Rory’s ancient truck groaned in protest as she guided it up the steep, winding dirt road. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, turning the vehicle’s interior into a sweltering oven. She wiped sweat from her brow, squinting against the glare as she navigated yet another hairpin turn.
“Come on, you old beast,” she muttered, patting the dashboard encouragingly. “Just a little farther.”
As she crested the hill, a weathered sign came into view: PRITCHARD RANCH—NO TRESPASSING. Beyond it, a ramshackle house perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a vast expanse of rugged Wyoming wilderness.
Rory pulled up to a rusty gate blocking the driveway. No intercom, no modern security system—just a heavy chain and padlock that looked like they’d been there since the frontier days. She sighed, climbing out of the truck.
The plan had seemed simple enough when she and Evan had hatched it that morning. Split up, cover more ground, warn as many ranchers as possible about the killer and his methods. Evan had taken the more accessible properties in the valley, leaving Rory to tackle the outlying areas—including the notoriously reclusive Hank Pritchard.
Thus far, the ranchers she’d spoken with had been curious about the murders, but she had the distinct impression that if they noticed any unusual behavior in their cattle, they were more likely to deal with the problem on their own than call for help. This was Wyoming, after all—you didn’t survive here if you weren’t resourceful.
As she approached the gate, a sign caught her eye: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT—SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN. Charming.
Rory cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Pritchard! This is Assistant Sheriff Wood from Bearclaw County. I need to speak with you!”
Silence. Not even a dog barking or a curtain twitching. She tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.
Cursing under her breath, Rory considered her options. She could leave a message, but that felt woefully inadequate given the urgency of the situation. She could try to find another way onto the property, but that risked antagonizing an already uncooperative witness—not to mention the very real possibility of getting shot.
A glint of metal caught her eye. Half-hidden in the scrub beside the gate was an ancient intercom system, so weather-beaten she’d almost missed it. Rory pressed the button, wincing at the ear-piercing squeal of feedback.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice barked through the static. “I told you solar panel salesmen to stay the hell off my property!”
“Mr. Pritchard, I’m not selling anything,” Rory said, fighting to keep her voice level. “I’m Assistant Sheriff Wood. I need to talk to you about a serious matter affecting ranchers in the area.”
A long pause. Then: “You got a warrant?”
“No, sir. This isn’t about—”
“Then we got nothing to discuss. Good day, Officer.” The way he said it made it sound like a curse.
Rory gritted her teeth. “Mr. Pritchard, please. There’s been a series of murders targeting local ranchers. I’m here to warn you and provide some safety recommendations.”
Another pause, longer this time. Just as Rory was about to try again, the intercom crackled to life. “Murders, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Three so far. All ranchers.”
A heavy sigh came through the speaker. “Alright. Come on up. But I’m warning you—any funny business, and you’ll be leaving in a body bag.”
The gate swung open with a protesting shriek of rusted metal. Rory got back in her truck, a mix of relief and apprehension churning in her gut as she made her way up the driveway.
Hank Pritchard was waiting on his porch, a shotgun cradled in his arms. He was older than Rory had expected, probably in his late seventies, with a scraggly white beard and eyes sharp with suspicion.
“That’s far enough,” he called as Rory parked. “State your business.”
Rory stepped out of the truck slowly, hands visible. “Mr. Pritchard, I’m here to warn you about a dangerous individual who’s been targeting ranchers in the area. We believe he may strike again soon, and we want to make sure everyone is prepared.”
Pritchard’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly does this fella operate?”
Rory took a deep breath. “The killer we’re dealing with…he has a specific method. First, he agitates the cattle on the property.”
Pritchard’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Agitates how?”
“We’re not sure exactly,” Rory admitted. “But in each case, it appears the herd was in a state of panic. Almost as if—”
“As if something had spooked ’em real bad,” Pritchard finished, nodding slowly.
“Exactly,” Rory continued. “Then, once the rancher comes out to check on the herd…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “The killer strikes. It’s…it’s not quick, Mr. Pritchard.”
The old man’s weathered face hardened. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that we’re not sharing details with the press or the public. But there’s something else. Something the killer leaves behind.”
Rory pulled out her notebook, flipping to a sketch of the symbol. She held it up for Pritchard to see. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
Pritchard leaned in, squinting at the drawing. He shook his head. “I’ve no idea what that’s supposed to be.”
