Prey: A Novel Page 12

  Then a sharp sound echoed through the mountains and Dare bolted upright. That wasn’t lightning, that was a pistol shot. He’d heard small arms fire too often to be mistaken.

  A second shot followed the first, then more, and even with the windows shuttered tight and the storm raging around him, he knew those shots had come from the direction of Angie’s camp. Damn it, what was going on out there? A rifle shot wouldn’t have been so out of the ordinary, but a pistol … in a hunting camp, the only legitimate reason he could think of to use a pistol was if something unexpected happened, and you couldn’t get to your rifle.

  What could have happened at Angie’s camp that was unexpected?

  Some very ugly possibilities occurred to him.

  He didn’t think twice, but turned on a single light, a battery-operated lantern powerful enough to light the entire upper level, and began dragging on his clothes. When he was dressed he grabbed a slicker and his hat, the sat phone and his rifle. He grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight and switched it on before turning off the lantern. No more than two minutes after he’d heard the second pistol shot he was descending the ladder into the horse stalls below.

  The horse snickered as Dare saddled up quickly and efficiently, slipped his rifle into the scabbard, and dropped his sat phone into a saddlebag. Before he stored the phone he gave a fleeting thought to calling someone in town, Harlan or the sheriff, but what would he say? I heard a shot and it seemed to come from Angie’s camp. Fat lot of good that would do. It would cost him precious time he didn’t have to waste, and no one was coming up here in the dark anyway. No, he was here, and this was on him.

  He opened the big double doors and led the horse through them. It danced nervously as he closed and bolted the doors, but calmed a bit when he mounted up. Dare pulled the brim of his hat down low, pointed the flashlight toward a stand of trees and the narrow path there, and headed toward Angie’s camp.

  The rain was pouring down in windswept sheets, like solid walls smashing into them. The footing was so treacherous he couldn’t go any faster than a walk. The flashes of lightning let him see, but they also made the young horse nervous. He held his mount steady with knees and reins, calmed him when a bolt struck about half a mile away and the whole earth shuddered. “Easy, guy,” he crooned, letting the horse know by his tone and touch that everything was okay, there was nothing to be afraid of.

  The going was slow, damn slow. The rain knocked visibility down to almost nothing, and he could feel the horse’s agitation growing. Even with the flashlight, the unevenness of the trail was dangerous. He had to let the animal pick its way along at a pace that left him silently swearing, because he was damn certain he could cover the distance faster on foot.

  Damn it, he should’ve ridden into Angie’s camp while it was still light, shown himself and glared at her clients a time or two, even though it would’ve pissed her off big time. Maybe if those men had realized she wasn’t as alone as they thought she was, there wouldn’t have been all those pistol shots in the middle of the fucking night.

  The silence that had followed the initial shots worried him as much as anything else. Who had been doing the shooting? Angie, or someone else. He didn’t know if she had a pistol, but he damn sure knew she had a rifle. If something had warranted a couple of pistol shots, why hadn’t there been a follow-up of rifle fire? There should have been return fire, and the fact that there hadn’t been bothered him.

  If there had been only one shot, he could’ve eased his mind with the idea that maybe the loser Lattimore had told him about had brought a pistol along on the hunt and had somehow mistakenly fired it. But that many shots in a short span of time … that was no mistake, no misfire. He tried to come up with some explanation that didn’t put Angie Powell in a world of hurt, but nothing came to him.

  And while he was closer to her here than he’d have been if he were at home, where just a few minutes ago he’d been thinking he should be, he wasn’t nearly as close as he needed to be to help her.

  If anything happened to Angie, Harlan was going to kill him.

  And if anything happened to Angie … Dare wouldn’t lift a finger to stop the old man.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chad Krugman’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he’d vomit, and he couldn’t take a deep breath. It was raining in a way he’d never seen it rain before, the drops hitting his face like tiny rocks being blasted at him. He had a flashlight but he couldn’t see where he was going, even with the almost constant lightning, because the rain was so heavy. Finally, to save the batteries, he turned off the flashlight and stuck it inside his coat.

  He had his hands full, anyway. Guiding three horses while riding one bareback—he’d chosen to mount the horse he’d ridden to camp, figuring it would be easier than getting used to a new one, but nothing about this was easy—keeping a constant sharp eye out for a goddamn bear and a woman with a rifle was tough, possibly the hardest thing he’d ever done. At least the horses had calmed down, now that they were away from the bear. At first he’d thought it was the storm that had spooked the horses, but since the storm continued but the bear was behind them, he figured it had to be the animal that had stirred them up.

  He couldn’t blame the horses. That damn bear had freaked him out, too.

  He’d been prepared to kill, to do what had to be done in order to survive—that had never been in question. But he’d never expected to see anything like that monster of a bear tearing into Davis’s body. God, that thing had been big. Chad didn’t feel one minute’s regret about killing Mitchell Davis, but to be torn apart that way, to be eaten … that was sickening. And horrifying. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy, and, yes, Mitchell Davis had been his worst enemy.

