There was money, first of all, bound up in stacks and stuffed into a cookie tin. There was a gun beside the money, a pistol. Some spare ammunition. And there was a box.
The box was heavy when Mila picked it up. She pulled it from the hole and set it on the floor and looked at it and didn’t open it. Something about the box made her wary. Leland Hurley had made an effort to hide the box. She could have guessed why. But Mila realized she didn’t want to know for sure.
Do it. Do it now, before he comes back and finds you.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, Mila opened the box. Saw what she’d expected to find. What she’d really hoped that she wouldn’t. She looked in at the contents, and what she saw hit her hard, a sledgehammer to the chest.
They were right. Ronda was right. Ash was right.
This is a monster’s lair.
67
An amethyst necklace. A small diamond ring. A slim ladies’ watch, nothing special, the kind you found in the jewelry case at Walmart. A silver dollar. Women’s underwear. Leland Hurley had stashed it all in his box.
He’d kept photographs, too, creased and well-worn, of dogs and smiling older couples, the pictures yellowed with age. There was a love letter to someone named Alberta from someone named Dave. The ink had smudged in a few spots, and the paper was stained in the corner. The stain looked like it might have been blood.
Hurley had even kept an asthma inhaler. It had been prescribed to someone named Pamela Moody, from a doctor in Columbia Falls, Montana. Mila’s stomach churned. She tried not to think about Pamela Moody, whoever she was, and what Hurley had done to her before he’d taken her inhaler.
Mila picked through Hurley’s macabre collection of souvenirs, looking for something she would recognize as Ash’s. She didn’t see anything; Ash didn’t wear rings, and she didn’t carry pictures. She wore her grandmother on her belt, and that was all she’d needed.
Something made a sound outside in the forest. It sounded like a branch snapping, and it sent a jolt of fear like electricity down Mila’s spine. She’d been here too long. She had to leave while she could still get away. Take what she could carry and get back to the highway fast, however she could.
Quickly, Mila stuffed her pockets. Took the love letter, the photographs, Pamela Moody’s inhaler. She left the jewelry and the watch; too impersonal. The police would never believe her if she brought back a handful of rings. But they would have to pay attention if she showed them things that had clearly belonged to the murdered women.
Mila stuffed the box back down the hole. Took the pistol, left the cash. Took a spare magazine for good measure. Replaced the floorboard and dragged the rug back. Tried to remember how it had looked when she walked in, put everything back as close as she could remember, and hurried for the door.
She stole a glance through the picture window before she walked out of the cabin. Scanned the clearing for any sign of life. Didn’t see Leland Hurley, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe she’d panicked for nothing. There was probably nobody out there.
Still, it was time to get back down the mountain. She’d spent more than enough time in this awful place.
Mila pushed open the front door and stepped onto the porch. She’d started across the steps, toward the snow beyond, and that’s when she heard the CRACK of the rifle as, simultaneously, the roof of the porch exploded above her head.
Mila stopped cold, struck dumb, a raccoon on the highway at midnight. She looked up at the hole in the wood above her head. Her brain struggled to process.
Leland Hurley was out there. He was somewhere in the forest, and he was shooting at her.
CRACK.
The rifle fired again.
—
Leland Hurley watched the girl through the scope of the rifle. The first shot had stunned her. The second spurred her to action.
She turned back to the door and seemed to hesitate, torn between ducking for cover and running away. Hurley watched her, his finger on the trigger, poised to fire again if she made the wrong choice.
She was the girl from the gas station. He’d noticed her staring at the knife on his belt, caught the way she watched him from the gas station doorway, like she was trying to work up the nerve to approach him.
Hurley hadn’t recognized her, but that didn’t mean anything. She had the look of a train hopper, some vagabond runaway, and she’d stared at the knife like she’d seen it before. And now she was here.
She knows who you are.
