P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

Kaz climbed into the SUV and jammed the keys in the ignition. Then she leaned back, staring blindly at the dense green wall of vegetation in front of her. Nothing, she realized, was as it seemed. It was as if everything she'd thought was real was simply part of a well-constructed façade, created by friends to protect her from a harsh reality they'd decided she couldn't handle.

She shook her head, starting the SUV. She was wasting time.

She backed up, then on a sudden hunch, turned uphill past Chuck's place toward one of the area's more primitive campgrounds. Towering, old growth firs with trunks almost the size of redwoods shaded the small area, their canopies shutting out any light that would've allowed undergrowth to flourish. The forest floor was littered with pine needles and old, fallen rotting logs, cleared here and there to provide level spaces in which campers could pitch their tents.

Parking on the side of the road, Kaz glanced around to ensure that the campground was empty, then got out of the SUV. After orienting herself, she stepped a few yards into the woods on the north edge of the property, to where an ancient Douglas fir had fallen and was now functioning as a nurse log to newer trees and ferns.

She knelt in the decaying woodland debris behind the log and studied the space beneath it. As she'd suspected, there were faint signs of recent digging. Removing some small branches and twigs that had been used to camouflage the entry, she used her hands to scoop soft dirt and rotted bits of bark out of the way. There was a small cave, not much more than an indentation in the ground, which would easily be mistaken by most campers as some animal's den. Except that it wasn't—it was one of the many hidden locations Gary used to store supplies up in the hills, in case he needed to disappear into the backcountry for a few days. He'd made a habit of maintaining his "stashes", as he called them, ever since Iraq. She'd always thought his behavior excessively paranoid, but now she was simply glad he'd planned ahead.

Feeling with one hand along the cool dirt walls all the way to the back, she prayed that a fox or a raccoon hadn't decided to take up residence. The cavity was empty—of both animals and supplies.

She sat back on her heels, dusting off her hands. So Gary really was on the run, as she'd feared. Why? Chuck obviously believed in his innocence, as did she. So why would he run? To avoid being jailed on the parole violation? She didn't think so. More likely, he'd stand his ground with Sykes, daring him to take action. No, something more was at stake. Either he was running because he was guilty, or because he was regrouping before going after the killer himself. Both possibilities scared the crap out of her.

She stood and studied the surrounding woods. They were silent, too silent. The birds had stopped singing, and no small critters rustled in the brush, foraging for their meal. The back of her neck tingled in warning.

Was someone watching her? It couldn't be Gary. If it were, the animals wouldn't have taken cover—they knew he wouldn't harm them. Animals had a sixth sense that way.

Breathing shallowly, she stood where she was, casually scanning the vegetation around her, straining for a whiff of scent, for anything that would identify the intruder. But after a few long moments, the birds came out of hiding, and Kaz's sense of someone watching her faded away. She let out the breath she'd been holding. Maybe the intruder had been of the four-legged variety. Or maybe she'd been overreacting.

She glanced around one more time, still harboring the faint hope that Gary might be nearby. But she knew any effort to find him would be fruitless. Chuck was right—Gary was too good to leave behind any trail, even if she knew which direction he was headed in. Frustrated, she returned to the SUV.

Once she was on the highway, she reviewed the events of the night before. To be guilty of killing Ken and setting the fire, Gary would've had to leave the tavern and head directly to the marina. After all, she hadn't been more than forty-five minutes behind him. And Ken had to have been on the boat already—there wasn't enough elapsed time for them to meet elsewhere, go to the boat, and argue—all before Ken was killed and she'd witnessed the first explosion of fire.

So why had Ken been on the boat? What had he been up to? It all came back to that. She had to find out where he'd been and what he'd been involved in. It was her only hope of figuring out why Gary had run, or of proving his innocence.

As she passed the Elk Preserve, a nondescript, dark green sedan passed her going in the other direction, and she glanced over, recognizing Michael Chapman behind the wheel. Seconds later, shots rang out, and her window exploded.

~~~~

Chapter 7

Kaz ducked, raising both hands to protect her face from flying shards of glass. The SUV veered immediately toward the ditch. Yanking the wheel back, she felt the back wheels slip, then find purchase on the shoulder as the vehicle barely missed plunging into the marsh that bordered the road.

She held on as she careened around a sharp curve, then she brought the SUV to a skidding stop. Cutting the engine, she sat in the sudden silence and shook.

Tires screeched behind her. She heard a door slam, then running footsteps. Fumbling with the door handle, she jumped out just as Chapman reached her.

He gripped her shoulders hard. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She dragged in air, trying not to hyperventilate.

Evidently unconvinced, he checked her over for injuries.

She batted at his hands. "I'm fine —he missed me."

Chapman turned loose of her, a muscle working in his jaw. He carefully searched the surrounding fields, then asked in a calmer voice, "Which direction did the shots come from?"

"Inside the preserve, I think." She pointed across the road.

He reached inside the cab of the vehicle, brushing the glass to the floor, then placed both hands on her waist and lifted her back inside. Ignoring her sputtering protest, he shut the door. " Guard ," he told Zeke, then headed in the direction she'd indicated.

He jogged toward the preserve, his heart still pounding. For a split second, he'd thought she'd been killed. He forced himself to slow to a walk, to gulp in deep breaths.

Opening the gate to the preserve, he stepped inside. Closing his eyes, he listened for the sounds of someone's retreat—the faint crackle of dried grass, the snap of a twig. All he heard were the birds chirping and the wind rustling the dead stalks of grass. The shooter was long gone.

The tension in his shoulders eased, and he began his search.

About fifty yards down, just inside the fence line, he found what he was looking for—a small area of trampled grass. The son of a bitch had followed her out to Branson's, then patiently waited, hidden in the tall reeds, for her to drive back by. At the right moment, he'd simply aimed and taken his shot. And come damn close to killing her.

Dropping to one knee, Michael studied the ground. The shooter had been careful—no spent shell casings, no cigarette butts or candy wrappers. No evidence. A professional, then.

Michael stood and looked at the surrounding grass. He could just make out, from a bent reed here and there, a trail through the meadow toward the back of the preserve. No doubt the shooter had parked on the far side of the preserve, so that he could escape undetected. Michael wanted to follow his trail, to see if he could find any evidence that could be used at a later date, but he'd already left Kaz alone for too long. He'd come back later, and he'd find something, even if it was only a partial footprint.

No one was that good.

#

By the time she spotted Chapman walking up the road, Kaz had already spent a good ten minutes chastising herself for not insisting that she accompany him.