If she could find her way back to the Barres’, she would be safe. But she had been barely able to find her way to their home by road. She had no idea of the way through the woods. They had asked her to stay the night and leave in the morning. She wished she’d taken them up on their kind offer. Now here she was in the forest in a downpour with little light, chased by some maniac, and about to be chased by dogs.
Diane tried to ignore the rain, her soggy clothes, and the sick fear churning in the pit of her stomach as she trudged through the underbrush. She was stopped by a thicket as impenetrable as a wall. She was too wary to go out into the open roadway. Her only other choice was to go deeper into the woods and work her way around the thicket. The ground sloped downward, away from the thicket, and the forest litter was slick. She almost fell, startled by the sound of a loud muffler—a vehicle on the road. There was enough of the roadway visible through the thick underbrush for her to see a pickup driving slowly by. She heard barking and thought she saw dogs in the back of the truck. She ducked and lay almost flat on the ground, covering her face with the sleeve of her shirt, just as a shaft of light swept through the openings in the foliage.
Diane watched the taillights as the truck slowly moved down the muddy road. The wind was blowing in her direction, blowing her scent away from the dogs. She was grateful. And she was thankful for the rain, as uncomfortable as it was.
She rose from her hiding place on shaky legs. She peered nervously through the darkness, looking for signs of a flashlight, fearing that someone might also be coming after her through the woods. She saw nothing. She listened for the dogs. It was hard to tell whether the barking was getting closer. She didn’t know if they were in pens or on her trail. Diane held her breath and strained to listen. In pens, she decided. She wasn’t that far from the old house. Surely they would have found her if they were loose.
The lights of the truck were no longer visible to her, but she heard the engine. It wasn’t far, but at least it was out of sight. She started walking, trying to keep parallel to the roadway, but it was nearly impossible. It was so dark. She was probably veering off deeper into the woods. If she could just find a place to hide until daylight. A safe place. What kind of place would be safe? she asked herself. She pressed on as fast as she dared, trying not to stumble, silently cursing the uneven ground.
The rain had thoroughly soaked her clothes and sneakers, and her wet socks were already rubbing the heels of her feet. She stopped a moment to rest, leaning forward with her hands on her thighs. Diane wasn’t so much tired or out of breath as scared. She needed to calm down, to think. She brought the image of the map to the Barres’ house up in her mind and tried to visualize the lay of the land. Where was the road in relation to the house? She looked around, squinting at the dark trees and underbrush blowing and moving with the wind and hard rain. How in the world could she translate her location to a position on the map? Impossible. She thought she was going in the right direction, but she didn’t know. She could be heading ninety degrees from the direction she needed to go.
She listened again. The dogs were just as loud as before, but the rhythm of their barking had changed. They were loose and on her trail. Diane turned on the flashlight for a few moments and selected a direction to follow. She could make out trees in the darkness, and the hill beyond, but that was about all. The small hollow she was in had ended and she had to climb the next ridge. She started walking again. Her footfalls were quiet on the wet forest floor. Thank heaven for that. The sound of the rain was louder than the noise she made walking through the underbrush.
Diane stepped in a small hole and almost fell. Damn. She was tempted to use her light, but she didn’t dare shine it for more than a few seconds. She climbed the steep grade. The chill made her legs ache on the incline. She was accustomed to putting discomfort in the back of her mind, ignoring it. As a caver, she had experienced more than one occasion when she had to endure discomfort for long periods. There were more hills between her and the Barres’, so she tucked away any aches she felt and concentrated on putting distance between her and the mysterious house.
She climbed the hill, sometimes grabbing at roots to help her up the slick, steep incline. At the top she thought she heard the rumbling muffler of the truck off in the distance. She definitely heard the dogs. They were after her, with or without a handler restraining them. She increased her speed and almost slid down the slope. She grasped at a limb to keep from falling. It raked across her hand. She put her stinging palm on her cold, wet jacket for a moment and kept going.
I need a plan, Diane thought. There were thousands of acres here and few houses. She realized she was no longer walking parallel to the road. She could be getting farther away from any roadway or the Barres’ house. She stopped, leaned against a tree, and thought a moment.
On the way to their house she’d crossed several small bridges—several creeks. Okay, creeks. That was her plan. The first creek she came to, she would follow it upstream, hoping that it would take her back to one of the roads. Not much of a plan, and if she were thinking more clearly, she would find lots of holes in it. But it was the only thing she could think of at the moment. Moreover, she didn’t remember any large creeks on the road near the mysterious house, so if she got lost, at least she would be lost away from the house.
And what the heck was that skeleton anyway? She’d been so frightened and focused on running that she had forgotten about the skeleton. Where in the hell was the thing? Up in the tree? She shook her head and continued down the slope of the mountain to the next hollow.
The lightning flashes were more frequent and the thunder louder. She wasn’t particularly afraid of thunderstorms, but she usually didn’t take hikes in them. The rain beat down harder and she would have loved to stop and take a break from it. Maybe there was a rock overhang somewhere. She had more of a need to push on. The lightning flashed again several times. That was when she saw a man not twenty feet from her.
