“Then we’ll drive to a lookout about halfway up and continue to the peak from there. There are a couple of small lakes along the way, depending on which trail we take. From the parking area, the trail—part of the famous Pacific Northwest Trail—winds upward to the bat caves, and then continues up to the top, Oyster Dome.”
Once parked, Mick pulls a pair of night optics from his go-bag.
Toni and Joe exchange glances.
“Night vision goggles?” Joe asks.
“Yes,” Mick responds, securing them. Even with the goggles, it’s still dark, but with this technology he can see a person standing over two hundred yards away on a moonless, cloudy night.
“I wish they’d issue those to us,” Toni says.
“You can buy them online at most sporting goods stores,” Mick says.
“I’ll remember that.” She nods.
Hemingway rests his head, cone and all, on the closed portion of the Dutch door and whines. The hope of table food is evident in his eyes.
“You want to join us, don’t you?” Libby says, sending his tail into propeller mode.
Looking from Cynthia to Fran, Libby asks, “Do you mind if I let him in?”
“Not at all, please let him join us,” Cynthia says.
“Yes,” Fran agrees. “After all, he’s a hero.”
“You’re shameless,” Libby says when she lets Hemingway in, but her eyes are full of admiration.
Wagging furiously, Hemingway eats up the praise as readily as he eats his, or anyone else’s food.
Fran asks, “Do you think they’ll find Emma?”
“I have every confidence,” Niall answers.
“But what if the bats hurt her?” Fran continues.
“The bats up there are Townsend big-eared bats. It wasn’t long ago that they were nearly extinct. Local conservation teams have taken great pains to keep them off the extinction list, because we need them to play their part in maintaining ecological balance.”
“Why are they called big-eared? Do they really have big ears?” Fran asks.
“As a matter of fact, they do,” Niall says. “When Libby and I attended a presentation at Western Washington University a few years ago, we learned that when their ears are laid back, they extend all the way to the middle of their body.”
“Is that what made you think of a cave right after I finished reading the energy in Emma’s earring?” Cynthia asks.
“Yes, it is. We watched a slideshow at that presentation, and you described many elements of a cave.”
Conversation is sparse after that as each person entertains their own thoughts about what Mick and the officers will find at the bat caves on Blanchard Hill.
As she lowers her gaze to her feet, Emma’s eye catches a shape on the guano-covered rocks. Her heart thunders in her ears. Oh, my God. Is that what I think it is?
“What was that?” Emma asks. The fear in her voice brings Jason fully alert.
“What?” he asks, sitting upright.
“I thought I saw someone at the entrance,” she whispers.
“What did they look like?” he asks. A sense of urgency staining his voice.
“It’s hard to tell, but I think it was a man.”
A surge of relief flows through him. It’s not the ghost. Grabbing his Beretta, he slips a second magazine with thirteen rounds into his back pocket. They think I’m the prey, but I’m the predator. He smiles as the familiar combination of tension and exhilaration grips him. He’s on the hunt.
Pressing his face to Emma’s he whispers, “Stay here. Oh, that’s right, you can’t walk. And keep your mouth shut,” he warns through clenched teeth.
With phantom elusiveness, Jason crouches and moves forward in the stygian blackness toward the mouth of the cave.
Emma takes her chance. She leans forward and picks up the knife Jason dropped when he’d crumpled in relief after whatever he thought he’d seen had left. She has no idea how to operate it and doesn’t want to make any noise, so she slips the open blade under her right thigh, working hard to wipe the smug look off her face before Jason turns around.
CHAPTER 23
“Write. Rewrite. When not writing or rewriting, read. I know of no shortcuts.”
—LARRY L. KING
Shrouded in darkness, the smell that had caught them in whiffs as they neared the cave, is now a presence.
“Bat guano,” Joe states the obvious.
“Let’s make it quick,” Toni says, pinching her nostrils. “It reeks in here.”
The high-powered beams from their flashlights illuminate rough, damp walls all the way to the back of the enclosure. “There’s only one chamber in this cave,” Joe says as Mick studies the ground looking for possible clues.
“There’s another cave,” Joe says. “It’s less known because of its well-hidden entrance. Follow me.”
Outside the air is chilly. Darkness almost obscures their view of the town and the bay beyond. The only telltale sign that gives it away are the pinpricks of light. From this vantage point, it looks like a faerie village.
“It would be easier with a machete,” Joe says while leading them into the next cave. The interior is colorless and strained. Mosquitoes whine around their ears and land on their cheeks and hands.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have known this was here if you hadn’t shown the way,” Mick says to Joe. The combined intensity from their SureFire flashlights reveal yet another empty cave.
“It’s kind of freaky how Cynthia Winters gets those ‘impressions,’” Joe says.
“What impressions?” Toni asks.
“She’s a ‘psychic intuitive.’ In fact, she’s been instrumental in helping several law enforcement agencies solve crimes.”
“Oh, come on,” Toni says. “Quit pulling my leg. Just because I’m a new transfer doesn’t mean you’ve got to bust my chops.”
“I’m not kidding,” Joe says. “Apparently, Ms. Winters receives energetic impressions from items associated with a case.”
“I can’t explain it.” Mick shakes his head. “I did a little checking, and Cynthia has a tremendous accuracy rate. She also reads people.”
“What do you mean by that?” Joe asks.
“When I picked up this month’s group of authors at the airport, she read their palms.
