The Killer Trail (2 page)

He wondered how things had gotten to this point and if he'd ever again experience the wholeness and contentment he was searching for. Since the separation, he'd had offers for dating, but he just wasn't ready to try love again.

He felt alone here on this desolate trail where the only other living creatures were the crows incessantly screeching in the distance.
Damn, I'm pathetic
, he thought even as he welcomed the companionship they provided.

Chris tried to shake the depressing thoughts from his mind and focused on his struggle with the snow-covered trails. He knew that time, like the weather, was working against him and estimated he had twenty minutes before the last traces of daylight surrendered to the night.

He hadn't wanted to be running this late in the day. He had planned to skip out of work earlier, but had been delayed. Paul Butler, a despondent patient at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry where Chris was a social worker, had pleaded with him to talk just a little longer. Chris had found himself spending an inordinate amount of time at work lately. Helping others with their problems seemed a lot easier for him these days than resolving his own.

He tried to remove thoughts of work from his head, to focus on getting through his run and keeping to his schedule. Chris and Deanna had worked out a plan where their daughter would stay with him on Tuesday and Saturday evenings. This meant he had less than two hours to get to the house he had once called home to pick up Ann Marie.

Reaching the crossroads area of the park, a familiar point in his run where three trails intersected, he noticed another set of footprints. He wondered whether a foolhardy routine had driven another victim like him to this frigid trail.

His eyes caught an object jutting out from the snow. Curious, he reached down to pick it up: a cell phone case. Yanking off his snow-encrusted gloves, he opened it to find a cell phone inside. Chris reckoned it had been dropped only minutes before, judging by the snow accumulating on the trail. With no one in sight, he flipped the cover open and scrolled through a variety of features on the phone, hoping to find a number that would put him in contact with the owner.

No luck. Chris tried the redial button, congratulating himself on figuring out a way to reunite the lost phone with its owner.

After three rings, a commanding voice answered. “Yes, Ray?” The man sounded mildly annoyed.

“This isn't Ray. I have his phone.”

A brief silence was followed by a perplexed “Who are you?”

“Chris. I was running the trails in Woodland Park and found this cell phone. I wanted to let the owner know I found it, but there weren't any numbers except yours.”

More silence. Then: “All right. Ray will want it back. Wait where you are, and I'll have him meet you.”

Chris sensed this guy was used to barking orders for others to follow, and he didn't feel like playing along. “Listen, I've got to be somewhere. It's almost dark and the weather is turning out here. I'll leave the phone at the gas station on Cumberland Street, across from the entrance to the park.” A tree branch smashed to the ground with a thud, distracting him.

“Chris, I understand the inconvenience this creates for you, but I'll have Ray there in a matter of minutes.”

Chris picked up a sense of urgency in the man's voice. “Listen, here's what I'll do. I'm heading back—” The phone lost reception. Chris shook it, and the signal returned. “Are you still there? I'm heading back to my truck at the park entrance. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. If Ray is there, I'll give him the phone. Otherwise, I'll leave it at the gas station.”

“Thank you, Chris. Now, how will Ray recognize you? I assume you are alone?”

“Yeah. I'm alone. You won't find too many other fools out here tonight. And I'm wearing a yellow jacket. I'll be the one freezing his ass off.”

“Thank you for your cooperation. We'll see you in a short while and take care of this.” The line went dead.

Chris' thoughts suddenly shifted to his daughter, and he groaned. Her mother would be sure to give him grief for messing up her night. Realizing he'd left his own cell phone at work, he decided to use Ray's to call Deanna. Ann Marie answered.

“Hey, sweetie, how are you doing? It's a lovely night out there, isn't it?” He surveyed the broken branches littering the trail around him.

“Where are you, Daddy? Mommy's been calling you.”

“I got caught out on my run. Can I talk to Mommy, please? I love you—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a flustered Deanna was on the phone. “Chris, where are you? I've been trying to reach you for the last hour.”

“Sorry, Dee, I decided to go for a run at Woodland before picking up Ann.”