Through the scope of the rifle, Hurley saw the moment the girl’s flight instinct took over. She bolted, ran down the length of the porch, away from Hurley, threw herself over the side. Landed in the snow and kept running, slogging through the drifts, headed for the trees opposite.
Hurley tracked her through the scope. Waited until she’d neared the edge of the clearing, then pulled the trigger again. Smiled with satisfaction as the girl disappeared from sight.
Damn it, but this was fun.
68
Finley stood on the gas the second the last coal car passed the crossing. The SUV’s wheels chirped and spun, and then the truck launched forward over the tracks. Caught air as it crossed them, bouncing Stevens and Windermere around in their seats, came down hard on the other side, the logging road stretching out ahead of them again, nothing but forest and hard, jagged mountains, Trail Creek to the right and the valley rising ahead.
From her vantage point in the shotgun seat, Windermere searched the terrain for any sign of Leland Hurley’s cabin, any trace of Mila Scott. Saw nothing. Wherever Hurley was, he was well camouflaged. The whole area looked completely uninhabited.
Finley slowed the truck as the road curved sharply. Windermere gripped the armrest. “Come on,” she said. “We have to move, Deputy.”
Finley guided the truck around the curve. “Won’t do us much good if we wind up in the ditch,” she said. “Slow and steady, right?”
“Won’t do us much good if Mila Scott’s dead when we get there,” Windermere retorted. “No time for slow and steady, Deputy. Right now it’s fast as you can.”
Finley started to argue. Thought better of it. The truck’s engine surged, and Windermere felt the speed pick up. She held on to the panic bar above her head, bounced her knee on the floor. Stared up at the mountains ahead and wondered which one hid Leland Hurley.
69
Mila pulled herself out of the snow. Checked her body for damage as she crawled out of the clearing. She’d heard the rifle shot, Hurley’s third. She could swear she’d heard the bullet as she threw herself to the ground, figured this was it, third time unlucky. Figured he’d put a hole in her back.
But she wasn’t hurt. She could crawl. She could stand up and run through the trees—or wade; the snow was too deep for anything faster. She wasn’t bleeding and she didn’t feel any pain. In fact, she could see the tree trunk the bullet had struck. Hurley had missed her again. She was still alive.
Somehow.
Mila didn’t expect Hurley to keep missing. She pushed farther into the forest as the ground began to drop away ahead of her, a steep, perilous declination, cliffs and jagged rock and fallen tree trunks. She would break her neck if she tried to run the drop; the mountain was too steep here. She didn’t have a choice. She would have to push deeper into the trees, hope she could lose Hurley in the wilderness. Hope she could survive long enough to double back toward the road.
Mila caught her breath. Took the pistol from her pocket and started into the forest.
—
Hurley shouldered his rifle. Grinned to himself as he stepped into the clearing on his snowshoes.
This was fun.
He’d never seen the point in a quick, easy kill. Enjoyed the drama of the hunt, the suspense. He was a man who savored his kills, made the most of his efforts. He worked hard to secure his prey. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself a little?
Hurley could have killed the girl the moment she stepped out of his cabin. He’d had her lined up in his scope, and he never missed with his rifle, not from that range.
The rifle shot would have felled her. Probably killed her instantly. She would have died on his doorstep, never seeing his face. Would have died before he could touch her. Smell her. Punish her.
He’d fired to spook her. To jolt her into action, send her running, start the chase. She’d obliged him, though he’d had to fire twice to scare her out of her stupor. Did she know how lucky she was, that he’d spared her life? Admittedly not for long, but still. The girl was terrified now, thinking of nothing but survival. She would die exhilarated, her mind pure. She would die like the animal that she was.
Hurley started across the clearing toward where the girl had disappeared. He took his time; the girl had left footprints, deep, flailing gouges in the snow. He would follow them to her, as simple as if she’d drawn him a map.
Hell, it was easy.
It was almost unfair.
70
There was nowhere to hide.
