Beyond Power

by Connie Mann

  He never seemed to notice her social awkwardness, though, engaging her in flirty conversation and sending her a lazy, dimpled smile that always made heat wash over her body.

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

  The monkeys started chattering again, and seconds later, she heard a noise behind her. She jumped to her feet, spun around.

  It took a few beats to recognize what sounded like teenage voices, male and female. She caught a flash of movement and started in that direction. Maybe they could tell her about any nearby campsites.

  “Excuse me! Hello?”

  Instead of stopping, they took off into the trees. Hadn’t they heard her? Delilah ran faster, trying to keep them in sight. Another glimpse and she spotted two mountain bikes. “Wait!”

  The girl sent a quick glance over her shoulder as she followed the young man. Late teens, she’d been wearing a long cotton dress, her hair in a braid down her back, similar to what Delilah had worn as a child.

  When they disappeared, Delilah slowed to a stop, defeated. But then she saw their tire tracks and smiled. She could follow a trail like that blindfolded. They were probably camping in the area, and given the girl’s dress, she’d bet money they knew her family. She wasn’t sure they’d say anything about the Atwoods, but as this was the first lead she’d found, she set out to track them down.

  The scent of a smoldering campfire made her quicken her steps as a wave of memories crashed over her. She was close.

  She ran into the small clearing and stopped short, surprised there was no one there. She didn’t see any bicycle tracks, either, so the teens must have veered off earlier and she’d missed it. So much for her great tracking skills.

  Pushing her disappointment aside, she looked around. Someone had been here recently. Her eyes caught the small grooves high up on two tree trunks, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. They looked just like the ones her father carved to secure Mama’s laundry line.

  Don’t jump to conclusions.

  She backed up, and the ground beneath her right heel gave way. Arms flailing, she lunged forward and landed on all fours. She stayed that way for a moment, breath heaving, before she carefully climbed to her feet and studied the leaves and branches that had camouflaged a deep hole in the ground. Dread and elation warred inside her as the truth dawned. Above her was a tall tree, the kind her father always used to raise their tarp-covered food overnight to keep it safe from foraging animals. The pit below—the one she’d almost fallen into—was designed to net another meal when an unwary critter followed the scent and found itself trapped in the hole.

  She’d found her family’s campsite. They hadn’t left the area.

  The smoldering embers meant they’d abandoned this site in a hurry, though. Otherwise, her father would have smothered the fire more thoroughly. He’d never risk starting a forest fire.

  Delilah stepped closer and crouched down. Something poked out of the dirt and ashes at the fire’s edge. She studied it, and her heart almost stopped.

  No. That couldn’t be. Could it?

  She grabbed a branch and used it to poke at the object, then dragged it to the edge of the fire ring. Her hand shook when she reached down and then held it up with two fingers, blinking rapidly, convinced her eyes were deceiving her.

  Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears as she ran her fingers over the charred remains of a homemade doll. The brown fabric dress was mostly intact, as was the soot-covered cloth face. Embroidered eyes stared at her like childhood memories and tried to yank her back in time, but she pushed them aside.

  Focus. Make sure.

  She swallowed hard and slowly turned the doll over. There, on the back of the neck, was a small heart, embroidered in red thread. It was identical to the one Mama had embroidered on Delilah’s doll. She’d later added one to Mary’s, saying it was a kiss from their Mama. Memories of Mary playing with both dolls, setting them side by side for a tea party, flashed through Delilah’s mind. This belonged to her sister. There was no question.

  Time stood still and then shot backward before it flipped her world upside down with a speed that made her dizzy.

  Her father had burned Mary’s doll.

  Dear Sweet Jesus. It’s happening again.

  Delilah turned her head and threw up, heaving until there was nothing left in her stomach.

  She wiped the back of a trembling hand over her mouth, then pulled a plastic bag from her backpack and carefully placed the doll inside.

  With a last look around, she ran back to her kayak, feet pounding in time to her heart, and paddled back to Tanner’s Outpost as fast as she could. She needed her truck.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, hands clutching the steering wheel, Delilah sped through the forest, the truck fishtailing and her mind spinning. She finally looked around and realized she’d blindly headed toward the campsite where she’d last seen her family eight years ago. Her heart still knew these woods, knew the trees and abandoned cabins and all the various landmarks that guided those who lived off the grid and under the radar. She’d checked here once before and found nothing, but maybe now, they’d come back.

  She stopped a half mile before she reached the campsite and tucked her truck behind a clump of scrub palm. She went the rest of the way on foot, dodging sandy spots that would leave footprints. The closer she got, the faster her heart pounded. The anger she’d locked in a sturdy metal box roared up and threatened to choke her. How could her father do the same thing to Mary that he’d done to her? She stopped, hands on her knees as she breathed deeply to steady herself. If she didn’t handle this right, she’d never get Mary out of there. Control your emotions and you control the situation.

  Head high, she marched into the small clearing and stopped short. They weren’t there. Since she’d been drawn back to the place her world had completely changed, she’d foolishly imagined it would bring them back, too. She snorted. Her father didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. He forced the family to move their campsite regularly simply to keep anyone from snooping around.

