Woman in Shadow

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Okay, Maverick, okay.” Something tickled my brain. Hot. Sulfur. Something Grace said. Something about Yellowstone.

  The ground trembled again, lasting longer.

  Hot air pushed against my face.

  Maverick whined again, then grabbed my jacket and pulled.

  Grace. Outside the lodge. Talking with Dee Dee and Angie. Yellowstone’s incredibly fragile geothermal pools and geysers can be destroyed or altered by man. For example, people routinely throw pennies, garbage, even soap into geysers and pools. This can change the direction of a geyser or . . .

  I grabbed Maverick and pulled myself upright. “Right. We gotta get out of here.”

  Somehow, Maverick knew what I needed to do. The big dog let me put my hand on his shoulder and use him as a crutch. We started forward, he keeping pace with my hopping.

  The ground shook and a rumbling came from behind.

  I hopped faster.

  Heat like a blast furnace plastered my clothes against my body. The rumbling grew louder.

  My hops were more like one-legged leaps.

  Ahead, daylight.

  Rushing hot air pushed us. The rumbling was now a locomotive engine. The ground bounced.

  We weren’t going to make it. Holly shot ahead and out the mine opening.

  I put both hands on Maverick’s shoulder and leaped. Go. Go. Go.

  Steam scalded my exposed skin.

  We hit the entrance and vaulted to one side.

  Seconds later, the geyser erupted with boiling water and steam.

  Chapter 25

  I lay on my back, gasping in the clean, fresh air. “Thank You, God,” I breathed. Maybe I did believe in God. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

  How else would we have made it out in time?

  The geyser’s outburst stopped, leaving the stench of rotten eggs.

  The sun was still shining, a Steller’s jay scolded me with a shook, shook, shook, and a fly buzzed my face. The world was going on as if nothing had happened.

  But something had happened. Whoever put me in that mine knew it was an active geyser and removed my prosthesis so I wouldn’t be able to run.

  Someone tried to murder me.

  Would they be watching to ensure I didn’t make it out alive?

  I jerked upright and looked around. The mine was tucked into a narrow gulch with a creek, now swollen with superheated water flowing down the middle. In front of me rose a steep, rocky hillside where only mountain goats and bighorn sheep would be comfortable. This side had a gentler slope populated with ponderosa pines.

  We seemed to be alone. The dogs casually drank from the stream above where the geyser had sprayed.

  I exhaled and waited for my racing pulse to return to a somewhat normal rate.

  My head ached from the blow and my good leg throbbed from the frantic hopping. I rubbed my leg, then itched my neck. Whoever had taken my prosthetic leg took the liner as well. Phantom pain surged from my missing limb.

  The darkness. I’d faced darkness and come out sane. I grabbed one of the two remaining rocks from my pocket and stared at it. “As the saying goes, the only difference between stumbling blocks and stepping-stones is the way you use them.” I tossed the rock into the mine opening. That felt good.

  There was a good chance the would-be killer would return to be sure the geyser had done its job. I had to get moving, but where?

  I could hide, wait for the killer’s return, and follow him out. Right. He’d never notice two dogs and a hopping woman behind him. Any more stupid ideas?

  Obviously my brain was still muddy, and the adrenaline rush had left me shaky. “Ground yourself in the present. Come up with a plan. What can you use to help yourself?”

  At some earlier eruption, a mine cart had been shoved out and tossed on its side. Black ore and a miner’s pick lay in a pile next to the cart.

  I pushed up from the ground. Maverick, as if trained since puppyhood to be a service dog, moved next to me. His shoulder was almost as high as a kitchen counter. With his help, I maneuvered over to the cart. The ore didn’t appear to be worth the effort it must have taken to haul it out. On impulse I selected one of the smaller pieces and stuck it into my pocket. Peeking out from some of the rocks was something gray. I brushed the stones away. The gray turned out to be a baseball cap.

