CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX

Savage River State Park
Dr. