A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  I’ll be damned.

  He inhaled deeply, a strange surge of emotion in his chest. But as he was about to return to wait with Ace in the truck, a scream pierced the air.

  Olivia?

  Cole raced down the path, adrenaline busting through him. He rounded the bush and saw her on the ground next to a picnic table. White-faced. Blood trickled down her temple. Looming over her was a tall bearded man with an ax in his hand.

  CHAPTER 8

  Eyes of pale amber trapped hers. Lion eyes. Hungry, consuming.

  His eyes.

  His scent filled her brain. His coldness, his evil, crawled alive over her skin. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and her heart hammered. A tunnel of dark tightened around her, blocking out the ranch, the sky. All she could see was him. She was naked again. On the bearskin. Rope around her neck.

  “Olivia!” Cole’s voice broke through.

  She blinked, scrambled rapidly backward in the dirt, butted up against the picnic bench. Panic flared. She fought to pull herself into focus. To stay present.

  The man with the ax took a step back as Cole rushed up to her and dropped to his knees. He cupped her face.

  “Are you all right?” His eyes were bright with concern, adrenaline. He fired a brief glance at the man before returning full attention to her. “What happened?”

  “I . . . I came around the back of the camper and he just appeared from behind it, with the ax. I got a fright, that’s all.”

  I lurched straight into a full goddamn flashback . . .

  Cole took her arm, helped her up. She wobbled to her feet, dusted off her jeans.

  “I’m so sorry for my overreaction,” she said to the man. “You spooked the hell out of me. I must have tripped over my own feet.” She put her hand to her temple. Her fingers came away with blood. Confusion chased through her. “I . . . must have hit my head on the picnic table.”

  Cole felt the corner of the table. “There’s a nail end sticking out. You probably caught it. Let me take a look.”

  “No! No, I’m fine.” She gathered up her fallen book, money pouch, and card reader. “Please, let me try again,” she said to the man, giving a light laugh that sounded false even to her own ears. “I’m Olivia, the ranch manager. I saw that you got in yesterday afternoon.”

  Sorry was an understatement. She was mortified. Her whole body, her insides were shaking. She was an idiot to have returned so soon, when the blood on this man’s freezer had come close to triggering her first full flashback in years. It didn’t help that his eyes happened to be the identical color as Sebastian’s. Same height, too. Something about him . . . She shook herself.

  She was in a worse way than she’d thought. Her eerie experience while tracking, the basket of berries, that episode in the kitchen cooler with the deer carcass—it had all conspired to plunge her back into the past again. Over the last three years she’d begun to believe she’d fucking slayed the flashbacks. This was a devastating blow.

  The man regarded her steadily. He was wiry-strong with a shock of steel-gray hair, thick beard and mustache that hid his mouth and much of his face. Dark patches stained the thighs of his jeans. His fingernails were black. Dirt. Maybe blood. Fear spurted afresh. She cleared her throat.

  “You got in yesterday?” she prompted.

  The man cast a glance at Cole, and something in his face darkened as the atmosphere between the two men seemed to shift. Again Olivia was touched by a sense of brooding malevolence. She swallowed, trying to push it away, knowing it was a fabrication of her own mind.

  He’s dead. Gone. This is just your brain playing tricks . . .

  Cole placed his hand momentarily at the small of her back. Surprise then relief shocked through her. His touch was grounding. Her eyes burned. As much as she fought for independence, as distant as she kept herself physically from people, she was profoundly grateful to have someone at her back right now.

  “Got in around sunset yesterday,” the man said. His voice was hoarse and whispery, like that of a heavy smoker. Or a de-barked dog.

  “And how many nights will you be staying?”

  “Until after Thanksgiving.”

  “Just so you know, there’s a storm coming. Snow could start falling by Monday night.”

  “Snow?”

  “There’s no plow service. You could be stranded. I’ll keep campers informed as I get more weather updates.” She cleared her throat again. “The site is twenty bucks per night. Wood is five dollars extra. Let me know if you need any, and I’ll deliver a bundle each morning.”

  “Got my own wood.” He propped his ax against the picnic bench and fished his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noted Cole scrutinizing the ax blade, the camper, the freezer. The blood streaks down the side.

  She entered the dates into her book as the man dug a wad of notes out of his wallet and peeled off the requisite amount. “I’ll pay up to Tuesday, then you won’t have to come back.”

  Suited her fine.

  “Thank you.” She took the cash from him. He allowed his hand to linger against hers. Olivia’s gaze shot up to his. He smiled, a slash of white teeth through facial hair.

  Like his teeth . . .

  She counted the money quickly, zipped it into her cash pouch, then handed him a brochure. “There’s a map, everything you need in there. We do dinners up at the lodge. You need to reserve before noon on the day. And we have a Thanksgiving special on Sunday night. Turkey. The works.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.” He took the pamphlet, holding her eyes.

  “It’s probably best if you wipe that blood off your freezer,” she said. “It’ll bring in the bears.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Well, enjoy your stay.” As she moved, she caught sight of the bow inside his camper. “Bow hunting?”

