“Watch him. He’ll be coming around any minute now.”
Riley watched, her eyes burning with ash and fatigue, as Teren twitched and murmured. He’d been her friend, beside her in her grief, and all this time, a murderer. He’d killed Harp and Rico, Rico’s cook and butler, those people in Seattle. How many more?
A snippet of conversation from the clubhouse flitted across her mind. She remembered Teren’s face as Nate asked about Amanda Horton. Teren had been Amanda’s friend, also, and now she was dead. A lot of people Teren knew were dead.
He had known Jim and Tanner.
Like so many painful realities, she’d been pushing this thought from her brain for some time, not wanting to know, not being capable of knowing while keeping her sanity. But she’d embarked on a journey of discovery, however unwillingly, and she had to face it now, the hard hand of a stranger forcing her to look, to listen.
When Teren wakes up, I will know, but how can I bear it?
Teren let out a shuddering sigh. Riley stared into his face, the papery eyelids shut but flickering. A sickening dread crept over her and she desperately wanted to look away, but the hand cradling the top of her cranium prevented her. She closed her eyes, and was seized with instant panic. That was worse. She swallowed a sob and steeled herself, fastening her gaze on those blue-veined eyelids, and waited.
No birds twittered among the branches of trees, no living thing outside their circle hummed life into the day. Only the wind soughing gently through pine needles and Teren’s sonorous breathing made a backdrop to the silence. Riley watched Teren’s chest rise and fall, counting the inhalations. When she reached sixty-three, there was a hitch and a groan.
Teren opened his eyes.
CHAPTER 92
NATE TRUDGED ALONG A ROUGHLY defined trail, his feet growing heavier with each step. For three hours he’d combed the wooded ridge above Mountain Vista without encountering a sign of another human being. He saw a lot of small woodland animals and sensed there were larger marauders skulking around, though he hadn’t seen any since the mountain lion.
His chest felt tight, his eyes burned, and his tongue was furred over with ash and thirst. He sank to the ground and took a few swigs from the canteen on his belt.
An oppressive dimness hung in the sky. Lead-colored vapors of ash and mist hovered like a miasma, dampening his hopes, pulling him down like the deadly poppy field in The Wizard of Oz. He poured a trickle of water over his face and rubbed the ash from his eyes.
What an insane situation. His thoughts went to his daughter, Sammi, and his ex-wife. He prayed they were safe. And Rick? How had he fared through the eruption and its aftermath? It rankled that he could do nothing to help. Not them, not Riley, not even himself.
Enough with the pity parade. He pushed up and stood, straining his ears. A faint rustling to his left caught his attention and he took a tentative step toward the sound, pausing again to listen. There was definitely something moving in the brambles and trees about twenty yards off, something stealthy. He took another careful step, watching to avoid twigs and pine cones that would crunch underfoot. He crept slowly, lifting vines and branches out of his way, peering forward for a glimpse of his quarry.
He stopped, no longer able to hear the sounds of movement ahead. Had he been too slow, or had the noises been only a product of stress and imagination? He stood, frozen, holding his breath, listening hard. The flesh on the backs of his arms prickled and crawled, responding to some dire frequency in the air and a phantom chill raised the hairs along the back of his head.
As he poised, listening, a high scream tore through the ash-laced sky, thick with terror and pain, a series of high-pitched wailings laden with doom. A zing of fear raced down Nate’s spine as he sprang forward, snapping open his holster as he ran. He crashed through the underbrush, following the agonized screaming, and broke upon a small open area in time to catch the merest glimpse of some creature, disappearing into the woods. He’d interrupted the woodland dinner hour and saved a lucky animal from the menu.
What was it? Rabbit? Raccoon? He’d heard there were a lot of animals that produced an eerily human-like scream under duress. The devastation from Mt. Rainier hit the wild as hard as it had the civilized, and Nate reflected there was bound to be an abundance of predators and prey taking refuge on the high ground. He felt weak with relief. The screaming had sounded like a woman, but it hadn’t been Riley.
