Maybe Nash had stopped to suture himself when he’d gotten deep enough into the trees. Maybe the injury wasn’t as bad as Blake had hoped, and the bleeding had simply stopped with enough continued pressure. Whatever had happened, Blake hadn’t seen a drop of blood in twenty minutes despite his sweeping arch path and trained eye.
He’d moved on to looking for evidence another human had recently been this way. Footprints. Broken limbs. Dropped items. Thread caught in the brush. Following Nash through the woods to the river had made one thing abundantly clear. Nash was not a woodsman.
Blake stopped to zip his coat higher and unwrap a stick of chewing gum. The temperature was dropping, and he needed to think. “Where are you?” he whispered.
A cluster of mismatched branches caught his eye. He squinted through the hazy mist of cold autumn rain. Even in the densest part of the forest, the configuration wouldn’t occur naturally. The leaves were from different trees.
Hope rose in Blake’s chest, and he scanned the area for West or a deputy, but found neither. He drew his gun and crept toward what appeared to be a hunting blind or makeshift shelter. Hunting was prohibited in the national park, so Blake’s money was on the latter, likely crafted by a shifty fugitive whose face had been plastered over the local news.
“Nash Barclay,” Blake announced, throwing his voice so that West and his deputies were certain to hear. He secured himself behind the width of an ancient oak, and positioned his weapon against the rough bark, lining up the best shot. “Show yourself.”
Crunching leaves and heavy footfalls sounded in the distance.
Blake shored his aim and tried once more to coax the killer out. “This is Federal Agent Blake Garrett. You are under arrest. Come out with your hands where I can see them, then get down on the ground so I’m not tempted to shoot you again.”
West appeared several moments later, gun drawn and moving stealthily toward the flimsy structure. A sharp whistle cut through the biting autumn air. West waved a hand overhead. “Empty.” West kicked a line of evergreen branches loose, revealing the structure’s interior.
Blake moved to his side, disgusted at another miss on the monster. He toed through the mess, previously hidden by the branches. A medical kit and food rations were visible among a pile of ratty blankets and gallon jugs of water.
“Back here,” West called from outside the shanty.
Blake stepped over the items, certain to be covered in Nash’s fingerprints and DNA.
A fallen deer lay behind the structure, gutted and carefully covered in leaves.
Gutted. Blake turned in a circle, debating whether or not to scream until the mountains fell or just lose his mind silently. “This is the trail of blood we’ve been following? A deer?” He cursed silently as the steady trickle of occasional raindrops grew into the steady patter of a budding shower.
West didn’t bother answering the obvious. Instead, he moved in for a closer look at Nash’s possessions, including a pile of papers under a blanket with foodstuffs. “We’ve got more photos of Marissa and Kara in here.” He swore under his breath. “Newspaper clippings about the missing jogger he killed.”
Blake fought to stay focused. They needed a new plan. Nash had led them to his little hideout? Why would a fugitive do that? He cast his gaze through the forest around them. None of his team or the other deputies had arrived yet. Were they all too far away to hear his voice like West had, or were they all in trouble? “Where is everyone?”
West cocked a hip and rubbed his forehead. “I had to send my guys to the Caswells’. Dispatch called in a barn fire. Mrs. Caswell’s hurt. The barn’s a loss. The fire’s giving Shadow Point FD a mess of trouble.”
“Caswells?” Blake repeated. “Mom and Dad will want to check on them.”
West grimaced. “They do. Dad already sent the text. He and Cole headed that way about thirty minutes ago. Mom’s meeting them there.”
Blake stiffened. “Who’s with the Lanes?”
“No one for now. My other man had to help at the Winchesters’. Their propane tank exploded, and their little girl’s missing. I had to send everyone there who wasn’t at the Caswells.”
Blake turned on his heels and began the long run back to his truck. “Nash set those fires.”
West fell into step beside him.
Blake called his team. “Get back to the hotel,” he instructed. “This was a ploy to get us away from Marissa. What’s your position?”
He hung up and dialed the deputy stationed outside her hotel room door. “No answer,” he growled. “My men were halfway here, and now they’re backtracking to their vehicles before they can get en route to the hotel. Your damn deputy isn’t answering.”
“We don’t know this was Nash,” West called.
Blake slowed to glare at his brother. “How long have you been the sheriff?”
“Four years.”
“And when was the last time every one of your men were called out at once?”
West ran faster. “Never.”
Blake’s truck sprayed gravel through the parking lot before West reached his cruiser. He redialed Marissa’s loaner phone a half dozen times. “Damn it!” He smacked the wheel. “Call Marissa.”
Again, the call went to voice mail.
He crushed the gas pedal underfoot and gripped the steering wheel until his fingers ached from the effort. His heart banged and flopped as wildly as his windshield wipers cutting through frigid rain.
Ten long minutes later, Blake arrived at the hotel, having broken every traffic law for the past seven miles. He rocked the truck to a stop outside the open hotel room door and jumped from the cab.
The deputy was down. Blake stayed low as he hustled to the fallen man’s side and pressed two fingertips against the cold skin of his throat in search of a pulse. A rush of relief coursed through him at the feel of a steady beat beneath his fingertips. The deputy would live, but the group was in trouble. His
