Tracy Montoya - Telling Secrets

“No, Al. Everything was pretty normal. What in particular are you looking for, over?” she responded.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Without so much as an over, he clicked off the radio and returned it to his belt. “Okay,” he said to the kids, “let’s head around this bend to the falls, and you can all stop and take pictures if you want.” He didn’t know how many of them, if any, would have cameras, but he figured that sounded plausible. While they were resting, he’d head up the trail next to the falls and check out the far side of the bridge. And if he saw anything remotely threatening, this was going to be the world’s shortest field trip.

After leading the students to the lookout point near the falls, he told them to fan out so they could all see the spectacular rush of white water as it plunged down a steep, rocky incline to spray into a pool at the bottom. The falls weren’t particularly tall—maybe twenty feet or so—but they were beautiful.

Reaching across the fence to run his palm through the cloud of fine, cool mist at the foot of the falls, he scanned the crowd to make sure they were all busy oohing and aahing. Then, after a word to one of their teachers, he headed up the trail. With long, quick strides, he made short work of the switchbacks leading to the top of the falls, then jogged along the path beside the upper part of the Dungeness River until he reached a small wooden bridge.

Don’t take the kids to the far side of the water.

Resting a hand on the smoothly sanded pine of the guardrail, he looked across. The path curved just a few feet after the bridge into a dense stand of Sitkas, dripping moss and low-hanging branches obscuring his view. Whatever it was that the mystery woman had wanted him to keep the kids away from, he couldn’t see it from this side. So, did her message mean that it was all right for him to go across the water alone?

Curiosity. One of these days, it was going to get him killed. But today, he didn’t figure that a cryptic message from a strange curly-haired woman was going to accomplish that feat. He made his way to the other side of the gurgling stream of water and thumped his boot emphatically on the dirt path once he reached the other side, mentally daring said curly-haired woman to come and get him.

She didn’t. So he kept going.

A few minutes later, something large and white—a bright, pristine white that didn’t occur naturally in the forest—caught his eye a few yards off the path.

“She probably left you a body, champ,” he muttered under his breath. “You think she’s cute. Therefore, she must be a wack-job.” For some reason, he’d always been like a magnet for that type, and it was starting to get old.

Small twigs and leaves crackled under his feet as he left the path and made his way through the undergrowth. Batting a low-hanging branch out of his way, he squinted at the white object, hoping its brilliance would suddenly make sense, that its presence would be something perfectly innocuous.

He pushed through the last of the tall weeds and bristly shrubs in his way, and the thing was finally visible. And what he saw there chilled him to the bone.

“Holy—”

Backing away slowly, Alex pulled his radio off his belt once more. “Base, this is tracker one-B, over.”

“Tracker one-B, this is Base. What’s your twenty, over?”

“About one hundred yards above the falls on Dungeness.” He was nearly overcome by an overwhelming urge to get out of there as quickly as possible. That or throw up. But he had a job to do, and no one else was up here to do it. “I need you to call the police, and get every park ranger you’ve got to block off this trail.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, still unable to believe what his eyes were telling him.

“Alex, are you okay?” Skylar, the search-and-rescue coordinator slipped out of her usual radio-speak. He’d blocked off trails before, for less grisly reasons, but she’d obviously become alarmed at something she heard in his voice.

“Yeah, just—” He took a deep breath. “Skylar, I’ve never seen anything like this. Just call the police. I’ve got to get those kids away from here.”

“Authorities are seeking this woman, wanted for questioning…”

Sophie Brennan jerked forward in her seat when she saw the composite drawing flash up on her television, which then sent her fumbling in between the couch cushions for the remote. Once her hand closed on the thing, she hit the button to turn up the volume, not taking her eyes off the face on the screen.

Her face.

“…in a bizarre murder that witnesses say could have been the work of a satanic cult.”

Okay, now that she hadn’t seen coming.

Her phone started ringing, but she just turned the volume up even higher, deciding to let the machine answer the call.

“The name of the victim and cause of death have not been released by the Port Renegade Police,” the newscaster said cheerily from her position off-camera, Sophie’s face still getting more than its share of screen time. “But a police spokesperson did confirm that the body was discovered around 9:30 this morning by a search-and-rescue worker for Renegade Ridge State Park.”

Sophie leaned toward the TV and squinted at her likeness. The nose was wrong, but other than that, they’d pretty much hit the mark. Which meant that her busybody neighbors were probably going to start calling the sheriff’s office any minute. God, someone had died. You’d think she would’ve known that.

“One witness who asked to remain anonymous said the body was covered by a white sheet and had been stabbed in the chest in a circle-and-cross pattern. Sources say the wounds were consistent with ritual murders.” Finally, the news channel took that awful drawing off the air, focusing on the newscaster’s face, which was framed by a bright blond helmet of hair. “Expert Marvin Wynter, author of Free Your Mind! Deprogramming Former Cult Members, is here to talk to us,” the reporter said. “Marvin, could this be the work of cult killers?”

The camera cut to a man in his fifties, with shifty little eyes and a thick beard. “Why, yes, all of the signs are there—”

Not waiting to hear the so-called expert pontificate further, Sophie hit the mute button. One didn’t need to be psychic to see that the guy was nothing but a fearmonger.

But as for the rest of the broadcast…She sat back against the couch cushions and grabbed a throw pillow to hug to her chest, trying to process what she’d just seen. She hadn’t thought for a minute that her warning to Alex Gray, search-and-rescue tracker extraordinaire, would result in a police sketch of her plastered on the evening news. And in her wildest dreams she hadn’t thought it would lead to a murder victim.

But it did, and it had. So now what?

Her pulse pounding in triple-time, she realized that the most rational option was to turn herself in to the police before someone else did—if she still had time. A Ph.D. candidate in art history at the University of Washington–Port Renegade, Sophie was pretty much the stereotypical impoverished grad student, so she lived in an inexpensive but nice and secure apartment complex to save money. Unfortunately, the reason that said apartment complex was such a steal when it came to rent was that it catered to an elderly clientele, and anyone under the age of retirement seemed to stay far, far away from it. So while that meant she could tap into the considerable wisdom of her elders just by wandering down the hall to see who was using the fitness room, it also meant that she was surrounded by more than her share of ladies and gentlemen of leisure who were bored out of their minds—and filled in the gaps in their daily schedules by keeping close watch on the goings-on around them. She’d bet the Port Renegade PD had had at least fifty calls from her neighbors ratting her out in the last five minutes alone, bless their hearts.