The relief flickered out as a new stab of fear galvanized him. He had to find her. Their tame and domestic world had turned upside down and peril lay in every direction, pressing in. His heart squeezed in his chest. Riley was out here alone.
Or, worse yet, with Teren.
CHAPTER 93
RILEY’S THROAT ACHED SO THAT she could barely swallow around the lump of fear and regret that lodged there, throbbing. She’d been so close to escape, and now her plight was worse than ever, with two captors. Her hands were still bound behind her back and the twine pinched and irritated her skin. Teren stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes, tender and wet, searching her face.
“Riley, darling Riley. I wish you could be happy about this. We’re part of something far bigger than ourselves, something momentous.”
She looked away, hardening her face.
“All you’ve suffered, your sorrows and heartache, have grown and stretched your artist’s soul, Riley. You have gone from bright to brilliant like the sun.”
Like a lit match on an oil trail, a hot tongue of rage ripped through Riley. Her chest heaved as she struggled to control the roar that threatened to break out of her. She kept her head turned, unwilling to share even a glance with this man who’d deceived her, taken her family, broken her heart.
Teren placed a firm hand under her chin and brought her face around. Riley jerked her head to the side and sank her teeth into his thumb. He pulled away, cursing, wiping his bleeding thumb against his brown leather jacket. She watched him, tasting his blood, thinking she could tear his throat out with her teeth if he gave her the opportunity.
The stranger from the cabin sat lounging against a tree, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles. He munched on peanut butter crackers he’d pilfered from her pack and seemed to be enjoying the show.
“Are you going to let her get away with that, big guy?”
“Stay out of it, John.”
“Suit yourself.”
He took another bite and shot Riley a grin. Teren squatted down to her level, looking into her eyes without touching her.
“You’re upset, and I can understand that. For you, things are happening too fast to fathom. But I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Waiting and preparing.”
“Killing my husband and son, was that part of your preparation?”
She held his gaze now, determined at last not to run from the truth. A burgundy-colored flush spread over Teren’s cheeks and his eyes turned dark as if a cloud had crossed the sun. He dipped his head in a bow of acknowledgment. “Now you know, Riley. Now you know. Does it change anything?”
She stared at him, incredulous. “Why?” she screamed. A rope of fire blazed within her, twisting and snapping. “Why did you do it?”
“If you still don’t get it, I don’t know how I can explain it to you in the time we have left.”
The man called John rose from his pine needle resting place.
“Keep her quiet,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
As John melted into the woods, a spike of desperate hope flashed through Riley. He’d seen or heard something that alarmed him. Was help nearby? She threw back her head and wailed like a siren. Teren was on her instantly, one hand clapped over her mouth, the other at the back of her neck, holding her head steady. She struggled uselessly against him, straining the muscles in her neck until she thought they would tear apart.
John came back, at a run. He stuffed a dirty rag into her mouth and secured it in place with a dust mask, tightening the rubber fastener against her cheek with a vindic
tive snap.
“We got company coming,” said John. “They’re a quarter mile down the ridge yet, probably making for the ranger shack. I’ll go head them off. You take the woman that way,” he said, pointing northwest, “and finish what you started.”
Riley’s heart swelled with hope as she watched John sprint away toward the south, the rhythmic pfutt, pfutt of his hiking boots fading into the forest. They were out looking for her, and they were close.
Teren zipped and shouldered her pack, smoothing pine needles, erasing the signs of their presence here. He pulled her up and into his arms and she stiffened to show she wanted no part of him. He held her for a moment, stroking her hair, whispering against her ear, but she did not thaw.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice cold, his iron hand tugging her by the upper arm, leading her away from the spot where she’d come so close to defeating him. Leading her away from help, away from hope.
CHAPTER 94
“THERE’S AN OLD RANGER’S HUT up the hill a piece,” said Frank.
