Woman in Shadow

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I couldn’t just sit around here waiting for something to happen. Mae had been here six months and no one had found her. There wasn’t six months’ worth of Old El Paso traditional refried beans and Spam with cheese. There wasn’t even a piece of paper to put into a bottle and float down the stream . . . paper.

  Paper.

  Mae was an artist. I had some of her drawings. Where were her sketchpads? Works in progress? Drawing pencils or charcoal for that matter?

  The rock, location of the body, and note she supposedly wrote to Sam saying she was leaving all pointed to murder. I added the missing art and supplies to that conclusion. What about the bounced check?

  This search of the cabin was brief. No checkbook.

  The dogs began barking. I braced myself. The earthquake caused the logs to shift and rumble and dust to fly. The door of the stove rattled free. This time the barking kept up. Not good. What did they call this? An earthquake swarm?

  Still bracing for the next quake, I stared at the stove. If I wanted to get rid of art and checkbooks, I could burn them . . . I drew closer, then peered inside. A lump of something was just inside the door. I reached inside.

  Warm.

  I snatched my hand out and jerked upright. A woman dead six months didn’t need a fire. Who’d been staying here?

  The dogs’ barking became high-pitched. The last time they’d carried on like this we’d had a major quake. The roof of this building already sagged.

  I charged from the house, pausing only when I was clear of the structure. The dogs faced me, hackles raised, barking frantically.

  No. They weren’t barking at me. They were barking at something behind me.

  I started to turn. Something smashed into my head.

  Chapter 23

  I opened my eyes, then closed them. Nothing changed. I was in absolute blackness.

  Night. Dark. Black. No! No! No!

  I can’t remember. Not again. Ground yourself in the present . . . I couldn’t stop the PTSD flashback. The sealed section of my memory opened, returning me to that day in Skagit County five years earlier.

  “This was the surprise?” I leaned across to see the house better. My dear, sweet husband, Jim Carson, put his truck into park, turned off the engine, then turned to me.

  “Are you buying it?” I scrunched my face as if smelling something bad. “Tearing it down? Maybe arresting someone here? I rather thought we were going to go look at horses. Horse. Not house. That little mare isn’t going to be on the market long—”

  “We are.” He pointed up a small rise to the modest white rancher surrounded by looming evergreens. “But first, the humble abode of Kirt Walter Daday.” Yellow crime scene tape fluttered around the front yard. Jim rolled down his window. The rain-tinged mountain air filled the cab, and the screeching caw of a raven broke the silence. “You worked so hard on this case, Darby. Every so often you should get the chance to actually see more than words on a piece of paper.”

  “News flash. Words are my thing. Forensic linguists love words.” I touched his face. “But thank you.”

  He grabbed my hand, rotating it so the emerald solitaire on my wedding ring caught the light. “Like you, the rarest and most priceless stone on earth.” He leaned over and kissed me.

  I couldn’t believe Jim had asked me to marry him. We’d said our vows a year ago. I’d prayed for just such a godly man. My second prayer had also been answered. I stroked my slightly rounded stomach. A son. We hadn’t decided on a name yet.

  Today could be the icing on the cake—finding my perfect horse, which I would one day ride to a team roping and barrel racing championship. The horse that we’d been on our way to see.

  “Darby?” He was staring at my face. “You zoned out for a moment.”

  “Just contemplating our future.” I pointed at the house. “And I do hope it doesn’t include buying the Daday place. That’s just plain creepy.”

  “No.”

  “Then shouldn’t we get going?”

  “We won’t bother anyone. The place is empty.”

  “That’s good.” This time when we kissed, I wanted it to go on forever, but eventually I had to come up for air. “I . . . um . . .” I cleared my throat. “I thought Daday had an apartment in town.”

  “He did, but we found this address when we searched the apartment.” He reached over and stroked my now-tangled shoulder-length hair. “Daday would still be killing women if not for your work.”

