Primal Obsession

by Susan Vaughan

He squeezed her hand. “What if our deadfall knocked him down? If we wait around, he could get away. We have to take the chance.”

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  The trap was the first deadfall one they’d set up, and it lay still cloaked in murky shadows. Above the earth, the bound logs swung in a pendulum arc.

  Below on the loam lay a figure face down, unmoving.

  Sam released her hand, motioned to her to remain where she was. Knife gripped in fighting position, he stepped closer.

  A man leaped from the shadows. He slammed a heavy branch on the back of Sam’s head.

  Sam dropped like a felled oak.

  Stunned, Annie stared without comprehension at Sam, face down atop the first body. Her pulse roared in her ears, but she clawed her way from paralysis.

  “Oh God! Sam, no!” She started toward him.

  “Don’t move!” The shadowed figure turned the unconscious Sam over. He kicked away Sam’s weapon. With his left hand, he pressed the point of a long-bladed knife to Sam’s throat.

  A drop of crimson beaded on the flesh, dripped down the knife blade.

  “Another step, bitch, and I’ll slice him ear to ear.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Justin Wylde paced the shingle beach at the take-out point on Big Loon Lake. Search teams had headed into the wilderness area last night. At sunrise he wanted results.

  Where the hell could they be? Five people in two salmon-red canoes should be easier to spot than a bear in a locked room. If Smith was using the Whaler, the engine noise ought to give him away.

  If a team found the campers, Annie and the others would be protected, while they sent in the helicopters and narrowed the hunt. When they nabbed Smith, Justin would breathe again.

  He hated thinking of the possible reasons none of the searchers had turned up a clue as to either quarry’s location. Maybe they should do the air search now and not worry about warning the asshole.

  Pressing a hand to his abdomen, he twisted at the waist. He felt like a gang of spiders was spinning sticky webs in his gut.

  He plopped on the edge of one of their two outboard engine-equipped inflatables. About two miles east to west and three-quarters of a mile across, Big Loon wasn’t deep water. Eel grass and lily pads encroached toward the middle of the lake. He stared northward at the blue plastic sheen of the calm water. The storms had blown through, leaving mist and silence in their wake. The forest surrounding Big Loon Lake held its secrets in the dense foliage.

  What was that movie line? It’s quiet—too quiet.

  Shit.

  Behind him spread an encampment set up by the four MCU detectives. Personal tents and a screened shelter covering the picnic table circled a campfire ring. Two more FBI agents—male and female and just as stiff as Tavani—expanded the federal representation. More were taking part in the search and maintaining the command center with Watson at Moosewoods Resort.

  For a while, Justin had waited with his colleagues, staring at the search markers on the large map and willing the killer to pop up as some new color-coded pin. He sat by the radio, hoping for reports from the searchers. A fucking watched pot, he’d muttered and stalked out to the water's edge.

  When the radio in the tent behind him crackled to life, he jumped to his feet.

  By the time he reentered the shelter, Tavani had on the headphones and was taking notes from the broadcast report. The others glanced at him, apprehension on more than one face. Since everyone knew that his sister was one of the campers, they viewed him with skepticism. Even Bess Peters didn’t think he should be there. Tough shit. Watson had approved it.

  Justin kicked at the dirt. The need to hold it together and remain professional added to the queasiness in his gut.

  “Okay, here’s the deal.” Tavani slipped off the headgear. “They’ve found the Boston Whaler.”

  “Where? Anyone there?” Justin wanted the whole scoop. Now.

  Tavani approached the map and pointed to a spot on Otter Stream between the upper and lower ponds. “Here. Tucked under an overhanging tree. Empty. One of your trackers—fellow named Whitten—was part of Search Team Two. He found footprints leading east from there toward this ridge called the Hump.”

  Bess traced her finger over the indicated direction. “The Hunter? But where’s he going?”

  The Hunter wasn’t headed east on foot alone. Justin’s pulse leaped.

  Annie was alive.

  “Where he’s going depends on his quarry,” the agent said. “There are three sets of prints. One set of size twelve or thirteen hiking boots and one much smaller set of sneakers.”

