*
We’re on the trail by daybreak. I’m still unsettled from last night, so as we ride, I indulge in self-therapy, mentally counting off things I’ve already done today that have made me happy. Waking to puppy kisses. Watching Dalton play in the snow with Storm. The gorgeous scenery as we ride, snow lacing the evergreens, steamy heat rising from the horses. My mare, Cricket, interpreting my subtle moves and responding in a way that feels like telepathy. Dalton, ahead of me, scanning the forest, both watchful and at peace, completely in his element. Anders, behind me, telling a story about a caribou encounter. And the reminder that we’re going—not to see that terrible hole again, but to solve a crime, find a monster, and stop him. All that makes me happy, even the last, which is to me as soul-satisfying as gamboling with a puppy.
We take the horses all the way to the foothills. There we wait for Kenny, who is following on the snowmobile with Paul, another of the militia guys. They’ll stay with the horses while they fill Anders’s empty sled and tow Dalton’s stuck one.
We climb to the cave. I don’t hesitate for a second, beating Dalton up the hill and inside. He isn’t fooled—he knows I’m going overboard to say, See, I’m fine with this. He also knows better than to question. This is my job. Let me do it.
Anders stands watch at the mouth of the cave. I lead Dalton to the hole. And there’s nothing to find. Mathias is right—Nicole’s captor has cleared the scene.
We aren’t hunting a stupid man. He knew we’d taken Nicole. He’s removed the boxes and candles and the skins. I curse myself for not taking a better look at the time, but the only thing on my mind had been the fact we’d just pulled a starving woman from a hole.
I still examine the scene. I check for anything left up top. Then I climb down into the hole. Dalton follows me.
There’s blood on the walls. Long-dried blood, and I picture Nicole clawing the rock, trying to get a grip, her fingers raw and bloodied. Dalton’s crouched on the floor, rubbing a large dark spot and then lifting his finger. It’s red. I bend beside him, and he’s looking at that spot, and I can see him mentally measuring the stain, and wondering what could leave that much blood and not kill her.
“She was pregnant,” I say. “He ended it.”
Dalton jerks back so suddenly he has to brace against the wall for support. He gives me a sidelong look, as if he isn’t quite sure how to take this, how to comprehend it.
“It might not have been that,” I say, but I look at that patch of blood, and I know I’m not wrong.
I stand. “I’m not getting clues here. Let’s head back to Will.”
TWENTY-FOUR
With Anders, we’re crawling through the cave system. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find, but I failed to secure and assess the scene the first time. I must be absolutely sure I’ve missed nothing now, or I’ll wake in the middle of the night certain I overlooked some vital clue.
We’re heading down a tunnel, checking every side crevice, none big enough to crawl through. Then, as my head-beam lamp passes through one, it reflects off something white. I pull back and try to get a better look, but the crevice opens into a drop, and what I see down it is a patch of white.
I check the crevice. It’s narrow, but I could squeeze through.
Anders is in front of me. He’s stopped, watching and waiting. Same as Dalton behind. When I say, “I see something in there,” Dalton creeps forward, looks and says, “Got anything to fish it out with?”
“I can go in.”
“Nope.”
“I can. I’ll fit—”
“Can and not. Buddy system. Will and I won’t fit. So you aren’t going in.”
“It’s right there. I just need to crawl four feet and then down two or three more. Hell, I can stretch out in there and reach.”
“Nope.”
“Boss?” Anders says, and when I glance over, he’s giving Dalton a look, communicating a message that Dalton very clearly does not want as he pulls back and says, “Nope.”
I glare at him. Then I tug off my backpack, making myself smaller, and start into the crevice. His hand lands on my ankle, gripping tight.
“Did I say no? Or are you forgetting who’s in charge here.”
“Oh, I didn’t forget. But I don’t think I’m talking to my boss right now.”
He returns my glare, his jaw setting.
“Am I?” I say. “If Will could fit in there, would you tell him no?”
“This guy we’re hunting? He’s not going for Will.”
“Tell that to Shawn Sutherland. And that”—I point at the patch of white—“is not our guy lying in wait.”
“You sure?”