This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(71)

I follow one set of blankets up to the graying hair of the older man. He’s sound asleep. I think I spot more blankets beyond him, but they’re too far from the fire to be more than dark blobs.

If this is a trap, it’s an odd one. I see both male settlers. They could be faking sleep, but it would make more sense to be lying in wait while leaving the woman and girl in sight.

The younger man is across the campsite. Dalton motions that he’s going to circle around. Then he stops. Considers. Hefts his gun, held in his left hand, his arm far from healed. He shifts the gun to his right and lifts it. Considers some more.

“Let me,” I whisper. I motion at my dark clothing and hair, better able to blend into the shadows.

He nods.

I give him back Storm’s leash and whisper, “Stay.”

Dalton says, “I will,” and then gives me a smile, tight and anxious. I squeeze his arm and set out.

While it’s only a quarter-moon, the sparser forest here means I can see where I’m putting down my feet. It’s mostly bare dirt, and the windswept puddles of conifer needles are damp from spring showers; even when I do touch down, they make no sound.

I head behind the young settler. As I pass the camp, I squint at a second set of sleeping blankets. I think I see a smaller figure. There’s no sign of the older woman’s white hair, so this would be the girl, Harper.

That means the woman is inside the tent. Where I can’t see her and confirm she’s fine.

She should be fine. The others wouldn’t have slept through those screams. Either this is a trap, then, or they woke hearing the screams, recognized them for an animal, and went back to sleep.

I can see my target now. The tree is just inside the clearing. I have my gun out. And then . . .

Well, I’m not quite sure what I should do next. For the sake of a good night’s sleep, I’d like to reassure myself that the woman and girl are both fine. I can’t do that without marching into camp. I would also like to reassure myself that this isn’t a trap. But how do I do that without the risk of waking the settlers, who’ll think we’re raiding them?

I circle behind the tree where the young man rests. Then I keep going so I don’t emerge behind him, which is never the way to say “I come in peace.”

I draw alongside him, close enough to see that he seems to be sleeping, his head bowed. Then I whistle. It’s not piercing, but it’s enough that even if he’s asleep, he should jump up.

He doesn’t budge.

Damn it.

Either my whistle is softer than I think, or this is a trap, and he’s wide awake and waiting.

I whistle again, louder.

No reaction.

I get a better grip on my gun and then retreat behind the tree. From there, I creep forward, no longer worried about startling him. This is a trap. That or . . .

I know what the “or” is. I have from the start.

I slip up behind the tree. I can see the young man’s arm, hanging at his side. I take a deep breath and count my steps. Three. Two. One.

The last brings me to his shoulder. I sidestep. Moonlight shines into the clearing, glistening off his half-closed eyes. Glistening off the blood soaking his dark shirt.





39





A slash bisects the young settler’s throat. It’s ragged at one side, cutting upward on an awkward angle. Rushed. But a single slice, deep enough that I see his spinal column. No hesitation cuts, no sign that the killer paused or reconsidered or had to steel himself to do the job.

The killer crept up while the young settler watched the fire. One deliberate slash to end his life before he had time to react. Blood covers the young man’s hands as if in his last moments he’d reached up, unable to breathe, grabbing his throat. Too late to even rise from his spot.

I turn to call Dalton, but he’s already making his way into the clearing. He sees me bent beside the young settler and knows he is not asleep.

Dalton ties Storm to a tree. She whimpers, but at a firm “Quiet,” she lies down. She doesn’t want to come closer. She knows what’s here. She has always known what’s here.

I crouch beside the older man. His eyes are open just enough for me to know he isn’t sleeping. The top blanket has been drawn up to his throat, as if the killer tucked him back in. Not an act of contrition—the killer was hiding his work. I tug down that blanket to see the old man’s throat has been slashed. There are other cuts, too, on his bare arms, and a clump of gray hair by my foot.

The killer tried to murder the older man in his bed, but something gave him away, an ill-placed footstep or the death gurgle of the younger man. The old man bolted up, maybe getting tangled in his blankets. Rising fast enough to fight, not fast enough to win.

There’s a knife by his head. No blood on the blade. As if he’d grabbed it from under his blankets, but it was already too late. The killer had grabbed the old man’s hair, yanked back his head and slit his throat. Then he laid him down and tucked the blanket up under his chin.

Dalton is at the tent, sweeping open the front flap. Even from here, I can see it’s empty, the old woman gone. Then I remember the second set of blankets by the fire. The small form within. I stumble over to it and yank back the blanket to see . . .

A pack. There’s a large deerskin pack under the blanket. The girl is gone, but someone has made it look as if she’s asleep. What’s the point of that?