Adirondack Attack Page 7

  “Jet, huh?” she asked.

  The dog half closed her eyes and sat at her feet.

  Erin glanced up the trail, waiting for the dog’s owner to appear. She did, a few moments later—a fit older woman with braided graying hair who wore a slouch hat that covered most of her face, hiking shorts and a T-shirt, cotton button-up shirt, wool socks and worn hiking boots. In her hands she carried a hiking stick, and there was a day pack upon her back.

  “Oh, hello,” said the woman, drawing to a halt. “He’s friendly.”

  Erin wrinkled her nose because the dog was clearly female. That was odd. There was something not right about that woman. Erin took a reflexive step back, trying to determine why her skin was tingling a warning.

  “You been to the Hudson?” asked the woman.

  The dog did not dart back to her master but instead sat beside Erin. A chill crept over her. She took another step away.

  “Yes, it’s only a mile and a half down this trail.”

  “You camping along here?” asked the woman.

  “Yes.”

  “You alone?” the woman asked.

  Alone?

  Erin turned back in the direction they had come and was surprised to see only the dog at her side. Where was Dalton? Erin’s skin prickled as if she had rolled in a patch of nettles. She turned back to face this new threat.

  “Yes, why?” Erin thought the woman’s smile looked forced and she realized the hiker was younger than she appeared. She wondered vaguely if the gray braided hair was actually attached to this woman’s head.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “What partner?” Erin asked.

  “Detective Dalton Stevens.” The female drew a small handgun from her pocket and pointed it at Erin’s belly.

  Erin’s mouth dropped open and her heart seemed to pulse in the center of her throat. She could not have spoken if she had tried.

  “Does he have it? Or do you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The woman snorted. “Yes, you do. Drop the pack.”

  Erin did as she was told.

  The woman waved Erin back with the barrel of the pistol. Then she moved forward, keeping her gun on Erin as she swept the surroundings with a gaze.

  “Come out, Detective, or I shoot your wife.”

  Chapter Nine

  Erin faced the female pointing a pistol at her belly, clearing her throat before she spoke.

  “Is this your dog?” Erin asked.

  The woman’s mouth quirked. “Took it off a pair that were camping back a ways. Unfortunately for them, I’m not so good with faces and I thought they were you. Should have checked before I shot them in their sleeping bags. Lesson learned.”

  Erin couldn’t keep from covering her mouth with one hand.

  “Don’t figure they need a dog anymore and I thought it added to the whole look.” She glanced at the trees on either side of the path. Then she raised her voice. “Detective? I’m counting to three. One...”

  Erin jumped at the report of the pistol. Her hands went to her middle, but she felt no pain. Before her, her attacker sank to her knees. Dalton stepped from cover. Pistol aimed and cradled between his two hands as he moved forward with feline grace.

  Her canine companion moved forward to greet him, but Dalton ignored the dog, focusing all his attention on the woman, who had released her pistol and sunk to her side. Blood bloomed on the front of her T-shirt and frothed from her mouth.

  “How many are you?” asked Dalton.

  She laughed, sending frothy pink droplets of blood dribbling down her chin.

  “We’re like ants at a picnic.”

  Dalton knelt beside her, transferring the gun to one hand; with the other he patted her down. His search yielded a second pistol, car keys, phone and several strips of plastic zip ties. Erin’s stomach twisted at the thought of what she had intended to do with these.

  She crept forward and removed the floppy blue hat. The gray braid fell away with the headgear. The end of the braid was secured with a hair tie to the hat’s interior tag and looked to have been sliced from someone’s head.

  Had she stolen a woman’s dog, hair and walking stick along with her life? Erin glanced at the plaid shirt and noted it was miles too big. Somewhere up ahead were the victims of this woman’s attack. Erin feared she might be sick.

  Dalton pocketed the key, one of the pistols, radio, phone and a folding knife. He extended the second gun to Erin.

  “Take it.”

  She did, hoping it would not go off in her pocket.

  “Who are you?” Dalton asked the downed woman.

  “One of Siming’s Army.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll find out.” Her smile was a ghastly sight with her lips painted red with her own blood. “The first Deathbringer. You have it. We’ll get it back.”

  “Deathbringer,” whispered Erin remembering the name.

  The woman turned to look at her. “Oh! So you know them. Very good. One. Two. Three. Each body to his own fate.”

  The woman began to choke on her blood, struggling to draw air into her damaged lungs. Erin glanced at Dalton, who shook his head. She didn’t need him to tell her that the woman was dying.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Erin, her voice angry now.

  “A corrupt system must fall.”

  “You murdered hikers because of a corrupt system? That’s insane.”

  “Acceptable—” she gasped and gurgled “—losses.”

  “We need to get off the trail,” said Dalton.

  He stood and Erin followed, hesitating.

  “We just leave her?”

  He nodded and offered his hand. “Come on. Off the trail.”

  The dog danced along beside them, and no amount of shooing would send her away.

  “We’ll have to take her,” said Erin.

