HUNTING GROUND
Meghan Holloway
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by A. Meghan Holloway
Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark
ISBN 978-1-947993-98-3
eISBN: 978-1-951709-14-3
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First trade paperback edition May 2020 by Polis Books, LLC
221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070
Hoboken, NJ PolisBooks.com
For the women who have disappeared,
for the women who have felt their vulnerability,
for the women who have been forgotten
And for those who loved them, searched for them,
and remembered them
Part I
Detect Damaged Branches
One
But he that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.
-Anne Brontë
HECTOR
I stopped because the ancient red car was abandoned in almost the exact spot where my wife’s vehicle had been found on the empty, snow-skirted road fifteen years ago.
A deep breath rattled through my lungs. I sat frozen for a moment, staring at the vast stretch of road before me, lost in memory. To my left, the Yellowstone River was a ribbon of black. A gunmetal winter sky hung low overhead, bleeding its low, heavy clouds over the crests of the deep blue mountains that hemmed the valley.
I threw the truck into park, and Frank sat up and glanced around. I rested my hand on his head. “Stay in the truck,” I told him, and the dog settled back into the passenger’s seat with a sigh.
The wind almost slammed the door shut in my face, and I dragged the jacket zipper to my chin as I walked down the shoulder of the road. It was midday, the light glaring and tepid at the same time.
As I approached the vehicle, I found myself searching for the dream catcher that had hung from my wife’s rearview mirror, for the child’s car seat that should have been strapped into the back. Neither were there, of course. The vehicle was unlocked, a key left in the ignition, and empty save for a cardboard box in the backseat.
My hands were red and wind-chapped by the time I got the mounts on the old Honda and the tow bar attached. I made certain the steering wheel was unlocked and the parking brake was off before I tied the warning flag to the rear windshield wiper and retreated to my truck.
I turned the heater to full blast, flipped on my hazard lights, and pulled back onto the road. The plows had been through in the early morning hours and the snow was banked on either side of the highway. The state road crossed the Yellowstone at an oxbow. The water was black with cold, ice extending from the banks to constrain its flow. Snow was collected on the surface of the boulders above the water’s reach.
The woman leaning against the balustrade of the bridge straightened when I came around the curve in the road. With the bulk at her midsection, I thought she was pregnant until I saw the vines trailing alongside her legs. She cradled some kind of plant under her coat.
As soon as she saw me, she started moving, tugging a suitcase behind her. She made it to the south side of the bridge by the time I slowed to a stop next to her, and when I rolled down the window, she stepped farther off the side of the highway.
Frank stood to investigate when I rolled the window down, and I leaned forward and nudged the dog’s head aside so I could greet the woman.
“This your car I have hooked up?”
“It is.” The woman’s eyes were large behind the fogged lenses of her glasses, and her gaze was equal parts relieved and wary. Her wind-whipped hair lashed across her pale face. She looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. The strain on her face and the tension around her eyes were more than just a sign of exhaustion. She looked worn and so brittle I expected the wind to snap her in half, but she smiled at Frank, and the impact of the curve of those lips was a punch in the gut. “Is that a standard poodle?”
“Sure is. His name is Frank.” The tip of her nose and the high arch of her cheekbones were red and windburned. Her hat was pulled low over her brows and ears, and her scarf was wrapped tightly about her neck, but I knew she had to be chilled, even with the oversized jacket clutched about her. I had hooked her car to the tow bar over five miles back. “You’ve been walking a while. I can give you a ride the rest of the way into Raven’s Gap.”
Her gaze dropped to the side panel of the truck, where I knew she could read the logo emblazoned on the side: Raven’s Gap Police Department. Instead of the ease those words generally instilled in people, unease pinched her brow. She clenched her jaw when her teeth started to chatter. “Thank you, but—”
“At least ride in your car. I do anything suspicious, you’ll have a fair chance to jump out and make a run for it.”
Her eyes flew to mine. I did not need to be a cop to see the well of secrets in this woman’s eyes. She nodded eventually. “Okay.”
I knew she would be leery if I helped her with her bag, so I rolled up the window and stayed in the cab. I watched in the rearview mirror as she rounded the back of our vehicles. She lifted a hand once she was settled into the driver’s seat, and I put the truck in gear.
Frank bounded into the backseat. A glance in the mirror showed his nose pressed to the window as he stared at our passenger. His tail thumped against the seat. He had a better rapport with people than I.
We would have snow tonight. The sky was heavy, and the meteorologists were predicting close to a foot of accumulation. The temperature reading on the dash proclaimed it to be seventeen degrees out. The windchill made it even colder. I checked the mirror again but could not see the woman’s face at a quick glance. I dropped my gaze.
The road curved with the river as we entered the canyon. I slowed as I entered a straight stretch and saw Ed lumbering toward me in his decrepit tow truck. He pulled to a stop beside me, and I rolled my window down.
