Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“You get a name?” Dutch asked.
Christian pulled the wallet from the guy’s pocket, careful not to smear the blood soaked through the jeans. “Arizona license. Eli Warner.” They finally had a name for one of the victims.
Dutch leaned in. “We have an identification? I would’ve bet against it. This is something, Christian. The guy must’ve been a tourist?”
“Maybe.” Christian stood again. “Not anymore.” He stood over the body, his flashlight sweeping in a slow arc across the soaked ground. Everything was mud, pine needles, and blood. The river churned behind them, loud enough to make it hard to think.
Then he saw it.
Off to the left, a shallow depression in the moss. Another just beyond it that was barely visible under the sheen of rain. But the spacing was right. The angle was right. He took a step, crouched beside it. Let the light fall at just the right angle. “Dutch,” he said.
Dutch walked over, peering down. “That a print?”
“Yeah. Boot tread. Deep enough for weight, but not the victim’s. He didn’t get back up.” Christian followed the line with his light. “There’s more. It moves off into the trees.”
Dutch stood silent for a second, watching him. “You up to tracking him?”
“Absolutely.” Christian followed another sign, which was a broken sapling branch at thigh height that smelled fresh. Then a heel scuff in the mud, slipping right. “He came this way in a hurry, favoring the right side. Might be hurt.”
Dutch exhaled, steady. “I can’t leave the body or the kids. Don’t like sending you alone.”
Christian looked up. “Part of the reason I’m taking this job is that I can do it alone. Plus, if I wait, the rain will wash the trail out. This may be the only shot I’ve got.”
“I’ll take the body to Doc May’s so she can start the prelim, and I’ll make sure the kids get home.” Dutch stared into the dark. “You radio if something turns. If you catch the guy, try not to kill him. We like to take them alive and to trial.”
Christian nodded once. “I understand the assignment.”
Dutch looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the clearing.
Christian didn’t wait. He pushed into the trees, boots heavy, light cutting through branches and wet shadow. The uneven but clear trail kept him moving. Someone had run this way.
The woods swallowed him, welcoming him home. He moved slow and low, gaze scanning the ground, flashlight aimed at his feet, not ahead. The trail was a repetition of off-center prints, displaced moss, and branches bent the wrong direction. Enough to follow if a hunter knew what to look for. Not enough for someone less stubborn.
Whoever it was had moved fast and messy. No sign of doubling back. No care to cover the trail. They weren’t afraid of being followed, or they didn’t think anyone would bother.
Christian wasn’t sure which worried him more.
The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, which helped. The scent of wet spruce and churned mud filled the air. The trees were packed tighter now, older, the kind of woods that didn’t see casual foot traffic.
He saw a print, which was clear this time. Deep heel, tread slipping right again. The runner was still favoring that side.
Christian’s boots caught in a patch of thick muck. He paused, listened.
Nothing but wind in the trees.
No birds. No night calls. Just silence.
He moved on. The trail climbed a narrow ridge. At the top, the trees thinned, giving way to a run-off ditch and an old fence line. Beyond that, down the slope, he saw the dull glow of streetlights.
He stopped upon reaching the Willows. The duplexes and rundown units sat below, hunched in the dark like a row of bruises. Paint peeling, a few windows boarded over, and puddles reflecting the weak light like oil. It smelled like trash, mildew, and rot.
He crouched and swept his flashlight off. Watched. A few porch lights were on. One TV flickered blue through a broken blind. The rest of the units looked dead asleep.
But the prints led here. No question.
He traced the last few signs and found mud scraped along the gravel, and a dirty handprint smeared low on a utility pole, like the runner had stopped to catch their breath or stay upright.
And then nothing. The trail died at the edge of the lot.
Christian’s gaze drifted toward the far unit. Jarod Teller’s.
It was dark.
No porch light. No movement. Curtains pulled.
But Amka had been there. Just hours ago.
So had May.
The crawl in his gut got worse. He didn’t like this part of town on the best night, and this wasn’t one of those. The place felt wrong. Like something had been here recently and hadn’t fully left.
He backed into the trees, sat on his heels, and waited. Watched until dawn arrived, and still, nobody moved. As the sun began to light the wet trees around him, he texted Brock to give Amka a ride to work, even though that meant revealing his little secret cabin. There would be questions, no doubt. He also texted Ace to watch the bar for the day. Yeah, they’d fought the night before, but something had flickered in Ace’s eyes. He wouldn’t screw up again.