When Death Draws Near (21 page)

WRIGGLING MY LEGS FREE, I CAREFULLY SAT ON
the widened opening and pulled on the yarn attached to my ankle, praying the material wouldn't break. Slowly, slowly my pants emerged. I fumbled the sweater out first and tugged it on, moaning as it passed over my injured hand. Rather than expos
ing my left arm where I'd had to unravel the yarn, I left it inside the sweater, bunching it inward to form a slight sling. The rain quickly dampened the sweater, but the wool maintained what little body heat I had.

The knots in the yarn and pant legs resisted my one-handed attempts to undo them. I used my teeth and emptied out the slippers, bra, and panties. I pulled on the pants, then slipped my icy, bluish feet into the slippers.

Never had anything felt so good.

I drew my right arm through the sleeve so it was next to my body, tucked my broken hand in my lap, and curled up my legs. I smelled of wet wool, sweat, and dirt. Tilting my head back, I
let the rainwater drop into my mouth, then spit it out to rinse out the dust.

I'd move as soon as I got warmer. Or maybe I could just stay here until someone found me.

A big dollop of rain plopped on my neck and slithered down my back.

On the other hand, movement would warm me. So would getting out of the rain.

My bra and panties lay beside me. Putting on the bra one-handed was out of the question, and I didn't need the extra weight. I could chuck the bra over the cliff, a fitting end to the prosthetics I'd named Thelma and Louise . . . but if I left it here, it could help me find Grady and give him a proper burial.

The panties were another matter. I didn't want anyone to find my industrial-strength, sold-six-to-a-package, white cotton briefs. A swift kick and they went sailing over the ledge.

Lowering my legs, I tested the ledge. It seemed sturdy enough. Gradually I eased more and more of my weight until I stood on the narrow surface. Below me was a sheer cliff, ending in a pile of rocks. Above me was more rock, but not as steep. The ledge continued on either side before petering out.

I'd have to climb up. With a broken hand and sprained ankle.

Reluctantly I drew my good arm out of the sweater, leaving my broken hand inside. My slippers were loose-fitting with a smooth bottom. I wouldn't be able to climb in them, but would need them when I reached level ground. I wound the yarn around the slippers, then wrapped the ends around my waist, creating a shoe fanny pack.

The yarn was tight enough that it cinched my sweater at the
bottom. After I pulled the sweater looser in the front, my broken hand rested in the knitted sling.

I patted my pockets to be sure the watch, ring, note, and knife were all accounted for.

Turning toward the hillside, I mapped my route. Although rather steep, a number of shrubs and small trees had taken hold. The real problem could be the wet stone and loose gravel. I stepped to the cave opening, then reached up and grabbed a sturdy shrub. A few test pulls assured me it would hold. I took a deep breath and climbed to the bush. Above that and to my left was a smaller tree. I could reach it, but would have to reach across my body or use my left wrist. Reluctantly I pulled my arm from the sweater sling. My hand was swollen to double its size and my fingers were turning into purple sausages.

I searched for a foothold with my foot, finally hooking a thin outcropping. Stretching sideways, I reached for the tree and hooked my wrist over it.

The stone broke under my foot. I let go of the shrub and lunged for the tree. I caught it just as my wrist slipped. I clung there for a moment, breathing quickly. I'd barely climbed a foot above the cave opening.

The rain slowed to a drizzle. It seemed darker. If night came before I could climb this slope . . .

The next tree was larger, a pine, and almost directly overhead. I pulled myself up onto the tree I was clinging to, then carefully stood, holding on to a tiny ridge. The tree bent but held my weight. Wrapping my left arm around the pine, I moved upward.

Another shrub, this one big enough that I risked a glance behind me.

I clutched the bush harder, not willing to move. I'd traversed the hill far enough that the ledge was no longer under me. If I slipped, I'd drop directly down the cliff to the woods far below. Burying my face in my arm, I closed my eyes. I could smell the tang of the pine and odor of wet earth. “Endure. Just . . . endure.” I stayed motionless for a few moments, until the damp chill started to replace the heat of my exertion.

“Come on, Gwen, get tough.” I found the next small tree to grab, but loathed letting go of the bush.

The rocks grew more jagged, providing hand- and footholds, but tearing at my clothing and flesh. I tested each one before committing my weight to it. One outcropping caught my sweater at the shoulder, ripping a hole and stabbing into my skin.

I gasped at the new assault of pain but didn't stop to see the damage.

