It was dark. Darker than it should have been, and the wind had shifted, coming from the east, bringing ash and destruction like the scripture said, as Nate had predicted. Riley felt exposed, to the elements and to her doubts. She circled around the parking lot and tried the door to the Explorer, surprised and disturbed to find it unlocked. How had Jess and her contingent procured a key? Had the evidence locker in the trunk been violated?
She climbed into the Explorer, pulling the door to a gentle close, and sat, listening to her own harried breathing. She concentrated on taking deep, even breaths, attaining a steady rhythm before reaching into the glove box and removing the leatherette folder of documents. Squinting in the dim light, she noted the name of the official driver. Enrique Jimenez. His handsome Latino face gazed out from the ID card, exuding life and authority, hailing from a time before the world turned upside down. Where was he now and why was Nate driving his car?
She would ask him. The explanation was sure to be simple and logical. She refused to believe Nate was the killer. There could be reasonable explanations for all of Jess’s arguments and Riley’s gut told her to trust him. She turned on the two-way radio and listened to the static. She’d never heard anything but hissing and crackling from it, but Nate told her he’d reached the Mason County dispatch. That was two days ago. If he’d told the truth, why had no deputies arrived? What was the reasonable explanation for that?
Riley sat, thinking. The seat under her, cold at first, accepted her body heat and shared it back again, creating a warm cocoon. She drowsed and shook herself awake, blinking and focusing her eyes on the interior of the car. The light had strengthened a bit, with the rising sun, and she examined the passenger seat, noting the scuffs of mud. She might have made those marks herself in their mad dash from Rico’s island, but there was something off about the smudges on the door handle. She leaned closer. Blood. She’d been dirty and muddy, but she didn’t think she’d had blood on her hands.
A thick, dull thudding started up in her eardrums and she felt heat rising into her face. Had Nate murdered Rico, and the members of his household staff, and then “processed” the scene to taint the evidence? With communications down, he’d had the field to himself. She had been the only one there to witness his actions.
No. She could not support this theory. It was crazy. She turned to exit the car, but a flash of color caught her eye. Peering into the back seat, she stretched out a hand to retrieve the glossy paper.
It was a pamphlet. She opened it and read a highlighted section entitled, The Human Problem:
The Earth is infested with human parasites. She cries for our help. Those of us who love her consider it not only our duty, but our high calling, to do what we can to defend her. Those who hate her are pests, destroying the environment, and must be exterminated.
Riley closed the pamphlet, feeling sick. Why did Nate carry such propaganda? Was he studying it in order to find a killer, or did he emulate its tenets? Who was he really? She wanted to believe she knew, but three trauma-packed days was no basis for such an evaluation.
Her face cooled and a chill feathered down her spine. She couldn’t believe Nate was a murderer, but she couldn’t deny the indications that he might be. That any of them might be. She was isolated, on her own. The best hope for their little group was to bring in outside help.
She would have to be the one to bring it.
CHAPTER 74
THE KILLER PULLED THE COTTON strip, stained with Mayhew’s blood, from his pack, letting it flutter in the breeze against his naked thighs. He’d struck the fire, igniting the char cloth with the first sparks off the flint, and he sent out a prayer of thanks. There was a chill in the early air and he had to get back before he was missed.
He watched the strip burn on the altar fire, diminishing into a curl of cinders. By blood and by fire. He spoke the words, working through the prescribed movements, pressing himself into the pliant earth.
He finished the ritual as the sun’s watery light rose on the day, bringing with it a fringe of ash, singed bits of detritus drifting in the sky like fool’s confetti. He thought of Riley, her beautiful face glowing and alive. She was dear to him. By all that was wonderful, she was dear to him and he was afraid.
She had to take care. She was spending too much time with the detective. The killer was taking steps to deal with that, spreading doubts, tipping off a few key people, and soon Riley would hear it, too.