  “The only kind,” he replied with another hint of a smile. Flat eyes. “I like a real hunt.”

  “Bow-hunting regs are in there, too.” She nodded at the brochure in his hands. “No hunting on ranch land. The ranch border is denoted on the map. Conservation officer comes by every couple of days or so, checks permits, tags.”

  She started up the path to her truck.

  “You just bagged something fresh?” Cole said.

  Olivia swung around. Cole was looking at the blood on the freezer, hands in his pockets.

  A hawk shrieked up high, and small birds scattered from trees.

  “Deer,” the man said.

  “In the Marble foothills?”

  “Canyon. Got him on the way up.”

  Cole nodded. “Enjoy your stay.” He joined Olivia, and they rounded the Ford together. She jotted down the BC plate number.

  Back in her own truck, Ace nuzzled against Olivia. He was stressed and trying to sniff the fresh blood on her brow. She inhaled deeply. “It’s okay, boy.” She dropped down the truck visor and peered into the small mirror, dabbing at the blood with a tissue from the glove box. It wasn’t a bad gash. Nothing some disinfectant and butterfly bandages wouldn’t fix. But she was going to have a mother of a purple egg.

  Cole climbed in beside her.

  “Want me to look at that?”

  She shook her head, balled up the tissue, stuffed it into the cup holder, and started the engine. She was still trembling as she drove to the next site, about a hundred yards farther down the lake.

  “He’s off.”

  “That guy? Yeah. We get weird ones sometimes.”

  “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re going to have a nice lump on your head.”

  She snorted.

  “He really spooked you, huh?”

  Olivia felt her walls slamming up. “It was the ax, I guess. Startled me, coming around the camper with it in his hand like that.”r />
  She drew up at the entrance to the next site. Gray Ford trucks appeared to be the choice du jour, but the one parked in this site had a long box, and the camper was affixed to it. Two fold-up chairs flanked the fire pit. There were also two plates, two mugs, and two sets of knives and forks on the picnic table. The boat had been removed from the trailer and floated in the water, roped to a snag jutting out from the low bank.

  “So what do you do with the troublesome guests, or, say, a big rowdy bunch of drunk guys? The cops are at least an hour out—where do you get backup?”

  She sat for moment, sighed, then pulled a wry mouth. His gaze went to her lips, and she was suddenly conscious of the subtle electricity that seemed to radiate from him.

  “I haven’t really had a problem to date—this campsite gig wasn’t part of my job until last summer.” She carefully pushed flyaway strands of hair away from her cut. “I’ve got my knife, bear spray. Bear bangers. Radio. Sat phone.” She wasn’t going to mention the illegal Smith and Wesson stashed behind the truck seat that she’d bought from a logger up north. “And Ace.”

  He smiled. The warmth in his features was instant, and the friendly lines that fanned out from his deep gray eyes tugged at something deep in her chest. She hadn’t seen him smile yet. It stole her thoughts. The cab suddenly felt smaller, the air closer. A soft panic flickered through her stomach—a very different kind of fear from what she’d just experienced in the last campsite.

  “Yeah,” he said. “A killer German shepherd, with bad eyesight and gimpy joints.”

  Ace licked his face in ignorant approval. But Cole saw something in hers—a glimpse of just how deeply losing Ace would cut her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She shrugged. “It’s true. He’s going blind. His back legs will give him trouble sooner or later. I should probably stop him from following me when I go riding.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Not old enough to have these problems, but he had a rough start.” She opened the door. “One more to check in.”

  Cole followed Olivia down into the campsite, thinking this was a vulnerable job for a lone woman. It stirred something protective in him, along with an unexpected sense of responsibility, proprietorship.

  “Anyone home?” She knocked on the camper door.

  The door opened. A man with white-blond hair in a close brush cut smiled and put his finger to his lips. “Wife is sleeping,” he whispered as he came lightly down the rickety metal stairs, agile for his size. He stood about six-foot-two. He sported a neatly clipped mustache and Balbo beard with a soul patch. His blue eyes sparkled, and his skin was bronzed by sun. He had the look of a buff but gaunt vegan—virile. He drew them toward the picnic table, out of earshot of his wife in the camper. Cole guessed him to be in late fifties, early sixties.

  Olivia appeared edgy in his presence. Mr. Axman back there had spooked her good.

  “I’m Olivia,” she said. “De facto ranch manager. This is Cole. He grew up here.”

  The man reached out and shook their hands in turn. Solid, confident grip.

  “Algor Sorenson. I was going to come around to the lodge later to check in. We arrived yesterday evening. My wife, Mary, is sleeping in.”

  Olivia quoted the rates and asked how long the couple planned on staying.

  “I’d like to wing it day to day, if that’s okay with you?” he said, glancing at the lake. “As long as the fish are biting we’ll hang in.” He gave an easy smile. Bright white teeth.

  Olivia’s gaze flickered. She cast her eyes down, entered the guest details. “Probably a good idea,” she said as she copied down the truck registration. “Big storm in the forecast. Could blow in early, and if it does, roads will become impassable for a while. Right now it’s supposed to hit Monday night. I’ll come around and let everyone know if that changes. How would you like to pay? Credit or cash?”