Chapter 3
Diane stopped dead still, not breathing. Burning acid rose up, stinging her throat. Her gaze darted around for something to use as a weapon. A stick, a stone, anything. But it was too dark to find anything. She should have picked up something earlier. Damn it. Diane squeezed the flashlight in her hand. It was her only weapon.
The man wore a rain poncho and a hat that hid the upper part of his face. He held a flashlight in his hand, but it was not turned on. He said nothing; nor did he move.
“You may be able to overpower me,” Diane said, “but I will hurt you really bad in the process.” Weak threat, but it was all she had.
“I believe you,” he said. “Are you lost? Hurt?”
His accent was Midwestern. There was not a trace of North Georgia in the way he pronounced his words. His voice was deep, smooth, with a slight nasal quality to it. A flash of lightning revealed that he had a beard. He wasn’t the man who attacked her, but he could be a partner in crime. Diane turned on her light and shined it around the area. She couldn’t see any dogs but she still heard them in the distance.
“What are you doing out here?” asked Diane.
“I’m camping in the national park.” He looked over his shoulder and pointed off in a direction behind him.
The park, thought Diane. If he was telling the truth, the direction he pointed gave her some bearing on where she was.
“I’ve been taking photographs at night,” he said. “I saw your flashlight and heard the dogs.” He shrugged. “Got curious about who would be hunting in a downpour.”
“You’re taking photographs in the rain?” said Diane. She eased back a step. She was shaking—from the cold or fear, she didn’t know which.
“Why not? It’s amazing what you can find in the rain. What are you doing here?”
“Running from a strange man who tried to grab me. Those dogs”—she indicated with a motion of her flashlight—“are after me.”
“You were attacked? In the woods?” he asked.
“At that house on
Massey Road.” Diane briefly explained the circumstances of her trek through the woods and listened to his response for any indication that he already knew the story. He was silent for several moments. Diane sensed he was skeptical, and, oddly, that gave her a measure of comfort. But she didn’t relax her grip on her flashlight or take her eyes off the dark outline of his form.
“You can go back with me to my campsite and I’ll take you to the sheriff,” he said.
Diane shook her head. “I don’t know you,” she said, wishing that she did, that he were a friend, that she were safe.
“The woods at night are not the safest place to be—especially if you’re lost,” he said.
“Neither is going off with a stranger,” said Diane.
“Fair enough,” he said.
“You were satisfying your curiosity, even though you heard dogs? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” said Diane.
“I wondered why anyone would be hunting in a thunderstorm,” he repeated.
“Why did you think they were hunting?” she asked. “They could be wild dogs.”
“The dogs are Walker hounds,” he said. “There are three of them, and they haven’t picked up a scent yet.”
His quiet voice and smooth manner had almost made Diane relax, but her stomach churned again. “How do you know what kind of dogs they are? Are you acquainted with the occupants of that house?”
“No, I’m not. Walker hounds have a distinctive voice. It has to do with the way they’re hunted. Their owners need to recognize their own dogs from a distance. I had an uncle who raised them. Hear that whining bark? It gets faster when they’ve picked up a trail.”
“That’s good to know,” she said. “Are they likely to find me?”
“Dogs have to be trained to track the scent you want them to. Walker hounds are usually trained to hunt raccoons. I’ve never heard of anyone training them to hunt people, but there’s no telling what some people will do with dogs,” he said.
“Are they vicious?” she asked.
“Not usually. Hunting dogs that destroy their prey aren’t much good,” he said. “I would think it will be the man who is after you who is the dangerous one.”
“You believe someone is after me.” Diane felt relieved.
“You don’t hunt with dogs in a downpour like this, not with all this lightning, unless you really need to find something. I guess that would be you. No one needs a raccoon that badly,” he said. “I’ll take you to safety.”
Diane shook her head again. “I can’t take that chance. When you get back to your campsite, I would appreciate it if you would go for the sheriff and tell him what happened. Tell him I’m Diane Fallon of the Rosewood Crime Lab. He’ll know who I am.”
He reached under his poncho and came out with a knife. Diane sucked in her breath and jumped back, raising her flashlight, ready to fight. She pushed the on button with her thumb and was about to shine it in his eyes when he tossed the knife over to her. It landed at her feet. He took off his poncho and hat and tossed them to her.
“You need some kind of help,” he said. “If the dogs find you, their handler won’t be with them. If they have radio collars on, cut them off and throw them away if you can.”
“And if they attack me?” said Diane.
“If you’re attacked by three vicious dogs, there’s no hope. They’ll get you,” he said.
Diane’s stomach, already in knots, lurched and she thought she’d be sick.
“Thanks for these things,” she said, and started to pick them up.
“Give me your jacket,” he said.
“What?”
“Your jacket. It’s soaked, but maybe I can lay a false trail. If not, I can leave it in a tree for them to find, somewhere you haven’t been.”
She took off the jacket and fished her billfold out of the inner pocket and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. Diane had developed a habit when she worked in other countries of always carrying important papers on her person. She never lost the habit.