He wanted to get her alone, to talk to her. He’d guard his tongue, make sure he didn’t tell her too much, but he needed to share with her a portion of his anxiety, feel the touch of her understanding hand. Today. He would talk to her today.
He dressed in haste and raked a hand through his hair. It was time to worry about breakfast.
CHAPTER 75
A FINE LAYER OF ASH coated the small windows in the garage door, making it too dark for Riley to find what she needed. The garage had been Jim’s turf and his organizing skills were not on a par with hers. She’d planned to clean out the area, pitch the junk, and bring order to the space, but it felt too much like scrubbing him out and so she’d left it.
She vaguely remembered seeing a large, square flashlight on the corner workbench and she made her way there, moving her hands over the objects until she found what she wanted. She switched it on and a feeble beam poked a finger of light into the gloom. She made a note to visit the battery drawer upstairs before setting out, and ran the light beam over the storage shelves.
She found an old backpack and dumped its contents onto the concrete floor. She filled it with two bottles of water, a package of dust masks and a pair of goggles, a plastic rain poncho, a waterproofed box of matches, a skein of twine, and a Swiss Army knife. She pushed aside some of the clutter on the shelf and shone the light toward its nether regions. After rummaging, she added a lightweight tarp, an emergency flare, and a small metal box containing a dart gun and three small tranquilizer darts. She remembered that Jim had used the kit once, during a forest fire, to subdue wild animals escaping from the blaze.
She let herself into the house and climbed the stairs from the garage level to the kitchen. After replacing the flashlight battery, she raided the pantry, throwing in foil packets of tuna, a handful of energy bars, and a package of peanut butter crackers. In the bedroom, she changed into jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, pulling on a pair of sturdy boots and tucking her hair under a charcoal-gray beanie. She tossed a couple pairs of clean socks and underwear into the bag and zipped it closed. It was time to move.
She skirted around the clubhouse, keeping to the trees, not wanting to be seen or detained. Finding the dirt track that led up to the ridge, she followed it past a sagging, abandoned barn and into the thickening forest. She made good time, moving at a steady jog, keeping her breathing even and untroubled. She’d never made the hike, but knew that the Hood Canal lay on the other side of the ridge. She’d driven the long way round, taking Highway 3 to where it meets the 106, and turning left to follow the south shore of the canal, but this was her first time going up and over.
The dirt path wound through the trees, becoming more rutted and muddy with each turn. Riley kept to the edge of it, treading more on the needle-covered verge. At length, she arrived at the padlocked gate which blocked public access to the road. The railroad track ran past here. Riley reasoned that if she followed the tracks they’d lead her to some community, provided they hadn’t been washed away by flooding. The tracks were solid, easy to walk along, and the prospect was tempting. She wouldn’t get lost if she followed the train route.
But the tracks meandered, keeping mostly to the low rises, making it the long way round and Riley didn’t really know where they’d lead. Heading straight up and over the ridge would surely take her to the clumps of houses she’d seen during her drives along the canal. It was a shorter distance, but covered more rugged terrain, and she might get lost.
Riley shrugged off the backpack and opened a bottle of water. She took three or four swallo
ws, weighing the alternatives. The sky seemed to blacken and tiny bits of ash swirled in the sky, choking out the sunlight. She recapped the water bottle and shouldered the pack.
Taking care not to snag her clothing, she climbed the wooden gate and set off up the hill, leaving the railroad tracks to wind away behind her.
CHAPTER 76
NATE STIRRED ON HIS COT, swimming up to consciousness. He heard the faint rustlings of people moving past, trying not to wake him, and the light of morning pressed against his eyelids. He opened them and groaned. His eyes felt rough and full of gravel, the bane of the sleep-deprived. Swinging his legs over the side, he stood and stretched, then headed for the bathroom.
A quick shower and a swipe with the toothbrush, and he was ready for breakfast. In the dining room, he looked for Riley, hoping the light of day had washed away last night’s dejection. He ate bacon-studded scrambled eggs and a cinnamon roll, calling down a blessing on Skillet’s head. He chatted with Cappy and the Dawsons, finished his meal with a swig of orange juice, and still no Riley.
