8
Ted watched little miss cheerleader pull out onto the road in front of Tuck’s and decided that she looked pretty damn good for her age. But then she’d always been a looker, and back in the day, there’d been many times when he’d thought about having his way with her. Just throw her into the car and use her up and bury her where no one could find her. But Dawson’s daddy had intervened, saying the girl was off-limits, and back then Ted used to think that Tommy Cole knew what he was doing.
But Tommy Cole didn’t know anything. Took Ted until prison to figure that out, and by the time he was free he hated Tommy Cole almost as much as he hated Dawson. Tommy hadn’t done anything after his son had humiliated them both. He had turned them into laughingstocks, which was why Tommy ended up being first on Ted’s list once he got out. Wasn’t hard to make it seem like Tommy had drunk himself to death that night. All he’d had to do was shoot him up with grain alcohol once he’d passed out, and the next thing you know, Tommy had choked on his own vomit.
And now Dawson was finally going to get crossed off Ted’s list, too. As he waited for Amanda to clear out, he wondered what the two of them had been doing up there. Probably making up for all those years apart, all twisted up in the sheets and screaming each other’s names. If he had to guess, he’d say she was married, and he wondered if her husband suspected what was going on. Probably not. It wasn’t the kind of thing a woman liked to advertise, especially a woman who drove a car like that. She probably married some rich peckerhead and spent her afternoons at the salon getting her nails done, just like her mama did. Her husband was probably some doctor or lawyer, too vain to even consider that his wife might be fooling around behind his back.
She was probably good at keeping secrets, though. Most women were. Hell, he should know. Married or not, made no difference to him; if they offered, he took. Didn’t matter if it was kin, either. He’d been with half the women out on the property, even the ones married to his cousins. Their daughters, too. He and Claire, Calvin’s wife, had been going at it a couple of times a week for the past six years, and Claire hadn’t said a thing to anyone. Ella probably knew what was going on, since she was the one who washed his drawers, but she kept her mouth shut, too, and she’d keep it shut if she knew what was good for her. A man’s business was his own.
The taillights of the car flashed red as Amanda finally rounded the curve, vanishing from sight. She hadn’t spotted his truck—no surprise, since he’d pulled off the road, hiding it as best he could in a thicket. He figured he’d wait a few minutes, just to make sure she wasn’t coming back. Last thing he wanted was witnesses, but he was still wondering how best to handle this. If Abee had seen Dawson this morning, it was sure as hell certain that Dawson had seen Abee, which would have gotten him thinking, so maybe Dawson was just sitting up there waiting, too, shotgun in his lap. Maybe he had plans of his own, just in case his kin did indeed show up.
Like the last time.
Ted tapped the Glock against his thigh, thinking that the key was to surprise Dawson. Get close enough to take the shot, then pitch the body in the trunk and ditch the rental car somewhere out on the property. File off the VIN and set the whole thing on fire, until it was nothing but a husk. Getting rid of the body wouldn’t be hard, either. Just weight it down, toss it in the river, and let water and time do the rest. Or maybe bury it somewhere in the forest, where no one was likely to find it. It was hard to prove murder without a body. Little miss cheerleader or even the sheriff could suspect all they wanted, but suspicion was a long way from proof. Things would get riled up, of course, but they’d eventually pass. After that, he and Abee were going to sort things out. And let’s just say that if Abee wasn’t careful, he might find himself at the bottom of the river, too.
Finally ready, Ted exited the car and began his advance into the woods.
Dawson set the wrench aside and closed the hood, finished with the engine. Ever since Amanda left, he’d been unable to shake the sensation of being watched. The first time it had happened, he’d gripped the wrench hard as he’d peeked out around the hood, but there was no one there.
Now, walking to the entrance of the garage, he scanned the area, taking in the scene. He saw the oaks and pines with kudzu climbing their trunks and noticed that the shadows had begun to lengthen. A hawk passed overhead, its outline flickering across the drive, and starlings called from the branches above. All else was quiet in the early summer heat.
