Chapter 6 - Beneath the Creek BedThe wind howling through the gorge of Hale Ridge Creek was merciless.
The creek roared below, choked with ice floes and gray water rushing over jagged rocks. Wesley stood at the edge of the road, looking down at the wooden guardrail that had been rebuilt after Daniel’s crash.
State Police cruisers blocked off both ends of the bridge while Detective Vance’s team set up a winch system on a flatbed tow truck.
Wesley wore heavy rubber waders and a climbing harness linked to a safety line anchored to his truck. “I’m going down,” he told Vance.
“The water temperature is thirty-four degrees, Hart,” Vance warned. “You have ten minutes before hypothermia slows your reflexes.”
“I only need five,” Wesley replied.
He rappelled down the rocky embankment, stepping into the freezing torrent. The icy water slammed against his thighs like a sledgehammer, threatening to sweep him off his feet. He waded toward the heavy concrete abutment where the guardrail support posts met the foundation.
Using an underwater metal detector, Wesley swept the scanner across the muddy creek bed beneath the bridge structure.
BEEP... BEEP... BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!
The scanner screamed.
Wesley reached into two feet of freezing mud, his fingers going numb instantly. His hand closed around a cold, heavy cylinder of metal buried near the footings. He dragged it out and pulled himself up onto a dry boulder.
It was a broken structural pin—eight inches long, two inches thick.
He held it up to the daylight. The metal wasn't rusty steel. It was bright, unoxidized gray aluminum. Stamped clearly on the head of the bolt was a serial number and a manufacturer's mark: HALE RIDGE HEAVY FABRICATION.
More importantly, the pin hadn't snapped from impact shear. It had been partially sawn through with a hack-saw blade right at the stress point, making it guaranteed to fail the moment any weight pressed against the rail.
“I got it!” Wesley called up the gorge, holding the gleaming piece of metal above his head.
Above him on the bridge, a horn blared twice.
Wesley looked up through the freezing mist.
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A black SUV had pulled up to the police blockade. Constance Marsh stepped out into the biting wind, flanked by a high-priced corporate lawyer in a cashmere coat.
She stared down into the ravine at Wesley, her face an unreadable mask of ice.
