Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(66)

“Did somebody kill her?” He’s shaking. I put my hand on his forehead. He feels clammy and cold. I pull out one of the metallic insulated blankets and drape it around him. “Did somebody leave her there? The way my dad—”

“It might not be that at all,” I lie to him, because I think he needs that comfort. “She could be a hiker who got lost, had a heart attack, something like that. But it’s good that she’s not out here all alone anymore, right?”

That steadies him a little. He nods and pulls the blanket closer.

“Okay, let’s follow our trail back out,” I tell him. I pull out my phone and check for a signal. There is one, but it’s low and slow; I dial 911 anyway as we start walking. Connor stares at his map like it’s a GPS; he’s not really thinking right now. I use my built-in UV light on the other end of the flashlight to check the trail markers I left. It’s clear enough where we need to go.

“Wolfhunter Police Department. What is your emergency?” a voice asks me. It’s tinny and ghostly, a fragile connection.

“I need to report a dead body,” I tell her. “On the south bank of Wolfhunter River, about two miles from Wolfhunter River Lodge.”

“I didn’t get all that, sir. Can you please repeat—”

The call drops. Shit. I try again, get the same voice. “I’m calling to report a dead body. South bank of Wolfhunter River, about two miles from—”

“Sir, I need your name please.”

“Sam Cade. About two miles from Wolfhunter River Lodge.”

“Was this person breathing, sir?”

I think about the bloating, the blackened skin. “No.”

“Did you try CPR?”

“No. She’s decomposed.” I know they have to ask these questions, but it’s infuriating. Like Connor, I’m still dealing with the sight, but unlike the kid, I’ve seen worse, and in person. “Heading back to the lodge. Send the police; I’ll walk them out to the body. We left trail markers.”

I hang up before the call drops again, and am slipping the phone back in my pocket when I hear a branch snap. Then rustling. Something’s out there.

Maybe there is a bear, after all.

I silently bring Connor to a halt. His metallic blanket rustles, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I slowly lower my pack to the ground and get out my pistol. Flashlight gets stowed. I crouch down, and Connor mimics me.

I put my finger to my lips. The kid’s face is pallid, and he’s shaking even more, but he nods.

I’m first aware of the shot because the tree next to me explodes splinters in all directions, and one of them digs into my arm. I process that, the flat slap of the shot an instant later, and the realization that we’re in desperate trouble at the same time. I grab Connor’s arm and drag him right, get him safe behind a big, gnarled oak, and tell him, “Stay here. Stay down. Understand?”

“Was that a shot?” He’s shaking. A little distant.

“Stay,” I order him. I need to lead them away from this kid. He can’t make it right now. He’s in shock. “Connor! Understand?”

He nods. I move to the next tree and listen for footsteps. I don’t hear anything. Whoever’s taken a shot at us, he’s now stationary. Waiting.

So I give him something to shoot at. I take off the neon-orange cap I’m wearing and fling it like a Frisbee; it sails a good twenty feet, and then it changes course and flies off at an angle. I don’t see the shot that shreds it, but I hear it an instant later.

He’s a pretty good marksman, but he’s slow. Maybe the first shot he took was a little too quick, a little too adrenaline filled, because he rushed it and missed my head by a couple of inches. If he’d been steady, I’d have been out like a light.

I look at Connor again. I hate leaving him here alone, shivering, but right now it’s the only choice. I need to draw this guy off. And I need to deal with him, because he’s threatened my kid. My kid. I’ve never felt it quite so strongly as I do right now, this need to defend Connor at all costs, but it’s there, and it’s dug deep into my guts.

I go low, racing for the next cover, betting that he’s not good at snapping off quick, accurate shots. He isn’t. His shot comes late, and buries itself in the tree I’m already behind. There’s a thick crop of underbrush between this tree and the next, and I flatten out and do a combat crawl, resting my weight on forearms and toes as I slither along. It’s quick and quiet, and I come up to a crouch as I make the turn. This is a thick stand of trees, and it appears impenetrable from that side. On this side it’s clear, and I quickly make my way around in a wide arc that should bring him into view.

It does.

There are two in forest camouflage, no hunter’s blaze colors or vests: shooter and spotter. They don’t want to be noticed. It crosses my mind that they might have military experience. If they do, the spotter will start scanning the perimeter . . . now.

Right on my count, the smaller one looks away from downrange and does a slow, meticulous sweep. I don’t move. I’m pretty confident he’ll miss me.

I snap a twig. A small one, something that sounds like it might be a vole or shrew. I add a tiny rustle with the tip of my boot.

The second man has to cover the sniper’s ass; that’s his job too. And he comes to check. I could shoot both of them from cover, no problem, and I’m sure that’s what Gwen would have done. But if I do that, I don’t find out who set these assholes on us.