To know the nightmare is finally over.
He doubted her nightmare would ever end. The Hell of losing her only daughter to brutal murder would gnaw at her soul forever. Unless she sought help, the obsession would suck the very life from her. And might push her into doing something she would regret. How vengeful was Rissa? What was she capable of?
“Yo, Wylde, someone’s coming.” Peters handed him a pair of binoculars. She pointed toward the northwest side of the lake.
As he squinted into the glasses, his heart lurched into overdrive.
THIRTY-SIX
Annie tugged on her clothing, wincing at the rasp of fabric across her cuts. “I don’t think he’ll try to climb out. It’s strange.”
“About the Hunter? What isn’t strange about him?”
As they crossed to the campsite, she said, “When he fell, he dropped like a bucket. I heard the splash when he hit the water at the bottom.”
“Not enough to drown him. Too damned bad.” They’d checked it last night. Water would reach only to his knees.
She lifted a club-sized log from their woodpile. “Just in case.”
“What are you going to do, start a fire under him?”
“For your information, I swing a mean bat. You couldn’t grow up in my family without playing some baseball.”
“I should’ve known.” He slipped a coil of rope over his shoulder. “So you think the fall knocked out the bastard?”
She fell into step with him. “No. He thrashed around for a minute in the tarp and water. Then I heard a whimper, like he was crying.”
“Maybe he’s claustrophobic. And?”
“That’s when I ran for you.” She shrugged. “He might have a pistol in that pack.”
The well with its treacherous occupant lay dead ahead.
“Nah. He’d have shot me instead of whacking me with a branch.”
"But he does have your other knife. I saw him put it in the pack." The log in her hand and Sam by her side gave Annie the strength to approach the well.
Stones lined the deep hole to within a few inches of the top, where weeds concealed its edge. A splash resounded when a loose stone tumbled to the bottom.
A low moan rose from the depths, along with unintelligible words and raspy breathing.
She peered down.
Sam’s hand clamped on her upper arm. “Don’t lean over too far.” He aimed the flashlight beam into the blackness below.
“Don’t leave me here.” Camouflage cap gone, the Hunter’s thin hair stood up in tufts on his pale head. He blinked at the bright light and quieted, stunned like a nocturnal animal caught by a headlight.
“Why shouldn’t we?” Sam muttered.
The labored breathing—asthma? Had being in the well triggered an asthma attack? “He could be acting,” she whispered. “Oscar caliber. He played the part of Ray like a pro, and he conned his victims into going with him.”
Finally the Hunter answered. “It’s slimy and tight. She used to shut me in places like this.” He whined like a small child, cradling his bandaged hand.
A steady cascade of dirt and pebbles continued to fall from the well’s sod-and-stone walls. “The well is crumbling. His falling in made it unstable,” she said.
Another, larger stone splashed into the murky water.
“I’d love to leave him down there.” Sam sneered. “Let it cave in on him. Bury him.”
“It’s a long fall. His hand is burned. Probably infected. What if his ankle is broken? He could die from shock.”
He held up a palm. “You going soft? I thought you wanted this asshole dead.”
He was no killer. He was just venting. But a part of her wanted the monster dead. Her chest ached with thoughts of Emma. But she was no killer either.
“Revenge for Emma? He deserves a slow, painful death, but the cops need what he knows. If we leave him, the well could cave in on him. Or enough rocks and dirt could fall so he could climb out. Can you be sure he won’t escape?”
His sigh sounded a lot like a growl. “Okay, we pull him up.” He tossed one end of the long rope down the well and pointed. “Tie the other end around that poplar over there.”
She hurried to comply. She loved watching Sam take charge and direct a project. Despite what she’d told the Hunter, by now she could tie a secure knot.
“Okay,” Sam yelled down the well. “We’ll get you out of there. But first, empty your pockets into the backpack. Knives and other weapons first.”
After the backpack came up, Sam made their captive send up his shirt and trousers to show he had no more weapons.