  She took a steadying breath. There was one place they always returned to, though. Maybe they’d left a clue at the storage bunker her father had built when they’d first come to Florida. You couldn’t dig too deeply out here before things got muddy, but John Henry had found a small depression in the earth, what appeared to be the remnants of a sinkhole, and had used it to conceal some of their supplies. Her family wasn’t what people called “preppers,” so they didn’t hoard piles of food and nonperishables. Instead, they were survivalists who knew how to live off the land.

  As she headed toward the nearby bunker, the smell hit her first. She covered her nose and tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. Once you’d smelled a dead animal, you never forgot the stench. Out here, decomposition didn’t take long.

  She moved closer, scanning the area, realizing whatever it was, it must be a larger animal. Possibly a deer, maybe even a hog. She eased around a stand of trees and almost tripped over the body.

  And it wasn’t an animal.

  She breathed in through her mouth and forced herself to squat down and look closer. He’d obviously been a hunter, given the bright orange vest. She squeezed her eyes shut. Half his face was missing, as were huge chunks of his chest. He was clearly dead.

  Her head snapped up as she felt a vibration in the ground followed by a low rumble. An icy chill slid down her back. She knew that sound. “Stay calm,” she muttered to herself as she slowly eased to a standing position.

  Moving nothing but her eyes, she scanned the area and spotted the black bear heading in her direction. Male probably, based on its size. Normally, she’d make a racket to let the bear know she was here, but if he’d picked up the scent of the hunter, she didn’t want him seeing her as competition.

  She couldn’t run, either. If you run, you’re prey, her father’s
voice reminded her. She slowly backed up, one quiet step at a time, and eased behind a tree, out of the bear’s line of sight. She forced herself to take quiet breaths as she melted farther and farther into the trees. She didn’t take off running until she was confident the bear couldn’t hear—or smell—her anymore.

  She burst into the clearing and skidded to a stop when she spotted two white pickups parked by the bunker. Crap!

  She slipped behind a tree and tried to catch her breath while she studied the scene. Two men were transferring a stack of wooden crates from one pickup’s bed into her family’s bunker while two others watched. Next to them sat an open black satchel with what looked like stacks of money inside.

  One of the men grabbed an automatic rifle and put it to his shoulder. She jerked back behind the tree and then ducked at the sound of gunfire. Bark flew just above her head. She peeked out again, and when a second man raised his rifle and took aim, she realized they were using the tree next to her as target practice. She had to get out of here. She must have made a noise, because the first man’s head snapped up like a deer scenting danger. Delilah froze as their eyes met and held.

  Her brother Aaron had aged in the past eight years and now sported a full beard. But his eyes were still the same, not just the color but the harshness in them.

  She started to call his name before it dawned on her that he didn’t recognize her. The last time he’d laid eyes on her, her hair reached her backside and she’d been wearing an ankle-length dress. Now, here, with short hair, wearing “worldly” clothes, a ball cap, and sunglasses, he’d have no reason to suspect it was her.

  One of the other men turned slightly, and Delilah gasped at the sight of her father. John Henry had aged, too, but still held himself ramrod straight, no softening anywhere. She’d seen the third man at the café but didn’t recognize the fourth. While her mind scrambled for what to do, Aaron seemed to have no such trouble. He lifted the gun and continued firing, as did the other man. When her father sighted a weapon, Delilah scrambled backward and dove behind the nearest tree, then leaped behind another and another, desperate to stay out of their line of sight. She crouched low and tore off into the forest, zigzagging the way she’d been taught. Bark rained down and sand spit up as she ran, the sound of gunfire in her wake.

  Chapter 2

  If Aaron had been trying to kill her, she’d be dead, Delilah told herself as she ran, though that did little to calm her racing heart. Same went for her father. Both were excellent marksmen. When she finally made it back to her truck, winded and shaken, more of her childhood training kicked in. She grabbed a palm frond and used it to wipe out her tracks. As she backed toward her vehicle, she heard the buzz of an airplane.

  She finished erasing her trail and then hopped into the truck and sat quietly, waiting for it to pass overhead. When she glanced up through the trees and saw the Fish & Wildlife logo, her heart pounded harder.

  Once the sound of the plane receded, she put the truck in gear and drove around in circles to be sure she wasn’t followed back to the tiny 1970s vintage camper she’d picked up for almost nothing. She’d set it in a thick stand of trees ten miles from where she’d grown up so she wouldn’t run across any family members unless she meant to and had painted the outside dark green to camouflage it further. The whole thing was barely big enough to turn around in, but given the size of the camper their family had lived in, it was plenty big.

  Right now, it was the only safe place she could think to go. Her hands shook as she cranked open all the windows to let out the old, musty smell common to anything in Florida that was closed up awhile. Afterward, she still felt like the walls were closing in, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She debated firing up the generator so she could run the small window air conditioner, but both made a racket, which could carry through the forest. Plus, the generator was almost out of fuel, and she didn’t want to have to carry more gas cans out here.

