Trent stopped by the branch used as a broom to rough up the grass. He squatted on his heels and looked closely at the ground. Whoever had done this had tried to brush out their tracks, sweeping the branch across the grass and dirt until he came close to an outcropping of limestone leading into the forest. Trent assumed that would be the killer's escape route. Slowly, he looked for a sign, and finally, close to the first rock, found the only clue he was to find. A smooth, rounded impression in the dirt that could be a heel print. Moccasins? Trent put his foot beside it. The print was smaller than his. Not much, but it was a start.
Suddenly, a cold chill swept over him. The warning bells he had been ignoring clamored inside his head again. He was not alone.
Chapter 3
TRENT STRAIGHTENED AND turned slowly to see a woman standing at the edge of the forest. The coldest blue eyes he had ever seen stared, unblinking, down the 20-inch barrel of an AK-90 assault rifle. Her eyes did not waver a fraction, and a quick glance told him the safety on the weapon was down, and off. The black bore of the barrel looked large enough to ride through with his hat on.
She stood on the uphill side of his position. Higher ground, military? From that point, she appeared to be tall, nearly as tall as his six feet, with long blond hair, tied in a ponytail. The first few buttons on her thin cotton blouse were undone, because of the heat he guessed, and the action of aiming the rifle had parted the front to reveal the gap between her breasts. The white skin beneath contrasted with the dark tan at her throat, and despite the danger, his gaze lingered.
She filled out her homemade buckskin pants the way a woman should, and how she filled them made him sweat.
Leather boots covered her feet. Sensible. A long bladed hunting knife hung from a belt strapped around her waist and the scabbard was tied to her leg with a buckskin thong. Dangerous.
When he finally raised his eyes from her body to her face, her eyes mocked him.
"Sure took you a long time to get to my face,” she said, in a low, censuring tone.
A slow grin broke the serious lines of his face. “I take my time with beautiful things."
They stood watching each other, both slightly off balance in their positions. The seconds stretched thin as they looked at each other. His gaze held tight to the robin's egg blue of the girl's eyes, sinking deeper and deeper until he ached to blink.
"Drop the rifle."
Her hardened voice jolted him out of his trance. It was gamble time. She did not look like a killer.
"Can't do that,” he said.
He saw the muzzle shift a fraction, but the sonic ‘whap’ of the bullet passing his ear still made him flinch. The muzzle flash did not distract him from watching the ejected casing make a slow, glittering arch in the sunlight, then disappear into the tall grass. Trent's heart tripped into high gear as his ears rang. Maybe he would not need to hear anything until tomorrow.
He still held her gaze over the sights of the rifle. Slowly, her eyebrow arched and he saw resolution come into her eyes.
Trent bent and placed the SKS on the ground. She followed his movement with the barrel of her gun and he almost smiled. When he straightened, she was slow to follow with the rifle. The split second cost her. Her muzzle pointed down, and his Ruger lined up with her belly.
"How in hell—” She was startled, but the rifle was coming up.
"Don't,” Trent interjected quickly.
After a moment, she casually tilted her rifle and leaned it on her shoulder, muzzle pointing up and backwards. The position did not fool Trent. She could still bring the rifle to bear very quickly. He watched her glance shift.
"Your kill?"
Trent shook his head. “Hardly."
"Do you mind if I take a look?"
"Can we call a truce first?"
She did not answer, looking instead at the barrel of the gun still lined on her belly. Realizing he still had a gun on her, and for a fleeting moment wondering how this woman could distract him so, Trent abruptly rocked back the revolver, letting the hammer down in the process, and smoothly flipped the gun into its oiled holster.
He glanced at the forest behind her, a question in his eyes that she obviously understood.
"I saw the birds,” she said.
"What happened here?” she asked.
Trent glanced back at the grotesquely displayed body. Now that another woman was present, the victim's nakedness made him uncomfortable.
"A girl was killed. You don't want to go back there. It's not pretty."
"I saw you looking around. Did you find any sign?"
Trent thoughtfully rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Not much to see. Whoever it was, they wiped their tracks clean, and didn't leave so much as a bent twig."
"Do you mind if I take a look around?"
Trent realized she did not trust him and he couldn't blame her.
She looked steadily at Trent, and he watched her gaze slowly search his face, then take in the rest of him in a long, slow journey.
It was Trent's turn to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
"You're one of Colonel Bonham's couriers.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Trent inclined his head slightly and smiled at her. “Good guess."
The girl walked around Trent, keeping some distance between them. Nearing the body, she got her first real look. She gasped. “Jesus God."
Her hand came up to her mouth and she turned away for a moment. A deep shuddering breath, then a couple more, and Trent could see the strength coming into her. He watched her fight down the horror and revulsion. She straightened, and from a side view Trent saw firmness come into her face.
"You might have warned me,” she said.
As he walked over to her, he could see the start of tears in her and how she denied them with a violent shake of her head.
"I wanted to see how you reacted. Women can kill as easily as men. Do you know her?"
