The Killing Moon: A Novel

She saw something in the rearview mirror then. Just her own hair. She twisted the glass down so that she could fully see herself, and her screaming nearly topped the wail of the siren.

66

HESS

HESS WENT RACING through the station. "Get that chopper in the air!" he yelled at Bryson.

The STOP team was lying about on the front porch, kicking back, rifles dangling from their shoulders. The leader sat up as Hess went past with his Sig drawn.

"A UC in town," said Hess. "He's State. Sinclair's at his house right now." As Hess hit the driveway, he yelled back over his shoulder, "He's one of ours!"

67

RIPSBAUGH

RIPSBAUGH PUSHED THROUGH the trees after Maddox. His thigh was screaming at him to stop—goddamn awl hurt more coming out than going in—but Maddox was hurt too, and unarmed, and just a few trees ahead. Ripsbaugh had lost the awl when he stumbled in the backyard, but he still had his shovel, its grip and weight as familiar to his hands as any tool could be to a man. He held it ahead of him, swatting branches aside and dragging his leg along as fast as he could.

There was still time. Time to finish this, and do it right. The llama farmer was gone, but she didn't know it was him. She only knew Sinclair.

Finish Maddox, then get back to the house. Wipe down that window frame in the upstairs bedroom, get rid of the handprint. Then tidy up the rest, seal the septic tank outside, haul the machine away before the police came. And find Maddox's gun. And the bloody awl.

Much work to be done. But he could still get away. Everything else said Sinclair. Still enough time for everything to be all right. To finish this. For Val.

All of Ripsbaugh's secrets would die with Maddox.

The sudden peal of the cop siren spun him around. He saw blue lights through the trees. Police.

Couldn't be. Not yet.

No—Maddox's patrol car.

The girl.

For the first time, Ripsbaugh felt things slipping away. He realized that all his good work here might come to nothing in the end.

He stood looking back and forth, torn between the house, where the incriminating evidence still needed to be destroyed, and the snapped-branch trail left by Maddox, who had wronged him. Who had wronged his wife.

A vision swam into his mind's eye: Val on all fours, looking back at Maddox grunting over her. Her eyes heavy-lidded with confusion and pain and desire.

Protect Val. Kill the secrets.

With a howl of determination, Ripsbaugh launched forward, pulling himself tree by tree after Maddox.

68

MADDOX

CRASHING THROUGH THE woods with his galloping limp was less like running than controlled falling. His sliced leg was warm and rubbery, but somehow saw him through. Maddox protected his broken face with his hand, branches and briars pulling and slashing at him: one lash for every lie he had ever told, for every person he had ever deceived or put at risk.

The woods opened to a broad clearing, the Cold River flowing left-right, swift with fresh runoff. Its banks were rugged, lined with current-smoothed stones all the way to the edge of the falls.

The clouds were breaking up overhead, the rain ending. The full moon peering through, bleak and glowing like a nightmare sun, transforming the river into a vein of silver.

Maddox looked back at the trees. Ripsbaugh came hobbling out, closer to him than Maddox would have guessed. He was using his shovel as a crutch, his wig hair jerking behind his head with each hop.

Maddox gimped along the slick stones. No chance of crossing the Cold: too wide, too deep, too fast. He heard the unsuspecting water, which had coursed so proudly out of the highlands and down the broad river basin, howl with betrayal as it launched over the precipice into the brink. Wading any deeper than knee-high would mean getting sucked in by the current and whisked over the edge.

He had no strength for another run into the trees. This was where it had to happen. Maddox searched the ground for good-sized stones to throw, removing his hand from his sagging face, waiting for Ripsbaugh with his back to the river.

Ripsbaugh came up to the bank of stones. Branches had ripped open his black-cotton sleeves and shoulders, revealing shiny skin; Ripsbaugh wearing full latex coating underneath. The wig had shifted back from his forehead, steaming body heat escaping from the cap, giving his peeling face the effect of a smoking skull.

Ripsbaugh eased off his shovel, gripping it like a weapon now, turning it over and over in his hands. Rocks versus shovel. Ripsbaugh had the advantage, but not at that distance.

Maddox hurled stones at him. One after another, any he could get his hands on, but baseball-sized rocks if he had a choice. He couldn't get as much speed on them as he wanted, throwing almost one-leggedly. But they went fast enough that Ripsbaugh could not protect himself or bat them away with the shovel, taking blows in the gut and arms, one sharp-edged rock opening the side of his neck.