  Shit, shit, shit! Things had gone all wrong. If Angie Powell hadn’t found that body up the trail and insisted on going back to town in the morning to report it, he would’ve had a chance to kill Davis while they were out on the hunt, so his body would be more difficult to find. Angie’s body, too. He’d always planned on killing her, too; there was no way around it. He did feel some regret over that, but not enough to influence his plans. By the time anyone thought to look for them, then mounted a search, and finally found their bodies up on the mountain, he would have been long gone.

  His plan was to ride back to that rancher’s place where they’d left the SUV—arriving after dark so he wouldn’t be seen—then he’d turn the horse loose and simply drive away. He might even have left the horse about a mile up in the mountains and walked the rest of the way down. He’d been practicing his riding with this whole plan in mind, since right after he’d gone on that first hunting trip last year. When the rancher got up in the morning all he’d notice was that the SUV was gone, but Angie’s truck and trailer would still be there, so he’d probably assume that one of the hunters had had enough and opted out, but Angie had stayed on with the other client—and the rancher would have no way of knowing which client had left. He probably wouldn’t think another thing about it until Angie failed to show up a week later.

  By that time, Chad would have been long gone—first into Canada, and from Canada to Mexico. Once in Mexico, he would simply have disappeared; he had the money to do it, and in certain parts of the world disappearing was a lot easier than it was on the North American continent. He’d collect his passport from the post office box in Butte, along with all of his account numbers and passwords. He wouldn’t have any trouble at all, if he just had that week or so before their bodies were found.

  Angie was the perfect guide for this particular trip: Her outfit wasn’t top of the line; he’d noticed that she didn’t have a satellite phone or a personal locator, both of which could be used to summon help fast. He got the idea that money was tight for her, which was great for him.

  But all of that had been in the perfect world of his plan, and now his plan was all fucked up, he didn’t know if he’d wounded Angie or not, he was riding through blinding rain leading three horses who didn’t like the situatio
n at all, and he didn’t know where the hell he was. Worse, riding like this at night was a good way to end up with a broken neck; all it would take would be for his horse to stumble and they’d all go down, and he’d be at the bottom of a four-horse pile-up.

  Slowly he reined in; when the horses had all come to a nervous stop, with the three horses he was leading milling around and jerking hard on the leads he held in his left hand, he forced himself to take several deep breaths and hold them until his lungs protested, pushing the panic away. The horses knew he was scared and that was making them harder to handle.

  Sitting on horseback out in the open, with huge flashes of lightning popping all around, was pretty much stupid, but he had no idea where to go. Taking shelter under some trees would be even more stupid. If the rain would let up, the lightning might reveal a rock overhang or something, but as it was he could barely see ten feet in front of him.

  Just as he was thinking that, the huge sheets of rain lessened—not by a lot, but the next lightning flash revealed some rock formations ahead. With any luck, there would be some overhang that he could shelter under. He’d tie the horses to something and they could tough it out. It wasn’t as if they didn’t stand around in pastures all the time getting rained on, anyway.

  With a goal in view and his panic lessened, he turned his reluctant horse’s head toward the rocks and nudged him into moving forward. The other three horses didn’t like being bunched together the way they were, they didn’t like the weather, and they almost pulled him backward off the horse before reluctantly getting with the plan. Chad cursed and considered just turning them loose now, but he hadn’t had time to think things through yet, and he didn’t want to jump the gun on anything else. He might let them go, he might not. Right now he couldn’t think of any reason why he’d need all four of them, but that didn’t mean something wouldn’t occur to him once he’d calmed down and had time to assess the situation.

  He reached the rocks, examining them as best he could whenever the heavens flashed. At first he thought there was nothing, just a lot of really huge rocks that looked as if they’d been dumped there, but he kept working his way forward and eventually the lightning revealed a dark slash that, when he got closer, was indeed an overhang—tall, shallow, but even meager shelter was better than none.

  He got out the flashlight and turned it on, sweeping the beam from one end of the overhang to the other, making certain nothing else had also sheltered beneath the rock. The powerful LED beam seemed weak in comparison to the massive show of light and noise Mother Nature had been throwing at him, but it did the job, reassuring him that the overhang was his alone.

  Cautiously he dismounted, making certain he kept a tight hold on the leather leads as he walked the horses forward. They followed obediently enough, for a change. The area beneath the overhang wasn’t clean and barren; it was dotted with bushes, littered with rocks and probably sheep shit and things like that. The bushes, at least, were a good thing, because they gave him something to tie the horses to. It was also a bad thing, because he didn’t have enough hands to hold all four horses, the flashlight, and lead them from bush to bush until he had them all secured.

  What if they all ran away when he dropped the reins?

  Fuck ’em.

  The answer let him breathe easier. He kept a grip on his mount’s reins, and dropped the three other sets. He led his horse to a bush and quickly tied it off.

  Wonder of wonders, the other three horses just stood there. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they were as glad as he was to be out of the constant bombardment of the rain. Maybe they were so used to humans taking care of them they didn’t know what else to do. For whatever reason, they didn’t run. Chad led each horse to a bush and secured it, then kicked some rocks and debris to the side to make himself a place to sit, and sank to the ground with his back braced against the rough rock.

