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“The bridge? She’s just parked on the bridge?”
“Far as I can tell. That or she’s smack in the middle of the river.”
“Why? Why would she drive to the bridge?”
The same thing Blair’s been asking himself. “Maybe she has a sense of irony.”
“Or she’s feeling sentimental. Does this broad have a death wish?”
“I don’t know. But listen up,” says Blair. “You’re north of her. I’m south of her. Let’s pin her down. You enter the bridge from the north, I’ll come in from the south. She’ll be trapped. Can you find your way there?”
“I think so. I’ll map it. What’s the name? Anna’s Bridge or Old Anna’s Bridge?”
“That’s it. I’m only a few minutes away. Call me when you get there, okay?”
“Will do. But what’s her angle?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. She turned her phone on for a reason. She wants us to find her. She’s waiting for us.”
“She wants this to be over. She’s giving up.”
Maybe. But so far, Marcie Bowers has been anything but predictable.
“Let’s not break out the party hats just yet,” says Blair. “Get to the bridge, Silas. And talk to me before you do anything.”
ONE HUNDRED THREE
BLAIR DRIVES TO THE top of the bluff overlooking the Cotton River. He pops the trunk and gets out of his car, the wind smacking him, blowing open his coat until he zips it up to his neck. He pulls a pair of binoculars out of his trunk and walks over to the edge of the bluff, raising the binoculars to his eyes.
Marcie is standing in the middle of the bridge. Behind her is a sizable gap in the bridge, a missing piece of the roadway. Right — it’s the spot where the motorist busted through the side and went into the river below. The truss bridge, a series of interconnected triangular steel beams forming the sides, is missing one of the triangles where the vehicle blasted through it, and they’ve removed a portion of the road at that juncture, leaving only the underlying zigzagging structural supports of the roadway.
Marcie is standing just in front of that gap, right at the precipice. Beneath her, the roiling, raging waters of the Cotton River.
And next to her, lined up in a row, one after the other, right beside her — the duffel bags. He does a quick count. Eleven. That’s what Silas said — Marcie had eleven duffel bags. Eleven bags, meaning … eleven million dollars? Who knows how much of the twenty million has already been spent. But even if it’s down to eleven — that’s a lot of retirement money.
But why so close to the edge of the bridge, Marcie?
He focuses on her again. Her eyes are down, looking at her phone, cradled in her hands, as the wind tosses her hair in all directions.
What is this?
He pulls out his phone and dials Marcie’s number while watching her through the binoculars. She recognizes the number and punches a button, raises the phone to her right ear while covering her left ear with her other hand.
“Where are you?”she shouts, the wind rippling through the phone connection.
“I’m on the bluff above you.”
She looks up, finds him.“I want this to be over!”she cries.
“What are you doing, Marcie?”
“What am I doing? I’m doing what I should have done the moment I realized we had all this money! I just wanted you to witness me doing it, so you’ll know.”
He doesn’t understand. “Witness you doing what?”
“You can’t put me in prison for money I don’t have,”she says.“You can’t kill me for money I can’t give you!”
Huh?
