Free The Devil's Anvil by Matt Hilton Page A

hugged the slopes of the northern hills, twisting and turning with each convolution of the terrain. If I hadn’t known where Billie was heading it would have made it difficult to follow, but with foresight I could sit back on the tail of Smelly Man without fear of losing her.
    I’d never been to Billie’s farm. But neither had I been idle on my way out to Washington State: I’d brought up maps on my cell phone, noted the main routes and major features of the landscape. Even so, it’s one thing viewing a map, quite another when you’re on the ground. Some of the landmarks were hidden by the hills or forest, and it didn’t take me long to put aside what I’d learned and concentrated on what lay ahead. One feature burned into my memory was of a long teardrop-shaped lake about midway to Baker’s Hole, and I began to look for it, watching for a glimmer of sunlight on water through the trees. On zoom, I’d found that there were a couple of wide layovers opposite the lakeshore, and thought I could put one of them to good use if going with Billie’s idea of a confrontation. Maybe I should get to the bottom of things at first opportunity.
    Smelly didn’t make a move to close the gap on Billie. He hung back, just out of the range of her mirrors, and it confirmed to me that he knew where she was going. It also strengthened my theory that he’d been hiding out in the hills near her farm, and that it hadn’t been a trick of her imagination when Billie thought she’d spotted someone in a red coat. I decided to drop the plan I was formulating. Why force his car off the road on to one of the layovers when he would presumably stop before reaching the farm and skulk off to his hiding place?
    The teardrop lake seemingly came out of nowhere. I steered round a tight bend in the road, and there it was. On the right the road hugged the lakeshore and I could see the first layover. Billie was already passing it, Smelly about a quarter-mile behind her. I could have sped up enough to catch him at the second pull-off, but I held back. I doubted he had the presence of mind to check if he was being followed, but you never could tell. Then we were all past the lake and heading up an incline to a wedge-shaped pass. Another mile or so further in the next valley Baker’s Hole dominated, and Billie’s farm sat approximately a mile further on again. Less than two miles before Smelly Man would have to pull over or risk alerting Billie to his presence.
    Periodically I checked the road behind. I’d be crazy if I neglected to check my six. It was apparent that Billie’s watcher had called his pal and informed him of Billie’s unscheduled return home. If I were in either of their shoes, I’d assume that something had occurred to summon her back to the farm. Being that they were awaiting the imminent arrival of Richard Womack, it would be fair to assume that she’d hurried home at his beckoning. They’d be excited by the possibility and Suit Man wouldn’t want to miss out on capturing their prey. He’d be coming, and probably quickly to make up for lost time.
    There were a couple more dogleg turns in the road, and as I came out the second I was just in time to see Smelly pull into a service trail that disappeared between a small stand of trees towards a ridge line on the hills. In the distance, Billie’s Jetta was a blue blur against the mist drifting off Baker’s Hole. She turned on her flashers as she approached the entrance to her farm, a conscientious driver.
    It was decision time. If I followed the SUV up the hillside I could no longer stay hidden. Also, I trusted that Smelly would come to a halt before long and I’d have to abandon my vehicle on the trail below him. I didn’t mind the hike in, but if his suited pal was on his way to rendezvous then he’d come across my car and know that they’d been rumbled. I continued on a few hundred yards and pulled the car off road on to a shoulder lumpy with coarse grass and rocks. If it was