In the kitchen, he quizzed Skillet and Jess, but they had no insights to offer. He did a full sweep of the building, fighting the apprehension that threatened to envelope him. He looked in on Myrna, but there was still no change in her condition. Dr. Deb was with her, and Brenda Marsh dozed on the sofa, clutching her Bible like a Teddy bear.
“It’s about time for a changing of the guard,” he told the veterinarian. “Who’s next on the roster?”
“Mrs. Dawson and Marie.”
“I saw them finishing up breakfast. They should be here soon and you can go eat one of Skillet’s famous cinnamon rolls.”
She nodded, her face pale and weary. Nate sighed and rubbed at his eyes, moving his hands down over the sandpaper surface of his jaw.
“I can’t find Riley,” he said.
Dr. Deb darted a glance at him, then dropped her gaze.
“What?” he asked. “Do you know where she is?”
The doctor thinned her lips and lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
“Doc, if you know, you’ve got to tell me. She could be in danger.”
“We’re all in danger here, Nate. Riley came in early this morning to see if Myrna was awake. She’s upset, tired of feeling trapped and helpless.”
Nate’s breakfast did a slow turn in his stomach.
“What’d she do? Where is she?”
“She asked me not to tell anyone.”
Nate pressed his hands together and pointed them at the vet. “I need to know where she is,” he said, in a careful, even tone.
The doctor studied him. He watched a delicate tendril of color wash over her face. She bit her lip, and sighed.
“All right. She went for help. I think she was going up over the ridge, headed for the canal, but you don’t need to worry over her. Teren was in here just ten minutes ago, pumping me for the same information. He went to catch up with her.”
“Oh, hell,” he growled, bolting for the door. He turned and jabbed a hand toward Myrna’s cot. “Guard that woman. I want her talking by the time I get back.”
CHAPTER 77
A BEAM OF SUNLIGHT STRIPED Rick’s face. The palisade formed by the towering pines blocked the early rays that should have woken him and it was after eight o’clock when he stirred and stretched. He rolled up his bag and poured a cup of coffee from the tin pot on a hot rock by the fire. Bobbi was tinkering with the helicopter.
He stood alongside and watched her rotate and remove the fasteners from the air duct. “G’morning,” he said.
“Yep,” she said curtly, as if he’d offered an observation instead of a greeting.
Rick watched the fasteners come off, counted sixteen as he heard them clink into the tin plate. He said nothing. The filter element resisted as she tried to lift it out and he moved to help her.
“I got it,” she snapped. She turned to face him, arms folded across her chest. “Why don’t you cook breakfast,” she said, dismissing him.
He stood a moment longer, then shrugged and retreated to the box of supplies. He found a small carton of eggs and broke four of them into a cup, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and scrambled them in the mess kit skillet. He kept an eye on Bobbi as she tapped the element to dislodge the ashes and dirt, caught the single swear word that sprang from her lips, understood there was a problem. He approached.
“Anything I can help with?”
“Our chances for an early start are shot to hell,” she said. “There’s water in the fuel tank, which takes time to bleed out. And the air filter is filthy.”
“I thought a dirty filter is a good filter. Smaller holes, better filtration.”
“Sure,” Bobbi agreed. “To a point. We’re past that point. I’m used to banging out dirty filters in the dry desert air. Works great. But this is fine, gritty ash and moisture. Mud. We’ll let the sun take a crack at it, see what happens.”
They ate the eggs and peeled some tangerines. Bobbi’s mood passed from irritation to despondency and Rick worried. He reminded himself that rage was the driving force behind her participation in this wild scheme. It was fury that animated her, spawned her recklessness, kept her going. If she lost that drive, would he lose his last shot at reaching Nate? He writhed inside, hated himself for thinking like this. He considered what was at stake and how deep in they were. He considered her wound and thought about poking it with a stick.
