The Night Killer

any levity she could muster.

At least she had a weapon now. A pretty good one. Better than the flashlight. The knife had about a six-inch blade and an ebony handle. It felt heavy in her hand. She held tightly to it. It made her feel more secure, more in control. It was more precious than her flashlight.

And she was warm. The hat kept the cold rain off her head, and the poncho kept her dry and held her body heat. Things were looking up. She’d take blessings where she could find them. She was worried, though, that her pursuer had seen her light, even though she’d tried to use it so sparingly.

Diane set out again, looking for a large creek, listening for the dogs-listening for their strange mewling barks to get more frequent.

She felt like she’d been walking for hours, climbing up one ridge and half sliding down the next. She tried to keep in mind where the national park was in relation to the Barres’ house, but she still wasn’t sure she was going in the right direction. And worst of all, the rain was letting up and the lightning had stopped. The dogs, at least their voices, had been her ever-present companions the whole while. Don’t they ever get tired? she wondered.

She stopped to rest, leaning against a tree. She was so weary. She closed her eyes a moment. She dared not sit, afraid of falling asleep. Even in the rain she felt she could easily lie down and fall into a deep sleep. She did doze off a moment, then started awake. Probably about to fall, she thought. Then the realization dawned on her. The dogs-their voices-they were frantic.

Shit.

Diane drew a sudden breath and beat down the fear about to take her over. She started off walking again at a faster clip. The rain clouds had shifted, revealing the gibbous moon, and she could see well enough to go a little faster.

She climbed, hand over hand, to the top of yet another ridge. Her hands were cold and sore where she’d grabbed roots and branches all evening, pulling herself up the side of a ridge or keeping from sliding down the other side too fast. She soothed them by laying her palms on the wet rain gear.

On top of the ridge, she looked down into the hollow she had just left and scanned for movement. She saw only the trees and underbrush blowing in the wind.

Maybe they found my jacket and that’s what all the frenzy was about, she thought. She hoped.

Another sound came into her awareness-water, fast-flowing water bubbling over rocks. She loped as fast as she dared down the slope and stopped at the edge of a creek about ten feet wide, lined with ferns and mountain laurel. This was the creek-she hoped-the one she passed over on the way to the Barres’. She remembered looking at it as she crossed the bridge, how pretty it was, how the water flowed over the large smooth stones, what a picturesque scene it was.

Now as she looked at the water it looked treacherous. She’d wanted to cross the creek, in hopes that the fast flow of the water would displace her scent. Maybe, along with the rain, obliterate it all together. But as she looked at the slick round rocks and boulders and the white rushing water in the moonlight, she thought better of it. At least not here, she told herself. Maybe there’s a better place.

Diane instinctively felt she should follow the direction of the flow. She remembered looking out the window of her SUV and seeing the creek flowing toward her and passing under the bridge as she traveled up the road toward the Barres. As best as she could tell, she had been traveling roughly parallel to the road the whole time she had been in the woods. The bridge must be downstream from her. If she followed the flow, she would find the road. But what if the road was farther upstream than she thought? She had not been thinking clearly. What if she was so turned around that she didn’t know which side of the road she was on?

Go with the plan, she told herself. Just go with it. Diane followed along the edge of the creek, ducking under the laurel branches, pushing the brush out of her way, ignoring her stinging cheeks when the branches whipped her face, ignoring her sore, skinned hands, pressing on. The rain had all but stopped and now only the secondhand rain dripping from the leaves fell on her.

She listened for the dogs as she went, but the creek was louder than the distant sound of the dogs, a reality that made her feel better. Maybe they were far away, happily tearing apart her jacket.

Diane checked the creek for places to cross as she pushed through the underbrush. Finally, she spotted a promising place. The creek had widened considerably and the water moved with less agitation. She turned on the flashlight to examine the water. The light flickered and went out. She hit it with the heel of her hand. Nothing. It was out.

“Well, hell,” she said.

She tucked the light in her waistband and rolled up her pants. Not that it mattered a whole lot. She was drenched, but she thought that maybe she had begun to dry out a little since the hard rain had stopped. She stepped into the water. It was ice-cold. But that didn’t matter. What was one more discomfort? She stood up and began carefully crossing through the water, testing each place before she firmly put her foot down. Even at that slow rate, it didn’t take her long to cross.

Diane felt a small triumph having made the crossing, as if she had put an obstacle between her and her pursuers. Not that they couldn’t cross as easily as she had, but it was the symbol of the thing.

She followed along the opposite bank of the creek from where she had been, going with the flow, and came to a spot where the underbrush wasn’t quite so thick. She thought she saw the shine of a light through the limbs of the laurel bushes.

No, she thought, not after she had crossed the creek; they couldn’t have found her. She half squatted and moved forward slowly. She clutched her knife and took out the dead flashlight for good measure. A weapon in each hand. She listened for dogs. She heard nothing but the wind. Diane crept through the bushes, watching the point of light. It was still, not as if someone were walking with it. She crept closer, moving through the brushes until she was in an open area. She squinted her eyes, trying to see better.

It was a light in a window.

A window.

A house.

Thank God. Diane almost collapsed with relief. She couldn’t see whether it was the Barres’ house. But it was a house. She stood up with joy, started forward, and stopped suddenly. What if it was the house on Massey Road? What if she had just made a big circle in the woods? People did that. It was hard to go in a straight line in the woods.

Diane stood for several moments, unable to make a decision. Hell, she would just have to risk it. As she walked slowly toward the house, she put the flashlight back in her waistband and took her phone out of her pocket. She still had no service, but she could see the time. It was 12:17. She was surprised it wasn’t a lot later. She felt she’d been walking through the woods all night. It had been a little over five hours. She put her phone back in her pocket.

After a few feet she saw, with heart-stopping relief, that it wasn’t the house on Massey Road. She thought she recognized the tall magnolia tree in the side yard, even in the dark. It was Roy and Ozella Barre’s house.

Diane hurried to the steps that led up to the large porch. They would be in bed, but she was sure they would be happy to rescue her. She climbed the steps and crossed the porch, ready to knock on the door, when she noticed that it was slightly ajar. She knocked anyway and waited. Nothing.

Diane opened the door, walked in, and called out to the Barres.

“Roy, Ozella, it’s Diane Fallon. I’m sorry to wake-”

She stopped. There was an aroma she didn’t like. She slowly walked into the living room and looked over into the dining room.

Sitting in their dining room chairs were Ozella and Roy Barre. She in her nightgown and he in his pajamas. Each of them had a large, gaping gash across their throat. Large bloodred stains obliterated the designs on the front of their nightclothes.

Chapter 4