74

Hurley climbed through the forest. Retraced the girl’s steps to where she’d turned down toward the cliff, and kept climbing. Cut a branch from a fir tree, used it to brush the snow behind him, clear his tracks as he climbed. It was painstaking work, but Hurley hoped he had time. It would take a while for the girl’s friends to discover her trail. It would take longer for them to follow it here.

He climbed up the mountain and across, aiming north, back toward the cabin, but thirty yards up the grade. Climbed until he could no longer see the girl’s footprints in the snow below, then continued across the mountain. He was high enough now that the girl’s friends wouldn’t see him. He could slip past them in secret, make his escape.

That’s what this was now, an escape. Hurley had wanted badly to hunt the girl down, but he’d realized on the cliff that to do so would be suicide. The girl’s friends would follow her trail. If he continued to track her, he risked giving away his position. The girl could scream for help. She could make noise if she fell again. Or maybe they would just hear him kill her.

Hurley had hunted long enough to know that sometimes the prey got away. He’d learned to weigh the risks, knew when to concede the chase, retreat, and regroup. This girl wasn’t worth the risk to his freedom. He could hunt her, and kill her, but she would likely be his last.

And he wasn’t through hunting. Not by a long shot.

Hurley kept a smooth, steady pace as he trekked through the forest. Knew he didn’t need to overexert himself. The girl’s friends would follow her trail to the cliff face. With any luck, they would follow her down.

It would be night soon, anyway. The temperature would drop, and the girl and her friends would find the mountain very uncomfortable. They’d quite likely get lost. They might even die. The mountain wasn’t kind to outsiders.

Hurley heard something through the trees, somewhere below. Voices. The girl’s friends. He knelt in the snow and took his rifle from his shoulder. Put the scope to his eye and scanned the forest.

—

The snow was deep. Windermere could feel her boots soaking through as she slogged after Stevens. Could hear Kerry Finley behind her, breathing heavily, the swish of her pants as she trudged down the trail.

Stevens was leading, his pistol drawn, his eyes on the ground in front of him. The trail was an easy one to find, not so easy to follow. Mila Scott’s footprints attested to that; they dragged into one another, sloppy, as if she’d lacked the energy to lift her feet fully out of the snow.

Of course, the snowshoes had made easy work of the terrain, Windermere could see. They made a much lighter impression in the snow, seemed to glide through the forest. Leland Hurley would have had little trouble catching up to the young woman.

Windermere stuck close to Stevens. Searched the forest ahead. Prayed they weren’t closing in on a murder scene.

—

Hurley dropped down the mountain as stealthily as he could manage. Dropped as low as he dared, then ducked behind a tree and raised the rifle again. Watched as the intruders came into view.

There were three of them, two women and a man. The man and the black woman stank of government. They wore big dark jackets, hats, and gloves, carried pistols like they knew what to do with them. State cops, Hurley figured, or maybe even feds.

The second woman was local, a sheriff or a sheriff’s deputy. She dressed like the law, a well-worn coat with a badge and a fur collar, carried a rifle at her hip. The cops waded through the snow, struggling, the man’s face red, all three breathing heavily. Hurley tracked the man in his sight. Followed him through the trees, brought his finger to the trigger.

He could kill this man. Put him down quick, before he knew what was happening. The notion was tempting. The shot was right there. With one squeeze of the trigger, he could rain hell on this interloper.

The man kept marching, oblivious, head down, working the trail. The black woman must have been his partner. The other must have been their guide. Her eyes swung left and right, like she expected an ambush. She was probably quick with that rifle.

There was a fair chance the first two were feds, Hurley realized. If the law had followed him up the mountain, the chances were they already knew what he’d done to the women. And that made him a prime target for the FBI and their ilk.

Hurley continued to track the leader. Massaged the trigger with his finger, debated the shot. He could kill the man, sure, and probably his partner, before they cottoned on to what was happening. If he didn’t kill all three of them, though, the survivors would take up the chase. They would call for reinforcements. And dead FBI agents would attract major attention.

Just how quick can you be with that rifle, big guy?

Hurley followed the lead fed in his sight. Ached to shoot the bastard, drop all three—bam bam bam—in succession. But he didn’t pull the trigger. Knew he couldn’t take the risk. He tracked the fed until he’d disappeared into the forest. Then he let his breath out, shouldered the rifle. Straightened and continued, reluctantly, back toward the cabin, leaving the law to try to track down the girl, oblivious to the hunter who’d just showed them mercy.