"Here it is! P. Corbin! Remember Pat Corbin from Scranton? I'll be danged! Number 1368. Looks like we were right all along!"
They both knew Pat Corbin was one of the names used in Scranton. It wasn't a common name and there was little chance it was a coincidence. Dean could feel his heart race as he looked over the old man's shoulder. "At least he registered. How can we be sure he showed up?"
"I'll try to sneak a peek at the latest updated list in the office," Fred said. "If he's here, his information packet would have been picked up when he signed in. I can check without having to ask anyone-and tip him off."
"He knows someone was on to him in Pennysylvania so he might have been too spooked to actually show up here. What does the name list as an address?"
"Eaton, Ohio, wherever that is," Fred answered. "I'll bet it's close to Interstate 70. He probably holed up there for a few days and set up his driver's license and the rest of his identity."
Just then a pleasant looking woman in her sixties dressed in a western shirt and jeans approached the two.
"There you are," she said smiling at Fred, "I've been looking all over for you."
Fred introduced the woman, another volunteer. Her name was Emma Blanding, from Granby, Colorado. After acknowledging Dean, she gently tugged at Fred's elbow.
"You'll have to excuse us," she said to Dean, "I have some friends I just have to introduce to Freddie."
"Freddie" rose and followed the woman after agreeing to meet Dean later in Durango. Dean smiled as the two walked away and then gingerly mounted his bike, renewing a few aches and minor pains.
The afternoon was a blur as Dean's mind alternated between the task at hand and the sobering fact that he might be within miles, or perhaps yards, of Cynthia Byrne's missing husband. One minute he'd be drinking in the beauty of the countryside and the next feeling a wave of anxiety, realizing what had begun as a mild suspicion was close to culminating in a face-to-face confrontation with Jeffrey Byrne. And Dean didn't have the foggiest idea what he would do when that meeting occurred.
With a full water bottle and a full stomach and legs warmed to the rhythm of the ride, he became molded into a near trance as he churned up the Colorado miles. He slid in behind another biker and followed the crouched figure evenly, absentmindedly matching the rider stride for stride for several miles as he pondered his course of action.
The two bikers had started down a slight but long downhill, less than a bike length apart, picking up speed as they rolled along. Suddenly a rabbit darted from the brush directly in their path. With a squeal of brakes Dean narrowly missed the rider in front, who shouted a profanity and spun sideways to a stop in the roadside gravel, miraculously maintaining balance.