by Rachel Caine
But a deer doesn’t wear sandals. Or have braces on exposed white teeth.
“Get back,” I tell Connor, and I step in front of him. “Ten feet back, right now.”
“That’s—” He sounds shaken. “That’s not—that’s not a body, is it?”
“Connor, do as I say. Walk back ten feet. Don’t look.” I cover my nose and mouth with the bend of my arm and walk a little closer. She’s not dressed, except for the shoes. He made her walk here, I think. Maybe she begged to keep her shoes on, and he allowed that small mercy. I don’t see any sign of other clothes scattered nearby. I can’t tell how she died, what she might have looked like, or even what race she might be; the body’s so bloated and distorted it looks like a Hollywood monster prop. She has—had—blonde hair, though. Tufts of it have been pulled out and are caught on bushes nearby, and strands wave gently in the river water. Animals have been here, and I rise quickly when I realize how many maggots are around the body. An army of them, squirming. Flies everywhere.
Her eye sockets are empty, staring straight up at the dark trees, as if she might be searching for the sky.
“Sam?” Connor sounds even shakier. “Sam?”
I move back to him. He’s clicked his flashlight off, and he’s breathing too fast. I turn him toward me.
“Connor, I need you to listen to me. Deep breaths, okay? This is a good thing. It’s good we came here and found her. Now we need to go back and call the police.”
“Did somebody kill her?” He’s shaking. I put my hand on his forehead. He feels clammy and cold. I pull out one of the metallic insulated blankets and drape it around him. “Did somebody leave her there? The way my dad—”
“It might not be that at all,” I lie to him, because I think he needs that comfort. “She could be a hiker who got lost, had a heart attack, something like that. But it’s good that she’s not out here all alone anymore, right?”
That steadies him a little. He nods and pulls the blanket closer.
“Okay, let’s follow our trail back out,” I tell him. I pull out my phone and check for a signal. There is one, but it’s low and slow; I dial 911 anyway as we start walking. Connor stares at his map like it’s a GPS; he’s not really thinking right now. I use my built-in UV light on the other end of the flashlight to check the trail markers I left. It’s clear enough where we need to go.
“Wolfhunter Police Department. What is your emergency?” a voice asks me. It’s tinny and ghostly, a fragile connection.
“I need to report a dead body,” I tell her. “On the south bank of Wolfhunter River, about two miles from Wolfhunter River Lodge.”
“I didn’t get all that, sir. Can you please repeat—”
The call drops. Shit. I try again, get the same voice. “I’m calling to report a dead body. South bank of Wolfhunter River, about two miles from—”
“Sir, I need your name please.”
“Sam Cade. About two miles from Wolfhunter River Lodge.”
“Was this person breathing, sir?”
I think about the bloating, the blackened skin. “No.”
“Did you try CPR?”
“No. She’s decomposed.” I know they have to ask these questions, but it’s infuriating. Like Connor, I’m still dealing with the sight, but unlike the kid, I’ve seen worse, and in person. “Heading back to the lodge. Send the police; I’ll walk them out to the body. We left trail markers.”
I hang up before the call drops again, and am slipping the phone back in my pocket when I hear a branch snap. Then rustling. Something’s out there.
Maybe there is a bear, after all.
I silently bring Connor to a halt. His metallic blanket rustles, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I slowly lower my pack to the ground and get out my pistol. Flashlight gets stowed. I crouch down, and Connor mimics me.
I put my finger to my lips. The kid’s face is pallid, and he’s shaking even more, but he nods.
I’m first aware of the shot because the tree next to me explodes splinters in all directions, and one of them digs into my arm. I process that, the flat slap of the shot an instant later, and the realization that we’re in desperate trouble at the same time. I grab Connor’s arm and drag him right, get him safe behind a big, gnarled oak, and tell him, “Stay here. Stay down. Understand?”
“Was that a shot?” He’s shaking. A little distant.
“Stay,” I order him. I need to lead them away from this kid. He can’t make it right now. He’s in shock. “Connor! Understand?”