But someone was watching him. Someone was out there, he was sure of it, and he flashed on an image of the shotgun he had buried beneath the oak tree near the corner of the house all those years ago—not deep, maybe a foot down, wrapped in oilcloth and sealed from the elements. Tuck had guns in the house, too, probably under his bed, but Dawson wasn’t sure they were warranted. There was nothing out here as far as he could tell, but in that instant a blur of movement flashed near a clump of trees on the far side of the drive.
When he tried to zero in on it, though, he saw nothing. He blinked, waiting for more and trying to decide whether it had been his imagination, when the hairs on the back of his neck slowly began to rise.
Ted moved cautiously, knowing that rushing in would be foolish. He suddenly wished he’d brought Abee along. Would have been good to have Abee close in from another direction. But at least Dawson was still up there, unless he’d decided to walk out of the place. Ted would have heard the car start up.
He wondered where Dawson was exactly. House or garage, or somewhere outside? He hoped he wasn’t inside; hard to get up to the house without being noticed. Tuck’s place was set in a small clearing, with the creek out back, but there were windows on all sides and Dawson might see him approach. In that case, it might be better if he hung back and waited until Dawson finally came out. Problem with that was Dawson could go out the front or the back, and Ted couldn’t be in two places at once.
What he really needed to do was cause a distraction. That way, when Dawson came out to investigate, he could wait until Dawson was close enough before pulling the trigger. He felt confident with the Glock up to about thirty feet.
What kind of distraction, though? That was the question.
He crept forward, avoiding the loose piles of rocks spreading out in front of him; this whole area of the county had marlstone everywhere. Simple but effective. Toss a few, maybe even clank one off the car or break a window. Dawson would come outside to check it out and Ted would be waiting.
He grabbed a handful of marlstone and shoved it in his pocket.
Dawson quietly made his way to the spot where he’d seen the movement, replaying the hallucinations he’d experienced since the explosion on the platform, thinking it all felt too familiar. He reached the edge of the clearing and peered into the woods, trying to calm the racing of his heart.
He stopped, hearing the starlings chirp, a hundred of them calling from the trees. Thousands, maybe. As a kid, he’d always been fascinated by the swarmlike way they would break from the trees when he clapped, as though they were tethered together. They were calling now, calling for something.
A warning?
He didn’t know. Beyond him, the forest was a living thing; the air was briny and thick with the scent of rotting wood. Branches of low-slung oaks crawled along the ground before reaching to the sky. Kudzu and Spanish moss obscured the world less than a few feet away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement again and turned quickly, his breath catching in his chest as a dark-haired man in a blue windbreaker stepped behind a tree. Dawson could hear the sound of his own thudding heartbeat in his ears. No, he thought, it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real, and he knew he was seeing things.
But pushing aside the branches, he followed the man deeper into the woods.
Getting close now, Ted thought. Through the foliage, he spotted the top of the chimney and he bent over, stepping carefully. No noise, no sounds. That was the key to hunting, and Ted had always been good at it.
Man or animal, it was all the same if the hunter was skilled enough.
Dawson pushed through the undergrowth, veering around trees. He was breathing hard as he tried to close the distance. Afraid to stop but growing more frightened with every passing step.
He reached the spot where he’d seen the dark-haired man and kept going, searching for any sign of him. Sweat poured off him, slicking his shirt to his back. He resisted the sudden urge to call out, wondering whether he could if he tried. His throat was like sandpaper.
The ground was dry, pine straw crackling underfoot. As he hopped over a fallen tree, he spotted the dark-haired man pushing through the branches, ducking behind a tree, his windbreaker flapping behind him.
Dawson broke into a flat-out run.
Ted had finally inched his way forward to the woodpile, which sat at the edge of the clearing. The house loomed directly behind it. From his vantage point, he could peer into the garage. The light was still on and Ted watched for almost a minute, looking for signs of movement. Dawson had been in there working on the car, he was almost sure of it. But he wasn’t there now, or anywhere out front.
He was either in the house or in the back. Ted ducked down, moving into the cover of the forest before circling around to the rear of the house. Not there, either. Retracing his steps, he made his way back to the woodpile. Still no sign of Dawson in the garage. Which meant he had to be in the house. Probably to get a drink, or maybe take a leak. Either way, he’d be out soon enough.