Chief Deputy Steadman nodded. “I’ve been there a time or two, making sure no one’s running a meth lab. We’ll check it out.”
Their little group pressed up the ridge, spread into a rough V-shape, looking and listening for any signs of Riley, Nate, or Teren. The air swirled with mist and ash, coating their skin and clothing with a grimy film. The woods were quiet, the thudding of their boots strangely without resonance, as if the sounds were being sucked into a vacuum before they could leave an impression on the ear.
Frank tasted grit and spat, trying to clear it from his tongue. He felt nauseated, the ham sandwich and barbecue-flavored potato chips he’d eaten for lunch threatening a return appearance. How much of it was caused by the noxious air, and how much by his anxiety for Riley, was an equation that would remain forever unsolved. The bottoms of his feet ached and throbbed. His plantar fasciitis was plainly along for the ride, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing on the terrain, on finding Riley.
The tall, tapering trunks of pine and fir thinned as they approached the clearing. A man in ragged jeans and a green-checked flannel shirt sat on the porch steps of the weathered and leaning hut. His face was full of hollows, cheekbones jutting like carved stone. He had a knife in his hand and used it to whittle a Y-shaped stick that might be destined for a sling-shot. He rose to his feet when he saw them, walking forward to shake their hands.
“I’m so glad to see you guys. It’s getting kind of creepy up here, all on my own.”
Deputy Steadman nodded toward the hut. “That’s Forest Service property.”
The man looked startled, then bobbed his head in conciliation.
“Oh, I know. I know. I’ll clear out and no harm done. I was driving to my aunt’s house, over in Union, but the roads were washed out. I tried to hike over the ridge, but when I came across this little cabin I thought no one would blame me for taking a rest. Under the circumstances.”
He still held the knife, and Frank noticed it was a KA-BAR, new-looking, without scratch or blemish. The guy’s dirty blond hair stuck up in awkward patches and his teeth were slightly bucked, giving him the look of a hapless, underfed guinea pig. He offered an apologetic smile and Deputy Steadman let the subject drop, bringing up a new one.
“Have you seen anyone else up here? A woman, perhaps?”
“Oh yes, about half an hour ago. I called to her, but she ignored me.”
“Which direction was she headed?
“That a-way.” He gestured up the ridge to the southwest.
“And she was alone?”
“I didn’t see anyone else with her.”
Frank watched the deputy, unable to read anything from his impassive face. The lawman reached for the canteen at this belt and took a pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“All right, we’ll be moving on. Take care you leave that facility the way you found it.” He gave the man a final nod and walked to the southwest tree line. Frank and the rest of the men followed.
“Our best bet for finding Teren is to find Ms. Forte,” the deputy said. “The man says she went this way and I’ve got nothing but my gut to tell me otherwise.” He paused, and Frank saw the muscles of his jaw tighten. “Let’s fan out a little, but stay in shouting distance.”
Frank felt as if he carried a lead ball in his stomach. In a few, short days his civilized existence had morphed into something surreal and barely recognizable as his. He crunched forward over a bed of crackling sticks and struck into the woods, spacing himself from the next guy, straining his eyes and ears for any trace of Riley’s presence.
He was not going to lose his best neighbor.
CHAPTER 95
A LIGHT BREEZE LIFTED THE hair off Topper’s forehead, stirring eddies of ash, as he watched the posse of men spread out over the deepening shadows of the ridge, pressing off in the wrong direction. He smiled. He got such a kick out of messing with people, making them do things. Crazy things. Evil things.
It had been fun manipulating Candace, reeling her in like a fish, making her hot for him and watching her thrash on the line, pouting with those lush, red lips, giving him the cold shoulder when she felt spurned. She was so predictable. Fun, but not much of a challenge.