  Leaning against the cart, I took a closer look at the hat. It was still in good shape, so it couldn’t have been here for years. Was it evidence of someone mining here recently? How remote was this place?

  I called Holly over and held out the hat. “Find. Holly, find.”

  Holly sniffed the cap, sat, and scratched her ear.

  Placing the cap under Maverick’s nose made him sneeze. So much for search-and-rescue dogs.

  Straightening, I examined the area again, this time paying close attention to the landscape.

  The area where the geyser sprayed was rocky and without vegetation, which would make sense. A couple of bushes on the perimeter were dead, a few more farther away were dying, and a nearby ponderosa had turned yellow and dropped the needles on the lower branches.

  Leaning on Maverick, I made my way toward a flat area of dead grass next to the creek. A round rock about the size of a softball caught my attention. When I picked it up, black soot came off in my hand. I dropped the rock and looked for more. I quickly spotted a number of same-sized rocks scattered around the area. Now that I was closer to the dead grasses, I could see they formed a square.

  A campfire ring? The square outline of a tent? But no garbage, cigarette butts, tin cans. If someone had pitched a tent here, it wasn’t there long enough to permanently kill the grasses.

  So the miner had gotten what he wanted after a short amount of time, picked up, and left, taking care to erase his presence. He would have to have known that mining this close to Yellowstone was illegal.

  Of course, the chances of getting caught would be slim to none. If not for the dead vegetation, the opening would be hidden from above and from anyone coming up the gulch. So why—

  Dead and dying bushes. If this geyser had been active for a long period of time, there would be nothing growing around it. The ground around Yellowstone’s Old Faithful was barren.

  A seed of an idea sprouted in my mind. Again I replayed Grace’s comments. Yellowstone’s incredibly fragile geothermal pools and geysers can be destroyed or altered by man. For example, people routinely throw pennies, garbage, even soap into geysers and pools. This can change the direction of a geyser or . . .

  Another thing could alter the course. Mining, especially mining that used explosives to loosen the rock. What if someone accidentally blew an opening into an existing vent? Once that happened, there would be no safe way to remove the ore. Maybe that’s why this place was abandoned—not because the mine tapped out but because it was too dangerous to work here.

  The sun had shifted and was now directly overhead. I needed to move on. The killer could return at any time.

  I hoped one of the riders had made it to civilization by now and notified authorities of the situation at Mule Shoe. When I didn’t show up, they’d come looking for me. I needed to be where I could be spotted from the air. I’d follow the stream downhill.

  A faint path, little more than a game trail, paralleled the creek, heading roughly east. Maverick paced himself to my slow, hopping speed. I had to pause often to give my good leg a rest. I kept my eyes and ears open to any indication of someone returning.

  The trail narrowed, with dense bushes pushing in on all sides, and shifted to a southeast direction. I had to let go of Maverick’s shoulder and hop behind him. Holly followed me.

  The trail suddenly split, the right side following the stream and the left heading north. I stayed with the stream. The path widened but became steep. Not good. A fall at any point would be a disaster, but especially downhill. I sat and continued by scooting on my rear.

  The track finally leveled and snaked around a large boulder. I stood, brushed off my pant
s, and patted my leg for Maverick to return to my side. We stepped around the boulder.

  I froze.

  I was back at Mae’s house.

  Chapter 26

  Bram gazed down at the sprawling Mule Shoe. It had taken him several hours of walking to cover the ground his horse had so swiftly crossed. The pain in his shoulder had settled into a throbbing ache that flared into a branding iron whenever he stumbled.

  He could see no sign of movement at the resort. His original plan didn’t include the disadvantage of a dislocated shoulder, so he needed a more passive approach now.

  If Darby or Wyatt had reached their destination, help could arrive at any time. In the meantime, the barn held the most promise. The hayloft had a large door that opened toward the lodge and cabins. He could hunker down behind some hay bales and hope the killer didn’t have the same idea. He’d have to be careful.

