He heard a noise and peeked out. He could see, within the trees up ahead, a figure dressed in camouflage coming back up the hill toward him. Shit!
Tom ducked down and pressed his face to the dirt. He listened as the footsteps came closer, the sound of gravel shuffling and twigs snapping underfoot. He so wished he still had that Glock. Why did I waste the bullets on that stupid dog?
But it sounded as if the footsteps were farther away and, this time, circling around him before moving past and back up the hill.
He didn’t move or even look up.
The woods fell silent, and Tom gave it a good ten minutes before he finally, cautiously, sat up. He reached into his collar and picked away the remaining ants, crushing the little bastards in his fingers.
When he felt it was safe enough to proceed, Tom stood and limped downhill, the opposite direction from where the mysterious camouflaged killer had gone. His path became steeper and the ground slippery as loose rocks slipped below his feet.
Tom reached the clearing and stopped at the edge of a deep ravine, a cliff before him—no way to proceed. His heart sank and he realized he had to turn back. He would have to retrace his steps, back where the killer had gone.
Son of a bitch.
Slowly and cautiously he made his way back up. His feet kept slipping on the loose slate, the pain in his ankle getting much worse. The steep embankment offered little foothold, so he pulled on sapling branches and exposed roots to climb back up the embankment.
Tom finally made it to level ground and limped on. He passed the crevice where he had hidden and scanned the surroundings before he hunched down among the weeds and cautiously cut through a meadow. He could smell the smoke from the fire. He had a headache—the flu symptoms were back.
Tom stopped from time to time to listen but heard nothing but birds and the soft wind rustling the pines. He reached the sinkhole he’d stepped into, the place where he’d sprained his ankle. That’s when he realized something was missing—his cowboy hat.
The killer had his hat.
Shit.
Chapter
THIRTY-ONE
Eddie used the butt of the shotgun to break the windowpane of the French door. Careful not to cut his wrist on the jagged shards of glass, he reached in and unlocked the deadbolt. They were in.
Sheila searched the kitchen while he rummaged through the living room. There were piles of clothes and half-packed suitcases on the floor. He saw the home phone was missing from its charging stand. He pushed the locator button but heard no signal.
“Mine always ends up on the couch,” Sheila said.
Eddie searched there for the wireless phone receiver, flipping over cushions. Nothing.
“Maybe there’s one upstairs,” Eddie said.
The master bedroom had a Western motif, with silhouettes of cowboys roping cattle hand-sewn into the quilted bedspread. There were photos from actual rodeos and decorative pillows with branding iron symbols set against the distressed-wood headboard. This was the largest room in the house and had its own master bath, so Eddie assumed this was Tami’s room. He wondered what she’d thought of the room’s theme, if the cattle and horses depicted on the bedspread were treated unkindly.
There was another wireless charging base on the nightstand but no phone there either. Eddie pushed that locater button but, like the one downstairs, nothing sounded.
Sheila stated the obvious, “Someone took the phones.”
“Maybe our cell phones work here,” Eddie said. He set the shotgun down and pulled out his iPhone. “No service,” he read aloud.
“Who would take the phones?” Sheila wondered aloud.
“God knows. Maybe there’s a router we can tap into for Wi-Fi,” Eddie said, fingering the screen. “Wait a second. There is.”
Sheila went to his side to consider his phone over his shoulder. “Is there a network?” she asked.
He could see an active network but there was a lock symbol next to the address. He pressed it but it asked for a password. “I don’t know the password so I can’t access the damn thing.”
“This is crazy,” Sheila said in frustration.
“Yeah.”
As she stood close to him beside the bed, Eddie recalled the night they’d slept together. It wasn’t that long ago when they both stood in his apartment beside his bed, much like they were now. He remembered they’d reached a lull in their conversation and she’d looked at him with a wry smile he’d never forget. Then she leaned in. The rest was history.
Since Sheila had initiated the intimacy that night, it confounded him that she so abruptly broke it off. Sex with him couldn’t have been that bad, could it? What had gone wrong? He wanted to talk about it more but this clearly was not the time.
A rustling noise came from the closet.
Sheila flinched.
Eddie grabbed the shotgun. “Who is it?” he said.
There was silence.
They shared a look before Eddie flung the closet door open.
Tami was hiding under a pile of ski parkas. “Don’t shoot!” she shrieked, squinting up at them, waving her hand, bracelets jingling.
“Tami?”
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“What are you doing here?” Eddie said.
“Hiding,” she said, her voice cracking in fear.
“Did you see the killer?” Sheila asked her.
“No, but I heard the screams.”
“What screams?”
Tami burst into tears before she managed to utter, “Connie, Bonnie, and Diane. It was horrible.”
“Why aren’t you down at the Gold Strike?” Eddie asked.
“The driver dropped us all off to get our things. I needed my insulin.”
“But the sheriff ordered everyone to go down and gather at the Gold Strike,” Sheila said.
“I don’t care what that loathsome sheriff wanted, and I wasn’t going to wait around in that horrible place. Not with all those dead animals. I needed my medication.”