  “The guide, Sam Kincaid, and Annie Wylde,” said Peters. “They’ve separated from the others. Smith’s following them.” He looked up. “Or he has them.”

  Tavani shook his head. “Looks like he’s tracking them. Whitten said the third set of prints, also woods boots, cover the other prints in places. Rain has washed out some of the tracks where they’re not under the tree canopy, but he seemed confident he could find them.”

  “Can he tell how much of a lead Annie and Kincaid have?”

  “He didn’t say, but Whitten and his team are following as fast as they can.”

  What the hell were Annie and Sam doing? Did they hope to trick the killer? When did they tumble to his presence? And what else did he do to the group before they split up?

  Annie and Sam must’ve counted on Smith following the canoes headed south. Since that didn’t work, Sam better be one tough son of a bitch.

  “If Ms. Wylde and the guide left the rest of the group and headed overland, where are the canoes and the other three campers?” Peters pointed to the campsite symbol on Lower Otter Pond. “Shouldn’t they be down here?”

  Tavani’s expression was grim. “No sign of them or their canoes. The other teams checked in earlier. Team Four reached that campsite a little while ago. No sign anyone has been there.”

  Mystified, Justin stared at the map. He asked the question he’d been thinking all morning, “Where the hell could they be?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The climbing sun showed Annie that the first man on the ground had been flattened by Sam’s weight. Leaves drifted from the empty shirtsleeve. Not a man, only a dummy. A deception made successful by the shadows.

  Sam’s stillness was no deception. His jaw and mouth hung slack in oblivion. His chest rose and fell, a shallow movement but it meant he was alive.

  Tension fled her body and she felt lightheaded. Her hands shook as she raised her eyes to the man holding his knife to Sam’s throat.

  It was he man she’d known as Ray.

  Yet it wasn’t Ray.

  The camper Ray had been diffident and mild. This man’s demeanor stamped him as dangerous. Ray’s light eyes beneath his prominent brow had contained only intelligence and goodwill. Beneath a positively Neanderthal brow ridge, this man’s pale eyes glittered with malevolence. Instead of the shorts and T-shirts Ray and the other campers usually wore, this man was clad from head to foot in camouflage gear, including splotches of green, tan, and brown on his cheeks.

  His knife point never wavered from Sam’s throat.

  Her heart triple-timed, slamming against her rib cage, and bile rose in her throat. At last she was face to face with the monster who’d murdered and defiled five young women. Or more. He’d killed old Ted Wolfe. And probably the innocent computer programmer whose identity he stole in order to join the expedition.

  What sort of vile intelligence could create from his Hyde reality such a Jekyll persona as Ray?

  She forced herself to inhale deeply. Panic would accomplish nothing. If she couldn’t save herself, maybe she could save Sam.

  She tried to keep her voice steady, but her trembling lips wouldn’t cooperate. “P-please. You don’t have to k-kill him. I-I’m the one you w-want.”

  “Now, Annie, you’re too intelligent to think I would leave a witness.” He lifted the blade from its vulnerable target, but held it poised. “But it is up to you
how long he has to live.”

  She struggled to focus on his words. Even the man’s voice was different—lower, menacing. “Up to me?”

  “Simple. The longer the hunt, the longer he lives. I want him awake later to enjoy the little... entertainment you and I will present.”

  She suppressed a shudder. The depths of depravity he intended didn’t bear examining. She wouldn’t allow his slimy tentacles to strangle her with fear. She swallowed the nausea in her throat. “What does Sam have to do with it?”

  “Fucking loser. His fault this whole chase has taken so much of my time. I could have gotten you away days ago and been on my way to Canada.”

  Canada. So he was planning to flee the country. He would continue his appalling hunts farther north. How could she stop him? Although he was shorter and slighter than Sam, he outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. He possessed a wiry strength that had surprised her during the bushwhacks. What were her chances against this expert woodsman?

  She’d come back to her original purpose—to understand him. Goose bumps rose on her arms, but her palms were sweaty.

