Page 25

The snow deepened as they climbed, transforming familiar terrain into an alien landscape.

Sheila and Tommy moved in tight formation, following the beam of their flashlights through the darkness.

The wind carved channels through the snow, creating ghostly shapes that seemed to move in their peripheral vision.

"The tower should be just ahead," Tommy called over the wind's howl. "Past that ridgeline."

Sheila nodded, conserving her breath. The climb was steep here, and the snow had drifted into deep pockets that threatened to swallow their legs to the knee.

She watched Tommy struggling with the terrain, noting how he favored his right leg slightly.

City training hadn't prepared him for mountain conditions.

They reached a particularly treacherous section where wind had scoured the slope nearly bare, leaving a sheet of ice. Tommy started across first, his boots searching for purchase on the glassy surface.

Halfway across, his foot slipped. Sheila lunged forward, catching his arm before he could fall. For a moment, they stood frozen together, the wind tearing at their clothes.

"Thanks," Tommy said as they reached safer ground. His voice held a note of surprise. "That could have been bad."

"That's what partners do," Sheila replied. "Watch each other's backs."

Tommy was quiet for several steps. "You know, you're not what I expected."

"Oh?"

"Your reputation in the department... they say you're tough. Uncompromising." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But you're actually... kind. You care about people."

Something in his tone made Sheila glance at him, but his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood. Before she could respond, the wind shifted, bringing a new sound—a low, metallic groan that cut through the storm's constant roar.

They both stopped, listening. The sound came again, closer this time.

"The tower," Sheila said. "Wind's working on the support cables."

They pushed forward, fighting against the strengthening gusts.

The tower materialized out of the darkness like a skeletal giant, its framework coated in ice that caught their flashlight beams and scattered them in crystalline patterns.

The maintenance ladder zigzagged up one side, disappearing into the swirling snow above.

"Mark?" Tommy called out, his voice swallowed by the wind. "Mark Davidson?"

Only the creaking of cables answered. They circled the tower's base, finding fresh snow unmarked by footprints. But as they rounded the far side, Sheila's light caught something half-buried in a drift—a ski pole, its strap torn.

She knelt to examine it, brushing away snow.

The pole was high-end equipment, the kind a sponsored athlete might use.

She knelt to examine it, brushing away snow.

The pole was high-end equipment, the kind a sponsored athlete might use.

"K2 Lockjaw carbon fiber," she said, turning it over. "These run about four hundred dollars."

Two sets of tracks led up to the tower's entrance, which had frozen shut. Sheila's heart sank at the sight.

Was the killer in there with Mark? Was Mark even still alive?

Sheila and Tommy had to work together to break the ice around the door's handle, the metal so cold it burned even through their gloves. The door finally gave with a shriek that echoed up the tower's hollow core.

Their flashlight beams revealed a small room cluttered with old monitoring equipment. Dust covered everything except a clear spot on the floor where someone had recently sat. A granola bar wrapper lay crumpled in one corner, the chocolate inside barely melted.

"Mark came in here," Sheila said, picking up the wrapper.

"And someone followed him, according to those prints," Tommy added.

Sheila moved deeper into the space, noting other signs of recent occupation—scuff marks on the floor, a small smear of blood on the wall at shoulder height. Mark had taken shelter here, probably trying to catch his breath, tend to his wounds.

Sheila pulled out her radio, fighting static to reach Finn. His voice came through broken and distant: "...reading you... barely... find anything?"

"Tower's empty," she said. "But Mark was here recently, and I think our killer was as well. Not sure where he went. Can you check the map, give us a better idea of what's nearby?"

"There's nothing close… except… on the off-chance that…" Finn's words kept cutting out, swallowed by static.

"What's that?" Sheila said. "I can hardly hear you."

"Signal's dying," Tommy said. "Storm's probably interfering."

"I said… as far as I can tell…" Silence.

Sheila tried once more but got only white noise. The station? Was he talking about the police station? But what did the police station have to do with anything?

She tucked the radio away, troubled. They were on their own now.

"Look at this," Tommy called from near the door. His flashlight illuminated fresh scratch marks on the metal frame—deep gouges that hadn't had time to rust. A metal chair lay fallen nearby.

"Like someone was trying to keep the door closed," Sheila said. "Propped the chair against it from the inside."

"And someone forced it open from the outside," Tommy said.

Sheila shuddered at the thought. There was no question now that the killer was still on Mark's tail. But had the killer caught him in here, or had Mark escaped first?

"Let's go," she said softly. "We need to figure out where they went."

Tommy said nothing. He appeared to be deep in thought.

Back outside, the storm had intensified, but they could still make out tracks leading away from the tower. The wind had nearly filled them in, leaving only shallow depressions in the snow. They led east toward the darker heart of the mountain.

Sheila and Tommy followed the tracks, moving as quietly as the deep snow allowed. Every few steps, Sheila caught herself looking back at the tower. Its dark silhouette seemed to watch their departure like a sentinel, metal cables singing mournfully in the wind.

The tracks led them toward a dense stand of pines. As they entered the trees' shadow, the wind's howl faded to a distant murmur. Snow fell straight here, heavy flakes dissolving in their flashlight beams.

The tracks led them toward a dense stand of pines. As they entered the trees' shadow, the wind's howl faded to a distant murmur. Snow fell straight here, heavy flakes dissolving in their flashlight beams.

"They're getting harder to follow," Tommy said, crouching to examine a faint depression in the snow.

Sheila swept her light in a wide arc, searching for any sign of passage. The snow was falling faster now, erasing the last traces of the trail. She thought she saw another print several yards ahead, but when she moved closer, it was just a shadow cast by a fallen branch.

"This way," Tommy said, moving deeper into the trees.

"Wait." Sheila knelt, studying the ground. The last clear track they'd found had been pointing east, but the depression Tommy was following angled north. "Are you sure those are the same prints?"

Tommy hesitated. "No," he admitted after a moment. "But we have to pick a direction."

Sheila stood, snow settling on her shoulders. The storm had won. Whatever trail Mark Davidson and his pursuer had left, it was gone now, buried under fresh powder that continued to fall in silent waves.

They were blind in a white wilderness, chasing shadows.