Thunder at Dawn Page 25

  Faith swallowed. “You set all this in motion after you found out about my vacation plans?”

  “It didn’t take much effort—only about ten minutes to break into the Philadelphia district attorney’s system—I did that six months ago. I’ve been keeping really close tabs on you ever since. I know all of your cases, your court dates, the judges assigned to your trials.” He licked his lips with satisfaction. “Even your credit card number,” he added with gusto.

  He let the knife drop to his side, seeming to forget about it momentarily. “You booked your plane ticket from your desk,” he reminded her. “I had the information before the airlines even e-mailed your confirmation.”

  He warmed to his subject and Faith steeled her nerves.

  “I’d already researched your family—and I knew they had roots in Wyoming. I knew that when you won your thirtieth straight case at the DA’s office there was a nice little story in the local paper. I have that article, Faith—and everything else that’s ever been written about the Barclays.”

  As she drew in her breath, he laughed again.

  All this time, she’d thought it was Bayman. Bayman stalking Susan. But she’d had her own stalker—Jimmy Clement’s kid brother. Only he wasn’t a kid anymore. He was all grown up—and he was a killer.

  “So, it was you making those calls to me?” she asked suddenly. “To my cell phone. And not saying a word?”

  “Ah, you’re not as stupid as I thought.” His lip curled. “Bayman started it. To scare you. I liked the idea, so I kept it up. It was actually a lucky chance—my spotting him in Thunder Creek early on.”

  The rock was scoring into her palm, but Faith barely felt it. She could see he was getting restless. His gaze kept shifting to the knife, as if he were hypnotized by it.

  “I don’t understand . . . how did you know who Bayman was, or what he was doing?”

  He walked right up to her, paused, looming over her, the knife down at his side as he stared at her in amusement. “You still don’t get it, do you? I know everything about you. I know everyone who’s connected to you. Bayman’s picture was in the newspaper after he threatened you in court. There was an entire article about him when he was on trial for beating up his wife. You tried to put him away, only you failed. I saved the article, and Bayman’s picture. I have pictures of everyone you know. They’re all in my collection.”

  As Faith shuddered, he smiled almost gaily. “I followed him up to his camp one night right after I spotted him. I hid in the shrubs until it was night, until he’d had a few beers and wasn’t as alert as he might have been—or should have been. And then—” He glanced at her speculatively. “Do you want to know what I did to him, Faith?”

  “No.” She moistened her lips uneasily. “I don’t care . . . about Bayman.”

  “But I want you to see. Get up, come with me.”

  “I—”

  “Get up, I said!” he roared. Her heart jumped into her throat as he grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, then dragged her toward the mound of dirt. “Look, you stupid bitch. Look!” he screamed. “This is what you’re going to look like when I’m done with you.”

  He shoved her toward the mound of dirt and Faith stumbled against it, then stared down in horror at what lay just behind it—all that was left of Hank Bayman.

  Oh, God, no. No, no, no.

  He’d been dismembered, like Candy. But this time she saw. She saw the thing lying in the shallow grave on the other side of that mound, the pieces of his corpse loosely covered in dirt, gravel, and rocks. He lay in earth tinted with dried blood and a sea of ants crawling over him—his eyes were open, worms swarmed over his eyeballs, his fingers were splayed, unattached, the same with his arms, his legs—bloody stumps flung in all directions . . .

  Faith’s knees trembled, she closed her eyes. She was going to be sick . . .

  Behind her she heard Dougie laughing.

  “Practice makes perfect. That’s what they say.” His words were singsong. “And you know what, Faith? I think I’ve finally had enough practice.”

  Her throat closed. His tone had changed subtly. She trembled at the excitement blazing in his eyes. They were the eyes of a madman.

  Slowly, he lifted the knife, raised it over his head, as if it were a spear he was poised to throw.

  “Are you afraid, Faith? I want you to tell me you’re afraid.”

  “You’re the one who should be afraid.” Behind her was the horror of Bayman in his grave. Before her the madman. Faith had no choice. She had to use the only weapons she had.

