Hurrying as quietly as she could, she rounded an enormous boulder and saw the stream. It was about five feet wide and clear as glass. Desperately thirsty, she fell to her knees on the mossy bank. Cupping her hands, she scooped up water and drank. Then she splashed her face, the cold water, though stinging, like a tonic to her bruises and cuts. Wiping her hands on her jogging jacket, she took out the iPhone and touched the map icon again. No response. She frowned, checked the charge, saw it was good, and realized she had no reception. No surprise. She was out in the middle of nowhere. She had to get back to the cabin where there was wireless.

The forest was starting to come awake from the shock of human intruders. Unseen animals skittered through the underbrush. Birds complained in the treetops. The stream sounded extraloud. She’d heard it when she’d first arrived at the log cabin and realized it could lead her back there.

Abruptly, she heard Max searching for her, coming closer. Even in the mist, the yellow of her jogging suit would be obvious. The Rambo movies that Max and Rudy had talked about flashed through her mind, reminding her of the way the character always blended with the forest. Grabbing handfuls of mud, she smeared them over her face and her jogging suit. Soon her clothing was a monotonous brown.

She yanked the hood up and tied it under her chin, hiding her red hair.

Feeling the pressure of time, she ran along the moss and sand that edged the stream. She listened for Max, but he’d become silent once more.

That made her nervous.

With luck, he’d slipped and fallen, perhaps hitting his head on a rock on his way down into the hollow where he thought she’d run. If her luck were really good, the bastard was dead.

But she wouldn’t count on it.

Creeping through the mist, she reached a stand of beeches.

She slowed and crouched. Listened. Watched.

Then took out the iPhone and studied the screen.

Finally, reception.

• • •

MARTA LISTENED AS THE LODGE’S phone rang and rang.

She didn’t understand why no one was answering. Had she used the wrong number?

She pressed End.

Again, she called the number for the lodge, this time double-checking that she hadn’t made a mistake.

One of several errors.

Nick would be furious.

It was her fault that he’d been arrested. He should never have been at the warehouse where the stolen prescription painkillers were delivered. She’d neglected to arrange for a go-between to pick up the money they were promised—so huge an amount that Nick himself had driven impatiently to the warehouse to retrieve it, only to be grabbed by the FBI.

And that wasn’t the only screwup he would blame her for.

If she couldn’t make this right, she didn’t want to be around when he got out of prison.

After the twentieth time the lodge’s phone rang, she impatiently broke the transmission and called Rudy instead of the lodge.