Whatever Marc Rivard had been to me over the years, he had never been a friend. Maybe because of my education—I’d graduated from Colby College while he held an associate’s degree from a vocational school—he had resented me. His disdain seemed to run deeper than that, though. It nettled him that I selectively obeyed rules and regulations, and yet still succeeded while his career tanked. Of all my colleagues, former and current, I couldn’t think of anyone who nursed such a deep hatred for me. And given the number of game wardens I’d embarrassed, irritated, and pissed off, that distinction put him in a class by himself.

“I’ll see you at thirteen hundred hours,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

As I changed course for Sabattus, and my GPS went into rerouting mode, I had the suspicion that Rivard was luring me into one of his signature traps. I’d hoped to get the information I needed from him over the phone. Nothing good would come from meeting in person with the master manipulator.

7

Hypothermia is tightening its grip on me. The snow hitting my face streams down my forehead and into my eyes. It trickles down the front of my shirt.

My shivering has become uncontrollable and violent. My joints are locking up. I am the Tin Man deprived of an oil can. More and more, I lurch after the shaky light on the ground—as if chasing the beam instead of directing it.

The worst thing I can do is work up a sweat since it will depress my body temperature even further.

Even if I find shelter soon, how will I make a fire? Forget about a lighter or matches. I don’t even have a ferro stick I can use to strike a spark. Or rather, the ferro stick I always kept at hand is in the console of my submerged Jeep.

After a quick 360-degree survey of my location, I decide to follow the shore south rather than cut cross-country and risk getting turned around. Normally I have an unerring sense of direction. When I am in the woods, I feel as connected to the earth’s magnetic poles as a migrating goose. But I know disorientation is another symptom of hypothermia.

Almost instantly, I regret my decision to follow the river. I find myself clawing through thorny bittersweet and brakes of phragmites. The reedlike plants grow eight feet tall and have swaying tops like ostrich plumes.

Even when I emerge from the stalks, my path gets no easier.

Before me lies an obstacle course of fallen and half-fallen trees. Snagging roots protrude from the snow. I step gingerly over spiked deadfalls where a single slip means impalement. I duck under half-balanced widowmakers, some creaking in the wind, and hope that they won’t choose this moment to come crashing down.