Rory put the notebook away and nodded to herself, not particularly surprised. Still, she had to admit she was a bit disappointed.
“Let me get this straight,” Pritchard said, his lip bulging as he worked a bit of food from between his teeth. “You’re telling me that some psycho is out there killing folks, and you lot haven’t caught him yet?”
“We’re doing everything we can, sir. But in the meantime, we need everyone to be vigilant. If you notice your cattle acting strangely, or see any unfamiliar vehicles in the area—”
Pritchard cut her off with a harsh laugh. “Let me tell you something, Assistant Sheriff. Folks around here, we don’t much rely on the law. We take care of our own.”
He patted the shotgun meaningfully. “Any son of a bitch comes sniffing around my property, he’ll get a belly full of buckshot before he can say ‘boo.’”
Rory felt a headache building behind her eyes. This was the attitude she’d been afraid of—the frontier mentality that saw law enforcement as an inconvenience at best, an enemy at worst.
“Mr. Pritchard, I understand the desire to protect yourself. But this killer is dangerous and cunning. We need everyone to work together, to share information—”
“Information?” Pritchard scoffed. “Just what kind of information do you think I have?”
“I don’t know. Anything you’ve seen or heard, no matter how small it might seem, could be crucial. Have you noticed anything unusual lately? Any strangers around the area?”
The old rancher fell silent, his gaze distant. Rory could almost see the internal struggle playing out on his weathered face.
“Mr. Pritchard,” she said gently. “Please. If there’s anything…”
Pritchard sighed heavily, seeming to deflate. “Ah, hell. Suppose there was something. Couple nights back. Probably nothing, but…”
He trailed off, shaking his head. Rory waited, knowing better than to interrupt.
Finally, Pritchard spoke again, his voice low. “Heard a commotion out by the south pasture. Went to check it out. Saw a big dark vehicle speeding away. Cattle were all riled up something fierce.”
Rory’s exhaustion evaporated in a surge of adrenaline. “Did you get a good look at the vehicle? Any identifying features?”
Pritchard shrugged. “Too dark. But it was big—one of them SUVs, maybe. Real quiet. And it was going fast—like a bat out of hell.”
***
“How’d it go?” Evan asked, straightening as Rory entered the sheriff’s office. He was at his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers and empty coffee cups, looking every bit as worn out as Rory felt.
Rory sank into her chair with a groan. “About as well as you’d expect. They’re scared, angry, and most of them seem more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later than to actually work with us.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to massage her headache away. “I did hear something interesting from Hank Pritchard, though. Said he heard a commotion in the south pasture a couple nights ago.”
Evan studied her thoughtfully. “He see anything?”
“A vehicle,” Rory said. “Big and dark. Probably an SUV. He couldn’t make out much else in the darkness.”
“Could be our guy,” Evan mused, tapping his pen against the notepad.
“What about you? Learn anything from your interviews?”
“Not really,” he said, rifling through some papers. “But I gave up about an hour ago and did some digging, searching for any local groups or individuals with a history of conflict with ranchers. I think I might have a lead.”
“Oh?” Rory said, dropping her hand from her forehead.
He handed her a file. “Liza Barrett. Animal rights activist, been causing trouble for cattle ranchers in the area for years. Protests, sabotage, that sort of thing. But here’s the kicker—six months ago, she was arrested for trespassing on the Montero ranch. Talia Montero pressed charges.”
Rory flipped through the file, her fatigue forgotten in a surge of excitement. “Any history of violence?”
Evan shook his head. “Nothing serious. Some scuffles at protests, but no felonies. Still, she’s got motive, knowledge of the area, and a specific grudge against at least one of our victims.”
“It’s worth looking into,” Rory agreed. “What else do we know about her?”
“Lives off the grid, about an hour outside of town. Runs some kind of animal sanctuary. And get this—according to her arrest report, when they picked her up at the Montero place, she was driving a black SUV. Electric engine.”
Rory’s pulse quickened. A quiet engine, just like Pritchard had described. “We need to talk to her. Any idea where she is?”
“Leading a protest at a slaughterhouse,” Evan said. “Fitting place to find a suspect, don’t you think?”