“There’s no gun in here, just your knife and his,” Annie said, closing the pack.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe not. She couldn’t hold a gun on him as Sam hauled him to the surface, but he couldn’t grab it and shoot them either. “But look.” She held out two wallets.
“I bet one is Ray’s.” Sam rigged a loop in the rope.
Annie rifled through the contents. “Yes, here’s a driver’s license for the real Ray Hadden.” At the dim photo of a bearded man with a cheerful smile, her eyes stung. “Oh, Sam, if I’d only stayed in Portland, he’d be alive.”
“Don’t do this, sweetheart. If not Ray, the bastard would have killed someone else. You caught him. You. He won’t kill again.” He soothed his big hand across her shoulders.
“Thanks for that.” She tilted her head against his hand and pressed into his secure warmth. “This other wallet has two IDs. A Maine Driver’s License for a Holden Smith."
“Smith. Such a plain name. Guess I shouldn’t expect something obvious, like Dracula.”
“If Smith is his real name,” Annie said, stowing the wallets in the pack. “But knowing any name beats feeding his ego by calling him the Hunter. Wait, there's also a Canadian ID for a Charles Pelletier.”
Canada.
She gasped. “He told me he was planning to escape to Canada after this.”
Sam nodded in comprehension. "Using you as a shield. He won't make it now."
He tossed the rope loop down. “Yo, Smith, or whatever your name is. Hook the loop under your arms. Use your feet and back to help rappel up the wall.”
“I... don’t know,” came the reply. “My hand is burned. It’s weak.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Annie warned. “He’s hurt all right, but he managed earlier with one hand.”
Sam nodded. “If he thinks I’ll come down there and boost him out, he’s crazier than I thought.”
He wound the rope around his arm and elbow. Sending Annie a wink, he called down the well, “If you can’t manage, we’ll have to leave you down there. We’ll send help later. Whenever we make it to civilization.”
A second later, tension tightened the line as Smith began his climb to the top.
She gave Sam a thumbs-up sign.
“You can do it. Take your time.” Setting his jaw, he hauled on the rope.
She watched him pull the line taut at each step in the ascent. She knew he was strong, but seeing him leverage a full-grown man from a twelve-foot depth made her mouth water. This was no time to ogle his broad shoulders and his muscled arms, bulging with the strain, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Keep an eye on him. See if he’s up to anything,” he said between gritted teeth.
She swallowed, smacked herself mentally, and redirected her gaze to the well. At the sight of The Hunter—Smith—her pulse pounded in her ears like a tom-tom. He looked pale clad only in camouflage boxers, as meek and mild as he had as Ray. But wiry strength bulged his shoulders and arms. He couldn’t be trusted.
Didn’t they say a wounded animal was more dangerous? Wounded or not, this man was the most dangerous animal in this forest.
The most dangerous game was man. She wouldn’t forget that.
“He’s nearly at the top,” she said.
“Get back, then.”
He didn’t have to say it twice. Clutching her log, she edged away toward the tree anchoring the
rope.
Smith’s head topped the opening, and then he faltered. “I can’t... make it. Help me.”
Sam didn’t let up his two-handed grip on the rope. “Come on, or I’ll have to drop you back down.”
Smith grasped the well’s edge.
Sam yanked him to the surface.
Then everything went to hell.
Smith plowed his head into Sam’s midsection.
Sam fell backwards, with his opponent on top. They grappled on the ground. The struggle rolled them over, away from the well. Smith slammed a punch at Sam’s jaw. Sam returned with a left hook.
Something sparked at Smith’s ankle. In the next instant, sunlight flared on metal in his hand.
“Sam, he’s got a knife!” Annie ran to the grappling men.
She shifted back and forth, raising her log ready to swing. But with the way they were thrashing around, she couldn’t get good aim at Smith’s head or shoulder.
They twisted and rolled and slammed each other. The short, wide blade flashed between them.
The Hunter gripped the knife in his left hand.
Sam had to grab for it with his weakened right hand.
The point plunged toward Sam.
Annie saw red. Saw blood stain his shirt. “Sam!”
She weaved, looking for a way to help.