  Her fingers digging into the rock, she smiled at him. A cold, mocking smile.

  “I killed your brother, Dougie, and I can kill you too. Are you prepared to die?”

  His mouth dropped open. Twitched. Rage flared in his eyes. “You’re the one who’s going to die, Faith. I have the knife.”

  “But I’m brave, Dougie. You’re a coward. You sneak and kill unsuspecting people, people who can’t protect themselves. I’ve already taken a chunk out of you today. The next time, I might bite off more than a finger.”

  “I’m going to cut you to ribbons,” he choked, his voice rising. She saw his knuckles whiten around the knife. “You can’t talk to me that way. I’m in charge now . . . this is my courtroom. I’m carrying out the death penalty.”

  “You’re a raving lunatic.” She laughed at him—laughed, though her throat was dry as dust and she wanted to scream. She curled her lip, slanted him a scornful glance.

  And watched his eyes grow wide, dark—the pupils dilated like the enlarging eye of a storm . . .

  “You’re going to get the death penalty yourself,” she said.

  “Shut up!” he shouted. “You shut up!”

  “I’ll send you to death row, like your brother—I’ll stand there and watch them strap you down, and hook you up—”

  “You bitch,” he screamed, and lunged at her.

  The knife plunged toward her chest—Faith pitched sideways and rolled, the way Ty had taught her, coming up to her knees as Clement drove the knife through empty air. Off-balance, he tried to change direction, but before he could, she hurled the rock like a baseball straight at his face and it struck with a thud in the center of his forehead.

  He screamed in outrage, a scream cut off as she punched him hard in the gut. She heard him wheeze but she was already running, running desperately on pure adrenaline. She spared a precious second to glance over her shoulder and saw him coming after her, the knife in his hand, blood rolling down his face. His eyes were wild, hot with fury, and he was flying. Faith flew faster, her heart pumping, her legs trembling from the exertion of running over rocks and weeds down the slope of Snowflake Mountain.

  She knew this mountain, like she knew all of Thunder Creek, and she knew there was a place to hide, if she could only get there . . .

  He was pounding after her, she heard his boots striking rock and earth, his raspy breathing. Tripping over a boulder, she nearly fell, but steadied herself just in time by grasping at an aspen. She ran on . . . skidding and slipping, nearly twisting her ankle.

  Then, there it was. Nearly weeping with joy, she ran toward the outcropping of rock and ducked into the crevice she’d found when she was ten.

  Faith’s breath came fast and shallow as she crouched down so that the rocks hid her, squeezing her body into the small space. It was just off the trail—if he went by fast enough, and she was still enough, he might not see her . . .

  She held her breath, hoping the wild beating in her chest wouldn’t give her away. Either she’d be safe or she’d be trapped . . .

  She tried to hold her breath, to make herself small and silent and invisible, but she heard her own heartbeat roaring in her ears, and she was shaking, shaking hard as she hunched between the rocks.

  Seconds crawled past. Agonizing seconds. Then Clement hurtled onto the trail. She closed her eyes tight, sucking in air, listening to his boots skidding on rock, listening to his harsh breathing, and picturing those hot
brown eyes that were as dark and soulless as a pair of tarnished coins.

  The sounds of his pursuit passed—and faded. The sun beat down on her shoulders, the mountain wall glittered pure and ancient all around her. Faith leaned her head against the sun-warmed rock and inhaled the clean perfume of the pines.

  He was gone.

  Zach climbed swiftly. Squinting beneath the brim of his hat, he surveyed the twisting trail, deserted except for a long black snake slithering under a rock and the tufts of purple lupine and Indian paintbrush growing alongside the scrub brush.

  He quickened his pace, his long strides covering the ground swiftly, his gaze scanning, endlessly scanning, every nook and cranny of the trail. His mind was still spinning, trying to take in the fact that not Bayman, but some young nondescript fake deputy had kidnapped Faith.

  Was Bayman even involved in this—or had they been wrong about his involvement from the beginning?

