“It would be a shame to come this far and not make it that last mile.”

“Bring yourself in. That’s an order.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t? Fire me? I’m a volunteer.”

“You want to stay on Search and Rescue, you’ll come back now. You read me, Unit Three?”

“Loud and clear, Sheriff.”

“Good. I expect to see you shortly. Base out.”

Schanno sounded weary deep down in his soul. Cork knew that the sheriff would turn away from the radio to face the family of the missing girl, having just reduced significantly the chances of finding her alive. For Cork, being out there in the cold and the snow with a blizzard at his back was infinitely preferable to what Sheriff Wally Schanno had to deal with. Once again, he was exceedingly glad that the badge he himself had once worn was now pinned to the chest of another man.

“Guess that about does it,” Oliver Bledsoe said.

“I’m going to check Hat Lake.”

“You heard the sheriff.”

“I’ve got to know, Ollie.”

Bledsoe nodded. “You want a hand?”

“No. You go on back. I won’t be more than half an hour behind you.”

“Schanno’ll skin you alive.”

“I’ll take my chances with Wally.”

Cork climbed onto the seat, kicked the engine over, and shot east in a roar of sparkling powder.

He hated snowmobiles. Hated the noise, a desecration of the silence of the deep woods that was to him a beauty so profound it felt sacred. Hated the kind of people snowmobiling brought, people who looked at the woods as they would an amusement park, just another diversion in the never-ending battle against boredom. Hated the ease with which the machines allowed access to a wilderness that could swallow the ignorant and unwary without a trace. The only value he could see in a snowmobile was that it allowed him, in a situation like this, to cover a large area quickly.

By the time he reached Hat Lake, the dark wall of cloud behind him stretched north and south from horizon to horizon, completely blotting out the late afternoon sun.