  She poured a glass of water and shook her head at her racing, disjointed thoughts. She had to calm down, think logically. She looked around the interior, wondering what Josh would think when he saw it. Assuming, of course, she decided to invite him. She was inordinately proud of the way it had turned out. The brown paneling was now a crisp white, and the green-and-gold curtains had been replaced with pretty flowered sheets she’d tossed over the rods. Until Josh, she’d never considered inviting anyone to see where she lived—a lifetime’s training and all that—never mind a handsome man who made her palms sweat and her stomach do backflips.

  What was wrong with her? She sank down on the sofa and dropped her head in her hands. She couldn’t use Josh to avoid what she’d seen. She should call him right now, report the man’s death. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the images.

  But was the man’s death somehow connected to her family? They had never been part of a formal militia group, but they had definitely made alliances with other like-minded families and procured weapons when asked. She’d started going along on deliveries when she was twelve years old, providing cover. But the stacks of crates she’d seen earlier took things to a whole different level. What were they up to? Had they recognized her? If so, would they take off again? Maybe leave the area for good? She swallowed hard. She couldn’t let that happen, or she might never find Mary and Mama again.

  She picked up her cell phone, then set it down, indecision gnawing at her.

  Memories of the man’s mangled body made her stomach lurch, but she forced her sorrow and revulsion aside so her scientist’s brain could look at the situation from a clinical distance. Why had the bear attacked? Had the hunter provoked him in some way? She’d studied enough animals to know this behavior was unusual. Unless they had a very good reason, bears did not attack humans.

  Mind racing, she grabbed her phone again. She should call Josh, let him know what she’d seen. Despite her ingrained mistrust of law enforcement, everything she’d learned about him said he was a good man. Right now, though, calling him would mean questions, so many questions she didn’t want to answer.

  She hopped up and paced the tiny space, trying to decide what to do.

  * * *

  Florida Fish & Wildlife officer Josh Tanner looked out the window of the Cessna 182 and scanned the section of the Ocala National Forest below him, fighting his irritation. Normally, he enjoyed taking the FWC plane up for special assignments or search and rescue, a nice change from his usual patrol by truck, boat, or ATV. Today, though, when Hunter Boudreau, his lieutenant and friend, had asked him to follow up on a hot tip about a significant new marijuana grow in the northwest section, Josh had almost growled at the timing. He’d wanted to finish his conversation with Delilah, answer all those questions he’d seen in her pretty blue eyes after Wells questioned him about the monkeys. He wished he had her number, but the way she sometimes froze when the door to the café opened, like a rabbit poised to run, had made him cautious. Hopefully, she’d be at the café tomorrow morning so he could explain. Her opinion of him mattered, more than he was comfortable with, but there it was.

  He checked his divers’ watch and figured he could make a few more passes and still get to the Forest Community Center for basketball practice. He never wanted the boys to think he was blowing them off.

  Josh’s frustration grew as he scanned both sides of the river. He couldn’t find the location their anonymous caller had described. Given the dense foliage and vegetation, unless FWC or some other law enforcement agency happened to fly directly overhead, no one would ever know the grow was there.

  He had just made another pass near where the Atwoods used to camp when he heard several bursts of gunfire. His eyes flicked over the ground, trying to locate where the shots were coming from. Were they aiming at him? John Henry Atwood’s radical leanings kept him on law enforcement’s radar, but this wasn’t like him or his son.

  This also wasn’t anywhere near the gun range, nor was it private property o
r hunting season, when target practice was allowed with a proper backstop. Maybe he’d found the marijuana grow and someone wasn’t happy.

  He called dispatch and searched for a dirt road wide enough to land the Cessna.

  His radio crackled. “Backup en route, 413. Lieutenant Boudreau said not to do anything stupid, Hollywood.”

  “10-4. I’m putting her down just off Forest Road 11.” He rattled off the GPS coordinates and then focused on landing the plane.

  Once on the ground, he grabbed his rifle and stayed low as he ran into the trees bordering the road. The gunfire had stopped, which would make it hard to locate the shooter or shooters.

  Josh made his way toward the Atwoods’ former campsite, stopping to listen every few yards. To date, his dealings with the family had been brief but cordial, nodded greetings at the local bait shop. John Henry treated his wife as though she were invisible. She kept her head down, never made eye contact, and walked in her husband’s shadow. Their grown son, Aaron, was on the cocky side, and their teenage daughter, Mary, mimicked her mother’s body language. Josh didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his job to evaluate people’s relationships unless he suspected abuse. He’d made a casual survey of both mother and daughter and saw no obvious signs.

  He wasn’t really surprised to find their campsite empty. He studied the area for a moment and then noticed two sets of tire tracks that appeared to have been made recently. Very recently, since it had rained yesterday afternoon.

  He stood, sniffed the air. The smell hit him at the same moment the noise registered. He quietly headed in that direction, careful not to step on twigs or make any sudden noises. He ducked from tree to tree until he saw the flash of black and realized it was a bear, not a human. Whereas he might sneak up on a human, noise was the way to go when confronting a bear. He shouted and threw rocks until the bear stopped, turned, and stood on its hind legs to assess the danger. “Get! Go on! Get on out of here! Scram!”