The Hunted Girls

by Jenna Kernan

  Nadine ignored the signs that her core temperature was dropping. Unfortunately, Juliette had once told her about some of her experiences in New Hampshire during her residency. They’d had people who fell through thin ice, slid off snow-covered roads and froze to death inside their vehicles. But the one Juliette obsessed on was a young girl who had been hiking out ahead of her family and taken a wrong turn. By the time the parents realized she was not on the correct trail and walked out to get help, the temperature had dropped to fifty degrees with a light mist. Not cold, but cold enough. The girl had died of exposure despite the temperature being well above freezing.

  “Because she was wet and because she never took shelter.”

  Nadine couldn’t feel her hands or feet. They didn’t hurt anymore, but they should hurt. The thought of gangrene sent the first shiver over her in hours. Her teeth no longer tapped against the gag, and she felt warmer.

  Perhaps hugging her knees was working?

  She opened her eyes and realized the rain no longer dripped into her watery tomb. The sky seemed dark gray, lighter than the interior. Morning was nearing. He’d stop. He’d help her.

  But would he?

  If she was right, he meant to possess her. Not kill her.

  But what if she was wrong?

  Where’s Jack? Had he left the agent behind or killed him?

  She thought of the moment she’d seen the Huntsman in her room and dropped the cat.

  Her opinion of Muffin had changed again. Nadine decided there was a reason there are no guard cats.

  Useless piece of fluff. Molly would never have let that happen. She’d have… licked the intruder’s face and brought him her chewy toy, she thought. But at least Nadine would have known he was there.

  The truck swerved again and then slowed to a stop. Nadine sucked in a breath and held it as the water sloshed over her nose. The vehicle turned and continued at a much slower pace. She knew exactly when they reached the jeep trail from the number of ruts.

  Nadine refused to drown on the last few miles. Then she slipped from the wall and back to her side. Submerged.

  She thrashed. Holding her breath as pinpricks of light exploded behind her closed eyelids. Her legs no longer responded to her commands. Her arms were useless.

  I’m sorry, Clint, she thought as she fought against the urge to breathe. Her life was now measured in heartbeats and the seconds she could resist her body’s hungry demands for oxygen.

  The tub slid, scraping the solid surface beneath her. Light flooded in as the lid fell away. Nadine turned her head to see a blurry form and then the tub crashed to its side, spilling the water and disgorging Nadine onto the ground.

  “Nadine!” His frantic voice seemed far away.

  She gagged. Unable to draw enough air through her nose.

  He roughly tore the tape from her mouth and yanked away the gag. Just in time, as she spewed water and the contents of her stomach. Coughing and sputtering.

  “I’m so sorry. The airholes. I didn’t realize. I should have put a hole in the bottom.”

  Nadine continued to choke and gag as he rubbed her back.

  “You’re freezing,” he said.

  He left her there. Nadine’s neck ached. The rest of her body seemed carved of wood.

  Her captor returned, wrapping her in a blanket and hoisting her into his arms. Only then did she realize she was not in a truck but in the bottom of a flat-bottomed boat, towed behind a pickup truck. She glanced around, the adrenaline now surging through her, waking her brain from its stupor.

  This might be her only chance to see her surroundings.

  Everything she observed only deepened her terror. They were in deep forest on an elevated jeep trail, under the canopy of interlocking branches with broad rounded leaves. Not oak, she realized, so she was no longer in Central Florida. A glance at the roots of the trees gave her the answer. They arched over each other like croquet wickets gone mad, covering the ground in a wild tangle that terminated in glistening silver water. Mangrove trees. One of the few plants that could survive the salt water of inlets, bays and the mouths of Florida’s rivers. With the change of tide, the roots would vanish, submerging with everything but the elevated road. Beside the jeep trail, and just above the tideline, scrub palmetto squatted.

  Nadine craned her neck.

  Low tide. But which coast?

  The Gulf of Mexico or the Atlantic? Or it could be the Florida Everglades. One and a half million acres of wetlands, the river of grass that was exactly the opposite direction that the authorities would assume he had gone. They’d be closing roads and airports to the north, shutting off arteries leading out of the state. They’d be searching vehicles at roadblocks. And she’d be lost in one of the most inaccessible places in the entire state.

  A mangrove forest.

  She knew such places were unlike any other forest on earth because between their trunks and the mud below, the tidal water constantly flowed. It was possible to walk from branch to branch, but you would never touch the ground because there was no ground. Only the brackish water. Where the tidal surge flowed fast, channels formed through the trees. But in still waters, like these, the passage had to be laboriously cleared. These trees were so special, so important, that damaging them was illegal.

  But someone had cut these—recently.

  The three-foot-wide tunnel before her showed that. And here on an empty coastal road, she knew this aquatic corridor was not part of any park service trail. The nearly imperceptible break in the foliage would be invisible to motorists. But she saw it and it terrified her. Once he took them through this fissure, the dark maw would swallow her up.

  She recalled her Florida history. The indigenous people, the Seminole, were the only tribe in the country who had never signed a peace treaty because the US military could not find them in the Everglades to force a surrender. Their guns had rusted, and their wool and cotton clothing were torn to ribbons by the sawgrass. Meanwhile, the Seminole persisted, retreating like the Russians in winter ahead of the German army. They had only to wait.