“I’ll clean up,” he said, gathering the dirty dishes. There was no water for washing so he packed them, dirty, back in the box and used a small cup of drinking water to brush his teeth and splash his face. Bobbi had moved her sleeping bag to a sunny patch and lay stretched out next to the air filter, eyes closed. He unrolled his own bag and claimed a corner of the sun-splayed clearing.
The faint chattering and chirping of the woodland floated above them. An occasional buzzing of bee or fly, the rustling and creaking of moss-covered trees. As the sun strengthened, it pulled forth the sweet smell of warming grasses, pine needles, and forest berries.
Rick spoke into the air, almost to himself. “This is crazy. We could just hike out of here. You could go home to your lambs, patch things up with your husband.”
She shot up like he’d prodded her with a hot fork. “Oh, he’ll need patching when I’m finished with him, but there’s not enough bandaging and stitching in the world to bind me to him now. We’re not married. We never were.”
She caught her breath and gave him a scathing look. “I know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice bitter. “And there’s no need. I’ll run this helicopter into the ground if I have to, but I’ll get you where you’re going. Count on it.”
CHAPTER 78
FRANK NEWCOMBE FELT THE WEIGHT of responsibility settling ever more heavily upon him. He and Millie had offered a refuge for their friends, but in doing so they sheltered a killer, as well, and that was more than they’d bargained for. A lot more.
He finished his circuit of the building. The exit door from Meeting Room C leaned slightly ajar, and he noted that someone had sprayed a mess of WD-40 on the hinges of the vestibule. He pulled the exterior exit shut, listening for the solid click of the latch, and made sure it was locked. Riley had gone haring off and both Teren and Nate were on her trail. Frank knew he’d lost positive control of the situation. He felt their little group teetering on the edge, three degrees from flying apart, and it stoked his heartburn.
He fumbled a roll of Tums from his pocket and chewed a couple, staring around him, running the numbers through his head. They had enough gasoline for the generator to last about a day and a half. Food supplies were low and they’d have to start rationing the drinking water. He’d organize a group to salvage resources from their homes later today.
He climbed the stairs to the upper level and stood on the deck outside the dining room. The air was thickening, becoming choked with ash. It was starting to accumulate on the roofs of houses, swirling and sticking in the corners where any two surfaces came together. They�
��d have to wear masks and carry flashlights at this rate. He went back inside, closing the door behind him, watching the ash particles dance like dirty snowflakes against the plate glass windows.
Millie came to meet him, her face pale, smudges of mascara darkening the skin under her eyes.
“Frank, we’re down to two rolls of toilet paper and the last of our hand sanitizer.”
She swayed a bit on her feet and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She murmured against his chest.
“I thought we’d be back in our homes by now, with power and order restored. I don’t know how much long—”
Loud pounding reverberated from the lobby door. Frank looked up to see two uniformed Sheriff’s deputies peering in through the glass. A flood of relief washed over him and he ran to let them in.
“Hell’s bells boys. You sure took your time.”
The man in front gave him a hard look. “Your Mountain Vista is an island paradise. You have no conception of the difficulties we encountered getting here. I’m Chief Deputy Randall Steadman and this is Deputy Frost.”
Frank dipped his head. “I’m sorry. I’m wound a little tight right now. We’re just about tapped out. Frank Newcombe,” he said, offering his hand.
“Dispatch got your distress call, but the message was garbled. Am I to understand you’re dealing with a murder?”
“And then some,” Frank nodded. He opened his mouth to explain, but the deputy held up a hand.
“I see you’re running a generator and you’ve got things well in hand. We’ve been working our way to you since yesterday dawn. Any chance we could discuss this over breakfast and a cup of coffee?”
Millie gasped, her face contrite. “Of course, I’m so sorry. Please come into the dining room and I’ll make sure we’ve got a pot on.”
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 21