Mila felt her strength flagging as she pushed through the deep snow. The mountainside was steep, the forest floor uneven, and the snow came up past her knees. She scrambled forward, clutching at trees to pull herself up the incline, away from the cabin, deeper into the wilderness. She was sweating through her clothing, panting for breath. Her legs screamed for rest, but she couldn’t rest here. Not while every step left a trail for Hurley to follow.
She would have to press on.
Mila tried not to think about the killer behind her. Couldn’t help it. He had a big gun. He knew the mountain better than she did. He could follow her footprints until she collapsed from exhaustion, and then he could do what he wanted to her. Or he could wait and let nature do the job for him. There was nothing back here, beyond Hurley’s cabin. Nothing but forest and high, desolate mountains.
She would have to surprise him. She would have to lure him into a trap and shoot him before he shot her. Kill him. Then she could follow her footprints back to the cabin. She could find her way back down the mountain.
Mila stopped moving. Leaned against a tree as she surveyed the forest, looking for somewhere she could mount an ambush. She could hear something behind her—an engine. Was Hurley driving to meet her?
No time to think about that now. There was light through the branches, about thirty yards ahead and ten yards or so down the mountain. A clearing. She could lead Hurley there, watch from the trees until he was out in the open. Then she would empty the pistol at him and pray her shots hit.
Mila pushed off the tree. Forced her legs to keep slogging through the snow, checked back to make sure she was still leaving a trail. She was.
—
She’d fired a gun before, once, at Ronda Sixkill’s birthday on Lake Superior. Ash had disappeared in the dark, come back with some rider’s old .38 Special.
“Traded a fifth of Old Crow for an hour with this bad boy,” she told Mila. “So let’s make it count.”
They’d disappeared down to the lakeshore, walked along the water until they found an overturned log, a patch of empty space. Ash set up a couple beer cans on the log, paced back to the edge of the woods, took aim, and knocked down both cans, just like that. The sound was deafening, left Mila’s ears ringing. Seemed to echo out over the dark lake forever.
Ash brought a couple more cans of beer from her backpack. Cracked one and handed the other to Mila. Downed her own and waited until Mila had done the same. Then she took the can back and set it up on the log.
“Okay, cowboy,” she said, handing the revolver to Mila. “Your turn.”
Mila had hesitated. Guns made her nervous, even more than her knife did. But Ash was giving her that look, that We both know you’re going to do what I say look, and Mila couldn’t think of a way out that didn’t make her sound like a wimp. She took the gun, and the grip was warm where Ash had been holding it. She stepped out of the trees, leveled the revolver at the cans the way Ash had done. Took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
The trigger was heavier than she’d expected. She had to pull twice to get the gun to fire, and when it did, it fired wide and wild, high above the beer cans. Mila took aim, pulled the trigger again. More assertive this time. Missed again.
“Focus on the front sight,” Ash told her. “Inhale deep and then let out half your breath and squeeze the trigger back, one continuous motion. But forget about the target. Focus on the sight.”
Mila focused on the front sight. Let out half her breath. Tried to squeeze the trigger. Missed her shot again.
And again.
Missed every shot until they’d run through all the bullets, and Mila’s cheeks were red from failing so hard.
“Well, whatever,” Ash said, taking the revolver back. “Probably just a shitty gun, you know?”
—
Now, as Mila struggled through the snow toward the clearing, she gripped the pistol in her hand and knew Ash had been lying. Ash had knocked off both cans with her first try, after all. It wasn’t the weapon. It was the shooter.
Still, Leland Hurley was bigger than a beer can. And the pistol had plenty of bullets.
The clearing was close, just a few yards down the mountain from where she was standing. Mila couldn’t see beyond the trees at the edge, just the gray daylight shining through the branches, but it was bright enough that she could tell the trees stopped there. She scrambled down the incline, made it almost to the light. Then she caught her foot on a root hidden in the snow.