  Dalton shook his head, adjusting the grip on the gun still in his hand.

  “You will not shoot a dog!” she said, stepping between him and the black Lab.

  Dalton smiled. “I was just going to tie her up on the trail.”

  “I’ll do it.” Which she did, but she also filled the water dish she carried in her pack and fed her dry food. When she left Jet, tied with a bit of her sash cord in plain view of anyone who came along here, she imagined the reaction of the poor next hiker who would stumble on this turn in the trail.

  Then she petted the dog’s soft, warm head and said goodbye.

  When she returned, it was to find Dalton watching her.

  “We should get a dog,” he said.

  Erin sighed and lifted her pack. “I don’t like leaving her.”

  “We’ll send somebody for her when we’re safe. She’ll be okay until then.”

  They bushwhacked uphill, staying well away from the trail and stopping when they heard people moving in their direction.

  Dalton squatted beside her as they waited for the group to pass.

  When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “Once they report that death, Siming’s Army will know our position. We need to move faster.”

  “Well, I lost my kayak.”

  They hurried up the rest of the slope, pausing only when they heard something tearing uphill in their direction.

  Dalton motioned her to take cover and ducked behind a tree trunk. Then he drew his handgun, aiming it toward the disturbance. Something was running full out right at them.

  She watched Dalton sight down the barrel of his gun, gaze focused and expression intent. She knew he would protect her and she knew he loved her. It should be enough. But who was protecting him?

  The barrel of his pistol dropped and he relaxed his arms, his aim shifting to the ground. She saw him slide the safety home as he straightened.

  “I d
on’t believe this.” Dalton stepped from cover.

  Erin glanced around the tree trunk to see a streak of black fur barreling toward them.

  “Jet!” she said.

  The Lab leaped to her thighs, tail wagging merrily. Then the canine greeted Dalton by racing the few steps that separated them before throwing herself to the ground to twist back and forth in the dead leaves, paws waving and tail thumping.

  Dalton holstered his pistol in the waistband of his pants and stooped to pet the dog’s ribs. This caused Jet to spring to her feet to explore the area.

  “She doesn’t seem very broken up by the death of her owners,” said Erin.

  “Because she’s decided we’re her owners.”

  Erin grabbed Jet when she made her next pass. She sat before Erin, gazing up adoringly, her pink tongue lolling.

  “She chewed through the sash cord.” Erin held up the frayed evidence of her deduction. “She’ll have to come with us.”

  “Not a great idea.”

  “I’m not leaving her again.”

  “She could give away our position.”

  She placed a fist on one hip. “If you can carry a deadly virus, I’m allowed a dog.”

  He twisted his mouth in frustration and then blew out of his nostrils.

  “Fine. But let’s go.”

  They scrambled over roots and waded through ferns that brushed her knees. She walked parallel to the trail that led to the gravel road, far enough away so as not to be seen. This made for slow going, and there were two places where they had to scramble up large sections of gray rock.

  Mercifully, they did not see the couple that their attacker had mentioned before they finally reached the road. Dalton grasped her arm before she left the cover of the woods. Erin hunched down as he glanced right and left.

  “Now we need to find the parking area for that trail. Good chance they might be there.”

  “We could call 911 with that woman’s phone. If they’re tracking her GPS signal, it’ll just confirm she’s where she’s supposed to be—looking for us.”

  “Maybe. You know where the parking area is?”

  “Usually right beside the trailhead. Sometimes across the road. That would be that way.” She pointed to her right.

  “Stay in the woods.”

  They picked their way over downed trees and through last year’s fallen leaves, making a racket that Erin feared could be heard for miles. Under the cover of the pines, the ground was soft and their tread quiet. Jet found a stick which she tried unsuccessfully to get Dalton to throw.

  Erin was willing and Jet dashed back and forth joyfully engaged in the game of fetch. Dalton came to a halt and Erin pulled up beside him. Through the maze of pine trunks she caught the glint of sunlight on metal. Automobiles. They had reached the lot.

  She took hold of the dog’s collar as Dalton scouted ahead. In a few minutes he returned, holding the key fob.

  “This doesn’t unlock either of the cars in that lot.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means she was dropped at the trailhead, which means they are close.”

  Erin absently stroked the dog as she stared out at the lot. “What do you recommend?”

  “Use her phone. Call the state police and wait for them behind cover.”

  They crossed into the open and then jogged across the mowed grass and over the gravel road to the opposite side. From a place in deep cover that still afforded a glimpse of the road, Dalton made his 911 call and was connected to NY State Police dispatch.

  “I’m calling because my wife is on a kayaking expedition.” Dalton gave the name of her camp and said that he had not heard from her. He flipped the phone to speaker so Erin could also hear the dispatcher.

  “Yes, we have them listed as overdue. DEC rangers are searching.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “I can report that they located their camp from last night. No signs of trouble.”

  Erin scowled and opened her mouth to speak. Dalton held her gaze and shook his head.

  “Whereabouts was that?”