“Where’s your insulin?” Sheila said. “I’ll get it.”
“Um … I …” Tami stammered.
“Is it an insulin pen? My mom had one of those so I know how to prepare them,” Sheila offered. “Is it in your bag?”
“You see, it’s complicated. I’m, uh …”
“You’re not a diabetic, are you?” Sheila said.
“Of course … Um … you see …” Tami raised her hands as if in surrender, “Okay, I admit I’m not a diabetic. I made that up at the time.” She looked to Eddie with pleading eyes, “Ed, you know I’m very sensitive. You understand.”
Eddie turned to Sheila and gave her a nod, impressed she was able to root out the truth. He could see she was livid. Turning back to Tami, he asked, “Tami, why did you guys come back here?”
“I told you, to get my things. And I had no intention of waiting at the hotel.”
“Do you know where the phones are?” Sheila asked.
“Phones?”
“They’re missing,” she said pointing to the charging stand.
“Yes, I know. I couldn’t find them either. They were there before. I called my agent last night.”
“Tell us what happened.”
Tami heaved a heavy sigh before she said, “The plan was to pack our bags and bring them out to the road to wait for Don to come back after he dropped everyone off. I was up here packing when I heard the screams. Then I saw them running.”
“Who?” asked Eddie.
“My staff.”
“Where?”
“They ran off into the woods. I could see from up here. Then there were these horrendous screams …” she said, emotion returning to her voice, “That’s when I hid in here. And after the screams I could hear the killer come upstairs and look for me.” She sniffled, wiped tears, then cont
inued, “He finally gave up and then I could hear him rummaging around downstairs.”
“The kitchen knife,” Sheila said.
Eddie said, “Let’s see.”
A moment later the three of them stood in the kitchen and, sure enough, the largest of the kitchen knives was missing from the wooden block. Sheila explained to Tami how they’d come across Don on the road, the knife lodged in his neck.
Tami covered her mouth with her hand and uttered, “Oh, my.”
“Maybe the killer was squatting in this house,” Sheila ventured.
Eddie nodded then turned to Tami. “Did anything strange happen while you were here, anything off-kilter?”
“Not that I recall.”
“All the doors were locked when we got here. Did you do that?” he asked.
“No.”
“You didn’t lock the doors?”
“No. I hid in the closet.”
“So maybe the killer has keys to the house,” Sheila said.
“Let’s not stick around and find out,” Eddie said, eyeing the darkening sky out the window. “It’s time to go.”
“Where?” Tami asked.
“The Gold Strike,” Eddie said and grabbed the shotgun.
“How are we going to get down there?”
“Walk,” Sheila said.
Tami clearly didn’t like the idea and exclaimed, “I say we wait here until someone comes for help.”
Sheila said, “Nobody knows we’re here.”
As they turned for the door, Eddie bumped into Diane’s portfolio resting on the kitchen counter. It fell onto the tile floor and popped open. Something caught his eye. Tucked inside the portfolio was a scrapbook with worn edges, its pages now open too. There was a photo of a much younger Diane, archer’s bow aimed. “Wait a second,” he said, and picked up the scrapbook. “Hold on a second.”
“What?” Sheila asked.
Eddie scanned a newspaper article with the headline, “US Woman’s Archery Takes Aim at Rio.”
“She’s an archer?” Eddie asked Tami.
“Who?” Sheila inquired.
“Tami’s stylist, Diane.”
Tami stepped up to view the scrapbook. “Archery?”
“It looks like she competed in the Olympics.” Eddie flipped the pages to more newspaper articles.
“She never told me that.”
There were photos of Diane in competition, images of women in the archer stance, arrows tightly grouped on targets, and even a photo of Diane as a child wearing full camo kneeling next to a man that appeared to be her father. A slain wild boar lay between them, arrows protruding. Both father and daughter held compound hunting bows.
“Oh, my …” Tami said.
“How long has Diane worked for you?” Sheila asked.
“You don’t think that—?”
“Did she bring a bow up here?” asked Eddie.
“Come to think of it,” Tami said in a worried tone, “Diane did have a lot of extra cases in the makeup trailer.”
“What kind of cases?” Sheila pressed.
“Black ones. Like the ones the guys use for the cameras and such.”
“The guys?” Sheila said.
“I mean you guys.”
“Pelican cases?” Sheila asked.
“I suppose.”
“Were they long enough to carry a bow?” Eddie asked, arms stretched out to demonstrate the size.
“I’m not sure … but I think so. No, it can’t be Diane. I know her and there’s no way she’d hurt a fly.”
“Did she bring camouflage?” Eddie asked.
“Camouflage what?”
“Clothing, pants, pullovers.”
Tami scoffed, “I assure you that’s not Diane’s style.”
Eddie turned more pages to reveal images of Diane in competition, plus a few of her holding trophies. On the last page, there were newspaper articles with photos of her and three women standing in front of the iconic Olympic rings.
“Her Olympic teammates,” Sheila said, scanning the text.
Tami started on, “I highly doubt that Diane would—”
“Wait a minute,” Sheila said upon closer inspection. “These are all obits.”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re obituaries.”