  Cole noted she wouldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Her hands were still trembling.

  The guest gave Olivia his credit card. She glanced at the name on the card, ran it through her reader, and handed him the portable device so he could punch in his PIN.

  “Do you need any wood for tonight?”

  “Love some.”

  Cole jogged back to the truck to retrieve a bundle. He carried it back, cataloguing Sorenson’s gear.

  Olivia was explaining the dinner reservation procedure and Thanksgiving meal.

  Sorenson smiled, hands in pockets. “My wife and I like to do a turkey in the camper oven. Small one. Did one last year in Moab.”

  “You originally from Washington?” Cole said, dumping the wood next to the fire pit and dusting his hands off on his jeans.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Saw your ham radio operator’s plate on the back of the camper—I’m also a licensed operator.”

  “Oh, that. Yes.” His eyes flickered. “My wife. She’s the radio buff. I let her at it. Not my thing.”

  “Well, enjoy your stay,” Olivia said.

  As they drove the rest of the circular road through the campground, Cole noted it was only the few sites along the water that were occupied. The rest of the big campground was empty, desolate looking.

  “Does it fill up in the summer?”

  She shook her head. She was pale. Compassion mushroomed softly through him, and he realized he liked this prickly woman. Olivia West was rekindling his interest. He wanted to know more about her, what made her tick, how she’d gotten those scars.

  Cole fell quiet, watching the lake, the forest. Memories of Jimmie and him playing here washed through his mind.

  “How could you tell?” she said suddenly.

  “Tell what?”

  “That he was originally from Washington—Sorenson had BC registration on his truck.”

  “Each amateur radio license plate comes with a unique call sign that has a prefix showing where it was issued. It’s like that all over the world—you can look the sign number up and find out who the ham operator is. There’s software you can use to track their movements on a map if they have their radios on. Ordinarily, if someone from the States moves here, they’d get a new Canadian call sign.”

  “I guess his wife came from the States. Oh, shit—” She hit the brakes suddenly and backed up to where the ranch boundary fence had been recently cut and peeled back to create an opening the width of two vehicles. Tire tracks led through the hole into the dark, muddy, dense forest beyond.

  “Bloody poachers.” She wound down her window to examine the vandalism. “Or squatters. That’s the old deactivated road that goes into the otter marsh and out the back.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “Jimmie and I used to play in that swamp, much to my mother’s chagrin.”

  “I’ll need to come back and fix that.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  She shot him a glance.

  He blew out a heavy breath. “While I’m here. I’ll do it.”

  “This is my job, my—”

  “And it is my father’s place. I don’t like you doing this stuff alone. It’s not safe. Those vehicle tracks look recent. Someone could still be in there. And likely armed, given that it’s open season.”

  She stared at him, an odd look entering her eyes.

  He shrugged. “Call me chauvinist if you want.”

  She didn’t call him anything. She drove back in silence.

  When they returned to the lodge, Cole hung up his jacket and saw that a fire was already crackling in the living room hearth. Two girls sat reading on the long sofa in front of the fire, one on either end, as if they didn’t know each other. A robust balding man with broad shoulders stood with his back to them, hands deep in his pockets as he watched the news on a large flat-screen television mounted on the back wall.

  “Looks like we have new guests to check in,” Olivia said
as she hung her jacket next to his in the hall.

  She made her way into the living area. Cole glanced at his watch. It was still too early to go to the library and wait for his dad. He followed Olivia.

  As she neared the man, a “Breaking News” banner flared across the big television screen. The program cut instantly to an anchorwoman in the CBC newsroom. The man reached over and bumped up the sound. The anchor’s voice blared loudly into the room.

  “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news out of Mount Currie,” the anchor said. “Please be warned, sensitive viewers will find the following material disturbing. A woman’s body was found hanging by the neck from a tree yesterday afternoon, alongside the Birkenhead River in Mount Currie, a First Nations community about thirty minutes north of the popular Snowy Creek ski resort. The Lower Mainland’s integrated homicide team has taken over the case and is currently on scene, assisting both local and tribal police.”

  Olivia stalled, body rigid.

  The two girls on the sofa spun around to watch.

  “CBC reporter Mike Stone is currently on site. What can you tell us at this point, Mike?”

  The footage cut to a reporter in a blue windbreaker in front of trees yellow with fall leaves.

  “Two teens from Mount Currie were out fishing yesterday afternoon when they made a very gruesome find,” said the male reporter into his mike, looking a bit shaken himself. Cole stepped closer.

  “They came across a woman’s naked body hanging by the neck from a tree. Police are not commenting at this point other than to say the death is suspicious. But I spoke with Joshua Philips, a cousin of one of the teens who made the discovery. And again, a warning to sensitive viewers, the following information is disturbing. Joshua, can you tell us what your cousins found?”

  The camera focused on a young man in a fleece jacket. He was bloodless under his naturally tawny complexion, his black hair ruffling in the wind. “My cousin and his friend were going to check out the spawning coho when they came across it hanging in a stand of cottonwoods.”

  “By ‘it’ you mean the body?” said the reporter.