She stumbled. Felt her balance slipping, nearly fell. Stayed upright, but careened forward, her boots sliding, toppling her toward the tree line. She reached for branches, grabbed them, and felt them give way. She was too heavy. She was moving too fast. She fell through the tree line and saw nothing but thin air beyond.
It wasn’t a clearing through the branches. It was a cliff.
She was moving too fast to avoid the edge. Couldn’t find a handhold to stop the fall. Burst out of the trees and onto the rocky ledge, had a brief, split-second view of a carpet of forest spread out for miles, distant snow-covered mountains, and then she was tumbling over the edge, arms pinwheeling in front of her, grabbing at air and then bracing for protection as the ground rushed up to meet her—snow and black, angry rock—and she was closing her eyes and praying she survived.
71
Hurley followed the girl’s footsteps into the forest. Smiled as her trail traced the slope of the mountain. She had nowhere to run in this direction, he knew. She had nowhere to hide. He would find her eventually, sure as the sunrise. And in the meantime, he would enjoy the hunt.
Hurley’s snowshoes made light work of the terrain. He could cover the ground quicker than the girl, catch up with her before long. And then? Hurley was undecided. He could shoot her with the rifle; that would be the quickest way to deal with her, the easiest way. But quick and easy wasn’t fun. Hurley wanted to hurt this girl, whoever she was.
He had his knife with him, the Indian girl’s knife. He could incapacitate her, bring her back to the cabin. Discuss her motives for coming here, explore her mind a little. There was nothing that said he had to kill her tonight.
Hurley followed the trail through the trees, along the mountainside, around fallen logs and rocky outcroppings. The girl’s footprints were rushed, indistinct; Hurley could see where she’d scrabbled at the snow with her hands, where she’d stumbled. He could see where she’d slowed to rest.
She would tire easily. Her legs would give out from under her, and she would have to stop, whether she wanted to or not. The cold would overwhelm her. She would close her eyes to rest—just for a minute, she would tell herself, seduced by her fatigue. She would lose the battle.
He would surprise her. Rouse her. And then the real fun would begin.
The girl’s trail lev
eled out, and Hurley could see where she’d stopped under a tall fir tree. He imagined her looking around, gasping for breath and listening for him behind her. He followed her trail with his eyes, saw the gap in the trees, saw her trail dip toward it. He took his rifle from his shoulder and followed her prints, slower now.
Hurley suspected he knew what was beyond the trees. He was certain the girl didn’t. But he could also imagine the girl plotting to trap him, lead him somewhere vulnerable and ambush him. He advanced on the edge of the forest slowly, scanning the ground for any sign of trickery.
The girl’s trail became muddled above the gap in the trees. Her footprints coalesced into one erratic track, as if she’d slipped and fallen—or deliberately tried to obscure her trail.
Hurley studied the snow closely, looking for clues. She might have tried to misdirect him, but she couldn’t hide her own tracks, not so effectively that he couldn’t find her. But Hurley could see no sign of any ambush. What he did see was a scrap of paper on the ground, a few feet from her footprints.
Hurley picked up the paper. It was blue-lined and folded, torn from a notebook, and Hurley felt a twinge of recognition as he studied it. He’d folded and unfolded that paper many times in the past, replaying the night he’d shared with its owner. Alberta, her name was, and her boyfriend was Dave, some jacked-up rig pig who’d run off to the oil fields. She’d cried when he’d read the note aloud to her, Dave’s promises and half-literate professions of love.
Alberta. The note had been in his treasure chest. The girl had found his souvenirs, and she’d taken this one with her. That was a bad sign. That meant she knew everything.
Hurley stuffed the note in his pocket. Looked around for any more of his treasures. Couldn’t see any. Satisfied, he cradled his rifle again. Picked his way down the snow toward the light through the trees, followed the girl’s messy trail through the branches to where the snow stopped and the rock ledge began, just as he’d expected.
The Forgotten Girls Page 19