He nods. I move to the next tree and listen for footsteps. I don’t hear anything. Whoever’s taken a shot at us, he’s now stationary. Waiting.
So I give him something to shoot at. I take off the neon-orange cap I’m wearing and fling it like a Frisbee; it sails a good twenty feet, and then it changes course and flies off at an angle. I don’t see the shot that shreds it, but I hear it an instant later.
He’s a pretty good marksman, but he’s slow. Maybe the first shot he took was a little too quick, a little too adrenaline filled, because he rushed it and missed my head by a couple of inches. If he’d been steady, I’d have been out like a light.
I look at Connor again. I hate leaving him here alone, shivering, but right now it’s the only choice. I need to draw this guy off. And I need to deal with him, because he’s threatened my kid. My kid. I’ve never felt it quite so strongly as I do right now, this need to defend Connor at all costs, but it’s there, and it’s dug deep into my guts.
I go low, racing for the next cover, betting that he’s not good at snapping off quick, accurate shots. He isn’t. His shot comes late, and buries itself in the tree I’m already behind. There’s a thick crop of underbrush between this tree and the next, and I flatten out and do a combat crawl, resting my weight on forearms and toes as I slither along. It’s quick and quiet, and I come up to a crouch as I make the turn. This is a thick stand of trees, and it appears impenetrable from that side. On this side it’s clear, and I quickly make my way around in a wide arc that should bring him into view.
It does.
There are two in forest camouflage, no hunter’s blaze colors or vests: shooter and spotter. They don’t want to be noticed. It crosses my mind that they might have military experience. If they do, the spotter will start scanning the perimeter . . . now.
Right on my count, the smaller one looks away from downrange and does a slow, meticulous sweep. I don’t move. I’m pretty confident he’ll miss me.
I snap a twig. A small one, something that sounds like it might be a vole or shrew. I add a tiny rustle with the tip of my boot.
The second man has to cover the sniper’s ass; that’s his job too. And he comes to check. I could shoot both of them from cover, no problem, and I’m sure that’s what Gwen would have done. But if I do that, I don’t find out who set these assholes on us.
I wait, and when the man’s passing, I step right and press the barrel of my gun to his neck. He freezes up for a bare second, and it’s just enough time for me to jam the back of his knees and send him sprawling. “Stay down,” I tell him, and grab his rifle. Then I turn and fire at his friend, who’s rolling to get a bead on me. I fire three shots, marching toward him in a neat, straight row. Clear warning. He’s a big, bearded man, and I’m hoping that if he’s a pro, if he understands his situation, he’ll drop the gun and give up.
He doesn’t. He raises it toward me and fires. It’s a wild shot, off target, but he’s made that choice, and eliminated mine too.
I shoot him in the head, and I don’t even blink. His death is just about instantaneous; I see his eyes flicker, then roll back, and his body goes limp. One spasm, and nothing.
I turn back to his friend, who’s stayed sensibly still, and I press the barrel to the back of his head. Hair sizzles. “Do not move. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he says. He’s flat on his stomach, hands now outstretched. I search him from the back, roll him over, and put the still-hot muzzle against his forehead wh
ile I check for another weapon. He winces. When I finish and back off, he has a small, perfect red circle burned into his suntanned skin.
“You a marine or somethin’?” he asks me. Local accent.
“Air force,” I tell him.
“Damn. Didn’t know they taught that shit in flight school.”
“Army?” I guess. He nods. “Sorry, brother. Who sent you?”
“Who says anybody did?”
I shrug. “Not open season on kids, as far as I’m aware.”
“Man, we mistook you for a doe, that’s all.”
“Bullshit. Somebody sent you.”
“You shoot Travis?”
“If that’s your buddy, yeah. Didn’t have a choice,” I tell him. “He’s dead.”
“Then fuck you, man, I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” He’s a lean, tough guy in his midthirties, a war vet, but his eyes fill with tears, and I see genuine rage behind them. “You just killed my cousin.”