“Thanks,” she said again, throwing him the jacket. “I appreciate your help. I won’t forget it.”
“You’re hard to help,” he said.
“There are some chances I never take,” she said.
“I wish you well,” he said. He turned and walked away with her jacket under his arm.
Diane bent down and picked up the offerings and put them on. When she looked up at him again, he was out of sight. She shined her flashlight around the area and caught no sign of him. She realized she had not asked his name. Who was that masked man? she thought, and smiled in spite of herself, relieved at any levity she could muster.
At least she had a weapon now. A pretty good one. Better than the flashlight. The knife had about a six-inch blade and an ebony handle. It felt heavy in her hand. She held tightly to it. It made her feel more secure, more in control. It was more precious than her flashlight.
And she was warm. The hat kept the cold rain off her head, and the poncho kept her dry and held her body heat. Things were looking up. She’d take blessings where she could find them. She was worried, though, that her pursuer had seen her light, even though she’d tried to use it so sparingly.
Diane set out again, looking for a large creek, listening for the dogs—listening for their strange mewling barks to get more frequent.
She felt like she’d been walking for hours, climbing up one ridge and half sliding down the next. She tried to keep in mind where the national park was in relation to the Barres’ house, but she still wasn’t sure she was going in the right direction. And worst of all, the rain was letting up and the lightning had stopped. The dogs, at least their voices, had been her ever-present companions the whole while. Don’t they ever get tired? she wondered.
She stopped to rest, leaning against a tree. She was so weary. She closed her eyes a moment. She dared not sit, afraid of falling asleep. Even in the rain she felt she could easily lie down and fall into a deep sleep. She did doze off a moment, then started awake. Probably about to fall, she thought. Then the realization dawned on her. The dogs—their voices—they were frantic.
Shit.
Diane drew a sudden breath and beat down the fear about to take her over. She started off walking again at a faster clip. The rain clouds had shifted, revealing the gibbous moon, and she could see well enough to go a little faster.
She climbed, hand over hand, to the top of yet another ridge. Her hands were cold and sore where she’d grabbed roots and branches all evening, pulling herself up the side of a ridge or keeping from sliding down the other side too fast. She soothed them by laying her palms on the wet rain gear.
On top of the ridge, she looked down into the hollow she had just left and scanned for movement. She saw only the trees and underbrush blowing in the wind.
Maybe they found my jacket and that’s what all the frenzy was about, she thought. She hoped.
Another sound came into her awareness—water, fast-flowing water bubbling over rocks. She loped as fast as she dared down the slope and stopped at the edge of a creek about ten feet wide, lined with ferns and mountain laurel. This was the creek—she hoped—the one she passed over on the way to the Barres’. She remembered looking at it as she crossed the bridge, how pretty it was, how the water flowed over the large smooth stones, what a picturesque scene it was.
Now as she looked at the water it looked treacherous. She’d wanted to cross the creek, in hopes that the fast flow of the water would displace her scent. Maybe, along with the rain, obliterate it all together. But as she looked at the slick round rocks and boulders and the white rushing water in the moonlight, she thought better of it. At least not here, she told herself. Maybe there’s a better place.
Diane instinctively felt she should follow the direction of the flow. She remembered looking out the window of her SUV and seeing the creek flowing toward her and passing under the bridge as she traveled up the road toward the Barres. As best as she could tell, she had been traveling roughly parallel to the road the whole
time she had been in the woods. The bridge must be downstream from her. If she followed the flow, she would find the road. But what if the road was farther upstream than she thought? She had not been thinking clearly. What if she was so turned around that she didn’t know which side of the road she was on?
Go with the plan, she told herself. Just go with it. Diane followed along the edge of the creek, ducking under the laurel branches, pushing the brush out of her way, ignoring her stinging cheeks when the branches whipped her face, ignoring her sore, skinned hands, pressing on. The rain had all but stopped and now only the secondhand rain dripping from the leaves fell on her.
She listened for the dogs as she went, but the creek was louder than the distant sound of the dogs, a reality that made her feel better. Maybe they were far away, happily tearing apart her jacket.
Diane checked the creek for places to cross as she pushed through the underbrush. Finally, she spotted a promising place. The creek had widened considerably and the water moved with less agitation. She turned on the flashlight to examine the water. The light flickered and went out. She hit it with the heel of her hand. Nothing. It was out.
“Well, hell,” she said.
She tucked the light in her waistband and rolled up her pants. Not that it mattered a whole lot. She was drenched, but she thought that maybe she had begun to dry out a little since the hard rain had stopped. She stepped into the water. It was ice-cold. But that didn’t matter. What was one more discomfort? She stood up and began carefully crossing through the water, testing each place before she firmly put her foot down. Even at that slow rate, it didn’t take her long to cross.
Diane felt a small triumph having made the crossing, as if she had put an obstacle between her and her pursuers. Not that they couldn’t cross as easily as she had, but it was the symbol of the thing.
The Night Killer Page 2