  This wasn’t exactly a cozy spot; lightning still lit the world like a maniacal disco ball, thunder still boomed and rolled, making the earth shudder, and he was soaking wet and shivering with cold, but he was out of the rain and he no longer felt as exposed as a lightning rod. He could rest. He could gather his thoughts.

  At first, all he did was sit there and breathe; panic was more exhausting than physical labor. He’d done all right at first, shooting Davis the way he’d planned even if the timing and location weren’t exactly what he’d wanted, but then the damn storm had hit and he hadn’t been able to find Angie, didn’t know if he’d wounded her, killed her, or missed her entirely. She’d had that damn rifle in her hand, though, and he’d been drawn in a knot expecting to get shot at any second, then that freakin’ bear had shown up and started snacking on Davis, and—

  His breathing was getting too fast again, just remembering those nightmarish moments. Chad deliberately slowed it down, forced the gruesome pictures away. He had to think.

  Angie hadn’t shot at him. That meant he’d hit her after all, that she was either dead or wounded, right? And if she was dead or wounded, the bear would likely have moved on to her as soon as it finished with Davis—unless she wasn’t hurt very bad and was able to run, but if she wasn’t hurt much then it followed that she’d have shot him and the bear. He hadn’t heard any shots at all, which meant he likely didn’t have to worry about Angie.

  But he didn’t know for certain, and he’d have to make sure. He’d taken the horses and run like hell. With all the noise of the storm, the drumming of the horses’ feet, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, plus the distance he’d put between himself and the camp, would he have heard a shot that came several minutes later, especially if it came during one of those deafening blasts of lightning? The answer was no. Angie could be hurt, but still able to kill the bear.

  She was a huge loose end that he couldn’t afford to leave dangling. He needed time, time to get away and time to disappear. That was all he asked. He felt very bitter that she was interfering with his plans. His life depended on things working out the way he wanted.

  He wasn’t worried about the cops, except that he needed to get to Mexico as fast as possible, before his name was put on the watch list. The cops were nothing. Davis’s associates were the real danger. That’s why he’d have to completely disappear, change his name, but that wasn’t a bad thing. He didn’t want the life he’d built as Chad Krugman to follow him; it had been a useful tool, and perversely gratifying that no one saw beneath the facade, which was simply more proof of his skill, but he was ready to start fresh. Chad Krugman had to cease to exist. He’d start new, with a name that didn’t scream dork, but nothing over-the-top cool, either. Something quiet and masculine would get the job done. Maybe he’d have some plastic surgery, too. In fact, that was a damn good idea: chin and cheekbone implants, a more assertive nose. He wouldn’t need to be the invisible twerp any longer. And with his talent for handling money, the sky was the limit.

  Never underestimate the accountant.

  Davis had. Everyone had. They all did, even Angie Powell, and she’d been nicer to him than anyone else, which almost made him feel bad that he had to make certain she was dead, but what the hell, it wasn’t as if she’d ever have given him the real time of day. She’d been nice to him because he was a client, not because she liked him.

  He’d made a slight miscalculation with Davis, and that galled him. Even with everything he knew about the murderous bastard he’d still underestimated him. A man didn’t rise to Davis’s position without having at least some intelligence and a lot of cunning to go with the inherent ruthlessness; Chad should have been prepared for the possibility that events could actually happen faster than he’d estimated.

  That was what Davis had been doing on the Internet at Angie’s house, searching through all his accounts, comparing numbers—and he’d been smart enough, when Angie kicked him out of the house after dinner, to simply sit on the porch where he could still access her wifi, and continue his electronic poking.

  A big question was whether or not Davis had alerted anyon
e else—namely the people he dealt with—or if he had wanted to handle the problem himself and never let them know. After all, he was the one who’d chosen Chad. He wouldn’t want to make himself look bad. But if he’d already spotted the problem and taken care of it, then no harm no foul. Chad thought the odds were in his favor that Davis had kept the problem to himself, that first he’d wanted to verify the money was missing.

  Oh, the core of Chad’s plan—killing Davis—had still been executed, but the location and circumstances were off, and that bothered him. The storm had been a wild card. Angie finding that body had been a wild card. He couldn’t have controlled or changed any of that, but he hadn’t been prepared for such an upheaval of his plan, and as a result Angie was still unaccounted for. He’d have to do better.

  In the end, though, he was gratified that his crafted persona had saved his life. Davis had so completely dismissed him as a threat that he’d been prepared to wait until the hunt was finished before taking care of business, probably because Angie’s presence was a complicating factor he figured he could do without. Chad had felt no such limitation. Taken down to the bottom level, once Angie had made plain her intention to report the body she’d found, thereby throwing Chad’s whole timeline off, he had to meet with Davis right away and kill him, and then take care of Angie.

  Maybe Davis had believed in his own reputation, which had in the end been a fatal weakness. No one stole from Davis and walked away unscathed. Unscathed, hell; you didn’t steal from Mitchell Davis and survive—unless you were smarter than he expected, unless you could catch him with his guard down. Davis hadn’t expected Chad to be armed; he hadn’t expected the accountant to be faster to commit murder than he himself was, which had been a serious, serious miscalculation.