I point the gun again. “Who hired you?”
“Fuck. You.”
He’s hardened, I can see that. Grief does that to some people. I was hoping it might break him open, but instead: concrete. Maybe the cops will get something out of him. I won’t.
I hear a little metallic rustle and turn my head in that direction. Connor’s discarded his blanket, and he’s coming around the trees. I hold up a hand to stop him there. I take out my phone and dial 911 again. I tell them there’s been a fatal shooting, and I have one man held at gunpoint. That’ll get them moving, I hope.
“Won’t do you no good,” the prisoner tells me. The 911 operator’s telling me not to hang up, so I don’t. I put the phone down on the ground next to me.
“Why not?” I ask him. “You got friends in high places, man?”
He doesn’t stop glaring. He really wants to kill me; I can feel it coming off him like steam. “Not me,” he says, and suddenly bares his teeth in what is only technically a grin. “Travis was a cop. And you just fucking murdered him in cold blood. I seen it, you piece-of-shit murderer!” He’s raised his voice.
“He didn’t murder anybody,” Connor says. “And you tried to kill us.”
“You’re crazy, kid. Why the hell would two men out huntin’ try to kill you? This asshole just straight up went crazy!” I realize what’s happening. He wants it on the damn 911 recording.
I reach down and hang up the call. Too late. We’re kind of screwed. Sure, I can point to the shots Travis fired, including my shredded hunter’s orange cap, but there’s always benefit of the doubt in these things, and it weighs heavily in favor of locals, and cops. Travis is both.
I point the gun at my prisoner again. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck off.”
“Okay, Fuckoff, here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to tell the truth, because if you don’t, I’m going to bring down all the hellfire in the world on you. State police, FBI, whatever I have to do to prove you’re a damn liar who was hired to put a bullet in my head, which will get you twenty to life if you don’t get smart, fast. Who paid you?”
He shuts his mouth, lowers his chin, and gives me a hard stare that tells me he’s never going to cooperate, not with me, and probably not for any price. Paid well enough to keep his lips zipped about it. Or else he’s scared that he’s next on the list. Either could be true.
Connor says, “Can we go back to the lodge now?” He sounds exhausted, and far too shaky.
“I’m sorry, but no. We need to wait here,” I tell him. “Wrap up. Stay warm, okay? Sit down and eat something.”
He nods. In a few minutes he looks better after consuming a trail bar and washing it down with water from the canteen. He’s wrapped himself in the blanket like a shiny foil burrito. Jesus, it hits me all over again: he is a kid. And in one afternoon, he’s seen a gruesomely dead body, been shot at, and been at the scene of a killing. Even if he didn’t see me shoot Travis—and I hope he didn’t—he knows it happened.
I was supposed to protect him. This was supposed to be a walk in the woods.
I can imagine what Gwen’s going to say . . . which reminds me that I’d better call her. Now. But when I call her number, I get nothing but rings and voice mail. I don’t leave a message. I don’t have any idea how to tell her about this yet. She’ll call when she sees I’ve tried to get her.
I hope she’s safe. It hits me with sick, brutal force that if someone tried to take me and Connor out, Gwen and Lanny are also at risk. I should have come to that conclusion earlier, but like Connor, my brain’s not working at peak efficiency right now. I just killed a man. The calm and focus I feel in combat is starting to wear off now, and the consequences are mounting.
Call me back, Gwen.
But she doesn’t. I want to tell her I did my best. I want to tell her . . . tell her I love her.
But I don’t get a chance.
When the cops arrive, I put the gun on the ground, kneel, lace my hands behind my head, and get body-slammed to the ground anyway. Knee grinding my spine, voices shouting over each other. The guy on the ground is yelling, too, that I’m a stone-cold murderer, that I killed his cousin. I can’t see Connor. I’m praying they don’t treat him roughly, but there’s nothing I can do now. Nothing.
I hear Connor yelling, “Let him go!” in a voice so raw it makes me hurt.