He settled in to wait.
Dawson saw the man a third time, this time closer to the road. He sprinted after him, the branches and bushes slapping at him, but couldn’t seem to close the distance. Panting, he gradually began to slow before coming to a stop at the edge of the road.
The man was gone. If, of course, he’d ever been in the woods at all, and Dawson suddenly wasn’t so sure about that. The prickling sensation of being watched had dissipated, as had the icy fear; all he was left with was a feeling of being hot and tired, with a sense of frustration and foolishness mixed in.
Tuck used to see Clara, and now Dawson was seeing a dark-haired man wearing a windbreaker in the early summer heat. Had Tuck been as crazy as he was? He stood still, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He was sure the man was following him, but if so, who was he? And what did the man want with him?
He didn’t know, but the more he tried to focus on what he’d actually seen, the more it began to slip away. Like dreams only minutes after waking, it faded, until he was no longer sure of anything.
He shook his head, glad he was nearly finished with the Stingray. He wanted to return to the bed-and-breakfast to take a shower and lie down and think about things. The dark-haired man, Amanda… ever since the accident on the rig, his life had been in upheaval. He looked in the direction he’d come, deciding there was no point in traipsing back through the woods. It would be easier to follow the road and just hike up the drive. Stepping onto the macadam, he started walking, only to notice an old truck parked off the road behind a clump of bushes.
He wondered what it was doing out here; there was nothing to be found in this part of the woods except for Tuck’s place. The tires weren’t flat, and though he supposed the truck could have broken down, whoever it was probably would have come up the drive in search of help. Stepping into the underbrush, Dawson noticed that the truck was locked; he reached over and placed his hand on its hood. Warm, but not hot. Probably been there for an hour or two.
Nor did it make sense that it was tucked away, parked behind the bushes. If it needed a tow, it would have been better to keep it near the side of the road. It almost seemed that the driver didn’t want anyone to notice the truck at all.
Like someone meant to keep it hidden?
With that, everything began to fall into place, beginning with the sighting of Abee that morning. This wasn’t Abee’s truck—the one he’d run past that morning—but that didn’t mean anything. Carefully, Dawson traced a path around the far side of the truck, stopping when he noticed some branches twisted to the side.
The entry point.
Someone had come this way, heading toward the house.
Tired of waiting, Ted pulled out a chunk of marlstone, thinking that if he broke a window while Dawson was inside, Dawson might just decide to stay holed up. But a noise was different. When something loud cracked against the side of the house, you went outside to check what happened. He’d probably walk right past the woodpile, just a few feet away. Impossible to miss.
Satisfied, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the first chunks of marlstone. Cautiously, he peeked over the woodpile, seeing no one in the windows. Then, rising quickly, he threw the piece as hard as he could and was already ducking back down as it shattered against the house, the sound loud and sharp.
Behind him, the flock of starlings broke noisily from the trees.
Dawson heard a muted pop, and a cloud of starlings swarmed above him before quickly settling again. The noise hadn’t been gunfire; it was something else. He slowed his approach, moving silently toward Tuck’s house.
Someone was there. He was sure of it. His kin, no doubt.
Ted was on pins and needles, wondering where the hell Dawson was. There was no way he couldn’t have heard the noise, but where was he? Why didn’t he come out?
He pulled another stone from his pocket, this time throwing it as hard as he could.
Dawson froze at the sound of a second, louder report. Gradually, he relaxed and crept closer, pinpointing the source of the noise.
Ted, hiding behind the woodpile. Armed.
His back was to Dawson, and he was peering over the top of the woodpile at the house. Was he waiting for Dawson to emerge from the house? Making noise, hoping to lure him out to investigate?
Dawson suddenly wished he had dug up the shotgun. Or brought a weapon of any sort, for that matter. There were items in the garage, but there was no way he could get to them without Ted spotting him. He debated retreating to the road, but Ted wasn’t likely to go away, unless he had a reason. All the same, he could tell from Ted’s twitchy posture that he was getting antsy, and that was good. Impatience was the hunter’s enemy.