She slowed, and scanned the road ahead, her heart in her mouth, her eyes sweeping over the road and the boulders and trees on either side of the road.

  It was like operating in an isolated bubble. She pulled the phone from her pocket and checked it quickly, blinking tears out of her eyes, shaking them away from her vision.

  Nobody had called yet. The search was under way, but they hadn't found the car. Surely one of the other police cars should be visible by now? Unless there was a massive chase in progress right now, that she didn't know a thing about because she wasn't part of the radio network.

  They could be encircling her car now and she wouldn't know. The operator wouldn't call before there were results, she knew how busy the control room was.

  She pushed the bike faster again, roaring over the rough ground. She was sure she should have spotted the car by now if he'd come this way, because the road was straight, and there were a few stretches where she could see a good half-mile ahead.

  She might have gone the wrong way entirely. He might have chosen to take the road into town.

  If that was the case, she hoped the police were there. Perhaps they'd thought that town was a more likely direction for this killer to flee, or perhaps they simply weren't here yet because distances were so vast out here.

  Or there could be another road she didn't know about. This area was not familiar to her and it might be to the killer. Especially since he'd met up with Faye in that bar.

  May knew she had to assume this was his home turf. And that he'd know every inch of it.

  "Come on, car, where are you?" she asked. She was scanning the road as best she could, because her eyes were streaming now from the wind, and a bug had flown into one. Every minute that went by was a minute lost. Every moment that she didn't check her surroundings was a moment that he might be able to kill his captive.

  Was that it? She glanced down into a small valley, but it wasn't a car; it was the flash of silver from the roof of a shed.

  Ahead, the road forked and May hesitated, the consequences of her choice bearing down on her. The wrong turn could mean more than five minutes lost. It could mean Owen's life was lost.

  "Right. I'm going to say he went right," May muttered. It was a guess, maybe based on instinct.

  Maybe wrong.

  As the Harley plowed along the rutted road, May started doubting her choice. This road was rapidly turning into nothing more than a potholed track. She was finding it more and more difficult to control the bike. The tires were skidding scarily on the rough, stony ground.

  A trough of mud almost claimed her, grabbing the wheels, and seeming to pull the whole bike sideways so that May swore in fear, pulsing the gas in an effort to steer out of the treacherous bog without getting mired or falling over completely.

  It had all been for nothing. Her heart clenched as ahead, a couple of hundred yards in the distance, she now saw a handmade Road Closed sign on a high wire fence that looked like the border of a farm.

  So, turning right had been wrong, and now her doubts were flooding back as she slowed the bike, checked the terrain was solid, and did another wobbly turn, before speeding up again back the way she'd come. She'd lost time. That panicked May the most. She'd wasted maybe five more precious minutes choosing the wrong turn.

  Now she was coming back, down a hill, needing to go even slower with the weight of the bike now pushing against her. She didn't want to crash this bike! It would be a catastrophe in so many ways. Better to take it slow, to inch along. She couldn't be reckless now. Even though a little demon in her head was raging at her to go, go, please go!

  May wasn't like that. She'd never been the reckless one. Speeding the bike along a straight flat road was about the most she was capable of. Most likely, Kerry would have been testing this bike to the limits and slaloming her way back down this track, but May didn't have it in her. Call it conservative, call it cowardly - the outcome was the same.

  Then, she glanced to the side, and her eyes widened.

  The outcome had saved her. Slowing down had given her the moment she needed to see what was there. She saw a silver car, parked off the road, behind a thick bushy outcrop. It had been invisible from the other direction, absolutely invisible.

  Now she could glimpse it.

  It was her car. Without a doubt - muddied, its hood buried in leaves, but instantly recognizable.

  "Oh, I've found him! Let him be alive, please, please let him be alive," May gabbled, slowing right down, cutting the engine, coasting to the side of the road.

  She kicked the Harley's stand out and made sure it was secure, ripped out the keys, took the helmet off, and then she pounded down the muddy embankment to this hidden vehicle.

  As she ran, she took her gun out, holding it firmly. Adrenaline was boiling inside her, and she felt hyper aware of every sound, every movement around her.

  But there was no movement inside the car, and as May reached it, she felt a sharp pang of disappointment.

  The car was empty. Riverman had already taken Owen - and they had disappeared into the hilly, forested wilderness. Unless May could find him, he’d do what he had threatened, and kill his prey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Owen opened his eyes, flinching as daylight blazed in. What was going on and where was he? He felt filled with a sense of doom, that things had gone badly wrong. His head was pounding and his throat hurt. Vaguely, he remembered a club to the side of the head and a hand closing over his neck.

  Now, he was in the back of a jolting, homemade cart. His hands were lashed to the side by some weird rope that was made from twisted reeds, biting savagely into his flesh. And in front of him, a tall, strong man was pulling the cart up the hill, while screaming insults at him in a deranged voice.

  "Stay down! Nature hates you, you traitor. You betrayed the animals and birds with your foul words. You'll die if you sit up! And I mean it. I’ll kill you!"