  The Huntsman lowered her into the bottom of the boat and left her there as a feast for the mosquitoes, returning in short order carrying something that taxed his strength, judging from the grunting and heavy tread.

  Jack.

  She craned her neck to see Agent Skogen limp in the arms of their captor. He set the unconscious FBI agent beside her in the boat, banging Jack’s head on the seat. The aluminum vibrated, but the agent did not move.

  He left them, disappearing toward the truck.

  She nudged Jack with her shoulder, jostling him, in an awkward attempt to rouse him.

  The truck engine turned over and they rolled backward. The steep angle caused a surging wave of panic as the boat tipped and rolled down the embankment.

  Both she and Jack skidded to the stern, halted by the metal seat. The splash told her that the carrier beneath them rolled through tidal water.

  The Huntsman disconnected the boat from the carrier and shoved the craft off and into the mangrove tunnel. In a moment her captor stood, knee-deep beside the boat.

  “There’s my girl. You gave me a fright.” He stroked her cheek. “You’re cold as an ice pop. I’m going to wrap you next to that sack of shit. Maybe he’s still good for something. You can steal his body heat.”

  He set her on a foam mat, rolling her to her stomach. He lifted her arms, stretching them painfully. A zipping sound preceded her release as her kidnapper cut through the tape binding her wrists.

  “Get the blood back in those hands.” The Huntsman rubbed her arms, setting off an agony of pins and needles.

  She cried out in pain.

  “Hurts? That’s good. Blood’s coming back.” He yanked her hands before her.

  She moved her thumb and felt the engagement ring Clint had given her. She spun the ring, so the diamond pressed to her palm as he again bound her wrists together before her.

  Finally their captor rolled her half on top of Jack’s li
mp body and tossed a blanket over the pair of them. The hissing of a spray and the odor of bug repellent followed.

  “That’ll keep most of them off you. You hang on. We’ll be there in a little while.”

  He left them again. The sound of the truck engine revving and the wheels spinning in loose sand followed. She didn’t hear the clatter of the boat trailer rattling up the incline. Had their abductor left it here in the passage?

  He was moving the vehicle, leaving them secreted in the tidal tunnel.

  “Jack.” She nudged his shoulder, wiggling against him.

  He had not bothered to tie the agent and that worried her. Either Jack had a fever, or she was freezing. Either way, his skin burned against hers.

  This might be the only time they were alone, and Jack didn’t even perceive that she was there.

  “Jack! Wake up right now!”

  He stirred. Muttering something.

  “It’s Nadine. Do you hear me?”

  More mumbling.

  The truck engine halted. Nadine stilled, lying motionless beneath the rough wool blanket, listening. Minutes stretched before she perceived the slosh of the Huntsman returning to them. The small craft rocked as their captor climbed aboard and sat in the seat inches from her head. The scrape of a pole and the ripple of water against the boat told her they were in motion.

  The scratch of the mangrove branches on the aluminum hull revealed that the fit of the craft in the passage was tight. How invisible would such an aperture become after only a day or two? Soon, the flattened vegetation on the shoulder would rise, the tracks of the trailer hitch in the mud would vanish with the tide and they were as lost as if they had strayed into the Amazon rain forest.

  How had he hidden the truck? He’d have to, she was certain, or his vehicle might be reported abandoned. Was it even his?

  Nadine rested her cheek on Jack’s chest, listening to the beat of his heart. If Jack was to survive, it would depend on her.

  The slosh of the water on the boat lulled her. Exhaustion tugged relentlessly. But she feared that sleep would lead her to unconsciousness, then death. And she was not done fighting yet.

  The sound of the motor turning over and then accelerating shook her from her stupor. The ache in her back and hip pulsed with her heart. Soon, lying still in the bottom of the boat became impossible as larger waves tossed them. Were they going out in the ocean in this thing?

  Water sloshed over the gunwales, soaking her again. The understanding that she did not feel cold troubled her as much as her throbbing back. Again and again, the boat lifted and slapped down.

  Now her stomach heaved, completely taking her mind off her back. She recalled that she hated boats because of her seasick stomach.

  For the next eternity, Nadine squeezed her eyes shut and tried every trick she knew to keep from vomiting on poor Jack.

  Finally the rocking eased. Her stomach continued to pitch even after their captor cut the motor and paddled them through still water. The buzz of insects returned. The wind died.

  At last they came to a stop, still floating, she was certain. The boat rocked and banged against something as their captain left the vessel.

  He tugged the blanket off her and she struggled with the urgency to sit up.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  He plucked her from the boat, leaving Jack behind, and held her as her legs gave way. He eased her to the rough plank docking and tugged back her hair as her stomach released its meager contents. His touch only made her more desperate to vomit. She heaved until her throat burned and her mouth filled with the taste of bile.

  He drew a bandana out and wiped her mouth.

  “You always get seasick?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll have to get you something for that.”

  Why? she wondered. Were they going somewhere else in that damned metal coffin?

