at his face.
“I’ll call the police,” she said. “They need to know what you’re talking about. Coming here, bothering me, saying things like that… they need to know.”
“Tell them,” Adam said. “When they come to see me, I’ll make the same pledge to them. I’ll make it to anyone who asks. It’s not idle talk. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to kill him, and before the end he’ll know why I came.”
She reached out and took the card. Held it in one hand and the dog’s collar in the other as behind her the room filled with smoke from the still-burning cigarette, a trail of it rising above her daughter’s blanket, draped there on the edge of the couch.
“He’s still out there,” Adam said. “And as long as he is, I will be, too.”
He turned and left then, and she did not call after him or shut the door. When he started the Jeep she was still there on the threshold, on her knees.
13
I N THE YEAR THEY’D WON the state title, Adam’s position coach was a man named Eric Scott, who wanted one word to be tattooed onto the brains of his linebackers: motion.
Coach Scott valued strength, yes, but he worshiped speed. Players who pursued the ball relentlessly were prized. You couldn’t wait for contact; you had to initiate it. Victory belonged to those in pursuit of it. Life was motion, he would tell them; you had to keep moving or you’d die. Some players rolled their eyes at that, until they realized that their flat-footedness had landed them on the bench. Then, playing careers dead, they’d consider it with a different eye.
On Sunday morning, Adam rose with motion on his mind.
Something he knew he’d have to admit from the start—he wasn’t a detective. Had never been police, had never worked as a PI despite holding the license, had never built an investigation into any sort of crime, let alone something as complex as a homicide. But what he
was,
what he’d devoted his adult life to becoming, was a hunter. And this was a hunt. His challenge now wasnot only to do a job for which police were far better prepared and equipped, but also to do it faster.
Speed and pressure. He had to find ways to apply them.
He was as good as anyone at finding people who were trying to hide. The problem was that he always knew his targets. Not just their names but personal information, a sense of their lives, of who they were. That helped the hunt. In this situation, he had absolutely none of that, and it threatened to freeze him, a bloodhound being told to start the search without being offered an initial scent. How in the hell did you begin?
Because he was used to pursuing someone with an identity, and because the lack of one was troubling to him, he decided to offer his target a name. Gideon worked nicely, felt just right. Gideon Pearce was dead, but Adam had not been afforded the opportunity to bring about that end. So his new target should be named Gideon. He could not afford to confuse Rachel Bond with Marie Austin, but blurring her killer and his sister’s into one being? That felt right.
He read the public details available, and after review, he decided to start with the isolated camp on Shadow Wood Lane, the one that had been dangled in front of the girl’s face so gently, a lure with every hook hidden. It was the furthest thing from an arbitrary location.
Eleanor Ruzich lived in a two-story brick house with a detached garage on the northwest side of town, apple trees lining one edge of the property, filling the air with a sweet scent. Her husband had been a doctor, dead now, and she lived alone in the sprawling place. A woman in her mid-sixties, gray hair cut short and stylish, trim figure, sharp eyes, intelligent face. She accepted his private investigator’s license without the reluctance he’d feared, and he soon understood why: she was horrified, and eager to help.
“I can’t begin to imagine going back there,” she said, the two of them sitting at the kitchen table, Adam with
“I’ll call the police,” she said. “They need to know what you’re talking about. Coming here, bothering me, saying things like that… they need to know.”
“Tell them,” Adam said. “When they come to see me, I’ll make the same pledge to them. I’ll make it to anyone who asks. It’s not idle talk. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to kill him, and before the end he’ll know why I came.”
She reached out and took the card. Held it in one hand and the dog’s collar in the other as behind her the room filled with smoke from the still-burning cigarette, a trail of it rising above her daughter’s blanket, draped there on the edge of the couch.
“He’s still out there,” Adam said. “And as long as he is, I will be, too.”
He turned and left then, and she did not call after him or shut the door. When he started the Jeep she was still there on the threshold, on her knees.
13
I N THE YEAR THEY’D WON the state title, Adam’s position coach was a man named Eric Scott, who wanted one word to be tattooed onto the brains of his linebackers: motion.
Coach Scott valued strength, yes, but he worshiped speed. Players who pursued the ball relentlessly were prized. You couldn’t wait for contact; you had to initiate it. Victory belonged to those in pursuit of it. Life was motion, he would tell them; you had to keep moving or you’d die. Some players rolled their eyes at that, until they realized that their flat-footedness had landed them on the bench. Then, playing careers dead, they’d consider it with a different eye.
On Sunday morning, Adam rose with motion on his mind.
Something he knew he’d have to admit from the start—he wasn’t a detective. Had never been police, had never worked as a PI despite holding the license, had never built an investigation into any sort of crime, let alone something as complex as a homicide. But what he
was,
what he’d devoted his adult life to becoming, was a hunter. And this was a hunt. His challenge now wasnot only to do a job for which police were far better prepared and equipped, but also to do it faster.
Speed and pressure. He had to find ways to apply them.
He was as good as anyone at finding people who were trying to hide. The problem was that he always knew his targets. Not just their names but personal information, a sense of their lives, of who they were. That helped the hunt. In this situation, he had absolutely none of that, and it threatened to freeze him, a bloodhound being told to start the search without being offered an initial scent. How in the hell did you begin?
Because he was used to pursuing someone with an identity, and because the lack of one was troubling to him, he decided to offer his target a name. Gideon worked nicely, felt just right. Gideon Pearce was dead, but Adam had not been afforded the opportunity to bring about that end. So his new target should be named Gideon. He could not afford to confuse Rachel Bond with Marie Austin, but blurring her killer and his sister’s into one being? That felt right.
He read the public details available, and after review, he decided to start with the isolated camp on Shadow Wood Lane, the one that had been dangled in front of the girl’s face so gently, a lure with every hook hidden. It was the furthest thing from an arbitrary location.
Eleanor Ruzich lived in a two-story brick house with a detached garage on the northwest side of town, apple trees lining one edge of the property, filling the air with a sweet scent. Her husband had been a doctor, dead now, and she lived alone in the sprawling place. A woman in her mid-sixties, gray hair cut short and stylish, trim figure, sharp eyes, intelligent face. She accepted his private investigator’s license without the reluctance he’d feared, and he soon understood why: she was horrified, and eager to help.
“I can’t begin to imagine going back there,” she said, the two of them sitting at the kitchen table, Adam with
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