The Killer Trail (3 page)

Ray Owens had been the most notable of exceptions. When Chris had worked with Ray, he didn't see torment. He saw a psychopath, a man who reveled in his ability to inflict torment on others. Ray was admitted to IFP for a psychiatric assessment due to the sheer brutality of his crime and his astonishing insistence that his actions were justified. He'd defaulted on four months of rent. His landlord, a frail, elderly man named William Dobbin, called upon Ray one night after neighbouring tenants complained of noise coming from his apartment. Ray responded by seizing Dobbin's cane and bashing in the old man's head with it. Dobbin subsequently suffered a fatal heart attack while recovering in hospital.

Dr. Stevenson, the treating psychiatrist at IFP, found no evidence of an acute mental disorder with Ray. She concluded that he was in full control of his faculties and actions, and in court he was found fit to stand trial. The upgraded charge of manslaughter was not approved, and Ray spent less than two years in jail on the lesser charge of aggravated assault.

Beyond the brutal, senseless act that had robbed an innocent man of his life, Chris was disturbed by the way Ray had portrayed himself as a victim. Ray seemed appalled that he'd been charged, and even more outraged at being ordered to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. Chris remembered Ray's disparaging remarks about his co-patients: “They're goofs, and you're an even bigger one for thinking you can help them.” Ray had made the lives of his co-patients a living hell, to such an extent that Dr. Stevenson fast-tracked her assessment of him to discharge him from the hospital and send him back to court.

Chris also remembered Ray for another reason—a reason that made him feel ashamed of himself, a reason that made him question his professional principles and personal values. He had come to hate Ray Owens. Ray had an uncanny ability to get under his skin. Despite his attempts at burying his contempt towards him, he knew it lay just below the surface. Chris had been relieved to see Ray removed from hospital and out of his life. Now he shuddered at the thought that the man was back
.

Chris realized he could not return to his truck. The park entrance would almost certainly be a death trap. His only recourse now would be surviving the night on the trails. This prospect terrified him in a way that he'd never before experienced: he knew what Ray was capable of doing to him, and just as disturbing, he knew what he wanted to do to Ray.

His thoughts returned to the cell phone. He tried to squeeze one last bit of juice from the phone's battery to seek help, but it was useless. In frustration, he was about to hurl the phone against a tree but stopped himself as he made the connection between the cell phone and the body he'd discovered. He had what the killer wanted—and would kill to get back
.

Chris' mind raced as he struggled to compose himself and make sense of his crisis. Thrust into the middle of a deadly plot, he couldn't resist feeling sorry for himself.
Why me?
Up until this moment, he'd spent most of his time either agonizing over his broken marriage or struggling with career burnout. He could never have imagined his life getting any worse. And yet, it
was
worse. His very life was in danger. That knocked him from self-pity to survival mode—fight or flight. Right now, he knew he had to run for safety.

In an effort to clear his mind, Chris shook his head. He knew these trails and could use them to his advantage, starting by veering off the main path into deeper brush, then finding a hiding place where he would wait out the night. And he knew the perfect place—an old, abandoned shack he'd discovered several months earlier. The cabin had been used as makeshift lodging in the years before hunting wildlife had been outlawed in the area.
Hey, Ray, don't you know hunting is
illegal in this park?
Chris could almost picture Ray's twisted reaction, which was why he was now the hunted. Even worse, his footprints would be visible to the trained eye, so he just had to gamble—and pray—that the dark would work in his favour and that he would lose anyone following him by taking a meandering course to the cabin.

Chris was shivering uncontrollably. His running jacket was not waterproof, and the combination of body sweat and snow had rendered it almost useless against the cold as it clung damply against his body.
You'll catch yourself a death
of a cold, Ryder
.
His legs ached, and as he walked the sound of cracking branches under his feet reverberated like gunshots. His rumbling stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in several hours, and the last of his reserves had been wasted when he'd puked them out. But images of the dead body he'd seen quickly put all creature comforts out of his mind. If he didn't stay one step ahead of his pursuers, this would be his last night on earth. He'd find cover for the night and make a run for safety at first light.
I will survive this.

SIX

Tuesday, February 7, 5:24 p.m.
Ray had guessed right. He'd figured C.L. would dispatch a hitman to take him out, so he waited patiently at the park entrance for
his
prey to arrive. He recognized Dale Goode, a man known for specializing in the disposal of bodies.
You may
be Goode but you're not good enough,
Ray snickered. Ray had him in his sights the minute Goode stepped outside his oversized white Chevy van. He let him take a few steps away from the van before he fired a bullet into Goode's forehead. Ray watched in morbid fascination as fragments of bone, brain, and blood erupted into the air, scattering into the black night before settling onto the white snow.
Another one bites
the dust!

Ray dragged Goode's body along the ground to the rear of the van and dropped it in a heap. He didn't care that his hands and jacket sleeves were smeared with blood and gray matter.

“Where are your keys, Dale? You're not gonna be needing 'em.” He dug around inside his victim's pants pocket and found the key. He unlocked the van's cargo door and hoisted the body into the back, dropping it like a sack of rotten potatoes. Finally, he kicked fresh snow to cover the bloody tracks and turned his attention to the other vehicles in the parking lot.

He knew the Corolla belonged to James Carrier, so the Ranger must be Ryder's. He used his knife to force open the door. A search of the glove compartment revealed the vehicle's registration papers, which confirmed Chris as the owner and included his address, which Ray duly noted. He continued rifling through the compartment and a photograph of a young girl caught his attention.
My oh my, look what I've found.
Grinning, he shoved the photo in his pocket and considered the possibilities of what he could do with his discovery. His last act at the Ranger was puncturing its tires.

Then he took in his surroundings. He had paid an earlier visit to the gas station across from the park entrance, but it had closed early because of the blizzard, and he had parked his Cherokee behind the store. Now it was just a matter of waiting for his next target—Chris Ryder.
Sooner or later,
you're gonna have to come through here, and I'll be waiting.

SEVEN

Tuesday, February 7, 5:24 p.m.
The sound of a gunshot blasting through the woods jolted Chris. His fear was matched by his confusion.
Who's shooting
whom?
Ray was after him—this alone was enough to almost make him piss his pants—but was there someone else?
Are
they fighting over me, like I'm some kind of prize?

No matter how hard he tried to reassure himself that he would be okay, he knew that on the trail was a man whose sole objective was to kill him. Chris' objective was to stay alive— nothing else mattered. But deep down he knew that this wasn't true, that everything mattered.
There's nothing like the threat
of death to bring life into focus.
He didn't want his life to end this way. There were far too many things left unfinished. At the top of that list was his relationship with Ann Marie. He yearned to see his daughter again. He longed to be present for her birthdays, for Christmases, for road trips, and every day in between. Thoughts of Ann Marie filled Chris with a renewed energy and purpose
. I will survive this
.

His best chance for survival lay a few minutes ahead of him at the cabin, and he continued on, ignoring the pain in his tired, wet, aching body.

He finally saw the rough outline of the cabin.
Yes!
He pumped his fist in the air, knowing he would be safe for the night.

Chris opened the battered door, stepped inside, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness around him. The air was cold, but the dilapidated shack would provide shelter against the snow, which was now turning to hard rain. He rested his tired body on a wooden chair, wishing he had a flashlight or matches and thinking back wistfully to his formative years spent in Boy Scouts.
They sure as hell didn't mention anything about being
hunted during the winter in the middle of the woods.
But he was relieved nonetheless that he'd found shelter for the night.
With any luck, no one will find this place in the dark.

