Darby’s satellite signal was coming from Route Six, near the Red Hill/Brewster line, a no man’s land of endless forest and cliffs known as Dead Man’s Curve. The patrolman who was driving Coop said the area had been named that because it was packed with so many roadside crosses it resembled a cemetery.

Then, for a reason Coop didn’t understand, the patrolman added how Red Hill had lost count of the number of cars that had spun out of control every time the road was wet or icy; how they would crash into each other and into trees, some tumbling down the steep slopes on either side of the road, never to be found again, some having to be lifted out by a crane.

Coop saw the road ahead of them turn sharply to his left, no guardrail there, and when the road dipped steeply, like the first steep plunge of a rollercoaster, he felt his stomach drop. Drenched in sweat, his clothes stuck to his skin. His mouth and throat were parchment-dry, his chest tight, and his heart felt like it had been dunked in ice water.

She’s not dead, he kept telling himself. She’s a fighter. She knows I’m looking for her, she’ll be okay.

Coop brought the phone back up to his ear. He had a guy named Lee from RCFL on the line, who was tracking Darby’s signal – and his.

‘There’s nothing out here but woods,’ he told Lee.

‘That’s where the signal’s coming from. You’re right on top of it.’

Coop told the driver to pull over. He got out of the car and heard the roar of water. Dread swam through him as he spoke into the phone: ‘Tell me where to go.’

‘North-east, about 500 yards.’

Coop made his way up an embankment of ploughed snow. An ambulance and uniformed deputies from the Brewster sheriff’s office had just pulled on to the road and parked, their lights cutting through the dark, cold air. He could see, directly below, a river bursting with rapids.

‘DARBY!’

He made his way into the woods. Because of the tree cover, the snow wasn’t as deep here. But it came up his boots, thick and wet, soaking his trousers. He ran as fast as he could with the flashlight gripped firmly in his hands, the beam zigzagging everywhere, searching for her.

‘DARBY!’

His voice echoed and died.

She’s alive, Coop told himself. He kept screaming out her name, knowing she would answer him any second now. She couldn’t hear him and he couldn’t hear her, because their voices were drowned out by the roars of wind and water.

He brought the phone back up to his ear. ‘I don’t see her.’

There was a slight pause, and then Lee said, almost sadly, ‘You’re right on top of her signal.’

Which meant the satellite phone he had given her was buried somewhere in this snow. Not Darby, just the phone. Savran must have tossed it out the window.

The woods took on a surreal, dreamy quality, as though this were a nightmare from which he would wake up at any moment, the normal flow of life restored.

Or she dropped it, Coop thought. She fought off Savran and escaped: she was running through these woods and she dropped the phone. She’s alive. All I’ve got to do is find her.

Coop moved more deeply into the woods, screaming out her name.

71

He put me in a chokehold. Ray Williams.

The words ran through Darby’s mind as she fluttered awake.

Ray Williams, the lead detective on the Ripper case, had put her in a chokehold. She remembered that, and she remembered how she had helped him to his feet – and then he had put her in a chokehold until she passed out. Next came a foggy memory of waking up on Kelly’s couch with her hands cuffed behind her back and Williams pressing her against the plastic-covered cushions. Williams had been talking to someone. A woman. Darby couldn’t remember what they had said or the content of their conversation, but she remembered he had stuck a needle into her neck, and whatever he had injected into her had burned. Then the drug kicked in and she had blacked out and she was … where? Where was she?

Her good eye blinked open to a darkness as thick as paint and she felt cold all over. Fear seized her, but her heart continued to beat at its normal resting rate.

The drug, she thought. Whatever drug he used is still in my system. She couldn’t feel the pain from the stapled wound on the left side of her head or on the split ear where Lancaster had pistol-whipped her. She couldn’t, in fact, feel anything, but the voice in her mind was awake, and it was telling her about Lancaster, how he had admitted to being the Ripper, how he had been killing families who had been standing in the way of the incorporation. And then Ray Williams had put her in a chokehold.

Had they been working together? If so, why had Lancaster tied Ray to the chair? And who was the woman who had entered the house to help Williams?

Darby saw that she’d been placed on her right side, on top of something soft, her head on a pillow and her hands tied behind her back not with metal handcuffs but something thin and hard that bit into her wrists. Plastic cuffs. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t move anything.

Her ankles too had been bound with plastic cuffs. She managed to wiggle her toes – it seemed to take an enormous effort – and she felt the sole of her foot. Her socks were gone, which meant her boots had been removed, and right then she realized why she felt cold all over: Ray Williams had removed her clothes.

And he had placed something thick and tight around her neck.

Fear exploded through her and then vanished behind the drug, her heart still oblivious to her predicament, still snoozing. She could breathe and she had no problems swallowing, not yet. She knew she should be terrified but she wasn’t, because she was doped up to the gills. She felt herself sinking, her good eye fluttering shut as part of her said, That’s it, go back to sleep.

Darby didn’t want to go back to sleep. Knew it was stupid and foolish.

If you’re asleep, he can’t hurt you. Go back to sleep and –

A dim light came on. Darby forced her eye back open. The dim light came from a battery-operated camp light made of plastic. It sat a few feet away, on a concrete floor.

She couldn’t move her body, but she could move her eye, and she saw that she was lying sideways on a bare mattress. Then she heard what sounded like soft footsteps, and when they stopped in front of her she saw a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.

The person set a plastic bucket on the floor. Darby couldn’t see the woman’s face yet – but it was a woman because the hands that were wringing out the wet facecloth were feminine. The woman set the facecloth on the edge of the bucket. Darby licked her dry lips, wanting to speak, but the woman stood and moved away, out of the cell.

I’m inside a prison cell, Darby thought, staring at the iron bars. This wasn’t a jail cell but someone’s personal holding tank. Ray Williams’s personal holding tank. He had brought her here and tied her up and she had no idea why, not yet.

Then she caught a flash of khaki and polished loafers clicking across the floor, heading her way. Ray Williams picked up the facecloth and, kneeling, rubbed Darby’s bare arms, the cloth warm and wet against her skin.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ Ray said. ‘But you already know that.’

Again, Darby licked her dry lips. When she spoke, her throat raw, the words came out sounding dry and brittle, like paper crackling. ‘I saved your life.’

‘And I thank you for that,’ Williams replied. He kissed her gently on the forehead and went back to washing her.

Darby moved her good eye to track the other woman but she couldn’t see her. Where did she go? Was she a part of this – and who was she? Then Darby’s gaze dropped to the concrete floor, to the dried, jagged lines of blood and the fragments of torn skin and broken fingernails. Someone had clawed at the floor.