Slowly, painfully, I scrabbled up the slope until my burning muscles gave out. I'd reached a good-sized maple and I hugged it like a life raft. I couldn't feel my bare feet, my hand pounded with every heartbeat, and I was soaking wet and freezing. If I just closed my eyes for a moment and rested . . . I was so sleepy . . .

A stream of images passed through my mind. The sketches I'd done of the snake handlers. Aynslee getting baptized. Blake's piercing gaze. Ruby and Elijah outside the police station. Blanche telling the story of Octavia Hatcher being buried alive. Junior's fluttering hands. Clay appearing in my hotel room. Samuel's ravaged face. Grady's Bible. Trish's body. Aynslee at Ruby and Elijah's—

A thought slammed into my brain like a steamroller. Devin believed he'd taken care of me, that I was as good as dead. What
if, after dumping me into that cave, he'd gone back to the cabin? Sooner or later, Aynslee would show up looking for me.

“What if Devin is someone she knows?” My voice shook as much as I did. Grady's Bible didn't show a birth date for Devin. His mother married in 1978 and died five years later. Devin would be somewhere in his midthirties. That eliminated Clay. Too old. But not his son. Junior was adopted. And that fit Grady's words
The boy was strange.
Clay could be protecting his son, maybe even helping. And Clay would be more likely to send the victims away rather than let his son kill them. He had money, or at least acted like he did, according to Beth.

But Arless had money. Scads of it. And a reputation he needed to protect. He owned the cabin, so that part was easy. And women would find him handsome, so it wouldn't take much to get them to go with him. Initially. The FBI profile commented on how easily he found his victims, mentioning homeless shelters. Didn't Trish say the Campbells helped fund a homeless shelter?

But why would he put up the money to bring me out as a forensic artist?

Wellington was also in the right age range. He'd arrived at about the same time as the rapes started. But he'd needed a map to find the cabin, a map I'd found under the groceries. Trish was usually with him. But I didn't cross him off my list.

You're forgetting someone
. I didn't want to consider it, but Blake could be added to my list. He had the money, grew up in the area, and was wildly handsome.

And he wears gold, wire-rimmed glasses. Just like my composite from the surveillance still.
And he had a black pickup.

I didn't want it to be Blake.

Let's face it, Aynslee would easily trust any of them. He'd just tell her he was going to drive her to me. I had to find her.

I shoved against the maple to sit up. The day was rapidly drawing to a close, and daylight was fading fast.
Get to the next tree or bush.

An oak stood about five feet away. There was something strange about it. I bit my lip and tried to work it out. My brain was full of cotton batting.
Let's see. The oak is . . . slightly above me and . . .

Slightly above.

I'd reached the top of the hill.

Instead of climbing with hands and feet, I could stand and walk. Or hobble. I made it to the oak, then leaned against its bark. The slippers were still fastened around my waist with the yarn. I pulled out the knife to cut the wool, but the blade was folded into the handle. It would take two hands to open it. I stuffed the knife back into my pocket, then pulled on one strand of the yarn. It tightened and squeezed my waist, but didn't break.

I sat and leaned against the tree.
Just give up
.

No. I had to get to Aynslee. I pulled on the slippers until the yarn was loose around them and tight around my stomach. Working one slipper back and forth, I tugged it out, followed by the second. I dropped them to the ground and jammed my frozen feet into place.

The drizzle stopped and I stood and looked around. I had no idea where I was. The mountains rolled around me in endless uniformity. No sounds carried in the breeze beyond the
shuuusssss
of tossing trees and soft plops as rain-drenched leaves dropped. The light was fading, turning the dusky sky to dreary gray.

Go downhill.
Right
. I was at the top of the mountain. The
only downhill that wasn't an option was the direction from which I just came.
Think about it. Reason it out.
The opening to Grady's tomb was fifteen feet overhead. The tunnel I'd just climbed out was level with the floor. I climbed up a cliff more than fifteen feet to get here. Therefore the way into the cave would be around here somewhere.

That meant something. I couldn't concentrate; instead, my brain seemed focused on all the throbbing injuries.

You are out of time.

Okay, okay. The opening . . . the opening you were thrown down. Someone had to have brought you up here. Someone dragged you from a car or truck. A car needs a road.

I scanned the area around me again, this time paying attention to the ground. A grove of trees with an outcropping of limestone boulders stood to my right. I hobbled over to them. At first I didn't see anything. Circling the area, I discovered what I was looking for: a narrow track where the fallen leaves were thinner. Someone pulled my marginally conscious body through here.

There wasn't time to look for the cave entrance. I followed the barely discernible path made by my dragged body into the rising mist of the evening.