“Obituaries for who?” asked Eddie.
Sheila read one for a second more then turned to him and said, “Her other Olympic teammates. All three of them … murdered.”
Chapter
THIRTY-TWO
Tom felt light-headed as he scanned the trees for signs of an ambush. He weighed either proceeding or staying where he was. Then the wave hit, just as it had when he first arrived at the Gold Strike, one of the dreadful sudden panic attacks he couldn’t control. He fought it off the best he could, but the anxiety was too great. He felt dizzy.
He sat on a tree stump to let it pass, closed his eyes and tried to put himself somewhere else, anywhere but here. He tried to imagine the blue ocean, like in an acting-class exercise, but the pain in his ankle was the ball and chain that kept tugging Tom’s mind back to the here and now. The throbbing ache was getting worse. He slapped away another ant still crawling on his neck.
After a few minutes, the disorienting feeling passed and Tom stood and steadied himself. It appeared safe. He figured the killer must have found his hat and then come down the hill to the cliff to look for him before turning back. But there’s only one way out of here, he realized, back up the hill. The killer must know that.
Tom trained his ears for any sign of movement. There was nothing.
When he felt it was safe, he decided to proceed and pushed through the discomfort to hobble on. The swelling ankle made his movement slow. It was getting dark.
Tom made it another one hundred feet or so when he sensed someone up ahead. He stopped in his tracks. That’s when he saw her. Dressed head to toe in dark-green camouflage, Diane stood in his path. She appeared relaxed, leaning against a tree, a hunter’s bow at her side. The weapon looked so strange to him, like it was out of a science fiction movie; a high-tech web of support struts, the bow’s string pulled tight around cams and pulleys on each end. It too was painted camouflage. This was not the same weapon he’d seen in movies like Rambo or The Hunger Games, no, this bow appeared to be a precision tool of some kind, sinister and deadly.
His cowboy hat lay at her feet.
“Diane?” he said, heart racing.
“Diana,” she corrected him.
Tom was amazed at how seamlessly she blended into the surroundings. Branches and foliage were stuck in the netting of her vest, much like military snipers he’d seen on TV. With that and the impromptu tree perch she’d fashioned back at base camp, no wonder why nobody saw her.
“Diana, not Diane … it’s Diana,” she said firmly. “That’s who I am.”
“Oh, sorry, I thought—”
“The goddess of the hunt.” It was as if she spoke with another voice, as another persona.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“The hunt.”
“Diana. Got it. No problem,” he said. “Why are you …?” he started in but trailed off, not wanting to make her angry.
“We stand in the garden of the oaks, a sacred place,” she lectured, motioning to the trees surrounding them. “Home of Earth’s beautiful creatures.”
There was something in her eyes Tom could see, a burning hatred and anger. He took a few deep breaths, eyes still locked on Diane, and asked, “Why are you doing this?”
“I protect the animals. And you have crossed me. You have sinned.” She reached back to pull an arrow from the quiver strapped to her back.
“Diane. I mean Diana … hold on a second. I won’t say a word to anyone, I swear to God. This shit is none of my business. I’m just an actor for Chrissak
e.”
She studied him silently as she thumbed the flight of her arrow into the bow’s taut string.
“Look, I’ll tell you what,” Tom tried to reason, “This can be our secret. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Deal? And I won’t say a word, ever, to anyone. I swear to God. Let’s just go home and—”
“What about that defenseless dog?” she said as she raised the bow. “Why did you have to kill it?”
“That mongrel was attacking me, and I—”
She let the arrow fly.
The sudden jolt surprised him.
Tom could see the shaft protruding from his chest. He could feel the arrowhead end sticking out of his middle-back, realized, It went right through me. His neck stiffened and his hands curled inward. His knees gave way and he dropped. Gasping for air, Tom could feel his heart clench. Bitch shot me! The pain became overwhelming. Because of a fucking dog!
He couldn’t breathe. It was as if the wind were knocked out of him and as much as he tried he couldn’t draw a breath. Blood began to fill his throat, salty to taste, and he saw Diane come up to him. He felt her foot on his chest before she yanked the arrow out. There was an explosion of pain as the retraction of the arrow pulled him up off the dirt.
With his hands, he tried to cover the puncture wound to stop the bleeding.
Diane stepped up into Tom’s view. She stared down at him, a look of disgust on her face. “How’s it feel now, big man?”
Tom was finally able to draw short breaths but only from hyperventilating. Diane stepped away and out of his view. He wondered where she was going—for another arrow? He craned his neck but couldn’t see.
Beyond the tips of the trees Tom focused on a single star in the dusky cobalt sky.
God help me.
There were burning embers floating above, like floating fireflies, ash from the burning trees as the fire spread like cancer. Then smoke from the fires drifted in and clouded his view of the heavens above.
With all his might, he fought off death, an icy coldness climbing up his spine. He felt Diane’s presence above him, and he could see she was fiddling with something as she put on some kind of headgear. It was a monocle scope-like device. Over one eye she adjusted a nob on its side.
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