killing the sheriff in some horrifying way.
Erwin slowed his pace. Each shadow became a monster. Each twig snap became a pursuit by demons. Jess popped into his mind, with that disapproving look she gave him when he said something stupid around her friends, and Erwin knew how pissed off she’d be if he died. She’d be upset at losing him, of course, but also because her storybook wedding would be canceled and she’d already sent out the invitations.
That settled it for him. Erwin decided he should just head in the other direction, back to the main road. Forget the sheriff. Forget Josh. Forget any possible acts of heroism. He might regret his cowardice for the rest of his life, but at least he’d be alive to regret it.
Erwin turned, then stopped. Which way was the road? He wasn’t sure. He took two steps forward, then five more to the right, then seven more in his original direction, and he realized he had no idea where he was.
The cardinal rule when a person got lost in the woods was simple: hug a tree. Staying put meant the search party could find you, rather than chase you in circles. But that rule didn’t apply when there was something in the woods trying to cut your head off.
Erwin picked up the pace. He might have been going deeper into the forest, but at least it distanced him from all the creepy stuff. Maybe he’d reach a road. Maybe he wouldn’t. At the very least, he could walk until sunrise and then figure out which direction to go.
Erwin focused so intently on escape that when he reached the Mortons’ yard he dropped his jaw in surprise. His flashlight beam landed upon Sheriff Streng and someone else—a man in a black outfit who wore a gun.
Erwin froze. He had known Mr. Streng since he was a kid. His dad was friends with the man, and Streng often stopped by the Luggs household. Erwin could remember throwing the baseball around with him on more than one occasion, and for a while Streng could be counted on to buy him birthday and Christmas gifts.
And now he was being attacked. The man straddled Streng, pinning him down, doing something with his hands. Erwin was about thirty yards away, and he knew he couldn’t cross that distance before the man drew his gun, especially since the light had alerted him to Erwin’s presence. If he tried to help, he might die.
It took Erwin all of a second to switch off his light and head back into the woods. The act shamed him, but the risk was too high. Erwin liked Mr. Streng, but he didn’t want to get shot for him. He hid behind a large pine tree and held his breath, listening for sounds that he was being followed.
“Hey!”
The voice made Erwin flinch. It wasn’t Mr. Streng calling him.
“Come out of the woods!”
That didn’t seem like a wise idea. Erwin chewed the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes.
“Come out of the woods, or I’ll kill the sheriff!”
A scream so raw, so filled with pure pain, shot through the trees, and Erwin wanted to stick his fingers in his ears to make it stop. If the man hoped to lure Erwin from hiding by hurting Mr. Streng, he had another think coming. All it made Erwin want to do was get as far away as possible.
Afraid to switch the flashlight back on, Erwin made his way through the woods by feel, each step taking him farther from the horrible sound that just wouldn’t stop.
Up to that point, the worst pain Sheriff Ace Streng had ever experienced was a kidney stone. He’d woken in the middle of the night from a nightmare of someone stabbing him in the side with a hot poker. Once he was awake, the pain didn’t abate. After two hours of side-clutching agony, he called 911. His ER nurse had been sympathetic.
“I’ve had three children, Sheriff. I’ve also had kidney stones. I’d rather have three more children than another stone.”
Having his kidney mauled by the psychopath straddling him felt like a kidney stone times ten. Streng bellowed until his throat burned. He had seen Erwin at the tree line and didn’t blame the boy for running off. Hell, Streng would have run away, too, had he known the pain this man was capable of causing.
Finally the terrible fingers quit squeezing, and Streng managed to catch his breath.
“I think you scared him off,” the man whispered. Streng had heard part of the phone call, knew he called himself Santiago. “Now, how about we get to those questions I promised, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Very good. First question. Where’s Warren?”
At first, Streng wasn’t sure he heard correctly. Warren? Did he mean Wiley? What could he possibly want with him?
A kidney pinch made him focus.
“I haven’t seen him in years,” he answered, sobbing.
“I’m not asking when you saw him. I’m asking where he is. Do you know?”
“Yes.”
Santiago leaned in close enough to kiss him. The intimacy of the gesture made Streng want to gag.
“Tell me. Where’s Warren?”
Streng opened his mouth to tell him, but nothing came out. This surprised Streng. He would have chewed off his own arm to get away from this lunatic, but he couldn’t say the address. Even though he knew it meant more torture.
Streng clenched his teeth. He didn’t know why he was keeping mum. Certainly Wiley could take care of himself. Hell, Wiley even deserved this hell to rain upon him. But Streng knew that he’d hold out as long as possible.
Perhaps, if he got lucky, his kidneys would fail and he’d die before the pain went on too long.
“Go to hell,” Streng said.
And that’s when Josh came running out of the Morton house, straight at them.
Santiago moved fast, incredibly fast. In one blurred motion he gained his footing and reached for his sidearm. Streng had anticipated the move and still almost missed it, but he managed to grab the killer’s wrist, preventing him from drawing the pistol. That one-second distraction was enough for Josh to catch Santiago in the neck with his forearm, toppling him over.
Josh was big, solid, formidable. But he didn’t have training. Streng had seen enough of Santiago to know he’d been taught by the military, probably an elite force. Josh didn’t have a chance going toe-to-toe with him. At least, not without help.
Even though movement brought a wave of nausea, Streng rolled onto his side and crawled onto Santiago, wrestling for his gun. The killer jabbed at Streng’s eyes, but Streng turned his head away. He chopped at Streng’s neck, but Streng tucked his chin into his chest. A blow to the side of his head made Streng see stars, but he refused to let go of that wrist.
And then Josh was behind Santiago, putting him in a choke hold. The killer reached around, grabbing Josh’s hair with both hands. Streng tugged at the holster, freed the pistol, and thumbed off the safety in the dark.
The man flipped Josh over his hip and raised a combat boot to bring down on his head. Streng aimed for the center body mass and fired three times.
The muzzle flashes hurt his eyes, a strobe effect producing snapshots of Santiago recoiling from the impact of the bullets and falling backward.
“Behind you,” Josh croaked.
Streng spun and saw the silhouette of an incredibly huge man—someone at least seven feet tall with the chunky body of a professional wrestler—only a few yards away.
The thing that had chased him out onto the roof.
Streng fired four shots, all four hitting home. The large man didn’t break stride. Streng fired two more in the direction of his head, and then Josh pulled him to his feet and they were rushing for the trees.
Streng had no idea how far they ran before they finally stopped to rest. Two hundred, perhaps three hundred yards. Streng’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hand pressed tight against his injured kidney. Josh clapped a hand on Streng’s shoulder, leaned in close to whisper.
“What the hell is going on, Sheriff?”
“I have no idea, son.”