  “You played all those dirty tricks on us.” She made it a statement, not giving him a chance to deny anything. “Why the subtlety? Why didn’t you just grab me that first night when I went off by myself?”

  “Subtlety? I like that. Yes, the Hunter prides himself on strategy.” The pale eyes glittered with arrogance. He took her implication of weakness as a compliment. “Simple. I needed time and transportation.”

  She gasped. He’d planned way ahead to kill the old caretaker. “Wolfe’s boat.”

  A smug look lifted his heavy brow. “And the ATV. It would have taken us a hell of a lot closer to the Canadian border than your little side trip has put us. You and Kincaid delayed me.”

  She curled her hands into fists but forced calm into her voice. She had to keep him talking and give herself time to think. “But how did you know about the caretaker?”

  “Easy. Before we left, Ray telephoned Moosewoods on Monday to ask about emergency precautions.”

  She hated to ask, feared she knew the answer. “What happened to...to Ray? What did you do to him?”

  He laughed, a silky chuckle, not the evil cackle she expected. “Let’s say he gave himself as a sacrifice to the cause. My cause.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The only name you need is the one you gave me. Hunter.”

  “Hunter. That’s good. A non-name. Merely a description for a non-entity. I wouldn’t want to think of slime like you having a mother or father who gave you a human name.”

  He dropped Sam and surged to his feet.

  Her adrenaline spiked and she recoiled. Oh God, dumb move. Big mistake taunting him.

  Beneath the brim of his camouflage cap, the Hunter’s face contorted in fury. But he came no closer.

  Could she run? She glanced at Sam. She couldn’t leave him. She couldn’t move, felt rooted her to the ground, but lifted her chin.

  “You leave my mother out of this. She deserved—” He bent his head. When he looked up, his features were schooled, calmer. The light of anticipation shone in his eyes. “How convenient of you to bring a rope. Tie his hands.”

  “But you told me not to move.” Adopting a mocking tone was tough with chattering teeth.

  With his knife hand, he shoved her hard, dropping her to her knees. “Don’t be obtuse. It doesn’t suit a smart bitch like you.”

  She reeled from the blow. Fighting tears, she scrambled closer to Sam. Thank God the bastard didn’t cut her. She dragged in a deep breath, but bile nearly choked her. She knew what he intended for her.

  A hunt.

  Gesturing toward the coiled rope with his knife, her captor took a step back. “Tie him. Make it tight. No tricks.”

  “I’m not very good with knots.” Annie knelt beside Sam. She touched her index finger to the pulse in his neck. Strong and steady. Yes.

  “You’d better be good at this one. I’ll check it afterward. If I’m not satisfied, lover boy might lose more blood sooner rather than later.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. She didn’t doubt his threat for a minute.

  He stood to the side, his piercing gaze never wavering from her. Keeping his right hand behind his back, he held the wicked-looking knife in his left.

  He didn’t seem to have any other weapon. No rifle. Unless he’d left it at a camp in the woods. But why not use a firearm if he had one? Or was he simply following his recent trend?

  Mind and pulse racing, she bent to the task. She chose her Girl Scout square knot, easy to tie, easy to undo, drawing out the process. If the Hunter had no firearm, she had more of a chance. He’d booted the Buck knife out of reach, but Sam’s other knife was in its sheath at his belt. If she could reach it...

  The forest was coming awake. Birds sang and squirrels chittered and scrabbled overhead. She crossed Sam’s wrists. Winding the rope around them with her right hand, she slid her left to his belt, closer to the knife. “How did you know we left the others?”

  He smiled. Not Ray’s shy smile, but a poisonous smirk. “The Hunter doesn’t miss sign. You were up to something, so I watched the river. I saw where you went ashore.”

  She pulled the knot tight over Sam’s wrists, but kept her right hand on it, pretending to adjust the lay of the rope. She walked her fingers around beneath Sam, toward the knife sheath. “Clever. But with the rain, how did you follow us to the cabin?” Slowly, slowly.

  Again came the silky chuckle that skittered claws up her spine. A feral flame burned in his deep-set eyes. “Oh, but the Hunter didn’t have to trail you. I could have, of course, but the old man conveniently had a map. A pencil drawing of the cabin stood out plain as day. It had to be your destination.”

  “You didn’t count on the canoe.” With her thumb, she flicked loose the strap holding the knife in its sheath. She closed her trembling hand on the handle. “We got away.”

  A scowl knitted his low brow. “You complicated things. Made the Hunter come farther south. Your clumsy traps didn’t stop me.”

  She slid the knife free. Palmed it against her thigh, where he couldn’t see. Her experience with a knife was only for kitchen chores like carving a chicken. But as a weapon? How could she—against an expert, a soulless beast with sharp claws? But it was her only shot. Her heart thumped hard enough to break a rib.

  “Now his feet.” He tossed her a roll of duct tape.

  She hid the knife on the ground beside her. Working quickly, she wound the tape twice around Sam’s ankles.

  She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I should’ve known I couldn’t fool the Hunter. Tell me one thing. Why did you come after me?”

  “You know that, bitch. You were telling my story and you deserted me.” He brandished his claw, the long blade, at her. Sunlight reflected on its burnished surface, winking spotlights on Sam’s limp form.

  Keeping her smaller knife behind her, Annie levered to her feet. There was so much she wanted to know. Why he’d committed such horrors. About how he knew where she’d gone. About Emma. Hearing about how he kidnapped and murdered her friend would tear her apart, but she had to know. If only she had the courage and the time to keep him talking. “I didn’t abandon you. I came to the woods for you.”

  “Liar! Liar! You left someone else—a slug—to write about the next body they found—that silly fucking teenager. She was no challenge.”

  “But you don’t need me. The Messenger covered your story. You saw that newspaper back at Moosewoods.” She wasn’t making sense, but she needed time. She took a step closer to him. His scent, ripe with sweat and the dirt he’d smeared over himself, tainted the air. She could barely hear him over the roaring in her ears and the hammering of her heart.

  “Who do you think made sure you’d find that newspaper?”

  If he’d doused her with a bucket of water, she couldn’t have been more shocked. “You? You left it on the table?”

  “You had to see. The stupid shit who wrot
e that story doesn’t understand like you do. You left me. You have to pay.”

  “You’re wrong. I came here to try to understand you. To try to know what you experience, what you feel in the woods.” Another step closer. He was stronger than she was. She had only surprise on her side.

  She gripped the knife as she had seen Sam hold it. Her breathing was fast and shallow, but she forced calm into her voice. “If you let me go back, I’ll write more. I promise.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Sorrow flickered in his pale eyes. And pain. Apparently distracted by his own thoughts, he lowered his blade.

  Annie lunged.

  He sidestepped, brought up one knee.

  She stumbled, off balance.

  A flash of white crashed down on her wrist.

  Fiery pain shot up her arm. The knife flew away. A scream tore from her throat. A slam to her face cut it off.

  She fell over Sam’s legs onto the hard ground. Dizziness swirled behind her eyes. Her head throbbed as if the Hunter still pounded her. Blood bloomed coppery in her mouth.

  “Bitch! Bitch! Do you think the Hunter is stupid?” Keening rose from his throat, inarticulate moans. After he subsided, he picked up her knife, tucked it in a backpack. “You’re no better than the others. You underestimate the Hunter. Just like her.”

  Annie pulled to a seated position, touched her mouth. Her hand came away smeared with crimson where her teeth had bit into the flesh. Her lip ached, but the blood was already slowing.

  She glanced at Sam. His fingers twitched. Unconscious, but stirring. Thank God, Sam. One strike, but I’m not out yet.

  The Hunter cradled his right hand in the crook of his left arm. He rocked back and forth. Gauze swathed the hand.

  Her heart clattered and her chest heaved. In spite of her defeat and her aching mouth, she felt a sort of victory. With it brought renewed strength. She cocked her head at him. “You’re injured.”

  He drew himself up. Thrusting the bandaged hand behind him, he squared his shoulders. “It’s nothing. Temporary. Not like lover boy here with his gimpy fingers. Ironic, isn’t it?”