  “But my contribution was very small. Infinitesimal.” I held my fingers a quarter inch apart. “Just a bit of a nudge on some notes he wrote.”

  “Hardly—”

  “I was just doing my job. Everyone in the department put in overtime, especially you. You should have gotten a promotion after all that.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I’d bet if Daday hadn’t committed suicide-by-cop, his trial would have highlighted your investigative work.”

  “Maybe, but it was your linguistic work that moved the case forward.”

  “Then there’s that whole nickname issue.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t start on that again—”

  “It offends me. Of course, naming a killer is disgusting enough, but when the press gives a serial killer a label, they usually do a better job. The Hillside Strangler. The Green River Killer. Jack the Ripper.”

  “Is there a book somewhere that gives the rules for naming serial killers?”

  “Of course not, don’t be silly, but the structure should be the ordinary juxtaposed with the dangerous.”

  “Darby, nobody thinks about the order of the words.”

  “I do. And how stupid a name is the Butcher of Sedro-Woolley?”

  He sighed and straightened. “But that’s where his victims lived—”

  “And the words butcher and Woolley don’t flow. Woolley makes me think of Chewbacca. Wild and woolly. A woolly lamb. Woolly bully.”

  “I think—”

  “Even Chewbacca was a Wookiee, close to woolly.”

  “You and words. Come to think of it, you and talking.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Are you saying I talk too much?”

  He touched my hair again. “I would never say that. And live.” He grinned. “What would you have named the serial killer?”

  “Something like the Cascade Killer. Seattle Slayer—”

  “He didn’t murder in Seattle—”

  “Poetic license. They couldn’t even call him by his last name, like Bundy or Dahmer. Daday sounds like daddy. The news needed . . .” A movement caught my attention. I peered over his shoulder, then squinted. “I thought you said the house was empty.”

  He turned and looked. “He lived alone. It should be . . .” He narrowed his eyes.

  “Maybe someone is in there collecting souvenirs.” My neck prickled and I scratched it.

  “This address was never released.” He reached for his cell. “But I can tell you’re bothered by something. It’s possible the forensic team is still collecting evidence.”

  “Don’t bother trying to call.” I leaned forward, watching the house. “No service.” I rubbed my neck on the other side. “I don’t see the forensic van.”

  His gaze tracked around the house. “I think I see it. Through the trees over there. We should probably let them do their work.” He reached for the starter button. “We’ll double check when we get service and let the county sort it out.” He pushed the starter. “Ready to go look at your horse—”

  Something moved next to the house.

  It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. I grabbed Jim’s arm in a white-knuckled grip.

  He whipped around.

  A man was slowly moving toward us. One arm held a woman, mouth twisted in horror. His other arm held a pistol to her head.

  Jim jerked. “We’re in the shade. I don’t think he’s seen you yet. Duck down.”

  “Oh, sweet heaven!” I slid to the floor of the truck. “Who are they?”

  “I think sh
e’s a forensic technician for the county. Don’t know the guy. Is your pistol still in the glove box?”

  “Yes.” My stomach hardened. I needed to tell him something, but my mind wouldn’t focus on what.

  Without looking at me, he opened the glove box, handed me the gun, then slid the cell over. “I’m going to try to talk him down. See if you can get a clean shot.”

  “But—”

  “The phone will vibrate when you have service. Keep trying for backup.”

  I reached for his hand but he’d raised his arms to show he held no weapon.

  He was going to face that armed gunman and trust me to cover him? To save him? My vision blurred.

  He lowered one hand and slowly opened the door from the outside.

  Can I kill a man? Pull that trigger?

  “Take it easy. I’m unarmed. My name is Jim—”

  “Shut up!” the man yelled. “I know you. I seen you on TV. You’re that cop.”

  “I’m—”

  “He didn’t do nothin’.”

  He didn’t do nothin’? I snatched up the pistol. Wrong. This is wrong.

  Jim slid from the cab, hands again upraised, then shut the door behind him. I used the sound to mask my opening the door on the other side, then slid to the ground.