  He was sweating in the warm sun, perspiration beading on his face, dripping down his neck. But not only from the heat—from fear. A cold, deadly fear of what was happening right now—fear of what that psycho might be doing to Faith.

  Where the hell are they? he wondered for the hundredth time.

  Maybe they weren’t here at all. Maybe they’d gone to Cowell’s Peak . . . or maybe Ada had been wrong . . . or they’d doubled back, changed direction . . .

  Maybe Faith was already dead . . .

  No. Don’t think that way. She can’t be . . she won’t be . . . keep going . . .

  He heard something up ahead. Every muscle tightened, his nerve endings snapped to attention. Someone was running down the trail, straight toward him. He heard the clatter of boots, rocks, the gasps of heavy breathing. Faith?

  “Faith!” he shouted. The sound of running stopped. He heard nothing.

  Shit.

  “Faith!” he shouted again and sprang forward, sprinting up the trail and around the curve, but what he saw there brought him to a cold skidding halt.

  The brown-haired man in the deputy’s uniform was crouched right in his path, grinning. There was a gash the size of an egg in the center of his forehead. Blood dripped down his face, staining his gray shirt, but it wasn’t the blood or the gash or the grin that Zach focused on.

  It was the knife in his hand. The butcher knife that glittered like a lustrous sword . . .

  His blood curdled. “Where is she?” he demanded hoarsely. “She’d better be alive.”

  The man with the knife shook his head. “Dead. Dead, dead, dead.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Dead,” the man repeated. He raised his voice suddenly, shrieking, “Why aren’t you at your construction site, crying over the rubble? You’re wasting your time here looking for a dead woman! The district attorney bitch is dead!”

  Zach’s control snapped, the world blurred to red. “Then so are you.”

  He moved fast as any gunfighter, yanking Faith’s gun from his belt. As the killer clutched the knife and bared his teeth in a grotesque imitation of a smile, Zach shot him through the hand, and watched the butcher knife clatter to the ground.

  Zach ignored the monster’s shrieks and raced forward.

  “Dead?” he muttered, and drove his fist into the killer’s jaw, which broke with a loud crack.

  The brown-haired man screamed in agony as Zach knocked him to the ground like a bowling pin.

  Faith took a shuddering breath.

  He’s gone, she told herself, scarcely able to believe it. Gone.

  For now.

  But he was out there, searching for her. Oh, God, he could double back and run straight into her if she tried to go down this damned mountain . . .

  She fought against the sobs rising in her chest.

  More than anything in the world, she longed to stay where she was, hidden and safe, to never go back in the open. But she had to. She had to get down off the mountain. There was no real safety here—she had to get to Zach, call the sheriff, tell them so they could find Clement and stop him before he killed someone else.

  Pushing herself up on unsteady legs, she blinked against the pain in her head and her jaw. She had to be careful, to listen for him. She’d hide if she heard the slightest sound . . .

  Edging warily onto the trail, she peered in both directions, then started forward, listening intently. She started downward, moving slowly, so as not to dislodge any stones or make any sounds. But she’d only gone a short way when she suddenly heard voices . . . yelling voices. Her heart leaped into her throat.

  Zach—was that Zach? Dry-mouthed, she scrabbled down the trail and then heard his voice again—it was definitely Zach, shouting, though she couldn’t make out the words. She rushed forward, then froze when a gunshot thundered. Her hands flew to her throat and her blood turned to ice.

  An instant later a scream of agony split the air and she abandoned all caution, rushing headlong toward the sound.

  Running, slipping, her heart in her throat, she tore down the mountainside, and then she heard him.

  “Where is she, you bastard? Where the hell is she?”

  Zach. With a sob of joy, she dashed around the curve in the trail and then she saw . . .

  He had Clement flat on the ground. The madman’s face was bloodied, and Zach’s knuckles were raw. The knife sparkled amid the rocks, five feet from where Clement lay helpless.

  Zach had ceased punching him. He now had his arm pressed hard against the windpipe of the man on the ground, and he was leaning all his weight into it.