What a rush, though, when he’d moved the governor and the press with his ‘impassioned pleas for public safety.’ On his word, thousands of people had fled in panic. Some escaped, but many kept their appointment with Death. He’d almost wanted to stick around to enjoy the pandemonium. Rainier had unleashed a cataclysmic event, but he’d beaten her to the punch, mobilizing a giant wave of humanity, making them dance to this tune. That’s what he’d so admired about David Johnston. He’d moved the masses.
As a child, John Harrigan had been glued to the television coverage of Mt. Saint Helen’s eruption, fascinated by how David had used scientific and persuasive means to impel the movement of so many. He’d convinced them to leave their homes, their cities and towns, and run, chased by fear. That kind of potency thrilled him.
He modeled his own rise on David’s example, and earned the nickname Topper because of his eagerness to climb to the top of any mountain. He exulted in the feeling of power it gave him, but it wasn’t as intense as the elation he experienced when snuffing out life.
Topper had never directly killed anyone, never been the one to wield the knife or the gun, never put his hands around a woman’s neck and squeezed. But he’d derived great satisfaction from goading and pushing others to it. Of course, Teren hadn’t needed much pushing. He’d been killing people under his own steam for decades and it was gratifying to inspire him and watch him work.
Teren had been choosing random folk, the low-hanging fruit, for his sacrificial knife. It was Topper who ramped up the stakes by suggesting he hand-pick select members of society, the ones whose deaths would really stir the pot. Topper had been there when Teren sliced open Michael Gagnon’s throat, emptying the life from Boeing’s big cheese, taking him from animated one moment, to inert in the next.
That had been their first joint effort. Topper had been along for Senator Brown, as well, and hidden in the trees when Teren killed the rock star. After that they’d parted ways. They were both focused on Mt. Rainier, but their respective goals regarding the volcano were too diverse. After Topper achieved his aim of scrambling the population, he’d headed for Mountain View, figuring it would put him out of harm’s way and reunite him with Teren for a little post-eruption fulfillment.
It seems Teren had been busy without him, and now there was the woman. He sensed Teren was ambivalent about killing her, blowing hot and cold. He may have to do this one himself. He knew he could and wondered if he’d feel the same power pulsing through him like an ecstasy high when he slipped the blade into her. Would removing the middle man heighten the experience or dilute the thrill? The thought kindled his curiosity.
He set his face to the north and ascended the ridge, moving toward Teren and Riley, toward an exercise in first-hand execution.<
br />
He needed to christen his new knife anyway.
CHAPTER 96
BOBBI FOLLOWED THE WATERWAY NOW, tracing along a finger of the Puget Sound. Rick stared down, marveling at the devastation caused by the eruption. Even this far out, there was massive flooding. Through patches of ash, he could see logjams of trees piled into the crevices of the inlet. Debris of every description floated or lodged in the chocolate brown, foamy flow. Bridges had been torn off their pilings, huge bites of road lost to the voracious stream.
Rick saw communications towers downed or leaning, wires severed and splayed. He’d done the right thing. He’d pulled out all the stops. He was going to make it.
“We’re close now,” he told Bobbi, pointing northwest. “Somewhere in there is where we’ll want to land.”
She nodded. “Find us a spot.”
Above the place where the water formed a bay, Rick picked out the fairways and greens of the Mountain Vista golf course and the house-lined lanes threaded among them. The approach road to the neighborhood had been washed away in large chunks, but the interior roads appeared to be intact. In the heart of the clustered houses, beside the lake, he saw the clubhouse parking lot. Perfect.
Bobbi was already heading toward it, when the engine choked and sputtered. Rick looked at the fuel gauge and then at Bobbi.
“No malfunction this time,” she said. “We’ve got just enough to see us to the target.”
Rick’s view of the parking lot clarified as it grew nearer and he could make out the type and color of the few vehicles parked there. The white lines defining the separate spaces solidified. Nearly there.
As they lowered, the helicopter pulled out of trim, veering and bucking. Bobbi frowned in surprise, adjusted, and continued forward. A sound like an angry buzzsaw burst at them from behind and the helicopter jerked and began to rotate.
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 25