“Keep back!” Sam’s voice grated with strain. He jabbed his left fist at Smith’s arm, but the knife didn’t drop.
Smith rose above Sam. Wrenched his hand free from Sam’s awkward grip.
He raised the knife.
Annie swung the log with all her strength.
She connected with the side of his head. Wood struck bone and flesh with a thunk.
Without another sound, Smith dropped. He lay still, his lower half draped across Sam's legs.
“Oh, Sam, he stabbed you. You’re bleeding.” She dragged her shirt over her head and pressed it hard against his shoulder.
Jaw rigid and face ashen beneath his tan, he kicked away from Smith's inert form. He sat up with her help. “I’ll be okay. He didn’t hit an artery, just muscle.”
“Oh, God, he could’ve killed you.” She threw her arms around him. With her cheek against the security of his bristly chin, she wept again.
“I’m fine, slugger, thanks to you.” He turned to kiss her bruised lip. “Your swing’s no poetry in motion, but it got the job done.”
The familiar silky brush of his mustache reassured her. “That was my blow for Emma.” Nothing would bring back her friend, but the ache in her chest eased a little. “Now let’s tie him up before he comes to.”
She had this irrational fear that if she let go of Sam, he’d disappear. But his amber eyes were clear, his gaze steady. She blinked away her tears and moved to their captive.
She secured Smith’s hands with the rope, then paused at his feet. “Maybe I should use his duct tape.”
“Stick with rope. We’ll have to free his legs later for him to dress and to move him.” Sam grinned. “Nice of the asshole to provide the duct tape. I have other plans for that.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“We didn’t camp at the designated spots,” Nora Lopez informed Justin and the others. A calm, maternal sort of woman, she appeared intelligent and proud of the group’s accomplishment. “That’s why your search teams didn’t find us.”
“Damn right.” The contractor, Carl Pulsifer, puffed up like a courting male pigeon. “I couldn’t trust Kincaid’s judgment that the killer would follow them. I had to hide our trail.”
Everyone sat around the picnic table inside the screened shelter. Justin was asking the questions, with occasional prompts from one of the FBI agents. Peters and the other state detectives took notes and taped the debriefing.
Ben Kincaid had arrived in his van with the canoe racks on top. He paced the beach as he kept watch outside the shelter.
The two red canoes had paddled in around noon, with the Lopez woman and her son and the blow-hard Pulsifer. To Justin’s amazement, they brought Ted Wolfe’s dog. The animal lay by young Frank’s feet as if the teenager had always been his owner.
At first, Justin had sagged, but Annie and Sam would come from a different direction. From northeast, not northwest. They had no transportation. Would they send up flares to signal this side of the pond?
Dusk dimmed the hazy sky to gunmetal. The air smelled damp. Fog ghosted above the water’s surface and blurred the lake edges. His throat tightened. How would Ben see a flare? Or people on the far shore?
The campers’ tale had taken up most of the afternoon. All three identified Holden Smith from his W & V Technologies company photograph. His computer background made it child’s play for him to masquerade as the computer tech Ray Hadden.
Another body to find. God, let it be the last. A Boston detective was on his way to talk to Hadden’s mother. Justin blew out a breath. Delivering that sort of bad news was the part of the job he hated.
Volleying the details among them, the three campers covered the last week. Bad luck, miscalculations, and accidents that turned out to be concocted by the Hunter plagued the expedition until Annie and Sam figured out the truth. And separated from the others to draw off the killer.
Justin shook his head at the fear and guilt Annie must have experienced to force that kind of decision. At the courage she must have to carry it out.
His sister was no longer the family’s spoiled baby.
Ms. Lopez continued to describe their last two days of hiding in the forest at night and canoeing in shadows and beneath overhangs during the day. “Except for not having a fire to warm us at night, we were fine.”
These people were in good shape with no injuries. Justin had the Eagleton ambulance on standby for when Annie and Sam arrived. They might not be in such great shape. He forced himself not to dwell on the possibilities.