  There was a pause, and then the dispatcher correctly mentioned the bluff over the Hudson where her group had been murdered.

  “I’ll check back. Thank you.” Dalton disconnected.

  “What about the bodies? The helicopter piece that killed Carol? The tents, kayaks? What about the blood, Dalton?”

  He gripped the phone in his hand. “The storm would have washed away the blood. Most of the helicopter sank in the Hudson, and as for the rest, someone had to remove all the evidence of the massacre.”

  “Just how darn big is Siming’s Army?” she asked.

  Chapter Ten

  “Call your camp director,” said Dalton.

  He passed her the phone and she placed the call. Erin gripped the phone in both hands as she held it out and on Speaker. The call was answered on the first ring. Her director, Oscar Boyle, a sweet, fortyish guy with tons of canoeing experience and a sunny disposition, picked up the call. Today, however, his voice relayed an unfamiliar note of anxiety.

  “Erin! Oh, thank goodness. We’ve been going crazy. Your husband is here. He wants to speak to you.”

  “My husband?” She glanced at Dalton.

  “Yes. He showed up yesterday to surprise you but couldn’t locate your camp, so he... Do you want to speak to him? Wait, tell me where you guys are. Did you move camp because of the storm?”

  Dalton gave her the cut sign and she ended the call. Then she handed back the phone.

  “Do you think they’ll have our coordinates?”

  “Not yet. Your director will have to ask 911 to check this call and the coordinates. But they’ll get around to it and they’ll have this phone number, the registered owner, that is if it’s not a burner, and after that, our position. We have to move.” Dalton retrieved the phone and flicked it off.

  “Which way?”

  “They’ll expect us to use the road and head toward Minerva. So either we go back into the woods in a direction they can’t predict, or we walk on the road toward the fish and game club.”

  “Why there?”

  “Food, shelter and possibly weapons.”

  “We need to get rid of that package. Just leave it on top of a car with the thumb drive. They find it and they’ll stop chasing us.”

  He gave her a long look and she set her jaw.

  “Is that really what you want me to do?”

  She paced back and forth, and Jet crouched and leaped, trying to get Erin to throw the stick that the dog had carried across the road with her.

  Erin stooped and took possession of the stick. Then she threw it with all her might. Jet tore off after it, of course. Erin turned to face Dalton.

  “No, damn it, I don’t.”

  He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “We could hike over that mountain and come down at the town of Minerva. Or we could head west, past the gun club toward Lake Abanakee. Or we could backtrack to the Hudson.”

  “Distances?”

  “Maybe twenty miles to the lake. Five up and over the mountain to Minerva, and that’s if we use the trail system.”

  “Maybe Minerva,” he said, but his face was grim and she could feel the tension in him.

  He didn’t like their chances. She knew that frown, the deep lines that cut across his brow.

  “They’re getting closer, aren’t they?” she asked.

  He met her gaze and told her the truth. “Yes.”

  “And you think this is worth the risk of our lives?” she asked.

  He glanced away. “It’s worth the risk to my life.” His gaze flashed back to her. “But not the risk to yours.”

  She swallowed down the lump, her throat emitting a squeaking sound.

  “I have an
other idea,” she said, and explained it to him. She knew there was an old trestle bridge that could take them safely across the Hudson and, from there, it was an easy eight-mile hike to the community of North River. “I don’t think they’ll be expecting us in the river now.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that might work.”

  Was it the best plan? She didn’t know. Dalton used their attacker’s phone once more to call one of his comrades. Henry Larson had been in Dalton’s unit for five years and they had come up through the academy together. He gave Henry, now in Queens, NY, their basic location and where they expected to be this evening. Henry would be calling the FBI the minute Dalton hung up. With luck they’d have help they could trust in about seven hours.

  Dalton left the phone behind.

  The walk downhill, off the trail, took most of the afternoon. She hoped they could reach the trestle bridge after the last group passed by. The rafters on this section were not looking for the kind of jarring thrills of the paddlers who shot the canyon. This trip was more family friendly. She had to be certain they crossed the bridge without any raft expedition or kayakers spotting them.

  They paused just off the abandoned railroad bridge, behind cover and looked upriver. Erin had never crossed such a bridge and worried about the wide gaps between the horizontal wooden slats beneath the twin rails.

  “What about the dog?” she asked. “Will she be able to cross the trestle bridge?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Erin heard the group before seeing them, their shouts as they descended one of the gentler falls. Dalton and Erin held Jet, remaining in hiding as the rafters floated by one after another. Only when they were out of sight did they stand.

  “How deep is it here?” he asked.

  “Deep enough to jump. I’ve seen teenagers do it.”

  Dalton looked over and down to the river some forty feet below. “Seems a great way to win a Darwin Award.”

  He spoke of the online list of folks who had, through acts of extreme stupidity, removed themselves from the gene pool by accidentally killing themselves.

  He looked to her. “You ever try it?”

  “I only like heights when I’m strapped into a belay system.”