Hunger Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 5)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR ALEXANDRA SOKOLOFF
Huntress Moon
A Thriller Award Nominee for Best E-Book Original Novel
A Suspense Magazine Pick for Best Thriller of 2012
An Amazon Top Ten Bestseller
“This interstate manhunt has plenty of thrills . . . keeps the drama taut and the pages flying.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The intensity of her main characters is equally matched by the strength of the multilayered plot . . . The next installment cannot release soon enough for me.”
—Suspense Magazine
The Price
“Some of the most original and freshly unnerving work in the genre.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“A heartbreakingly eerie page-turner.”
—Library Journal
“The Price is a gripping read full of questions about good, evil, and human nature. . . . The devastating conclusion leaves the reader with an uncomfortable question to consider: ‘If everyone has a price, what’s yours?’”
—Rue Morgue magazine
The Unseen
“A creepy haunted house, reports of a forty-year-old poltergeist investigation, and a young researcher trying to rebuild her life take the “publish or perish” initiative for college professors to a terrifying new level in this spine-tingling story that has every indication of becoming a horror classic. Based on the famous Rhine ESP experiments at the Duke University parapsychology department that collapsed in the 1960s, this is a chillingly dark look into the unknown.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
“Sokoloff keeps her story enticingly ambiguous, never clarifying until the climax whether the unfolding weirdness might be the result of the investigators’ psychic sensitivities or the mischievous handiwork of a human villain.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Alexandra Sokoloff takes the horror genre to new heights.”
—Charlotte Examiner
“Alexandra Sokoloff’s talent brings readers into the dark and encompassing world of the unknown so completely that readers will find it difficult to go to bed until the last page has been turned. Her novels bring human frailty and the desperate desire to survive together in poignant stories of personal struggle and human triumph. But the truly fascinating element of Sokoloff ’s writing is her deep dig into the human psyche and the horrors that lie just beneath the surface of our carefully constructed facades.”
—Fiction Examiner
Book of Shadows
“Compelling, frightening, and exceptionally well-written, Book of Shadows is destined to become another hit for acclaimed horror and suspense novelist Sokoloff. The incredibly tense plot and mysterious characters will keep readers up late at night, jumping at every sound, and turning the pages until they’ve devoured the book.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
“Sokoloff successfully melds a classic murder-mystery whodunit with supernatural occult overtones.”
—Library Journal
The Harrowing
Bram Stoker and Anthony Award Nominee for Best First Novel
“Absolutely gripping. . . . It is easy to imagine this as a film. Once started, you won’t want to stop reading.”
—The London Times
“Sokoloff’s debut novel is an eerie ghost story that captivates readers from page one. The author creates an element of suspense that builds until the chillingly believable conclusion.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
Poltergeist meets The Breakfast Club as five college students tangle with an ancient evil presence. Plenty of sexual tension, quick pace and engaging plot.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Space Between
“Filled with vivid images, mystery, and a strong sense of danger . . . Sokoloff interlaces psychological elements, quantum physics, and the idea of multiple dimensions and parallel universes into her story; this definitely adds something different and original from other teen novels on the market today.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Alexandra Sokoloff has created an intricate tapestry, a dark Young Adult novel with threads of horror and science fiction that make it a true original. Loaded with graphic, vivid images that place the reader in the midst of the mystery and danger, The Space Between takes psychological elements, quantum physics and multiple dimensions with parallel universes and creates a storyline that has no equal. A must-read.”
—Suspense Magazine
Also by Alexandra Sokoloff
The Huntress/FBI Thrillers
Huntress Moon: Book I
Blood Moon: Book II
Cold Moon: Book III
Bitter Moon: Book IV
The Haunted Thrillers
The Harrowing
The Price
The Unseen
Book of Shadows
The Space Between
Paranormal
D-Girl on Doomsday (from Apocalypse: Year Zero)
The Shifters (from The Keepers trilogy)
Keeper of the Shadows (from The Keepers: L.A.)
