“Get an ATL out on the tan Impala.”

“Already done. Where are you?”

Stride shook his head. “You don’t want to know. We’re hiking up the bridge deck on the Blatnik.”

“Hiking?”

“Yeah, traffic is almost stopped. Something’s going on.”

“Watch your ass, boss. That’s a mean bridge.”

Stride hung up. He and Serena threaded their way through traffic, but the fog grew thicker as they increased their altitude over the water. Cars pushed and shoved around them as if they were trapped in an amusement park ride.

“Let’s get back to the shoulder,” he told Serena. “I don’t like being in the middle of traffic.”

“Great,” she said without enthusiasm.

He held up his hands and crossed in front of a Chevy minivan that was angling toward the left lane. When they reached the shoulder, he increased his pace, marching faster.

“Watch your step, the gravel’s loose here,” he told her.

“You, too.”

He passed the first of the thick girders that sprouted upward like an erector set into a tree of beams and rivets. Circular holes allowed the wind to pass through the steel. Twin sets of cables hung elegantly from the top of the span like piano strings, suspending the roadbed on which they walked. From the lake, gusts pummeled them, dancing around the towers like sprites. He steadied himself against the concrete barrier, but the sensation of height briefly took his breath away. He could feel the rocking sway of the bridge up here.

Traffic accelerated around them. Cars that had merged into the left lane squealed and left rubber on the asphalt as they roared out of the clogged pipeline of vehicles. Stride made a frantic downward motion with his palms, trying to slow them down. No one paid attention. They sped by like giants.

He heard something. Not the howl of the wind. This was a scream.

An updraft separated the fog like a curtain. Thirty yards away, he spotted a tan Impala, half blocking the right lane of traffic at the very peak of the bridge. A trail of restless cars sped around it, sailing down the open space of the highway toward Duluth. A tall woman stood outside the car, buffeted by the wind. She was dressed in black, and she came and went in the cloud like a witch.

Rikke.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

Serena saw her, too. “What do you want to do?”

Stride grabbed his cell phone and pushed it into her hand. “Call Maggie and get Duluth cops up here from the other side of the bridge. Then see if you can stop these goddamned idiots and shut down the traffic.”

He jogged away from her, then turned back and shouted. “Tell Maggie to get hold of the Coast Guard, too. I want them under the bridge right now in case we need a rescue operation in the water.”

He pulled his gun. He ran.

Rikke gazed downward into the windy stretch of air leading to the bay. “Fast and free,” she murmured.