Excellent.
Kurt:
I gave them your number, so expect a phone call.
Zander:
Is there any chance that they’ll send an agent out?
Kurt:
A good chance. In fact, I’m hopeful that they will. They told me, though, that they won’t be able to get anyone here for at least a week.
Chapter
seventeen
Zander ran along a dirt path that led him deeper into the dense green of the Washington forest. He drew cold early morning air into his chest. His running shoes hit the earth in a measured cadence. Sweat stung one of his eyes.
He kept going. He’d told himself he’d run to the waterfall, and he was determined to do what he’d set his mind to do.
After the meeting with Emerson yesterday, he’d stayed with Carolyn for several hours. They’d gone through every square inch of the attic. Every hall and bedroom closet in the house. Every cupboard big enough for a painting. He’d even gone underneath the house to search the crawl space around the pier and beam foundation. They hadn’t found the painting. Nor had they succeeded at unlocking Frank’s cell phone, despite several more passcode attempts.
Later, he’d spoken to Jennifer Delacruz, an agent with the FBI’s Art Crime Team. He’d explained everything he knew about Frank and the Triple Play. She’d said she’d be in touch.
Then he’d attempted to write. He’d fallen behind his progress goals on his current manuscript, and the stress of that was beginning to press on him like a boulder. He’d had plenty of time to write while in Merryweather. The only legitimate reason for hislack of productivity was lame but true: He hadn’t been able to concentrate.
Between his preoccupation with Britt and his pursuit of Frank’s secrets, Zander couldn’t seem to recover his focus. His grief over Frank’s death had turned creativity into a luxury he was suddenly too poor to afford ... in a way that had nothing to do with his bank balance.
The hiking trail tilted upward, then curled to the left, shadowing a stream flowing in the opposite direction.
He was tired of grief. Of the helpless feeling that Frank’s case had plunged him into. Of his frustration concerning Britt.
He rounded a corner, and the waterfall appeared before him. The flow cascaded from a crevice high above, falling past gleaming black rocks before crashing into a dusky blue pool.
With a huff of relief, he stopped running and leaned over, hands braced on his knees. He stayed there for several minutes, sucking air. Then he walked back and forth beside the pool to cool his body.
He’d seen one other person, a man walking his dog, back near the base of the wilderness area. That had been forty minutes ago.
Loneliness squeezed in on him as surely as the trees and plants.
Moss crept over every surface. Vines, like sleeping snakes, decorated branches. White-gray sky watched over him as if it disapproved.
