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Back Dead by Dawn Save as PDF
Chapters (49)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. Author’s Note
  47. Also by Paul Doiron
  48. About the Author
  49. Newsletter Sign-up

Sometime during Lynda Lynch’s magic trick, the phone in the recliner had gone quiet. I wondered how worried I should be.

29

I have no choice but to leave the ice. I let up on the gas, looking for an escape route.

Off to my left, I catch the stuttering flashes of headlights through the trees—a vehicle moving parallel to me, only faster. There must be a road up there, running along this branch of the Androscoggin. A road means cars, houses, people. A road means help.

I just need to find a way to get there.

The answer appears so suddenly, it’s like wish fulfillment: a boat launch.

It’s no municipal lot with a paved parking area and a ridged concrete ramp plunging into the water. It’s more of a Jeep trail that sneaks out of the woods and peters out at the river’s edge. I can’t imagine someone backing a trailer down that narrow cut, but boaters must manage it in the summer.

I wrench the handlebars to the left and hit the gas again. My side mirrors are reflecting so much light from the machines chasing me, it’s amazing I’m not blinded. The Dillons have stopped shooting which can only mean they have something worse planned for me.

One of the riders tries to slip past on the left, but I veer toward him—or her—and they ricochet off an upright ice floe to avoid a collision. The crunch of metal resonates in my teeth.

I reach the launch seconds before the rider can regain control of their dented sled.

Branches and boughs crowd together over the uphill trail, and there is less snow here than in the open. There is just as much as ice, however. A stream of meltwater, following the steep path, has frozen hard, forming a natural bobsled chute.

The night roars. The forest flickers and flashes with artificial lights.

I stand up straight and pull hard on the bars. The skegs on the sled don’t appreciate the slickness of this path.

I have in my mind the annual Snodeo in Rangeley where the organizers stage contests called hill drags in which two riders race up an incline. I’ve never competed in one, but I’ve stood in the crowd along the racecourse. I’ve seen sleds tip over and crash. I’ve helped evacuate a racer whose machine landed on top of him. I have no illusions about the odds of my making it to the road—Tori and the others are that much up my ass.

Now I am past the ice patch and on firmer ground.