explosives into the hole, sealed it, and followed Jilly back to the retreat.
Monk hadn't believed Renard would go into the shaft, and he had been proven right. He had thought, however, that he could get a clear shot at the two and toss the bodies down the hole, but he missed his chance when they scrambled up the rocks and leapt into the river.
He was methodically tracking them now. He'd lost precious time backtracking to his vehicle and crossing the river, but with his
car he'd been able to make up some time by speeding down the mountain road and cutting back to where he anticipated they'd
be heading.
Renard hadn't left any tracks, but then Monk knew all about the ex-Marine and hadn't expected less. When he'd done his
research on his stalker, he'd read his history, and he'd been impressed. He believed that under different circumstances they
could have become friends. They were, after all, very much alike. They were both professional killers. Monk had murdered for money, while Renard killed for honor. That didn't make him superior, however. If anything, Monk believed it made him a fool.
Still, he would have liked to have had the opportunity to sit down with him, share some cold beers, and talk about their past exploits. But Renard would never go for that. The man was too honorable for his own good. According to his sealed file, which Monk had gotten unsealed, Renard was suffering from burnout. Monk didn't believe such nonsense. He thought Renard had left the job when he realized he was beginning to enjoy the power he felt every time he pulled the trigger. Honor be damned.
Was Renard as curious about him? Did he fantasize about sitting down to discuss the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of the kill? Monk wished he could find out. Maybe if he was able to wound him, paralyze him, then Monk could sit down beside him and chat it up like old friends until Renard bled out. Wouldn't that be something, to talk to an equal, to commiserate, to boast?
Monk chuckled. Now who was fantasizing? He checked the time and then shook his head. If he didn't spot the couple soon, he would have to get to his car and drive to where Jilly waited. She was anxious to get back to the little mountain retreat to see how her sister was holding up. By now, the three women had probably turned on one another like polecats, each one slowly going out of her mind with terror. That was what Jilly hoped anyway.
Stop daydreaming and get back to business, he told himself. He lifted his high-powered binoculars and scanned the terrain once again. He was turning toward the north when he saw the observation tower in the distance, maybe a mile away. Climbing down was a forest ranger. Monk watched until the man was standing on the ground.
'Well, well,' he whispered as he calculated. 'Just my size.'
Exactly one hour later he was leaning over the rail at the top of the tower, scanning the hills. Looking down at the bushes below
he saw the white T-shirt of the forest ranger he'd shot in the temple and then stripped.
He was just about ready to give up the chase when he suddenly spotted the couple. Avery's blond hair, so like her mother's, shimmered gold in the sunlight. Monk couldn't believe his good fortune. There they were, all right, walking down the mountain as pretty as you please, looking as ragged and worn-out as any two people he'd ever seen. His burst of laughter echoed around him. Wait until he told Jilly. He knew what she would say. She'd tell him he was an exceedingly lucky man.
He'd agree, of course, even though he knew luck had very little to do with finding his prey. After poring over his map, he'd anticipated that if they survived the white water, they would get out before that tremendous drop below Coward's Crossing.
Monk decided to meet them head-on. He climbed down the ladder and walked around to the path, his head down, the bill of his cap concealing his face.
When he reached the wide-open space between the trees, he ever so slowly turned and pretended to notice them near the peak. He raised his hand to wave.
Avery heard John Paul behind her. 'Fall down, Avery. Do it now.'
She didn't hesitate. Pretending to stumble, she went down on one knee. John Paul caught up with her and dropped to put his
arm around her shoulders to steady her.
'Act like you hurt yourself.'
Rolling to her side, she clutched her ankle and gave an exaggerated grimace. She wanted to cry from disappointment.
'He's not a forest ranger, is he?'
'No.'
She kept rubbing her ankle. 'How do you know?'
'I saw his rifle. Forest rangers don't have scopes on their rifles.'
She looked up at him. 'You saw the scope from this far away?'
'The sun caught it just right,' he explained. 'I think it's him. I'm not saying it's Monk, but…'
'Thinking he might be is enough for me,' she said.
'Okay, I'm gonna help you stand. You lean against me, and we start down the hill again, but we'll angle toward the west.
When we reach the trees, we run like hell.'
'He'll come after us.'
'Ready?'
He didn't give her a chance to answer, but hauled her up, lightly bracing her against his side.
'Limp,' he ordered gruffly as they once again started down the hill. They were walking like two drunks, staggering toward the west as they moved along.
He was deliberately keeping them out of Monk's range. He was sure now that the man dressed as a forest ranger was the killer because he hadn't moved from his spot at the base of the trail. Rangers were helpful, weren't they?
'He's waiting for us to get within firing range.'
'Oh, God.'
'You scared?'
'Duh…'
Her response made him smile. 'That's good,' he said. 'Okay, sugar. Start running.'
She immediately bolted toward the safety of the trees. John Paul was right behind her, but he dared a quick look down below
and saw Monk running toward them. They had a good head start. Avery led the way steadily downhill, hoping to intercept the
road below Monk, all the way praying there would be campers or real forest rangers around who could help them.
Her ears were ringing. What was that sound? The wind whistling through the trees? Or was it the sound of gunfire sizzling?
No, that wasn't it.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun; then it started up again, but it was louder, shriller this time. It sounded like a whistle.
'Hear… that…?' she panted.
'Yeah.'
Then she heard a trumpet. Was she losing it? She kept running, her feet pounding into the soft earth as she raced along, still panting from her exertion.
The muscles in her legs were burning. Suddenly she lost her footing. She would have hurled headfirst into a gulley if John Paul hadn't reacted instinctively, lifting her off her feet as he kept stride.
He slowed as he let go of her, then kept pace just in case she went down again. All at once, they broke through the trees, crossed the road… and ran into the middle of Boy Scout Troop 183. Before he could stop, John Paul bowled over one pup tent and mowed down the troop master, who got the wind knocked out of him. The