Nonfiction
Stealing Hollywood
Screenwriting Tricks for Authors
Writing Love: Screenwriting Tricks for Authors II
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Alexandra Sokoloff
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503942721
ISBN-10: 1503942724
Cover design by Ray Lundgren
This book is dedicated to the young women of End Rape on Campus (EROC) who are fighting campus sexual violence through direct support for survivors and their communities; prevention through education; and policy reform at the campus, local, state, and federal levels.
Now more than ever, their fight must be our fight.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
DAY ONE
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
DAY TWO
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
DAY THREE
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ch
apter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
DAY FOUR
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
DAY FIVE
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
DAY SIX
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
TWO DAYS LATER
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Acknowledgments
Afterword
About the Author
Chapter One
The sandstone spires reach like alien fingers from the depths of the canyon.
The gorge cuts through the Arizona tablelands, a vast, prehistoric gash. Inside lies a 230-million-year-old natural wonder: a cathedral of wind-carved sandstone walls in every possible hue of red, gold, and white, adorned with the gleaming black curtain-like sweeps known as canyon varnish. Ancient ruins of cliff villages nestle in natural caves at impossible heights. Sedimentary deposits lie in distinctive round piles, like stacked pancakes.
And the famous double sandstone spires rise 750 feet from the canyon floor, at the exact junction of de Chelly and Monument Canyons.
Navajo legend says the taller spire is the home of Spider Grandmother, the goddess who created the world. She stole the sun and brought fire to the Anasazi. At the beginning of time, monsters roamed the land, and she gave her children, Monster Slayer and Child-Born-of-Water, power to kill the monsters and protect the First People.
Her stories are only told in the winter months.
And only to those who will listen.
A bleak sky, streaked with white, stretches over the desolate South Rim of the canyon. There will be snow tonight.
The grinding of a pickup truck grates through the silence.
A four-door Tundra. Tonneau cover over the bed. Two men dressed in camouflage inside. Fast-food and jerky wrappers litter the wells at their feet. In the back seat, a cooler packed full of beer.
And three rifles, three-inch twelve-gauge magnums, strapped to the padded back-seat gun rest.
Hunters, driving the rim.
The front-seat passenger sets his sights on something moving ahead of them, leans forward greedily. “There we go, there we go.”
The driver follows his gaze, fixes on what he is tracking. Not a deer, but a young girl, shining black hair underneath the hood of her parka. Schoolgirl’s backpack on her shoulder.
On the men’s faces, something crude and capering.
“That’s some tasty-looking pussy.”
“Oh, yeah, that’ll do.”
“Let’s go.”
“Get her.”
The driver swerves the truck over to the side of the road, squealing brakes.
The girl hears the sound, stiffens, is starting to run before she even completes the glance back.
The truck skids to a stop in the snow. The doors fly open; the men are out of the car, grabbing for their rifles.
The girl runs for the rocks, but her pursuers are bigger, faster. Two of them, grown men, against a teenage girl.
They move forward into the strong wind, a military-style formation, heavy boots crunching in the sandy snow.
They pause at the rock outcropping, looking out over the boulders. The girl seems to have disappeared. Then a scrabble on the rocks betrays her. Hearing it, the men grin at each other.
The driver rounds the rock first, his mouth watering. He is already hard in anticipation . . .
The tire iron bashes him across the face, breaking his jaw. He staggers back, howling inarticulate pain.
The girl kicks him viciously in the knee, crumpling him, then swivels as the second hunter rounds the edge of the rock. She slams the tire iron against the side of his head.
Now both men are collapsed on the ground, moaning and cursing.
She steps forward, no longer feigning that youthful, hesitant gait.
She lifts her arm and uses the tire iron on their skulls. Two, three, four blows, and there is no more moaning. Thick crimson drops spatter the snow. Her breath is harsh. Her face is ice.
There is only the wind, swallowing the sound of her breathing.
Cara stands at the edge of the canyon, looking out at the spires of Spider Rock, the vast open gorge.
