A Dark Lure (18 page)

She swallowed, hot spots suddenly riding high into her cheeks. “There’s talk of a development—it’s just a proposal, mind, for high-end estate lots and some commerce. It would bring jobs and tourism
. . .
” She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, look at the time. I really should get on with my work.”

She scurried off, and Cole watched her go, his pulse racing. He needed to call Jane tonight.

Gage returned to the cabin, having scoped out the ranch and catalogued the guests and vehicles in the campsite. He was searching for something out of the ordinary, something that sparked his long-honed detective senses. He was uneasy about the camper with the generator-powered freezer. Something felt off there. But would
he
hide in plain sight? Or would he squat in the woods somewhere?

Would he be prowling around the ranch at night? When would he make his move?

Gage had noticed the cut fence along the campsite border. He’d followed the tire and boot tracks through the hole into the dense bush and then marsh, but whoever had gone in there wasn’t there right now.

Was
he
even here at all?

His mind went to the Birkenhead murder. The location was en route to the interior. It was on First Nations land. And the body display sounded identical to the Watt Lake Killer’s signature. He felt certain it was connected, that he’d lured the killer out.

He located the hillock where he’d gotten cell reception earlier, and he dialed Mac Yakima again.

Geese honked overhead. Gage looked up at the pulsating V of birds starting their long journey south. It was almost twelve years to the day that Sarah Baker was taken. Nerves rustled through him. He felt as if things were closing in. He was worried about controlling things now.

Mac picked up. Gage wasted no time on preambles or platitudes.

“You working the Birkenhead case?” Gage knew that the homicide investigation unit would have pulled a task force together. It would include cops from Pemberton and tribal police from Mount Currie. They would have IHit members both on scene and working from the head office in the city.

“Yeah. What’s up, Burton, where are you calling from?”

“Which location you working from?”

“City,” he said. “You okay?”

“Anything on the vic’s ID yet? Any leads?”

A pause. “Burton, let it go. Take the time with your kid, enjoy the fishing. Leave this to us.”

Irritation sparked. Wind gusted. A line of dirt rose above the trees across the lake—someone was driving through the forest to the campsite. His chest tightened.

“I saw it on the news,” Gage said. “It’s the same signature as Watt Lake—the display of the body, the gouged-out eyes. Strung up by the neck. Also on Indian land.”

Silence.

“C’mon, Mac, you
must
have something.”

“Remember that last time we all had dinner—you, me, Melody, and Karen. And Melody broke the news about your illness?”

Gage closed his eyes. His hand tightened around his phone. The four of them had been close friends ever since he and Mac had been stationed together at Fort Tapley.

“Remember how Melody mentioned that
. . .
symptoms might have been manifesting for a while. A long while. Small signs, changes in behavior not immediately apparent at the time, but in retrospect they could have been little markers, warnings.” Mac paused, as if struggling to find the right way to plead his case. “It made no sense at the time, your insistence that Sebastian George was the wrong guy. In retrospect, this—”

“Jesus, Mac—is
that
what you think? That I was suffering mental delusions back up in Watt Lake?”

“It could be.”

A buzzing began in his ears. “Listen, this has
fuck all
to do with my illness.”

“Sebastian George was the right guy,” Mac said with the kind of level tone he reserved for idiots. “And now he’s dead. This Birkenhead case is something else. Let it go. Please.”

Gage ran his palm over his head.

Fuck
.

Quietly, he said, “So, there are no leads on the Birkenhead homicide, no ID on the vic?”

“Privileged information now. I’m sorry.”

“Just tell me one thing—yes or no. Was there a bite out of each of her breasts?”

Silence.

Gage’s pulse quickened. This was holdback information from the Watt Lake killings that never made it to the media. This was something only he and the immediate investigators on the old case knew. Not even Mac knew this about this.

“Was there a message?” he pressed, quietly. “Like a tightly folded note secreted into the right eye socket, a note that said something like ‘It’s not sport unless both sides know they’re playing.’ Or ‘A hunt is a marriage between hunter and prey.’ Or ‘There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
’
”

Dead silence.

“So there
was
a note.”

Still nothing.

Blood thudded in his ears.

When Mac spoke again, his voice was crisp. “Burton, if you know something about this Birkenhead case
. . .
” Then, as if something hit him suddenly, “Where are you? Where did you take Tori fishing?” he demanded.

Gage glanced over his shoulder at the cabin.

Keep her safe. You’re doing this for her . . .

“Listen.” Mac’s voice was sharper. “Can you tell me where you were the night before the retirement party?”

Jesus
. Mac was thinking that he knew too much, that
he
had something to do with this?

“Gage? Tell me. Where are you and Tori now! You need to come in. I need to speak—”

He hung up quickly. His heart kicked against his ribs. So there
had
been a note. In the eye socket. Only the old task force members had known that. And him. He’d watched the interrogations, the interviews. He’d never told anyone about the holdback evidence. Not even Mac.

He
was here.

Had to
be here.

The Watt Lake Killer was back. Anxiety, adrenaline, fear stampeded into him. What had he done? Could he control this now? Finish the job?

His phone buzzed. Mac. Trying to call back.

