When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(100)

Flora advanced first, going from a rusted-out shell of an old wagon, to a pile of discarded wooded crates, to what appeared to be an old pickax.

“Kimberly,” she called.

Kimberly walked over, followed the line of Flora’s finger to the pickax. The handle appeared old, aged to the weathered gray of wood long exposed to the elements. The metal head on the other hand . . .

“Didn’t your friends say the graves had been carved with a pickax?” Flora murmured.

“Yep.”

“Looks like this one could do it.”

Kimberly nodded, squatting down for further inspection. The metal head didn’t just look new, it bore signs of dried mud and something . . . darker. She pulled out her phone, shot a quick pic. Still not enough bars to share the photo, but at least it gave them a start of documentation.

“What is this place?” Flora asked Walt.

“Old mine. These hills are riddled with ’em.”

Kimberly followed Flora over to the rock pile, where—sure enough—she could now see an opening set back from the first few tumbled stones.

“Is it safe?” Kimberly asked Walt.

He shrugged. “Are the mountains safe?”

Fair enough.

Flora was already exploring the opening. Up close, it was surprisingly large. It appeared some of the rock face had collapsed over the years, creating a jumble of large boulders that partially obscured the opening. But even those rocks had fallen a good ten feet away, meaning an ATV or other vehicle could navigate the opening.

Perhaps pulling a small trailer loaded with a lifeless body, the driver stopping to add the pickax to the pile, then continuing down the mountain to a place where no human would think to look again. Unless, of course, you were an inexperienced hiker with terrible blisters and a need for a walking stick.

A faint moan came from the mine entrance. It built in intensity, before dying off again.

“The wind,” Flora murmured. “The way it cuts through the rocks.”

“Sure,” Kimberly muttered. “The wind.”

Kimberly turned to Walt. “Who knows about this mine?”

“Locals. Mountain folks. Ain’t secret.”

“Do people still go inside?”

“When I was a kid, we’d come here to drink. But then, twenty, thirty years ago, a group of teens headed in and only two came out. County blocked the entrance after that.”

“It’s not blocked now.”

“Nope.”

Kimberly studied the ground. She was no expert, but she thought she could just discern what appeared to be wide tire tracks, close together, such as what an ATV would leave behind.

“Why did you bring us here, Walt?” Kimberly realized for the first time he wasn’t holding the shotgun at his side anymore. He’d positioned it before him, loose but at the ready.

“I followed the screams,” he told her. “I thought if I could find the trees, tell them I had repented, they wouldn’t haunt me no more. Took me a long time. Walking the woods, night after night.

“Eventually, I followed the cries here. But when I came back during the day, the woods had fallen silent again. I had to keep waiting. Then last night, the trees started again. I could hear them, clear as a whistle, standing here.”

“Who’s screaming, Walt?”

“People I hurt. Maybe the girls Jacob hurt. Just wait. You’ll understand what I mean soon enough.”

A noise above them, followed by a small shower of falling rocks. Kimberly jumped as half a dozen pebbles careened down the mine entrance. Flora, already standing in the pile of boulders at the opening, leapt to the side.

Walt’s gaze jerked up. One second he was standing relaxed, the next he was raising his shotgun to his shoulder, screaming, “I see you, devil! I see you standing there!”

Kimberly dropped into a crouch, going for her ankle-holstered .22. Walt was pointing that damn shotgun right at her and Flora. Yelling at shadows, lost in some haze where he looked ready to shoot first, question later.

She was aware of Flora, twenty feet away, reaching for her butterfly blade. A fresh shower of rocks, then a particularly large rock dropped from above, smacking Flora on the head. The woman went down hard, a blur of blood and shadow.

As Walt continued waving his shotgun wildly toward Kimberly, the only person who now stood between him and the mine.

“Begone with you, I say. Begone!”

Shit. Kimberly jerked out her .22, lifted it up from the crouched position.

Pump, kaboom.

Walt let loose with his first load. Too high.

Kimberly honed in on the target. Except, just as she was about to squeeze the trigger . . .

Crack.

The ensuing noise was no shotgun blast, but a rifle. Coming from somewhere above and behind Kimberly as she ducked her head reflexively, then fell back toward Flora, a fresh avalanche of debris crashing upon the mine opening.

Before her, Walt staggered. Bright red blood bloomed across his dirty T-shirt. He pumped his shotgun for a fresh load, aiming it up, up, up. The air cracked again. A second flower of blood joined the first across his chest. He still worked to aim his weapon. Then, his knees buckled. His grip on his shotgun loosened. He sank to his knees.

His lips were moving. A last prayer to God, or to the ghosts that haunted his nights?

Then Kimberly got it. Walt Davies wasn’t pleading for mercy. He was giving her a command.