  “I’d like to understand. Please tell me. I’m listening.” Jim’s legs were visible under the truck. He stepped forward and right, pulling the man’s attention in that direction.

  I crawled swiftly on hands and knees in the opposite direction, ending up by the rear bumper. I risked a quick glance up the hill at the man.

  “Don’t come no closer or I’ll shoot her.” He jammed the pistol harder into the woman’s temple. Her eyes squeezed shut.

  “I won’t. Tell me about what happened.” Jim continued to move away from the truck and toward the man. “I understand you’re upset.”

  “Upset?” The man spit on the ground next to him. “Upset!” His eyes were like white marbles. “I told ya, he didn’t do nothin’!”

  “And I hear you. What did people think he did?”

  “Killed them women.”

  “Are you talking about Kirt Daday?” Jim lowered his hands slightly.

  I rested my hand on the bumper and sighted in on the man’s head. The pistol shook. My brain kept pounding out, Terribly wrong.

  “’Course I’m talkin’ about Kirt!”

  Shoot, Darby!

  “He just wrote them notes for me.”

  I gasped. Daday didn’t write the notes? Had I identified the wrong man?

  “What do you mean?” Jim shifted his weight and prepared to step forward again.

  “I mean you killed the wrong guy.” He pulled the trigger. His hostage dropped, pulling him off balance.

  Darby, shoot!

  Jim looked at me, eyes wide.

  Pull that trigger!

  “Now, Darby. Shoot now!” Jim screamed.

  The killer fired again, this time at my husband.

  Jim crumpled.

  Run! I leaped up and ran toward a line of trees.

  Something smashed into my leg. I pitched forward. The ground rushed up to meet me. I landed hard on my side. The odors of dust and dead grass and the coppery stench of blood filled my nose. My vision narrowed to a small pinprick of light. In the center was the killer. In slow motion, he rose from the ground.

  I felt around me for my pistol.

  The killer walked up to me and raised his gun.

  My hand encountered only grass. I’m going to die.

  He put his gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 24

  Bram couldn’t believe he’d ridden so far, nor that the ground had been so rough. He felt like he’d climbed uphill for miles. He hadn’t been able to come up with a plan for what to do at Mule Shoe other than observe and try to find the killer.

  To take his mind off the pain in his shoulder, he returned his thoughts to Liam as the possible arsonist. No one particularly liked the young man. Well, maybe a few females, but he certainly didn’t receive what most men, most people, wanted. Respect.

  His best bet would be to formulate a timeline of Liam’s movements. At best it would be circumstantial, but Liam might confess if he thought there was a witness or other evidence. Yesterday when Bram asked Liam if his mother had met Shadow Woman, Liam mentioned the only fire where someone had been killed. He’d said, “Mom was really upset, but I . . .” Bram was willing to bet his mom was upset because she thought Liam set the fire, and Liam was about to say, “But I had nothing to do with it.”

  Liam’s time of reckoning was approaching fast.

  * * *

  Something was hitting me, pushing me, wet, pounding.

  My eyes were open, but the blackness did not go away.

  The back of my head throbbed. My throat ached from screaming. Something clawed, whined, and licked me. I reached out to push it away. A soft coat, floppy ears. “Holly?”

  The dog shivered and nudged me.

  Panting and warm air came from behind me. “Maverick?”

  The big dog lay beside me and let me hug him before he moved away.

  “Good dogs.”

  I tried to put it all together. I was shot. Shot! Bleeding! Reaching for my belt to apply a tourniquet, my hand encountered a small object. I felt it with both hands. Of course, this was the GPS. I wasn’t bleeding.

  I was . . . wherever this black hole was.

  My brain seemed scrambled from the blow and memory. I’d never had such a powerful and detailed flashback. Why hadn’t I fired my gun five years ago? Why had I run instead? Did I let my husband . . .

  “Stop! Ground yourself in the present. Got that? Okay, my name is Darby Carson. No, Darby Graham Bell. My husband and my baby . . . No!”