She flinched, and apparently realizing how close they were, she stepped away from him. “Yeah, I know her."
"Where is she from?"
"Big Springs, over east of here. We're both from there."
"Who was she?"
"We called her Markie. I don't remember a last name."
"Do you know what she was doing out here? Alone?"
"Same as me."
This is like pulling teeth.
"I was wondering about that,” he said. “You being alone, I mean."
"You writin’ a book? What difference does it make to you?"
Trent shrugged. “Don't get testy on me. I'm just curious, is all. I don't like finding girls staked out on the ground like this."
As Trent started toward his horse for a shovel, the girl called to him. “You got a name, or will ‘hey you’ be all right?"
"Trent. John Trent."
The girl took a half step backward, and the barrel of the AK-90 completed a half-circle as the barrel of the gun slapped into her palm. A slick, practiced move, and somehow he knew it would be.
"I have heard of you,” she said flatly.
The exploits of John Trent were known around campfires and kitchens and other gathering places where men and women congregated to talk of their new world. Stories of Trent, fired across tables, rolled about the stables; embellished and memorized by the people on this new frontier.
"Yes, I suppose you have. I've heard the stories, too. It never ceases to amaze me ... some of the things I've done."
Her eyes narrowed. “I've heard you're a brutal killer, giving no quarter to anyone, just as likely to shoot someone as look at them. I don't know. Something is wrong about you, Trent. Once I've seen you the stories just don't match—"
Trent interrupted her. “If you have heard of me, you should know I wouldn't do something like this."
"It does explain something."
Trent looked at her expectantly.
Her lips curled in a wry smile. “Tells me where that pistol came from in such a hurry."
; He was unrolling a pack from his horse, looking for a small fold-up shovel, when she came up to him. He had been watching her and was grudgingly impressed by the way she handled herself. He could not hear her walking around. She kind of toed in and glided, taking care where she walked, smooth and easy.
Trent raised his eyebrows, asking a silent question.
"You were right. I didn't need to see that."
He waited her out, hoping she would open up and talk about it. Finally...
"Markie and I were on our way to see the army at Base Camp. Sometimes we go there and pick up supplies we can't find in the deserted towns. Especially ammo. After the army swept the area clean a few years ago, some things got kind of scarce.
"I didn't know her very well and yesterday she just took off on her own. Said she would see me at the army camp."
"You didn't have any men to send?"
Trent knew at once that he had said the wrong thing. The soft blue eyes turned to flint and ice.
"Look, Mr. Army Courier, I was born and raised in these woods. You won't find anyone better, and I surely do not need to be a man to find my way around."
Trent sidetracked her with another question. “When I had the drop on you, you were still going to try and shoot me. Why'd you stop?"
She looked at him seriously a moment. “I am not so young and stupid that I don't know what can happen to women out here. I decided a long time ago that I would rather die. It's that simple."
"But then, you didn't."
She shrugged. “I also trust my own judgment. You are no killer—at least, not that way."
* * * *
It was about an hour later, and Trent had just finished digging the grave. He did not know why, but he dug it extra deep to keep varmints from uncovering her. Maybe he thought the girl deserved at least this small favor.
He did not speak as he rolled her in a spare blanket. Trent thought they were lucky. The body had not started to bloat much. He had buried a lot worse and it was always a thankless job.
Together they picked the blanket up by both ends and carried the body to the grave. After they filled the hole and packed the dirt on top, Trent turned to the girl.
"Do you know any words to say?"
She looked surprised that he had thought of it, and then nodded her assent. They bowed their heads.
"Lord,” she said, “we did not know this woman much. I expect you do. She did not deserve any of this. Take care of her.” She hesitated a little, anger seeping into her voice. “And take care of the one who did this to her. Amen."
She looked at Trent for approval, got it with a nod, and began gathering up her gear.
Trent was naked to the waist, sweating in the heat coming with the late afternoon sun when he packed away his shovel. His shirt draped over the pommel of the saddle, muscles rippled across his chest and arms as he tightened the girth and made sure all the straps were tight on his packs.
"You're wounded."
He glanced down at his side, shrugging. “Just a cut. Had a little set-to with some raiders."
The girl glanced apprehensively around the clearing before bringing her gaze back to Trent. “We should be moving. They may have followed you."
"No,” he said, his gaze suddenly far away. “They won't. Suppose I could know your name?"
She smiled at him, mocking him with her gaze, then said, “My name is Katie Stephens. If you make it to Base Camp, look me up. I'll be around for a few days. Or, if your dispatches take you through Big Springs..."
"Katie. Short for Katherine?"
"No one calls me Katherine but people very close to me."
"I like Katherine.” Before she could reply, Trent deliberately changed the subject. “This girl we just buried, she born and raised in the woods too?"
Katie appeared momentarily flustered. “Yeah. Markie was even better in the woods than me."
"Really? Well, she was not near good enough. You think about that, Katherine Stephens."
Searching his eyes for a moment, she said, “Point taken. See you around."
"It might be better if we travel together.” His hand on her arm was gentle, and she easily shrugged out of it.