Sweat prickled over his lip. If Mac took him in now, they’d tie him up, cost precious time, and it would be too late. The killer would finish his job before Gage could convince them he wasn’t mad.

Quickly he cracked the back off his phone and removed the battery. He didn’t want to be traced. No time. If the killer
was going to act, it would be soon. Before the snow. Before Monday night.

Hooves thundered behind him. He spun around, quickly pocketing his phone and battery.

Olivia West rode up on a gray mare, her hair blowing in the wind, her face pinked with the cold.

“Gage, hi.” She was breathless. And she was beautiful, especially up on that gorgeous creature. The horse stomped as she reined it in. Her dog approached over the rise behind them, tongue lolling out.

She hesitated then dropped down off her horse. From a bag at her saddle she removed a crumpled newspaper and plastic bag.

“Did you perhaps leave these in the office?” She held out the newspaper. The headline was the Birkenhead murder.
Her name and the ranch address were printed above the headline. Slowly, he turned his attention to the small plastic ziplock bag. His mouth went dry. He felt hot. Dizzy.

He’s here. The Watt Lake Killer is here. This is his first calling card . . . The game is on . . .

His eyes flared to hers. She was watching him intently. Clearly edgy. He knew why.

He reached out for the newspaper and bag, taking both from her hand.

“Thank you. I wondered where I might have left these.”

Olivia’s brow lowered. She regarded him intently, as if waiting for further explanation. Sweat prickled under his shirt. He glanced at the cabin. Tori’s head peeked up into the window, watching them both.

“I
. . .
jotted your name and the ranch address on top of the paper I bought on the way up,” he offered, “when we refueled at the Petro-Can in Clinton. The attendant at the gas station gave me directions to the ranch, said you were the manager.”

Her frown deepened, as if she was unsure whether to believe him.

But he met her eyes directly, smiled. He did not want to spook Olivia. Instilling fear was the Watt Lake Killer’s MO—the man fed off it. Letting his prey know that he was out there, hunting, was his game. Gage would not let him win the first steps in the hunt.

“Where did you get the lure?” she said. “Because it’s not going to work here on Broken Bar trout. That’s a steelhead fly.”

He nodded. “A friend gave it to me. It was one of my retirement gifts, along with a spey rod. My buddy said this design was doing the rounds on the steelhead runs up north last fall. Apparently it works like a bomb.”

“It’s an interesting design,” she said, her eyes still probing his, looking for a lie.

“Yeah, it is.”

She hesitated, then put her foot into the stirrup and swung back up onto her mare. She stroked the animal’s neck, a smile easing tentatively over her mouth. Gage read relief in her eyes.

“Thanks,” she said as she nudged her horse forward.

“Wait—”

She reined her horse back in. It shuffled sideways.

“Could we perhaps book a guided session with you on the lake, maybe for later this afternoon?”

“We’re actually done with the guided outings for the summer.”

“Just an hour, max.” He shot another look at the cabin. “Tori could do with the female company.”

Olivia wavered, then smiled. “Of course. I have a few errands to run first. How about four o’clock. I’ll meet you down on that dock.” She pointed to a dock that lay beyond a gazebo. “We’ll be back in plenty of time for drinks and a hot lodge dinner.”

“Sounds good.” Gage smiled, patted her mare’s neck. “More than good.”

“Tell Tori to bundle up. Gets really cold out on the water when the sun starts going at this time of year.” There was warmth in her eyes. She spun her horse around and trotted off. Gage felt a clutch in his chest as he watched her go, her dog running behind.

She had been so much a part of his life, albeit from a distance, he felt he knew her. Intimately. She was like family.

You’re doing the right thing. You’re going to fix all this. For her. For Tori. You just have to stay sharp, because if he’s here, he’s watching . . . and he’ll make another move soon . . .

Dry grasses grew tall along the approach track to the old barn and rustled softly in the wind. Vines clambered up the outside walls. The door creaked as Cole drew it open wide. He hesitated a moment before entering.

This was where he’d spent a good part of his youth, tinkering with machines, taking them apart to see if he could put them back together. Where he’d sneaked beer, and then vodka.

This was where he’d kissed his first girlfriend. Amelia from school. Where Clayton Forbes and Tucker Carrick had hunted them both down one hot afternoon and delivered a right jab that broke Cole’s nose for “stealing Forbes’s girl.”

He stepped inside, air currents disturbing spiderwebs that wafted softly in his wake. A
whoosh
of barn swallows made him duck as they swooped down from the rafters and scattered through the door. His heart hammered. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light spooling from gaps in the beams and siding. The loft was full of old straw. He could smell it. Mold.

A cat meowed and skittered behind an old tin drum. Cole opened the other door wide so he’d have enough room to maneuver his Piper Cub through.

The additional light illuminated the rusting old wreck that still hunkered at the back of the barn. Surprise punched through Cole. It was still here—the old truck that had been pulled from the river with his mother and Jimmie inside. Drowned. He walked slowly up to it, a dark cold leaching into his gut.

The fact that it had not been towed away and dumped bore stark testimony to his father’s grip on the old bitterness and pain. As if getting rid of this wreck might somehow diminish Grace and Jimmie’s memories. Or absolve Cole of what he’d done to cause it.