  She groaned and he eased her to her knees. Nadine let her cheek rest on the worn wood. In the dim gray light of morning, she peered at a shack constructed of vertical boards so old the lumber had turned gray and moss clung to the wood with the lichen. Where was Jack?

  She craned her neck, spotting him, now a motionless lump beneath the dirty blanket.

  “You’re freezing. Seems that sack of shit isn’t even good as a handwarmer.”

  He easily swept her up into his arms and strode inside. The darkness blinded her. Gradually her eyes adjusted, and she recognized a woodstove and a cot. A small table stood beside the stove with two ancient chairs. Curls of peeling paint clung to the wooden legs. On the center of the table sat a plant in a rusted tin can set on a chunk of firewood. She blinked at the feathery white bloom, recognizing it instantly, though never having seen one in person.

  A ghost orchid. The rarest bloom in the entire state, some thought in the world. The long lower petals were two feet in length and slightly twisted.

  “Started that one for you over a year ago,” he said.

  So she’d been right. He’d planned this for at least a year, targeting her. The chill now crept into her heart.

  “You like it? Folks say you can’t keep them. But you can if the conditions are right. It’s a white frog orchid.”

  “Ghost orchid,” she said, momentarily marveling at its beauty. The endangered bloom belonged fixed to a tree somewhere deep in the glades, beyond the reach of man.

  Was that where she was now?

  He lowered her to the cot and opened the grate on the stove. He’d set the makings for a fire. A carefully arranged pyramid of wood captured dry kindling at the center. The man had his back to her as he struck the match.

  The clothing he wore was unremarkable, a blue T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans. His mesh ball cap sported a camouflage pattern and his worn work boots were wet, with bits of grass and fern clinging to his pant legs.

  With the fire crackling, he turned to her. Her eyes widened as he withdrew a knife from the leather carrier on his belt. Then he sliced the tethers connecting her hands and feet.

  “Got to get you warmed up.” He tugged her from the cot.

  She fought him but was too weak as he cut away her wet T-shirt and tossed it aside. She slept in only that shirt and so she was now naked.

  He straightened to stare.

  “My God, Nadine. You’re beautiful.” He grasped her torso and she stilled as a new panic flooded her, choking her so she could not breathe.

  His hands slid down her sides, stopping at the flare of her hips, nodding in approval.

  “Perfect,” he said. “I knew you would be.”

  Then his thumb grazed over the pink, puckered scar left by the bullet from the last killer she’d profiled. Her skin crawled and screamed with disgust.

  “To think something so small could have taken you from me,” he mused.

  He straightened, releasing her. Nadine inched back.

  Then he tugged off his shirt and joined her on the cot. She rolled away, giving him her back, but he easily dragged her against him.

  “I need to warm you.”

  “Let me go,” she said.

  The stubble on his chin scratched against her temple as he shook his head.

  “Lay still or I’ll tie you again.”

  She forced herself to be still. She was weakened from the journey and could barely feel her limbs.

  He dragged a down sleeping bag over them. Gradually the feeling returned to her arms. Her skin stippled and the trembling began. She jerked and shook as he held her. When the feeling returned to her feet and hands, she cried out. The slightest movement brought excruciating pain.

  “You’ll be all right. You’re little, but strong. Folks underestimate you, I’ll bet.”

  As the sensation returned, she developed an insatiable thirst. The dryness in her mouth made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.

  She needed to think how to play this. Making demands and threats was useless. All she knew for certain was that he didn’t want her dead—yet. Beyond that, all she had was theories. T
ime to get some answers.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

  “Thirsty,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

  He rolled to his feet and retrieved a jug, pulled the cork stopper and poured from it into a tin cup.

  Inside her mind, a siren of warning blared. This was the Huntsman. He’d killed six women and now he had her. Her breathing came in shuddering gasps as fear pricked at her skin like nettles.

  “I’m sorry it’s not cold. No refrigeration out here, I’m afraid.” His back was to her.

  It gave her the moment she needed to grab her composure and wrestle it to the surface. He would not respond to weakness and cowering. No predator did.

  Nadine had lived with a killer before. If she could negotiate that as a child, how much better equipped was she now?

  He turned, holding the cup and paused, meeting her gaze. She forced her expression to curiosity, banishing the disgust in favor of a haughty affectation. He was an interesting specimen, a patient already in custody that she’d been asked to evaluate.

  She took her first good look at him. He was as normal and unexceptional as she would have anticipated. This was the sort of man one would glimpse and immediately dismiss as inconsequential. He was not big or handsome. Neither was he small or ugly.

  She’d guessed he was five-seven and less than 170 pounds, slim, with heavy muscle on his bare chest and torso. His golden-brown skin glistened with moisture, making him seem oiled. Wavy brown hair curled from under his cap. He lifted his bright green eyes and pinned her with a look, then a smile.

  Something niggled. She knew him, had seen him before. When? Where?

  Then it came to her. Clint had been questioning Simon Kilpatrick at the outdoor adventure place. And she had spoken to this man. Their killer, and she’d had no inkling. The trickle of uncertainty slid down her spine.

  This was one of the naturalists at Big River Adventures. They’d chatted about bird-watching. She’d feigned interest.