“Know what? ‘Shaw’ and ‘Standish’ are fine. I think we’ve graduated. Mountain lions can do that.”
Margot had called him by his last name. He’d always liked it.
She continued: “Had an informant turn, halfway through a set, and come at me with a razor. That was a day’s work, I’m saying. Mountain lions’re not a day’s work.”
Depends on the day and depends on the work, Shaw supposed.
Standish had brought a roll of yellow tape and now spent a few minutes running it from tree to tree, encircling the crime scene.
“So, the blood?” she asked.
“Thompson’s?” Shaw replied. “A possibility.” He walked in the general direction the animal had vanished — cautiously. He climbed a rock formation and examined the tableau before him.
He returned.
Standish glanced his way. “You found something?”
“A deer carcass. He’d eaten most of it. That’s why he wasn’t so interested in us.”
She finished stringing the tape. Then rose.
Shaw studied the ground. “I can’t tell if Henry walked that way or not. I think so.” He was looking at a limestone shelf that led to a line of trees. On the other side there seemed to be a deep valley.
Shaw climbed onto the rock and helped Standish up. Together they walked toward the edge of the cliff.
There, they paused.
A hundred feet below lay Henry Thompson’s crumpled, bloody body.
44
Ten minutes later two tactical officers were on the floor of the canyon, having rappelled down the sheer face — and doing a smart job of it.
“Detective?” one of them radioed.
“Go ahead, K,” Standish said.
“Have to tell you. Cause of death wasn’t the fall. He’s been shot.”
She paused. “Roger.”
Shaw was not surprised. He muttered, “Explains it.”
“What?”
“Why the Gamer comes back to the scenes. The Whispering Man — the game — it isn’t only about escaping. It’s also about fighting.” He reminded Standish about the gameplay: the players might form alliances or they might try to kill one another. And the Whispering Man himself, in his funereal suit and dapper hat, roams the game, ready to murder for the fun of it.
Shaw remembered that the character would come up behind you and whisper advice — which might be real or might be a trick. He might also attack, shooting you with an old-time flintlock pistol or slicing your throat or plunging a blade into your heart, whispering a poem as your screen went black and eerie music played.
The Gamer was simply following the storyline as written. He’d returned to the scene of Sophie Mulliner’s captivity to pursue her. He’d done the same here. He’d left Henry Thompson alone for a time, let him build the signal fire — the way he’d given Sophie a chance to escape. Then it was time to return and finish the game.
Standish said nothing but walked along the rocky ground to the clutch of tactical officers who’d joined them here. Shaw sat on a rocky ledge. He received a text from Maddie Poole.
So, you de-looped me?? Is Knight in jail? Are you still alive?
Shaw’s inclination was not to reply. But he did, texting that he was with the police. He’d be in touch.
The forensic officers weren’t here yet. There was no such thing as a Crime Scene Unit helicopter, so the vans would be driving up the logging trail the long way around to avoid contaminating the shorter way to the highway on the assumption that the kidnapper had taken that route. Yet finding helpful tire tracks seemed an impossible task; the trail was largely covered with a thick carpet of leaves and where it was bare it was baked dry. Why would the Gamer turn careless now?
Standish and the tactical officers were staying clear of the immediate scenes — here and in the nest of pine needles where the Gamer had originally left Thompson. They were visually perusing the site and gauging where the kidnapper might have stalked Thompson. Everyone was a pro now; whatever resentments lingered, they weren’t interfering with the mission of solving this crime to prevent others.
“This boy’s enjoying himself,” one of the officers muttered grimly. “He ain’t going to stop.”
A SWAT cop suggested Shaw go back to the chopper, not wanting a civilian on the scene. But Standish pointed out that he wasn’t armed and that there was at least one hostile in the vicinity — the mountain lion. It also wasn’t absolutely certain that the killer was gone. There was some logic to this, though scant; a tac cop, armed for big game, could have accompanied him. Shaw sensed that Standish wanted him here, perhaps to offer insights. Unfortunately, at the moment, he had none.
He gazed down at Thompson’s body. There was no blessing in it but at least the man had died quickly, not thanks to the ripping teeth and claws of a wild animal. The shot was to his forehead. Thompson would have returned from setting the fire and made his way back to the nest, for the beef jerky and to rest, awaiting rescue. There, the Gamer would have been waiting. Thompson would have run. His bare feet would have slowed his escape.
Shaw stepped away from the crime scene and walked farther along the stone ridge. He stopped a few feet from the edge. Eyeing the rock face, he noted that it would be a good climb. Lots of cracks and outcroppings. Challenging, with its nearly ninety-degree surfaces, but doable. An overhang that would take quite some strategy to surmount.
Looking down, he didn’t plot out, as usual, a route to the bottom.
Nor did he think about poor Henry Thompson.
No, seeing the cliff and the creek bed below, he thought of one thing only.
Echo Ridge.
45
Colter’s eyes instantly open when the cabin floor creaks.
He sometimes thinks his father has taught him to sleep light, though that doesn’t seem possible. Must’ve been born with the skill.
The sixteen-year-old’s hand dips to the box beneath the bed where his revolver rests. Hand around the grip. Thumb on the trigger to cock it to single action.
Then he sees his mother’s silhouette. Mary Dove Shaw, a lean woman, hair always braided, standing in his doorway. No religion in the Shaw household. When he’s older, Colter will come to think of his mother in saintly terms, a woman taking comfort in her husband’s good moments and sheltering her children from the bad. Protecting Ashton for himself too.
Her nature was clothed in kindness. Underneath was iron.
“Colter. Ash is missing. I need you.”
Everyone awakes early on the Compound, but this hour is closer to night. Not quite 5 a.m. That it’s his mother in the doorway doesn’t stay his hand from touching the cold steel and rough grip of the .357 Python. Intruders?
Then, swimming closer to wakefulness, he sees in her face concern, not alarm. He rises, leaving the weapon under the bed.
“Ash went out after I fell asleep, about ten. He hasn’t come back. The Benelli’s gone.”
His father’s favorite shotgun.
Camping and expeditions in the Compound are always planned and, in any event, there is no reason for Ashton to go out at that hour, much less to stay out all night.
Never hike anywhere without telling at least one person where you’ll be.