“Jeff came by the shop and said there was a woman out here needing a tow.” The man’s age was as indeterminate as his tow truck’s and the trapper hat perpetually perched on his head. His gaze was hard when it met mine, mouth a tight line.
Frank shoved his head between mine and the window, grinning his wide canine smile at the man who always had treats in his pocket. Ed tossed him one now, and he snapped it out of the air. At first, I had been leery of allowing Frank to eat any treats Ed offered him. But he had told me in no uncertain terms it was me he hated and wished dead, not my dog. “I got her.”
He let out a low whistle. “Haven’t seen a Honda that old in some time.”
I had thought the same thing when I hooked it up. The car was older than its driver. “I’ll drop it off at your shop.”
He lifted a hand in greeting toward the car’s occupant. He started to drive on, but then his brakes groaned. “Listen, Hector.” He shoved the trapper hat up and scratched at his heavily lined forehead. “The cancer’s back. Doc says Betty probably won’t see another Christmas.”
“Sorry about that.” My words did not sound as sincere as I had meant them.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Don’t want your apologies. She doesn’t have long left. It would mean a lot to her if you would tell us the truth. So she could go to her grave knowin’ what happened. Where Winona and Emma…” He swallowed. “What you did to them and where we could find them.”
It always came back to this. In the beginning, I had been furious over the suspicious glances, the hushed gossip always exchanged just loud enough for me t
o hear. I had fought those rumors and raged against them for years. After a decade and a half, now I was too tired.
I sighed and stared out the windshield. The wind buffeted my truck, rocking it back and forth, and an eddy of snow and grit swirled across the deserted highway. The desolate landscape echoed the hollowness within me. Emptiness had settled deep into my bones, knitting itself into the marrow, creeping to fill the crevices of my joints until nothing but a constant, bitter ache remained.
I met Ed’s gaze. “I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve been telling you for years, old man.” I had said the same words thousands of times. Maybe millions. It seemed like I should just have it tattooed on my fucking forehead. Then I would not have to taste the bitterness of them. “I didn’t kill them.”
Two
There are over one hundred
species of the rose.
EVELYN
The wind’s badgering was constant as I started walking, whipping my hair about my face, whispering its iciness into the recesses of my ears, fighting my grip on the handle of my duffle bag. My progress was a chilling slog.
Though the snow was banked on either side of the highway, the pavement was clear save for a crystalline dusting the wind swept across the road. Gravel drives branched off from the highway, arrowing across the narrow plain before curving into the foothills. I could not see a house or building from my viewpoint, so I did not detour and continued along the old state road. I knew my destination lay somewhere to the east, nestled against Yellowstone National Park.
At the rumble of an approaching engine, I stepped to the edge of the road, sinking up to my ankles in snow, and turned to watch for the vehicle. I slipped a hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the ever-present canister of pepper spray. A Land Rover soon rounded the bend, slowing when the driver spotted me. My hope sank when I saw the cab held the lone figure of a man, and I stepped farther off the road as he pulled to a stop beside me.
The vehicle looked brand new, all sleek silver and tinted glass. As the window hummed down, I saw that the man inside was as polished as his vehicle. He flashed me a disarming smile. “Need a ride?”
He was stunningly handsome, and once, years ago, before my experience with Chad Kilgore, I would have flirted with him. Now, I wondered at how he managed to get the flannel of his shirt so crisply starched and if I could outrun him if he made a move to exit his shiny vehicle. He ducked his head to meet my gaze, and I realized I had not responded to his question. “Thank you, but no.”
His brows arched, and his smile dimmed a fraction. “Look, I don’t blame you for being cautious. But it’s freezing out. How long have you been walking?”
I tightened my grip on the duffel bag handle and shifted the philodendron on my hip. “Not long. Is there a good mechanic with a tow truck in Raven’s Gap?”
“Ed’s. Just hop in, and I’ll take you there.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate the offer. If you’re headed to Raven’s Gap, would you mind sending Ed this way?”
He blew out a breath. “Sure. I can do that. If you’re not going to accept a ride, at least let me give you a jacket.”
A gust of wind shoved against me, and I staggered, my resolve almost faltering. The man started to open his door, and my caution came rushing back. “Please don’t get out. I don’t want to have to run through the snow.”
A startled laugh burst from him, and he pulled his door shut. He reached into the passenger’s seat and tossed a jacket through the window toward me. I bobbled the house plant in my arms but caught the jacket and met the stranger’s eyes. Even at this distance, I could see the startling blue of his irises. “I’ll send Ed this way. Just bring the jacket by Book Ends in town.”
I forced my lips to curve and return his smile. “Thank you.”
He hesitated, the smile fading as he studied me. “Stay warm. You have ten miles to go.”
I almost caved at that, but thankfully he rolled up the window and put his Land Rover in gear. I relaxed only when he had disappeared around the next bend. I shrugged into his jacket and shuddered at the warmth. It was heavy and dense, leather lined with shearling that smelled faintly of cologne. I turned the collar up and resumed my trudge.
