I spent the night in the ER at Alice Hyde Medical Center in Malone, where I was treated for hypothermia and frostbite. When I arrived, my core body temperature was 94.3 degrees Fahrenheit. Over a period of six hours, it was raised back to normal by heated blankets, warm fluids, and an IV. An X-ray revealed I had sustained two cracked ribs. A CT scan showed no evidence of a concussion, but I had a headache and didn’t argue when they gave me painkillers. By dawn, I’d had enough and asked to be checked out. They wanted to keep me for observation, but I’m no fan of hospitals. By the time Betancourt arrived with my street clothes, I was showered and ready to go.

I’d called Tomasetti from the ambulance. He took the news of the end of the assignment in stride and without a single I-told-you-so. The news of my impending trip to the hospital not so well. He didn’t rant or overreact, which he’s been known to do on occasion, at least when it comes to me. It was the quiet, creeping fear I discerned in his voice that scared me. That hurt me. I hated doing that to him.

“You don’t have to drive all the way up here,” I told him.

“I’ve always wanted to see Plattsburgh in January,” he returned.

I laughed a little too hard.

Tomasetti must have heard something in my voice, because he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Aside from the hypothermia, a couple cracked ribs, and superficial frostbite, I’m fine.” We both know that’s not what he meant, but he lets it pass. Ground that can be covered later.

I was really thinking that I was fortunate to be alive and we were both lucky he wasn’t driving up here to claim my body.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he told me. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

*   *   *

It’s one P.M. and I’m occupying a visitor chair in Frank Betancourt’s office at the state police Troop B station in Plattsburgh, an hour’s drive from Roaring Springs. Earlier, he sat with me in one of the interview rooms with a laptop and pumped me full of hot coffee while I completed a seven-page report relaying the events that transpired overnight in the woods and on Schrock’s compound. It was a slow process, made worse by the bandage wrapped around my pinky and ring fingers to protect my frostbite-damaged skin. If Betancourt noticed my shaking hands, he didn’t show it. But he hasn’t let me out of his sight for more than a few minutes at a time.