"I had better go on alone.” Her gaze held his, wavered a moment, then the coolness came and she turned away.
"Katherine?"
She turned back to look at him.
"He's still out there."
She shivered like from a cold chill as she replied, “I know. But, you will find I am not anything like Markie.” Her voice carried quietly to him. “I won't end up like she did.” Katie turned again at the edge of the clearing. “I have it."
"What?"
"It is the eyes, John Trent. Your eyes are too soft for the things you do.” She stood looking at him with a satisfied smile.
"Translation?"
Katherine smiled, then said, “It means some girl might have a chance of sweeping you off your feet.” It sounded light hearted, but he could tell by the way she looked at him there was a serious question there.
He smiled at her, and said grudgingly, “Maybe so."
Trent stood in the clearing after she left, thinking about what she had said about being different from the dead girl.
"I hope you are right, Katherine Stephens,” he muttered to himself. “I sure as hell hope you're right."
She had gone into the dense thicket next to the clearing. He heard her patting her horse, then the creak of a saddle as she mounted. Then she was gone, making no more sound than yesterday's dreams.
He stood, looking up the mountain. Whoever had killed the girl was indeed still out there. He could feel it. Like a vein throbbing in his head, he could still feel the killer's presence. The thought came to him that, just maybe, this killing was not the first for the assailant. The method looked like some kind of ritual—and rituals were something done over and over.
The killing would have to be reported to the Colonel. Maybe they would send a patrol out. Then again, maybe not. What is one more dead body in the wake of the millions gone before?
Trent shook himself to free his mind of the problem. Time to quit daydreaming and deliver the dispatches. The trail ahead was dangerous enough without his being preoccupied with something else, but he could not get the picture of the mutilated girl out of his mind. He would like to get his hands on the man who had done it. Just for a little while...
John Trent pointed his horse's head toward the Army camp. He would pick up Katherine's trail, and follow her into camp. Afterwards, he had a job to do. He would be coming back.
No, Katherine, he thought, you won't end up like that.
* * * *
The Watcher stood amid the trees, silent and brooding. Far below, barely visible in the subdued light, his latest offering had lain, supplicating the heavens. Before the cleansing carrion birds could do their work, he saw them suddenly take wing in a flurry of dust and feathers. What had scared them away? His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene below. A movement at the edge of the clearing alerted him.
He watched as the man eased into the clearing, seeming to trust nothing as he gazed around him. Too far away to see facial expression, the Watcher was immediately aware when the man in the clearing accepted what had happened to the girl. He could tell by body language alone. He could feel the rage emanating from the man, and suppressed the urge to run and hide as the man in buckskins suddenly turned and looked up the mountain.
Ah, he is good. He feels. It's proper this man should find this latest offering. After all ... what good is a sacrifice-if no one sees it?
* * * *
Trent was still two days from Base Camp when he cut Katherine's trail. She had lost him the day before, but knowing her ultimate destination, he just continued toward the army camp.
He followed a small tributary that flowed toward the Upper Jacks Fork on the Currant River. The small stream kept ducking under the limestone of the mountain, and then reappearing further along. As with most of this area in Missouri, Mother Nature had
reclaimed much of the land it had previously lost to man, and had recovered it with a vengeance in an amazingly short amount of time.
Any travel was slow going. There were not many paths, just an occasional game trail. Trent followed the meandering stream, stomach growling ominously, hoping for a shot at a Whitetail deer. As he rounded a large oak tree, whose trunk was nearly five feet across, he glimpsed a pool of water ahead. The pool was beautiful, surrounded by high cattails, vines, and forest fern, with water chuckling in from an outcropping of lichen-covered limestone on the high side.
It was a beautiful scene of a natural green grotto in the forest—but not nearly as beautiful as the girl kneeling in the clear water. The pool was in a small limestone basin, and almost completely hidden from all directions. If he had come to it from any other way, he might have missed her.
Trent watched mesmerized as the girl washed herself with a mat of moss, then submerged to rinse off, coming up to catch the few rays of sunlight in her spun gold hair, water running rivulets down her tawny body. High breasted and slim hipped, this vision contrasted sharply with the camp followers he was used to seeing. He suddenly realized the girl in the pool was Katherine.
Trent stood unabashedly watching the girl in the pool. All the old memories, the wants and desires, hearth and home, children playing, the sharing ... all the things he had ever dreamed of came bursting through his veins in a flash of emotion. For a moment, his senses reeled just from the sheer wanting of something so normal again.
Silently easing through the underbrush, Trent found her pile of clothing. With a small smile, he made some adjustments.
While he had been watching her, she had turned her back to him. Now she turned and stood to come out of the pool. Her hands were up in her hair, twisting it into a braid and squeezing the water out. The blond hair, darkened by the water, was long, with a natural healthy sheen few women had anymore. She looked around the perimeter of the pool, testing the breeze like an animal.
The one place she had not looked was toward Trent, which gave him the only clue of what came next.
After the Fall Page 4