I turn my head in that direction. “Hey,” I call to him, “Connor, stop. Relax. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
“You killed a cop, you prick,” the cop says. “Trust me, that ain’t okay. You’re getting the needle. Shut the fuck up.”
Something hits me in the back of the head, and the world goes soft and loose around me. I try, but things slip away.
My last thought is for Connor’s safety before I plunge off the cliff, into the dark.
12
GWEN
When I arrive at the lodge, it’s chaos, the parking lot a staging area of four police cars, two ambulances, and one unmarked vehicle. My heart is hammering, my mouth is dry; Lanny’s asking me questions I can’t answer, and I park and bail out fast. My daughter catches up during my run toward the lodge. “Mom! Mom, what’s happening?”
I don’t know. And it terrifies me.
My path is blocked by a uniformed policeman—a big one, scowling at me from under the jutting bill of his hat. “You can’t go in there,” he tells me. “Lodge is closed.”
“Where is my son?” I know I should be calmer, more logical. I can’t be. “Connor Proctor! Where is he?”
“Back up,” he orders me. I don’t. When he comes toward me, we bump chests. He pauses, because he can tell he’s going to have to make me back off, and he’s struggling to do the math of how badly that will go.
“Mom!” Lanny grabs my arm. “Where’s Connor? Is he arrested too? What’s going on?”
“I’m trying to find out, honey,” I tell her, and for some reason that makes the cop take a step back. Maybe the fact that I have an anxious, frightened daughter hits home with him. I turn my attention back to him and try to start over. “I’m Gwen Proctor—”
“I know who you are,” he says. Hard eyes, like pebbles in water. “Step back.”
“My son is back there! He’s a child!”
“And he’ll be brought out—” He breaks off, because right at that moment a group emerges from the trees. Paramedics, rolling a gurney with someone on it. I see the bright flash of blood and my heart just . . . stops. I sway. Lanny grabs me tighter than ever, and I make myself, somehow, stay upright.
It’s not Connor. But it is Sam. He’s unconscious. There’s blood on the sheet under him, and I don’t see a wound. God, did they shoot him in the back? The cop holds me back again, but as soon as the gurney’s past me, I rush to it. There’s a cordon of cops, but I break through for a second and see that he’s breathing.
And he’s handcuffed to the railings.
A cop pushes me back. I ignite. “Take your damn hands off me!” I shout. “Did you shoot him?”
“M
a’am, calm down; he was injured a little bit in the struggle,” the cop says, and when I focus on him, I realize that he’s just a kid, really, barely old enough to buy a legal drink. He seems earnest and out of his depth, so I dial it back. Slightly. “He’s going to be okay.”
“Don’t promise,” I say. “Where’s my son? Connor Proctor?”
“Mom?”
Connor’s voice from behind me. I see him coming, with a single police escort. He’s wrapped in a metallic blanket, far too pale, and I rush to him and take him in my arms. He’s not in handcuffs, at least, which is good because if he were, I might have to take on the entire police force. He looks like he’s in shock. “Sweetie?” I kiss his cheek and push him back to look him over. No sign of injury. “Did they hurt you?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m okay.” His voice sounds lower than it usually is, and deeper. “They hurt Sam, though. I saw it.”
The cop next to him frowns, and I quickly say, “We’ll talk about that later, okay?” I draw Connor back into the protective hug and meet the officer’s eyes directly. “I want to take him to the room. Now.”
“Ma’am, he needs to come to the station and give a statement.”
“Look at him! He’s not in any shape to—”
“No.” Connor steps back. He takes the blanket off. It seems to me that my son grows inches in that moment, that he ages years, and it breaks off pieces my heart. “Mom, I need to go. Sam needs me to tell the truth. I’m okay.” He isn’t, but I know I can’t protect completely from this.
I focus back on the cop. “He’s a minor,” I say. “I’m going with him. My daughter comes too; she’s not staying here by herself.” He can’t really argue with me about any of that, but he seems to be searching for a way. I don’t give him time. “I’ll drive him to the station.”