“The navigation rocked, and hiding was mega cool,” the gangly teenager said. His enthusiasm morphed into an angry frown. “I knew that jerk-off wouldn’t find us. He was nothing but a poser. He pretended to be my friend, but he was fu—”
“Frank.” Nora’s hand on his arm stifled his heated words.
The dog raised his head and whined at his new owner’s distress. Then he lay back down with a deep sigh.
The boy had been through a lot, according to his mom’s quiet confidences earlier to Peters. Ignored by an indifferent father, then used and betrayed by a calculating murderer. Some combo for a volatile teenager to deal with.
Justin looked straight at Frank until the boy’s gaze rose to meet his. “I commend all of you for what could have been a hazardous ordeal in the wilderness. It took courage and strength. And maturity.”
Frank shrugged. “Worst part was the food.” Mischief danced in his eyes. “You try living on cold canned beef stew and ravioli for a few days.”
“Heads up, everybody, here they come!” Ben Kincaid raced toward the shelter. “A canoe out of the Eagle River.”
Justin reached the water’s edge before Kincaid could turn around. His hands were sweating as he raised the binoculars.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
His eyes glued to another set of binoculars, Special Agent Tavani stood beside him. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He clapped Justin on the back.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the three people in the canoe. An older craft, low in the water with all their gear. Mud colored, it sported a duct tape patch gleaming like a headlight on the port side.
Pink cap as sassy as ever, Annie paddled in the bow, Sam Kincaid in the stern.
Amidships with the packs sat a man Justin recognized. Holden Smith.
The Hunter.
“They did it, by God. They did it. They caught the fucking Hunter.”
When the vessel drew nearer, Annie waved. “Justin! What are you doing here?”
He laughed, with genuine humor for the first time in days. “Not much, Sis. Looks like you don’t need any help.”
“Something’s wrong
with my brother,” said Ben Kincaid.
“We’ll need a doctor,” she yelled. “Sam’s been stabbed. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
For the first time, Justin noticed the erratic way Kincaid was paddling. Not out of the woods yet. “Let’s get out there and help them.”
He and Tavani pushed an inflatable into the water. Justin jumped in as the agent yanked on the starter.
A splash.
The brown canoe had tipped over. Two heads and three packs bobbed in the water.
Shit and double shit! “Gun it.”
The inflatable churned toward the swimmers. Sam gripped the overturned canoe, but he was slipping. Annie splashed beside him holding onto one of the backpacks with one hand and the canoe with the other.
As soon as Tavani pulled up beside them, Justin extended an arm to Annie. She scrambled in and helped him haul her companion over the rubber side. Sam collapsed, pale and silent, in the bottom. Bright blood soaked the bulky bandage on his shoulder.
As soon as Justin handed her a pack, his sister opened it and extracted more gauze to press on the wound. From the looks of it, her tender solicitousness had more basis than nursing.
City-girl and the jock?
“He... must have untied the rope somehow,” she said. “He tipped over the canoe.”
Frantically, she searched the water’s surface. “Oh, God, he’s the Hunter. Justin, the Hunter. You have to find him. He's headed to Canada. Don’t let him get away.”
The second inflatable scribed ever widening circles around the abandoned canoe.
No ripples, no bubbles. No sign of life.
***
Portland
Annie wavered outside Sam’s hospital room. The fluorescent lighting stabbed at her eyes, and vague smells of antiseptic and cleanser stung her nose. The incessant drone of the public address speakers grated on her brain. The voice seemed to repeat, Go in. Don’t go in.
Her throat was frozen, her voice locked. What was she going to say to him? How did she thank him for risking his life for her? Especially since she’d fallen in love with him. What could she say except good-bye, have a nice life? The idea churned a cold eggbeater in her stomach.
Leading a parade of media vehicles, an ambulance had rushed the two of them to the hospital, the nearest one more than thirty miles away in Presque Isle, where they’d slathered her with antiseptic head to foot and bandaged the worst of her cuts. From the emergency room, Sam was wheeled into surgery, so she hadn’t seen him since their arrival. She knew only that he was out of danger.
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