  He'd never heard that voice before. How had he ended up in this strange cart, in the back of this ancient looking thing that was being driven by a madman?

  A madman. Was this Riverman? Memories were seeping back. Then, the cart hit a rock, bashing Owen’s head against the side so that he groaned.

  "That'll teach you!" the man shouted. "Don't mess with me, you weakling. Nature is against you. I'll crush you like a bug! I'll make you suffer. I'll make you wish you'd never been born. The birds hate you! And as for the beavers, they want to taste your blood, and they are going to!"

  It was so ludicrous that it could almost have been comedic if it were not for the sharp note of intent in this man's furious voice.

  The car alarm. Now he remembered. He’d gone out to investigate it and something had gone very wrong outside that bar. And now, wherever he was headed, he knew what the outcome was likely to be.

  How strange it was, Owen thought, that at this moment, he was not thinking of his circumstances. Instead, with love and regret, he was thinking of May.

  He'd known the proposal was wrongly timed and so very bad. It was just that he hadn't been able to focus on work while it had been weighing down his chest. So he'd gotten it off his chest, at such a bad, inappropriate time.

  He’d known May would be conflicted. That was what he had expected. She took things like that seriously; that was who she was. He had known she would be at a loss for words; he'd anticipated that. Deep in his heart, he'd known she would not give an outright yes. Not his May, no, she'd need to turn it over in her head and rule out all the worst case scenarios. Emotionally, she had scars from the loss of her sister.

  But after that hesitation - then, he had hoped and believed she would say yes.

  Of course, he'd been the idiot who proposed in the middle of a case, and naturally there had been an interruption; in fact, it had been more like an avalanche of swift curveballs and bad news.

  And then, he'd shut down, unable to mention the topic again. If he could only turn back time, if he could only have told May again last night, or this morning, that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her. But no.

  And now, here he was, being dragged along in a homemade cart, trussed up to the front of it, on the way to a terrible death in a beaver dam. He had to do something about it. No way could he let this happen.

  As more awareness returned to his battered brain, Owen forced himself to think.

  He had to use the advantages he had, chief among which, as his mother always told him, was a very hard head. He was not as concussed as the killer thought he was. The attempt at suffocating him by cutting off his air supply had been pathetic. He had oxygen, and apart from a headache, he now felt fully awake and aware again.

  What use was it, though? These ties were painfully tight, chafing his wrists, offering no chance for movement.

  He was not going to be able to get his hands free. Those knots were as hard as stones.

  But what else?

  He took stock, carefully, so that Riverman wouldn’t notice.

  The guy kept mumbling. "You think this is fun, do you? You think it's okay to insult nature's spokesperson? It's not. It's enough now. You're going to die, and I'm going to share it with the birds and the bears. The beavers will frolic in your blood."

  That was another stroke of luck, he thought. This man was completely fixated on his insane speech and on tugging the cart forward, that he wasn’t aware of Owen pulling himself to the front, to try and figure out how he was tied.

  The killer hadn't tied his feet. That was one plus. So, how was he secured into this small, rustic little cart?

  He was almost there. He could almost see that rope. If he could edge forward slightly, he’d be there.

  At that moment, the cart jolted over another, sharper rock. Riverman swore, and Owen was jerked sideways, losing the grip he’d had and ending up hanging from his trussed wrists again.

  But now, he was able to piece together what he’d seen. The rope was only looped over the front midpoint of the cart, which was a wooden pole that jutted about two feet above the cart’s surface. It was that pole, together with the uphill slope, the cart’s speed, and Owen's own weight that were keeping him attached to the cart. If he could somehow change that, then he could get away.

  His hands would still be tied together, true. But he would have his feet, and could run.

  All he had to do, his mathematical brain told him, was push his feet against the bottom of the cart, and then lever his body up toward the top of the pole, and unhook his tied hands.

  Of course, that would bring him to within a few inches of the killer.

  It would be deadly, for sure. But it was his only hope, and he was going to try it.

  Closing his eyes, sending a silent appeal for strength and luck, Owen pushed down on the back of the cart, slamming his feet into it and propelling himself forward with all the strength he had.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  “Car found! I’m sending coordinates through! Nobody inside!”

  As May ran from the side of the road, into the muddy, overgrown wilderness, she updated the radio operator, the one who was gluing this whole attempt together.

  "Acknowledged," the radio operator said, sounding just as breathless from anxiety as May herself. "I just got the location pin. I'm going to reroute all teams. They're on their way now. Should be just a few minutes away.”

  The vastness of this wilderness and the scarcity of police vehicles was why they hadn’t yet arrived. A few minutes away was very hopeful, but it wasn’t going to be enough. May couldn’t wait for backup but needed to forge on alone.

  Where, in this wild, forested area would he be? There were several paths, ranging from the faintest of tracks, to a proper trail. He would have headed uphill, surely? Downhill there was only a deep valley, bordering the road, and no water at all. To find the water, May estimated, he'd need to cross the ridge at the top of the hill. Beyond that, there was a river, and presumably dams. Her blood chilled at the thought of what those would mean to him.

