The birdsong was balm to her ears, the caressing breeze soothed her skin. Her eyes adjusted to a warm world of light, of hope.

Her freedom had cost her one shoe.

Laughing, sobbing, and still shaking, she looked at her sock, torn and bloodstained. She’d be unable to walk without some sort of substitute.

Casting about, Sam glimpsed the corner of a shed concealed by trees a few yards away. Limping to it, she saw its sun-faded slats, its doors. She stopped. The doors were secured with a chain and padlock—not aged.

New.

A memory echoed—the metallic sounds of a lock and chain.

This must be where the monster kept me.

Sam’s first instinct was to get away, but she needed something for her foot. Looking about, she found some discarded lumber. She selected a smooth, weather-worn piece of wood, about a foot long, six inches wide, and an inch thick. She tore off strips from the lower half of her T-shirt. From a shrub, she collected long, pliable vine-like branches. She used all her material to bind the wood to the sole of her socked foot, providing protection.

Sam then found a heavy branch to serve as a walking stick, and, if need be, a weapon.

Not knowing which direction was best, she headed for the nearest hill to gain a better vantage point.

It took a long time, and a couple of rest breaks, to get to the hilltop.

Now, as she reached the edge of the burial ground, she stopped.

Fueled by fear, her adrenaline pumping, she took another glance around in case a threat—or help—was near.

All I have is my gut to tell me the difference.

Tall grass swept against her as she passed through a rotting picket fence, moving slowly among the leaning headstones. Sadness washed over her as she made her way through.

I escaped from my grave.

Pushing back tears, she whispered a prayer for the dead.

I’ve got to keep going!

Moving through the broken gates of the teetering archway, Sam was encouraged.

A road!

More like a timeworn pathway, but still a road.

A road to help, to safety, to my life.

Glancing left and right, she settled on a direction. She sipped some water. She had one apple and one granola bar left.

Her courage sustained, she limped along into the track, her makeshift shoe clopping along the dried earthen ruts as she was swallowed by forest so dense it blocked out the sun.

CHAPTER 58

Waterbury, Vermont

Samantha Moore’s bracelet broke the case wide-open.

It meant that Ewing Gibson Spiker could be the Hydra.

Or, he could be telling the truth.

Maybe he did find it while treasure hunting—or grave robbing, as Noble suspected. But like all investigators, they knew suspects lied, or changed their story. Their job was to find the truth.

Either way, this could lead them to Moore.

And put a stop to the Hydra, McDade thought.