THE ROAD—WIDE DIRT TRACK, REALLY—WAS
just out of sight of the top of the hill. I slid down the last few feet, raising new shrieks of protest from my gouged bottom. The lane crested the hill at this point, then disappeared downhill in both directions. I kicked four rocks into a line to mark the spot, then listened for any sound of human habitation. An owl hooted somewhere behind me. Who knew how deep in the rolling Appalachian mountains I'd been driven or how far it was to civilization? Squinting in the gathering dusk, I checked for lights. Nothing appeared in either direction. “Lord, anytime now You can send a sign.”

The faintest whistle of a train blew in the distance to my right. I turned to that route. Even though the road was downhill, I soon panted with the exertion. I tried to put as little weight as possible on my sprained ankle, which meant I walked with a half-hopping step. The jarring motion reverberated up to my broken hand. The minutes crawled by, the last of the rain clouds passed, the temperature dropped, and the daylight faded.

I tried to get my mind off my situation by thinking about the mummified face of Grady. I'd seen that face before. Or was I just remembering the photograph? Devin might resemble his father. I superimposed the faces of all of my suspects over his image. Nothing.

Devin grew up in Pikeville, at least until he was in his mid-teens. Wouldn't he have been easily identified when he returned home? Unless some plastic surgery was involved, which would take money. Surgery plus time. Grady had been in that cave for close to twenty years. A lot could change in twenty years.

All the murders and rapes began about six months ago. There had to be a trigger that set Devin off. Wellington arrived then. Blake's fiancée left him. I didn't know about Junior or Arless, but I'd find out.

I tried not to think about the time passing as I walked—make that hobbled—off the mountain. I needed transportation.

The road leveled somewhat, but I found it harder and harder to see. I increased my pace but still seemed to move at a crawl. The moon came out, casting blue light over the landscape.

A waft of air brought the scent of fresh hay and manure.

I stopped and listened.

A horse snorted.

The road took a sharp left turn. I hurried as fast as I could, then slowed just before the turn. If I found a house, the logical thing to do would be to ask to use their phone and call the sheriff. In this case, though, I wasn't sure who I could trust.

Even if no one was home, I'd probably find dogs on guard duty. Fortunately I was downwind of the farm, which bought me time to get the layout of the land.

I peered around the turn. Instead of a barn, a small clearing
with a makeshift corral held two horses. I knew this spot. Those were Blake's horses.

The black pickup and two-horse trailer were missing.

Approaching the corral, my heart sank.

Blake's and Aynslee's horses were gone. Remaining were the packhorse and the high-spirited bay who'd tried to buck me off. Both horses eyed me as I drew near.

There you go, Gwen. Transportation.

Blake must have had the saddles and bridles in the horse trailer. How would I ride without a bridle? On an ornery, crow-hopping horse? With a broken hand?

I could just wait
. Blake would return for the remaining two steeds.

But the amount of hay on the ground looked like the horses could be here for the night. I had to get to my daughter. And Blake would still be mad enough at me that he may simply refuse to help.

You think he's angry with you now, just wait until more serpent handlers die, like Ruby and Elijah. His own family members.

My breath caught at the thought. I couldn't let that happen.

The bay wore a halter, but no lead ropes hung conveniently from a fence post. Crossing to where the trailer had been parked, I searched the ground, moving back to the corral. I found what I was looking for: two loops of orange twine that had originally held the bales of hay together. Tied to the halter, the loops were too short to work as reins, but if I cut them open, they'd be long enough.

Pulling out the pocket knife, I placed it in my broken hand. My sausage fingers refused to close over it.
Come on, time's wasting
. I placed the knife on the ground and braced it under my
foot. When I tried to pry the blade open, my slippers were too loose and floppy to hold it. I kicked off my slippers, shivering at the feel of the cold earth, and braced the knife with my toes. The blade remained stubbornly closed.

Grunting with exertion, I tried a different angle. The blade opened partway. I flipped the knife over and used the earth to pry the blade completely open. I sliced the looped baling twine, then entered the corral. The packhorse snorted and moved away, but the bay continued to eat. I quickly caught him and awkwardly tied the twine to his halter.

I'd have to mount the horse outside the corral. I wouldn't be able to control my ride and open the gate with one hand. If I failed, or was bucked off, the horse would run.

“Nice horse, good horse.” I patted his shoulder. Blake had helped me mount before, so getting on Rowdy's back would be a challenge. He obligingly followed me outside the corral. Climbing up the side of the fence, I threw my leg over his back and slipped on. I had just enough time to grab a chunk of mane before he bolted.