tell. That or she’s smack in the middle of the river.”

“Why? Why would she drive to the bridge?”

The same thing Blair’s been asking himself. “Maybe she has a sense of irony.”

“Or she’s feeling sentimental. Does this broad have a death wish?”

“I don’t know. But listen up,” says Blair. “You’re north of her. I’m south of her. Let’s pin her down. You enter the bridge from the north, I’ll come in from the south. She’ll be trapped. Can you find your way there?”

“I think so. I’ll map it. What’s the name? Anna’s Bridge or Old Anna’s Bridge?”

“That’s it. I’m only a few minutes away. Call me when you get there, okay?”

“Will do. But what’s her angle?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. She turned her phone on for a reason. She wants us to find her. She’s waiting for us.”

“She wants this to be over. She’s giving up.”

Maybe. But so far, Marcie Bowers has been anything but predictable.

“Let’s not break out the party hats just yet,” says Blair. “Get to the bridge, Silas. And talk to me before you do anything.”