Below her is an icy crevasse. The canyon has any number of them, deep splits in the rock wall where whole sheets of the cliff have broken away. Behind her is the hunters’ pickup truck.
Their bodies lie at her feet.
She drags one, then the other, to shove them over the cliff’s edge, stepping back to watch each body hurtle down into the crevasse, tumbling into oblivion.
The snowfall tonight will cover all trace of them. Later, birds and animals will pick the bones clean.
Another offering to the canyon, and the gods and ghosts that haunt it.
She disposes of the truck at one of the settlements along the rim, parks it with keys left under the seat, per her arrangement. It will disappear overnight, will be quickly and efficiently stripped for parts. Spirited away into motor vehicle oblivion.
Then she descends into the canyon on foot. The height of the sheer cliff face is breathtaking, stomach turning, but her feet are deliberate and sure as she walks the ancient Anasazi trails, past the pale, eerie alien handprints of the prehistoric canyon dwellers pressed into the rock.
At the bottom of the canyon, a sandstone arch leads into a more secluded part of the valley.
The creeks on the canyon floor are icy, the fruit orchards and cornfields now buried in snow. The Diné who make their home in the canyon have left the small wood houses and ceremonial hogans for the winter. The canyon is deserted, except for her. And perhaps the goddess who is said to inhabit it.
In a circle of cottonwood trees, there is a crude cabin of three rooms, and its eight-sided hogan.
Her home now, for as long as she is allowed here.
Canyon de Chelly had not been on her mind on the night she fled the derelict farmhouse in Napa Valley and the events of the Cold Moon. Seven weeks ago, she cut the throat of the predator Darrell Sawyer, with FBI agent Matthew Roarke standing across from her, watching Sawyer bleed out.
She had known, in that moment, looking into Roarke’s eyes and feeling the monster’s blood gush warm over her hands, that she would have to leave California. For a long time, if not for good.
Even now, the thought is a pang. The state is as close to a home as she has ever had. No one part of it—more like the whole of it: the roads and mountains and beaches and forests and deserts. But she cannot be sentimental. Attachment is fatal. There is more danger to her now than ever before, not just because she has jumped bail. She is on the radar for the first time in her life. More than on the radar: she has become notorious. Her image has been widely circulated.
The media has been stupefied by what she has been doing, by her simplest of solutions to the devastation It wreaks on the world. Men like those she has just dumped in the canyon—their intent is clear. Their brutality is soul crushing. They have no place on the planet. She has long ago given up on the world understanding.
But her work is no longer under the radar.
It is no longer just Roarke and his team hunting her. In fact Roarke may have ceased his hunt entirely. But now the entire country knows her name.
Leaving had been the only option. Leaving Roarke with the corpse of the predator in the icy farmhouse and driving, under the steady guiding light of the moon.
She had driven ten straight hours to get out of California.
South first, on I-5, because in the dead of winter the Sierra Nevada mountains are snow traps, an effective natural roadblock to any state to the east. A stop in Bakersfield to pick up the set of automobile master keys she had mailed to one of her many postal drop boxes for safekeeping. Then crossing over on the 58 to I-40, old Route 66, into the desert, through Tehachapi, Barstow, and finally across the border into Arizona. No small highways or back roads, either: she wants major interstates with anonymous traffic.
The next state over is New Mexico, possibly the most beautiful of all the states. The Southwest has been a frequent site of her restless driving; the long miles of unpopulated areas and natural beauty are her safe haven. The next state after is Texas, always unsettling, always the biggest danger to her, but she can stay on the road, drive through it quickly, a day and a half max. And next is Louisiana. She has not been to New Orleans in two years. Too long. Tourists will be flocking in for the long buildup to Mardi Gras, costumed and perpetually drunk, and she can hide in plain sight . . .
This is her first torrent of panicked thoughts. But the road slows her down, calms her body and mind. It is guidance she needs. The guidance that has always been there for her.
She must be still and let it come.
So she drives, and listens only to as much news as necessary to be sure that the hunt has not focused itself.