“You're joking, right? It's a blizzard out there. Are you crazy?”

“I wish I were. Joking, that is.” He wiped snow from his head. “No, I'm out here and I found a cell phone. Someone's coming to pick it up, so I'm going to be a few minutes late coming over to get Ann.”

“That's what I was calling about. I think it's best Ann Marie stay here for the night. It's getting too stormy for her to go out tonight. Is that okay with you?”

Chris knew she wasn't really waiting for an answer, that she'd already decided what was best for the both of them. He also knew she was right, but he would try to salvage something from the night.

“Would it be okay if I came over to see Ann after I finish with this phone business?” While he knew there was no longer any hope of reconciliation in their marriage—they'd been down that road to nowhere in the past—he hadn't given up on trying to reach common ground with Deanna, if for no other reason than the health and well-being of their daughter. The product of a broken marriage himself, he was determined not to make the same mistakes as his father.

“You're welcome to drop by. Ann Marie would love to see you. And Chris... Be careful. This sounds pretty dangerous, meeting someone you don't know, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of a storm.”

“Well, Dee, what can I say? I'm a sucker for punishment. I guess I should go. It's his phone I'm using, and the battery looks like it's about to die. I'll see you soon.”

Silence at the other end. The call had gone about as well as he'd expected. Deanna's tone told him that she was not happy. He wondered if the change in weather had resulted in a broken date for her. Chris shook the thought from his head and resumed his exit from the trail.

THREE

Tuesday, February 7, 4:53 p.m.
C.L. slammed the phone onto its base and glared out the window of his three-million-dollar estate, trying to suppress his rage at Ray Owens. The one time he'd asked him to do a job, and the bastard had messed it up. Now Ray's stupidity threatened to expose him. C.L. had heard the stories about Ray and knew he was a loose cannon, but he'd needed someone who would carry out the job of eliminating James Carrier without asking why. More important, he'd also needed someone who could not be connected back to him. Ray had fit that bill on both counts. Now that bloody phone was joining them at the hip
.

This would be the last job Ray would do for him—the last job he would do for anyone. And C.L. was going to have to clean up the mess Ray had made. He lumbered his potbellied body into his home office where he unlocked his filing cabinet. His eyes scanned his private Rolodex until he found the card he was looking for. Punching the numbers with his fingers, he stared at the windblown snow outside the window, relieved to be snug inside.

His call was answered on its first ring. He wasted no time in idle chitchat. “You in town? Good. I need you to take care of something for me. I've had a job go sideways on me today. I want you to put it back on track.” He disclosed the details of the assignment. Pouring a glass of Glenfiddich, he slammed the bottle down on his oak desk. “I know it's snowing!” he roared. “I don't care what it takes or what it costs. I need this done tonight. Can you handle it?”

Receiving the answer he wanted, C.L. picked up his glass and took a generous sip. “It's at Woodland Park, near the gas station on Cumberland. The guy's wearing a yellow jacket. The name's Chris. Do him, and Ray. Yes, Ray Owens. And bring me that bloody cell phone.”

He hung up, a grin spreading over his face.
Money talks
, he thought with a smile, and took another swig
.

FOUR

Tuesday, February 7, 4:57 p.m.
Ray carelessly drove his truck with one hand on the steering wheel, the other frantically searching his pockets for his cell phone. “Fuck!” he shouted when he realized he must have dropped it at the park. He knew he was in a race against time to retrieve his phone before anyone else found it. He thundered his rusted Cherokee down the snow-filled road, his eyes scouring the area for the nearest pay phone. Spotting one a half-block ahead, he careened his truck into the inside lane, bringing it to a screeching halt before jumping into the phone booth. He dialed his cell phone number. “Don't answer,” he snarled
.
As much as he hated the idea, he'd rather retrace his steps all through the dark, snow-covered trails than hear a voice answer on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“
Who is this?” Ray growled.

“
Chris. You must be Ray.”

“How do you know my name?”

“
Your friend told me, and he said he'd have you come by to pick up your cell. How soon can you get here?”

