River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(66)

Whatever it was, this guy had put his own personal stamp on his victims; his signature, so to speak, like Rick had said; his private MO.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

John was running, ducking under low-lying branches, weaving through oak and maple and hickory trees. Sweat soaked his back underneath the layers of camouflage. He gripped the rifle in his moist hand, moving as sure-footedly as any forest animal. He wasn’t supposed to have been the driver on this hunt, but at the last minute his father, Russell, had needed him. The club had needed him. Hap, the presiding member of the Scions even then, had agreed John was the fastest in the woods. He was the one most suited for the job, especially if he was going to take over Russell’s position one day.

Russell had debated with Hap whether to involve John, but he was twenty-five years old and by no means a boy. He was a man, and it was time he earned his full-member patch.

John continued running, cutting left and right, stomping the soft earth with his boots. He loved being in the woods, running, tracking, hunting. The mountains and the river were the two places John called home. He’d often sleep outside underneath the stars next to the fire pit behind their barn. Sleeping in a room, in a bed, a roof over his head, had suffocated him as a boy. By the time he’d been twelve years old, he’d been sleeping outside more than in. Around the same time, Russell had handed him a rifle. He’d said, “If you’re going to sleep with the animals, you’d better learn how to protect yourself.”

And John had. He’d slept with a rifle by his side, picking it up once when a lone wolf had startled him awake. He’d fired a warning shot, chasing the wolf back up the mountain.

He pushed on. Dew soaked the bottom of his pants. He told himself this was just another hunt. He was chasing a deer. He crested a hill and came to an abrupt stop. It was only then that he heard the river’s rapids, or maybe it was the blood rushing in his ears. His chest moved up and down, his breathing heavy. Russell was waiting off to John’s right. And the target John had been chasing, the traitor in the club’s eyes, had stopped in the middle of a small clearing in the center of their trap.

The traitor pulled out a knife, turned in a full circle before he spied Russell pointing a rifle at his chest.

John sucked in a sharp breath, waited for the gunshot. He waited. And waited. The silence was deafening. Why was it taking so long? Pull the trigger, Dad. He wanted it over with. He wanted to go home. And then his father lowered the gun. Had he changed his mind? Had he realized this was a mistake? Was he flashing back to the war like he sometimes did, shell-shocked?

Panic swelled inside John’s rib cage. He didn’t move, still waiting, knowing as each second passed that something was wrong. The traitor pointed the knife at John’s father, took a step toward him. Russell raised the rifle again, and this time John saw his father pull the trigger, but nothing happened. The gun didn’t fire.

A slow smile spread across the traitor’s face. He waved the knife in front of him as though he were saying to Russell, I got you now. He took two more steps toward John’s father.

Oh, shit. John hesitated, unsure what to do. Dad? Then John raised his own rifle and peered through the scope, lining up a shot. His hands were steady, but his knees were shaking. His guts churned, his stomach protesting, growling as though he were hungry. I can do this, he thought. I have to do this.

His father stood motionless, staring at the man with the knife as if he was daring him to come closer.

John looked away from the scope. Russell glanced in John’s direction, and he swore he saw his father give a slight nod of his head. In the next second, no longer thinking about what he was about to do but what he was expected to do, John peered through the scope again and lined up his shot. He pulled the trigger. The traitor went down in a heap. The knife dropped to the ground by his side.

It wasn’t until John lowered the rifle that he started to shake all over and not just in his knees. His entire body rocked with tremors. His vision blurred. What happened? He felt confused. His head was fuzzy. He wasn’t aware of time passing. He wasn’t aware of anything but the trembling. And then a hand resting on his shoulder.

“John,” his father said. “You still with us, Son? Come on, now. Pull yourself together.”

John shook his head, trying to clear his eyes. He knocked his father’s hand off his shoulder and marched to where the traitor had gone down. But what he saw on the ground wasn’t a man but a deer. It was only a deer. He’d shot a deer. Something like relief washed over him, and he knelt beside his kill. He found the knife on the ground and began to field dress the animal. His father was standing over him, cursing him.

“What the hell are you doing? He’s dead, Son. There’s no need to do that.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder again.

“Get off me,” John snapped.

“Son,” his father said, his voice low and reassuring. “It’s going to be okay. You did the right thing. For the club. For me.”

John blocked out his father’s words. He concentrated on the job at hand. When he’d finished, his father pushed him out of the way. Hap was there. When had he gotten there? John didn’t remember Hap coming with them. He heard his father say something about John and shock.

He watched as his father and Hap dragged the deer down the bank to the river. Yes, that was good. Put him in the river. John wasn’t in the mood for venison anyway.