  How would she find where he was? How had he even gotten Owen up this hill? Now, maybe that was something to consider. Owen was a hair over six feet, and although there wasn't much fat on him, he was strong and muscular. He must weigh a hundred and eighty pounds at least, May estimated, quelling her panic as she tried to reason her way through this terrifying predicament. It would take a serious weightlifter to carry him up this hill. All the way up?

  She didn't think so. Did he have a quad bike, some kind of sled or cart?

  The trails were overgrown with dense underbrush. The three winding paths that she could see heading up the hill were narrow, barely wide enough for a wheelbarrow. What else could she find? What could she use to guide her?

  May stared at the ground, looking carefully. Now, this was interesting. In fact, she thought it was what she needed. She could see that recently – very recently – someone had wheeled a large wheelbarrow or trolley up the right-hand trail. It had left deep grooves in the soft earth. May hurried up the winding path, stepping carefully to avoid the rocks, following those grooves.

  And then, at a sharp bend in the trail, just before it forked again, she found something more.

  Lying there was a wooden trolley - like a basic, narrow raft on large, crude wheels. There were ropes tied to the front of it that were lying loose, looking like dead reeds in a pond.

  This was how the killer had brought him here. But where was Owen? Why was this contraption lying here, abandoned, three-quarters of the way up the hill?

  Searching the terrain for answers, May spotted the footprint next to the trolley.

  Just one print in the deep mud, but one was all she needed, because she’d recognize that boot tread anywhere; she’d walked behind it and beside it more times than she could remember. Owen must have managed to get himself free. He'd pulled himself off the raft and it had tipped onto its side. And then, he'd run.

  But he might still be tied up or injured. If he'd been able to fight at full strength, May was sure the killer would be lying here, tied with his own ropes. The killer was nowhere, and that meant Riverman had given chase.

  But right now, she had to find them. And there was another fork in the trail. Where had he gone? Which path had he chosen?

  May had gotten lucky with her first guess about which way the car would have driven. She'd managed to get that right, through nothing more than sheer luck. Now, she listened, but the wind was whistling through the trees, gusting among the leaves, and over it, she could hear nothing. No clues there.

  Instead, she had to think like Owen himself. To become Owen. She might not have his mathematical brain, but she wasn't stupid. She'd worked with him long enough to know him well.

  He'd staggered to his feet. Sore, desperate, in a rush, knowing he had to put distance between himself and the killer as fast as he could.

  And he would have gone – to the right.

  Every time they had gone out hiking, or taken the choice of two paths - even when shopping together, or tracking down a suspect, Owen liked to turn right. He had even joked to her about it once, saying that he seemed to be drawn to following a clockwise path in life.

  So, right it was.

  May sprinted up the hill as fast as she could go, her breath puffing in her chest, her legs burning. She didn't have time to be tired or scared. She had to focus. She had to get to the top of this hill, and see what lay beyond.

  The killer would not get Owen. She would not let that happen. Her heart was pounding, her throat sore with exertion, but she was getting to the top of the increasingly steep slope.

  Gasping, her legs quaking, she crested the hill and stared down at what lay beyond. There was the Eagle River, tumbling down the steep slope deep and fast. Foamy rapids lay beyond, and then, further in the distance, she could see the shimmering edge of a waterfall.

  She gasped.

  Fighting on the edge of the river, just inches away from injury or death by drowning, she saw Owen and the killer.

  It was hand to hand combat, except Owen's arms were tied. That put him at a huge disadvantage by affecting his balance. As May watched, the killer lunged in and Owen tried to retreat. He slipped on a rock, staggered, and for a terrible, stomach flipping moment, May thought he'd gone. That he'd fallen.

  She had to get down to help him. May flung herself over the rocks, skidding on the sloping soil, her face and hands scoured by bushes as she clambered down, using all her speed.

  But as she slipped in a slick of mud, she heard a cry. Glancing up, anxiety flaring, she saw the killer had attacked again. And now, there was only one figure standing on the river’s edge.

  Owen had fallen into the flooding river.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  "Owen!" May screamed. His hands were bound, and the river was deep and strongly flowing. Even if he survived the rapids, he was then headed for that steep, sheer waterfall, and the rocky landing below.

  Owen was being tugged and swirled toward that death trap.

  She rushed to the river’s edge, shoving her gun back in the holster, because she had only one thing on her mind now - saving him. If it was a choice between saving his life and catching this killer, then there was no choice. There was no sign of Riverman anyway. In the time it took May to fight her way past a thick outcrop of brush, he'd disappeared.

  Fast and strong, the river raced over rocks and under overhanging branches. And there was Owen. He was in the water, sluicing through the rapids, his body fishtailing and struggling as he tried to fight the current.

  May closed her eyes for a moment, summoning up the courage to do what she had to do.

  And then, she ran as fast as she could and leaped out over the edge, plummeting down into the raging waters, determined to save the man she loved.

  Crashing into the water felt like hitting concrete, cold and hard and rough. It was like being in a cement mixer. The water was tumbling her around. Even with two free arms to swim, she felt the current trying to pull her under and whirl her around.