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Allie jerked awake, twisted her face away from the musky moss and looked out at a sky pinpointed by brilliant stars. She blinked, struggling to gather her bearings. She must have dozed off while waiting for Trina and Dwight to finish eating. The fire was still burning but it cast a gray glow, more ash than anything. They were no longer sitting outside but the night was too dark to see if a potato remained on the grill.
She crawled out from the deadfall, wincing in pain. Every part of her was sore, especially her blistered feet, her shoulder and her empty stomach. It was chilly too. She reached back and opened her backpack, feeling inside until she found her jacket. If the potato had been left behind, she wanted to be warm so she could enjoy it.
She would eat slowly, make it last. Or maybe that would be impossible and she’d gulp it down. If there were an oyster left she’d eat that succulent morsel first, or maybe she’d eat them together. She could even dip the potato in the can and soak up the delicious oyster juice. The possibilities were endless, and as she rose and tugged on her jacket, her mouth was watering.
No noise came from the tent. The horses were restless though, pawing and twisting on their tethers. Maybe it was their fidgeting that had woken her; it was hard to sleep when one was hungry. But if they didn’t quiet soon, they’d wake the sleeping couple. Best to hurry to the grill before Dwight crawled from the tent to check on the animals.
Still, the horses’ behavior left her wary. Was there something out there?
Hopefully she wouldn’t have to fight a raccoon for the precious food scraps. But both horses were staring toward the water. Rather odd since no scavengers would approach from that direction. The river was too turbulent to cross.
She tamped down her impatience, not moving, waiting for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. And now she could see the blue reel of the fishing rod and then the darker grill. The potato was still there! Her stomach kicked with such delight she realized she was hungry enough to fight a raccoon or even a small coyote for the leftovers. She was just tiptoeing out when Dwight’s burly silhouette burst from the darkness shrouding the river.
She froze, mortified that she’d almost stepped out in front of him. What a mistake that would have been. He hadn’t been in the tent after all. Her first instinct was to drop to the ground but it was safer to remain still. He was walking toward the campfire and his vision would be reduced by the glowing embers. Besides, he wasn’t looking at her or the horses. He was shirtless and ducked into the tent as if cold.
The crisp closing zipper left a note of finality. Then all was quiet. Even the horses settled.
She waited several more minutes, listening for murmured whispers, the rustle of sleeping bags, a low sigh. But both Trina and Dwight seemed to be asleep. Besides, the tent flap was zipped. Even if one of them came out, she’d have ample warning and plenty of time to grab the potato. It was surprising Dwight hadn’t cleaned up better. It was risky to leave food so close to a sleeping area. But tonight she’d benefit from his sloppiness.
She crept from the trees and plucked the potato off the grill. It was still warm, covered in dried clay that apparently acted like aluminum foil. And it was big, likely an Idaho spud. Cookie strongly believed they grew good potatoes there.
She peered around, searching for the oyster can and gave a triumphant smile. It lay on the ground beside the overturned whiskey bottle. Dwight and Trina had both been lax tonight. And that was a complete and utter bonus.
She hurried toward the river, clutching the precious potato in one hand and the discarded can of oysters in the other. This would be a feast. Certainly Janet wouldn’t be eating this well since it was doubtful she’d be lucky enough to stumble onto other campers. People were scarce in this section of the park, one of the reasons the Man Tracker competition was held here.
She veered toward the familiar shallow pool where she’d watered the horses. Moonlight reflected over the dark ripples and she tilted the oyster can, trying to see if there was anything inside. Just as she hoped, there was one oyster left. A warm potato and a plump oyster, along with all the cold water she could drink. The night couldn’t get much better.
She kneeled by the bank and dipped the potato in the river, using both hands to scrape off the clay. Water chilled her skin, swirling around her fingers along with a tangle of seaweed.
Seaweed? Frowning, she leaned forward and peered down. Six inches below the surface, Trina’s blank eyes stared back. Wide and lifeless.
Allie screamed, dropped the potato and stumbled backwards. But terror dried her throat and all that came out were tiny squeaks.
“Help,” she croaked, staring in horror at Trina’s submerged face. Her arms and legs felt frozen, but she had to move. Had to get the woman out of the water.
She forced herself forward, reached in and grabbed Trina’s arm. Tugged and yanked but the woman was too awkward, her sodden clothes too heavy, and Allie’s adrenaline-loaded system couldn’t cope. It would help if she could get a better grip, but Trina’s arms were stuck behind her back.
“Help!” she called. This time her voice was louder. More desperate.
She gave another tug, managing to drag Trina partway onto the bank, at least far enough to start CPR. Working together, she and Dwight might be able to bring her back. She tilted Trina sideways, struggling to reach her wrist, to check for a pulse. It was then she saw the plaid shirt knotted around the woman’s arms.
She stared, uncomprehending. That was Dwight’s shirt. He’d worn it all day but he’d walked into the tent without it. He must have known Trina had it... And then the terrible realization sunk in. No wonder Trina’s arms felt stuck. They were tied. And all she could do was stare in horror at the knot.
A horse nickered, the sound breaking her trance.
Oh, God, she had to get out of here. She shoved herself to her feet and stumbled for the woods even as she heard the harsh zipper of the tent. She knew she was making too much noise, her boots breaking every branch, her breathing loud and panicked. But it was impossible to flee silently. And she needed to put distance between her and that sad body.
And Dwight.
Thirty feet into the brush, she forced herself to stop and listen even though every instinct clamored for her to run. Dwight can’t see me, she told herself. He can only find me if I make noise. Besides, this was probably just a horrible accident. Maybe Trina had been drinking too much, playing a game or something, and she’d fallen into the river.
Everything would be clearer soon. She just had to wait, watch Dwight’s reaction, and somehow silence her ragged breathing.
She peered through the dark, studying the shoreline. Seconds later, Dwight’s dark form charged from the shadows, moving surprisingly fast for such a big man. Soon he’d stop in horror, then he’d fling himself beside his wife. He’d probably try to shake her awake, or maybe he’d wail and cry. He’d start CPR. And she could help with that. Every ranch employee kept their first aid up to date.
But Dwight didn’t do any of those things. He certainly didn’t start rescue breathing. He ran past Trina’s body, then dropped down and examined the ground. Then he raised his head and stared directly at Allie.
Her heart slammed against her chest. He can’t see me! Don’t move. But her heartbeat thrashed in her ears, sounding impossibly loud. And her legs felt so wobbly she doubted they’d hold her up, even if she wanted to run.
Dwight waited in a hunter’s crouch, watching, listening. His eyes were no longer pinned on her location, but instead focused to her left.
“I see you,” he said softly, almost conversationally.
She trembled. There was no way he could see her. He wasn’t even looking in her direction; he was just trying to flush her out. She’d fallen for that trick once—years ago—when she’d crawled out too early from beneath the bed. And she wasn’t falling for it again.
She fought the urge to bolt deeper into the woods, knowing that was exactly what he wanted. He’d hear the crackling brush and overtake her in seconds. So she didn’t move, knowing her survival depended on controlling her panic. And staying still.
There was no question now that he had killed his wife. Unfortunately, when the sun rose, he’d be able to follow her tracks. And the lethal hatchet gripped in his hand showed he fully intended to commit a second murder.