  The hillside to his left had the most cover. He crouched and moved from bush to tree to fallen log, pausing in the shade of each location to wait for the waves of pain to pass. In the sunlight, the heat pounded down on him. Sweat dampened his back and underarms.

  He made it to the barn without raising any alarm. His runaway dun mare was just inside the door. “How nice of you to show up here,” he whispered. He looked inside the open saddlebag for his bottle of water and the GPS. Both missing. He should have looked around the ground after the mare fell to see if they had fallen out. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Using only his good arm, he unsaddled the horse and led her to the pasture door, where he removed her bridle and turned her loose. An astute killer might notice a horse suddenly appearing with sweat-outlined saddle marks, but hopefully the sheer number in the herd would prevent that.

  He and Wyatt hadn’t moved the body from the last stall, and he hoped he wouldn’t be driven from his hiding place by the smell as the day’s heat did its work.

  He eased over to the stall and looked.

  The body had been moved.

  * * *

  I blinked. Mae’s house. It was as if I’d dropped into the Twilight Zone. Or starred in my own version of Groundhog Day. Was I doomed to circle endlessly? Or had I actually died in the cave? Was I in a special purgatory? I pinched myself. That hurt.

  I was really here, still lost, still without a working GPS. And someone who had tried to kill me was probably wandering around.

  I ducked back behind the boulder.

  I had no doubt that the killer from Mule Shoe was the same one who hit me and dumped me into the mine. Probably the same one who killed Mae. He liked bashing people on the back of the head. I’d like to bash his head.

  Before I could stop her, Holly pranced out to the front of the house.

  Nothing happened. No shout of alarm, no slamming of a door. I ventured from my hiding place.

  My horse was gone, as was Mae’s mule.

  A sour taste rose in my mouth. My leg grew weak and I slumped to the ground. How am I going to get out of here now? I barely made it here from the mine. I would never be able to hop or crawl so far for help. Nor was there any way I could play hide-and-seek from a killer—a killer who would make sure I was dead the next time.

  I should just give up. Get it over with.

  The words drifted into my brain. This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the sky. “Well then, God, You’re gonna have to get me out of here, because I’m most definitely not strong and courageous right now.”

  Holly came over and sniffed my hair, gave me a sloppy forehead kiss, then wandered away. Maverick lay down beside me.

  God’s miracle didn’t happen. I wasn’t suddenly transported to my old room at Clan Firinn. I was still at Mae’s cabin, lost, missing a significant means of transportation, with a killer stalking me, surrounded by mountains and trees . . .

  Tree.

  I sat up and squinted. The burned-out snag I’d seen just before we found the hidden entrance to Mae’s place was visible from this side as well. Mae had sketched that snag in two of her drawings.

  I mentally retraced the path we’d taken from the mine. We’d followed the stream heading east, according to the sun, then southeast. The snag was on the highest point west of here. I hadn’t seen it from the mine, but I hadn’t looked around once we started down the trail.

  Was that important? Mae drew the things around her—the people she saw, the dogs by the stream, the landscape. The only unusual things were her portraits, revealing two sides of the face.

  And the weird drawing of two men. Two men standing on what looked like a cloud with two lines at the bottom.

  I frowned. An elusive idea lurked just out of reach.

  The sun, which had been pleasantly warm, was now hot. The killer hadn’t returned . . . yet. I needed to move out of the center of Mae’s yard and then find a way out of here.

  I’d searched Mae’s house once before, but I was looking for a battery. I’d try it again. Maybe this time some brilliant solution would come to me. I made my slow way over and entered the house.

  If anything, it was sadder than the first time I’d looked. I left the door open to air out the smoky smell. Crossing to the built-in bed, I lifted and shook out the covers, raising only a cloud of dust. I felt grubby. Touching her things, with her body lying so close by, gave me the willies. I moved to the orange crate shelves, this time removing everything and placing the items on the table. Mae should have a knife, maybe even a pistol, somewhere.