I studied my surroundings as I walked. When I left Atlanta three days ago, the South was still in that purgatory between long summer heat and brief winter chill. As I had driven north and west, I left behind the balmy, green familiarity of home, and after the first long day of driving, entered that vast stretch of the windswept plains. I had never ventured out of the South, and the wide open expanse of South Dakota and eastern Montana made me feel as if I were in a small dingy tossed upon a sparse, empty sea of white. The isolation lanced my heart, and had there been anything to return to, I would have turned back.
But then the mountains came into view, at first merely smokey smudges of hills on the horizon, growing taller the farther west I drove. The highway began to undulate in a serpentine flow parallel to the river, and the piercing sense of aloneness coalesced into wonder. The barren emptiness morphed into a stark, haunting beauty.
Even flayed by the cold, buffeted by the wind, I felt a tug of admiration for the landscape. This was the American Wild West to which the imagination still payed homage.
The road crossed the Yellowstone at a bow in the river, and I paused in the center of the bridge. Apart from the river’s soft symphony and the wind’s moan, the quiet was startling. No grind of industry, no cacophony of population. The hush of the wilderness was as eerie as it was soothing.
I propped the duffle bag against the concrete baluster and drew my scarf higher up over my chin. My face was numb, and I could not feel my lips or the tip of my nose. The scarf’s cocoon over my mouth sent condensation over my glasses. The fingers I used to grip the duffle bag’s handle ached stiffly, and I tucked my hand into my armpit to warm it, stamping feeling back into my feet.
I leaned out over the edge of the bridge. The black water rushed by beneath me, and I wondered how deep it was, how quickly a cold that brutal could kill. The concrete ground against my hip bones, and I leaned a little farther, testing my own fulcrum.
A hint of movement fluttered in the corner of my vision, and I dropped my boots back to the road and turned. My breath caught. At the opposite end of the bridge, an eagle perched on the baluster, a fish snared in her talons. Her head was turned toward me, and it tilted in seeming acknowledgement as I studied her. Those golden eyes watched me for a long moment. Then in a powerful, effortless movement, she took flight, sweeping low over the water before the beat of her wings took her higher.
I leaned against the side of the bridge, this time without daring my balance, and ducked my face deeper into my scarf. I lost sight of the eagle’s flight when my glasses fogged over, but I was content to stand still a little longer, blind with the quiet of the wild in my ears.
The sound of a vehicle in the distance, though, startled me from my frozen reverie. I straightened and pulled my scarf down to clear my glasses, ears pricked to determine which direction the sound was coming from. My hope for it to be the tow truck died when I realized the sound came from the north, but my shoulders slumped with relief when the vehicle came into sight. An oversized, battered pickup truck kicked up an eddy of swirling snow, and it towed my little Civic in its wake.
There was movement in the passenger’s side of the cab, and when the truck slowed to a halt next to me and the window rolled down, a standard poodle shoved its head through the open space and grinned at me. It was hard to resist that canine smile, and I felt my own lips curve. I relinquished the grip I had automatically taken on the canister in my pocket.
Now ensconced in my car, towed in the wake of the truck, I leaned my head back against the seat rest and rubbed my aching ears with a sigh. Sitting still, the cold caught up with me, and I shivered in earnest, teeth chattering. I cupped my hands around my mouth and blew a warm gust of air into my palms before rubbing a sting of feeling b
ack into my nose and cheeks.
The road wound through a canyon, and on the opposite side of the river, I thought I could make out the faint arrowed line of what might have been an old wagon road or rail line. Clustered outposts of civilization cropped up on occasion, and on the far side of the canyon, we began to slow.
I straightened, hand gripping the door release, but when I looked ahead on the brief straight stretch of road, I saw a tow truck approaching. We stopped, and the tow truck pulled up alongside us. Both drivers conferred for a minute before the tow truck driver lifted a hand in greeting to me and we continued our route. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the tow truck making a tight three-point turn to follow us.
A few miles passed before I saw evidence of the town. A landing strip just off the side of the highway served as a minuscule airport, and within another mile we reached the outskirts of Raven’s Gap.
My gaze bounced between either side of the road. I had researched the town when I first decided to follow through on the promise I had made. I had looked at Gardiner, Cody, Cooke City, Island Park, and Jackson Hole. Each had their charm; some were more remote than others; others held more tourist attractions. The quietness of the little town fifteen miles outside of Gardiner appealed to me; the Park County Museum was located in the town that boasted less than five hundred residents. Once I had secured a position at the museum, the decision had been made. Raven’s Gap, Montana was to be my new home.
Two chain hotels peppered either side of the street along with outfitters, cafés and restaurants, a gas station, and the Western themed tourist shops that populated towns in this region of the country.
I rubbed my fingers along my left collarbone. I tried to drum up a sense of excitement, but that hollow weight within me was too heavy for anything so buoyant. Even the grief had faded from sharp and cutting to a dull throb.
Hunting Ground Page 1