  Present. Not past. Not another flashback. “I’m soaking wet from sweat. It’s hot here and it stinks. The ground is . . .” I felt around me. “Dirt. The dogs are here, so they had to get here . . .” I shook my head, then immediately regretted it. Reaching back, I touched the aching spot. My hand came away wet. “Someone hit me over the head and put me . . . here. Did they put you two here as well? No. Maverick, you wouldn’t have let anyone near you. You must have found me or followed me here.”

  I felt my jacket, then pants pockets, on the remote chance I had a flashlight or match. I found the two remaining rocks Scott had given me. No help there. I reached out and explored the space. Rock. A rock wall was within arm’s length.

  I shifted to find out what was on the other side. Something’s wrong!

  Ground yourself . . . Another cascade of memories fell.

  A thousand bees were stinging my leg. I opened my eyes. In front of me, on the ground, were the remains of the killer. I jerked my gaze in the other direction. My husband lay in the distance. Nonononono!

  The bees were stinging less. The world was starting to retreat. Fight this.

  It took all my strength to push to a seated position so I could see. A red lake was forming around my lower leg. My brain felt like it was filled with growing black tar. Tourniquet. I unfastened my belt and looped it around my thigh, screaming with the pain. The darkness returned.

  I had no idea how much time passed before I regained consciousness. Was I still in the ebony blackness of an abyss, or on the lawn lying next to the killer?

  Holly pressed against me. I stroked her head and sat up. I have to fight this. The counselors at Clan Firinn had warned me I could go into a dissociative fugue state to escape from the memories, the trauma. I could become confused, lose my identity, wander aimlessly. We’d never get out of here. Ground yourself.

  “Holly, Maverick, here’s the plan.” My voice was high-pitched and shaky. “You got in here, so you’ll have to lead us out. No voting on this.” The earth throbbed slightly and the stench grew. Sulfur.

  “We need to move as quickly as possible ’cause it stinks, in case you hadn’t noticed. And getting hotter if that’s possible.”

  Something ha
d triggered that second flashback episode. It occurred when I moved my body. Cautiously I felt around. Rock wall to my right. My voice bounced as if in a small space. Holly was on my left. Beyond Holly? Reaching out, I felt nothing. I dropped my arm and touched the ground. Dirt and . . . metal? My fingers explored the object. Rounded top with a lip under two sides. Long—I couldn’t find an end to it. A rail? Railroad? That didn’t make sense. Could we be in a railroad tunnel? Would a train be coming through soon?

  No. The rock wall was within arm’s length. A train couldn’t fit in here. Something smaller. More like a mine cart.

  “Good news. Maybe. I think we’re inside an old mine. To get out of here, we just need to follow the rails. I’m sure you two can figure out which direction.”

  I started to stand, then froze. A drop of sweat slithered down my forehead. Slowly I ran my hand down my leg. My prosthesis was gone.

  I clapped my hands over the scream. Stop, stop, stop . . . No . . . Again the memories flooded my brain.

  Night. I’d been lying here for hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, hoping, praying for someone to come along. I’d rolled onto my stomach and tried to crawl away from the killer, but I was too weak to get far.

  The sound of a car and flash of headlights made me raise my head. Praise Jesus, thank You, God, someone is here.

  Voices.

  “Hey, Matt, Chris, come over here! This is cool. A body!”

  “Naaa, really? Awesome!”

  “Whatcha think we shood do?”

  “Grab his gun, man. ’Nother gun over there.”

  Approaching footsteps. “Hey, there’s a chick here. Pretty. Should we—”

  “Naa, man, I ain’t that drunk.”

  They moved away.

  Help me! I moved my lips, but no sound came from my throat.

  “Check the truck.”

  The slam of truck doors, then car doors, then the roar of an engine, and they were gone. Silence again descended on the field.

  I closed my eyes.

  This time it was Maverick, pushing against me and whining, that brought me around. It was hotter than ever, and the sulfur stench punched me in the face.