  I should have realized whoever murdered Mae and so carefully destroyed her art wouldn’t leave anything behind. Picking up her Bible, I turned it upside down and flipped through the pages. An old photograph fell out. The image was faded and grainy, but I recognized Mae from the self-portrait. She was much younger, standing under a maple tree. Standing in shadow. I put the photo in my pocket.

  One last sweep of the room brought me to the cookstove. It had been warm when I opened it. Someone had a fire in there recently.

  Maybe I needed to rethink the idea that the killer had followed me. Maybe he was already here when I arrived. Cleaning up loose ends? Burning art? Making sure that if someone found this place, there would be nothing useful?

  But the killer couldn’t be two places at once. He shot out a window last night and opened fire on us as we fled this morning. Everyone had been accounted for in the lodge in both cases.

  Except for the missing staffer. Or could two people have been on the helicopter? One stayed at Mule Shoe, one followed me to Mae’s? Or was my active imagination running loose? Maybe some passing hiker took refuge here for the night.

  The house was a washout, but I hadn’t looked in the shed. I might find a weapon there, maybe a handy pair of crutches . . . oh, why not? Maybe she had a cell phone with the whole US Army on speed dial.

  Maverick waited outside and helped me over to the shed door. Inside, a partial bale of hay and a full bale of straw were along one wall with a small pile of baling twine. A log on one side held a sawbuck pack saddle with double rigging, worn canvas panniers—bags used for carrying supplies—and a rope halter. No guns, knives, pitchforks, hay tongs, or computer with internet access.

  The shed had a rectangular opening at about waist height, allowing Mae to place hay into the feeder without having to haul it outside.

  The feeder gave me an idea. The mule had escaped from the resort and returned here. Someone could have driven him off, but if he was still loose, maybe I could hitch a ride on him. The lack of a saddle and bridle was a little concerning. All the tack suggested Mae used him to pack in food, not ride. For now, maybe the last of the hay would lure him here. I’d worry about catching and riding him later.

  After dumping the hay into the feeder, I sat on the straw bale. From here I could see a hole in the bottom of the shed in the corner. I could slip through the hole and be very close to the mule should he show up. Good. I’d bet he’d spook should I come cr
awling or hopping around the corner leaning on the dog.

  I could see the dogs in the yard, stretched out in the shade. They’d let me know if someone showed up. They’d barked at whoever hit me on the head . . . but hadn’t attacked. Now that I thought of it, that was strange. They’d taken on a grizzly bear when they thought I was in danger.

  Two possibilities. The attacker had a gun and they knew what that meant. Or they knew the attacker.

  Holly picked up a pinecone and tried to get Maverick to play. The big dog turned his back on her and lay down.

  Mae had drawn some of the people she’d met, who by extension were probably the people the dogs knew. Roy. Sam. The sheriff. Since attaching to me, the dogs had a chance to be around all the staff and guests at Mule Shoe, plus Bram and Liam. Good. I’ve narrowed the possibilities to everyone I’ve met since being here. That didn’t seem to be a promising line of investigation.

  I swatted an annoying fly and thought about Mae’s drawings, letting my mind whorl around. Drawing. Mae. Art. Angie. Angie’s words during lunch. Art is more than the subject, medium, or application of paint. The artist might be conveying a message . . .

  Mae couldn’t speak, but she might have been trying to communicate through her drawings. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the sketches. Each one was signed and dated, although I didn’t remember the exact dates, only that they were close to the time I believed she died.

  When I’d shown the drawings to Angie, she’d arranged them by date. The first had been the two dogs by the stream, then one landscape, the men in the cloud, Roy, the sheriff, the second landscape, Sam, and the self-portrait.

  Think about them in order. Her dogs. Pets? Only friends in the world? Faithful. Loyal. If she drew her pets, her animals, why didn’t she draw the mule? So something about the dogs. I picked up a piece of straw and gnawed on it.

  Maybe I needed to approach this from another angle. The first drawing in the series was the dogs. Her message started with that. The first thing she noticed was . . .