Chris thought back to the grotesque image of the body on the trail. He felt guilt for celebrating victory in surviving death when this man had been mercilessly cut down. He also felt an overwhelming rage at the senseless injustice that had been perpetrated against the man.
But what can I do?
He struggled to decide his next move. If he stayed at the cabin until daylight, he could make his way to safety. But then a ruthless killer would escape capture. He was tired of hearing about criminals eluding justice. He had grown weary of hearing about gangland drive-by shootings, of victims paying the price while criminals manipulated the legal system. More than anything, he was tired of feeling powerless to stop them.
I have to try. I couldn't live with myself if I turned my back on
him and let his killer walk.
He knew what he had to do. He stepped outside the cabin into the cold, dark night, and started his slog toward the park's entrance.

His thoughts turned to Ray Owens. To survive a killer like Ray, he would have to think like one. He was at once amazed and disturbed at how naturally this came to him now.

Ray would be waiting for him near the park entrance. He would have disabled his truck, somehow broken in and scavenged through the glove compartment.
Oh my God, Ray
will know my address.
Chris felt the blood rushing to his head as he pictured Ray rifling through his apartment. He didn't care about the material possessions Ray would plunder.
He's
going to find out about Ann Marie! I have to stop Ray before
he leaves the park.
Chris braced himself for the inevitable showdown.
This is going to get messy.

He cautiously made his way along the trail. Branches looked eerily like fingers reaching out to grab him. With every step, he expected Ray to jump out to surprise him like a warped jack-in-the-box. He tried to work out how he was going to approach Ray.
Calling him out into the open is
useless because the bastard's got a gun.
Regardless of which plan he contemplated, it all came back to the fact that Ray held a crucial advantage. He would be armed and waiting.

Chris had two things working in his own favour: his knowledge of the trails, and the dark. Deciding that a sneak attack gave him the best odds, he kicked snow from the soggy ground searching for a makeshift weapon. Locating a tree with sturdy low-lying branches, he used his strength to crack one free. Aware of the sound the snapping limb made, he dropped to the ground and listened for movement in the distance. He had not been heard. He ventured onwards with one slow step at a time, his ears straining to detect danger ahead. At this pace, he would arrive at the entrance within fifteen minutes. The falling rain was turning the trail to slush, weighing down his shoes, but he remained oblivious to the discomfort.

At six feet in height and one hundred and eighty pounds of lean muscle, Chris believed he was stronger than Ray. He pinned his hopes on being smarter than him as well, on finding a way to disarm him. When he reached the crossroads area on the trail, he paused and made a last-minute decision to bury the cell phone under the brush several feet away from the wooden trail marker. He continued on his mission until finally, after an eternity, he could faintly see the parking lot ahead of him. His heart pounded in anticipation of what would either be his best move—or his last one.
Let's get this over with.
Summoning his energy for the impending battle, he took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his weapon.

At the clearing leading to the park entrance, Chris crouched to the ground under the cover of the trees, surveying his surroundings in search of Ray. He could see his truck and two other vehicles. The silver Corolla had been there when he had first entered the parking lot, and he figured it belonged to the body he had discovered. The white van must have arrived after him and either belonged to Ray or had some connection to the shooting he'd heard earlier. “Where the hell are you, Ray?” he whispered.

Ray must be waiting for him somewhere nearby. Chris looked toward the gas station across the street from the park entrance, where he guessed Ray would have positioned himself to counter his attempts to get to his truck or make a run for the store. That brought their positions perilously close to each other. He shuddered.
What the hell do I do now?
His thought was interrupted by the involuntary grunt he let out as a piercing pain erupted in his right shoulder. The bullet had arrived without warning, and the shock of being shot left him slow to react.

“Bullseye. How does that feel, Ryder?” In what seemed like an instant, Ray emerged with a rifle and flashlight in his hands, looking down at Chris—the hunter sizing up his quarry.

Chris winced as he tried to sit up. He clutched his shoulder with his left hand, watching helplessly as blood seeped through his fingers and spread along the yellow sleeve of his jacket. “Ray—”