  Dougie Clement was fighting for air, uselessly flailing his arms, trying to tear the larger man’s arm from his throat.

  “Zach! Zach, stop! I’m all right. I got away . . .” She stumbled forward, staring at him. His skin was gray and drawn—he looked like death warmed over himself.

  Oh, my God, Zach—she thought, but aloud she gasped, “Don’t kill him!”

  “He deserves it.” Zach never let up the pressure on the man beneath him, but his gaze burned into her face. Relief heavy as a downpour of rain washed over him, even as he took in the bruises, the pain in her eyes. He saw the cuts on her hands, the shaky steps she was taking toward him, and white-hot anger pumped through him.

  “He hurt you.” Zach looked down at the man beneath him and leaned in on his windpipe some more, his mouth tightening. “He nearly killed you, didn’t he?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Zach, don’t. Don’t do this . . .”

  Fear and desperation brought her to his side, kneeling beside him, her hand on his arm. “Zach, let go. Now. It’s wrong, this isn’t the way—he has to face justice. Zach, please.”

  “Justice.” He gritted his teeth as her pleading words slid over him, but they had the desired effect. They rinsed away the ugly jagged edges of his fury and a cold, disgusted calm returned. He stared down at the madman writhing in agony beneath him and slowly relaxed his death grip.

  At that moment, they heard a faint shout from below. “Zach . . . that you? Did you find her?”

  It was Roy. And when Zach shouted back to him to get up there fast, it was another voice—Rick Keene’s voice—who answered.

  Faith barely heard. She sank down on the ground beside Zach and Clement, trying to catch her breath, slow her heart. She was safe . . . Zach was safe. It was over.

  Dimly she was aware that Zach had pushed himself off Dougie, that two deputies were now kneeling beside the beaten man. Dougie was whimpering, crying like a child as they drew their guns and called for an ambulance.

  As more deputies swarmed up the mountain, and Keene warned them not to touch the knife, Roy appeared and knelt down, wrapping his arms around her. She shivered, too tired to stand.

  “You two—you all right?” Keene barked at her and Zach. “I need statements before you go to the hospital—”

  “Wait . . . listen to me.” Faith roused herself from a daze of shock and relief. She turned her head, gazing at the lawman as Roy stepped back. “Hank Bayman . . . he’s up there . . . up
the mountain. He’s . . . dead,” she whispered. “He . . . killed him.”

  Keene stared at her. She heard Zach swear.

  “How far up?” Keene asked grimly.

  “A ways. You . . . you can’t miss it. There’s a ledge, a mound of d-dirt.” She started trembling, and suddenly Zach dropped down on the ground again beside her.

  As shudder after shudder shook her, Faith heard Keene giving orders to his men. Some were to head up Snowflake Mountain and find Bayman’s body. Others were to wait until forensics got there to take charge of the knife.

  Faith leaned against Zach’s chest and blocked out everything but the warmth of his arms around her.

  Then the voices and the men were gone, Dougie Clement was gone, carried on a stretcher down to the ambulance. Even Keene had gone, summoned by a deputy to view Bayman’s body.

  She and Zach were alone, except for the deputies left to wait and stand guard over the butcher knife.

  “Come on, baby, let’s get you checked out. I think you’re in shock.”

  She looked at him, lost it, and began to sob in his arms.

  “Shh, Faith, it’s okay,” he soothed her. His arms tightened. “It’s over, baby. It’s all over.”

  “You don’t understand,” she sobbed, as the full impact of what had happened rolled over her like an avalanche. “He did all this because of me . . . b-because his brother was executed. Jimmy Clement was that madman’s brother. Candy died because of him, and Patti nearly did, and her baby—”

  “Patti and the baby are doing better,” Zach interrupted her. “Bob says they’re going to be fine. And it’s not your fault, Faith . . . none of it.” He frowned, studying the bruises on her face, the intensity of her sobs. “I’m getting you to the hospital. You could have a concussion . . .”