Ray's thoughts ran wild. Who was this asshole? Why did his voice sound so familiar? “Uh, who did you call?”

“I don't know the name. I couldn't find any names on your phone, so I pressed redial and I talked to the guy who answered.”

In an instant, it was clear to Ray that his boss had been contacted. His bony fingers squeezed the phone as he pictured wringing Chris' neck. He knew exactly what C.L.'s next move would be. He would have to get to Chris first, collect the phone, and use it as protection against C.L. But who the hell was Chris? “What did you say your name was?”

“Chris Ryder.”

Suddenly, it came to him. Ryder was the social worker at the shithole IFP. Ray had served twenty-two months in jail after a psychiatric assessment at the Institute suggested he was fit to stand trial on charges of aggravated assault. But he had even bigger reasons to hate Chris Ryder.
I'm gonna like
fucking you over, Ryder, just like you fucked me over.

“
Where exactly are you, Ryder?”

“I'm on my way back to my truck at Cumberland. Your voice sounds familiar. Do we know each other?”

“We'll soon find out,” Ray replied with an alligator smile.

“Yeah, just hurry. I'm not—” The phone's battery died.

FIVE

Tuesday, February 7, 5:04 p.m.
Chris shook wet snow off his jacket. He smiled to himself, thinking Deanna would probably want to smack him upside his head if she were there. She'd say Ann Marie had more sense at five years of age than he did being out here now, and he knew she'd be right.
You're always right, Dee. Even when
you're wrong, you're right.
His fingers were aching from the cold, his soaked running shoes making his toes numb. It was getting dark now, and not expecting to be on the trails at this hour, Chris was without a flashlight. Leaning forward, he kept his eyes on the ground to avoid tripping as he made his way slowly back to his truck.

He stopped suddenly, as his eyes detected something in the distance—something lying conspicuously on the ground. A chill ran up his spine, but this chill had nothing to do with the cold. Heart pounding, he inched his way towards the shape, trying to focus on the shape against the onslaught of snow on his face. Then a feeling in the pit of his stomach threatened to turn his insides out. He no longer felt cold; he no longer felt wet; he didn't know exactly what he felt, but he knew he had never felt like this before—because he'd never discovered a body before.

Chris stared transfixed at the blood-stained body. The shock led to a bout of vomiting. He struggled to keep his head from spinning as thoughts rammed into each other. In an instant, he knew several things. The man had died a violent and unnatural death, judging by the pool of maroon blood that had leaked from a gaping chest wound and spilled onto the white snow around him. A wave of sorrow swept over him when he realized he'd seen this man before. Their paths had crossed many times on these trails, and they'd always greeted each other in passing. Why would anyone kill him? Who would do such a thing?

As the gravity of his grisly discovery began to settle in his mind, Chris realized his own life could be in danger. He instinctively dropped to his knees for cover, looking wildly all around to see if anyone was there. He crouched against the base of a huge red cedar and struggled to compose his thoughts. He replayed the steps he'd taken during his run. No, he hadn't met anyone on the trail. His mind fixated on the cell phone he'd found and the peculiar conversations he'd had with two people who sounded desperate to have it back.
Holy
shit, I may have talked with the killer and told him my name
. Streams of sweat converged with a heartbeat so thunderous Chris thought his chest would explode. He focused on slowing his breathing and organizing his thoughts. Who had he been talking with? It was some guy named Ray, who sounded strangely familiar. Where had he heard that voice before?
Oh
my God, what have I got myself into?
Chris finally connected the voice with the name.
Ray—Ray Owens.

There was no doubt in his mind that Ray had been involved in this killing. It had been three years, but Chris would never forget him. In his ten years at a forensic psychiatric hospital, Chris had worked with men and women who had done unimaginable things to other human beings. In most cases, a deteriorated mental state had influenced their actions. He could see beyond the terrible acts to the tormented minds that ultimately responded to treatment and rehabilitation. He'd helped these individuals take progressive steps toward restoring their mental health and reforming their lives.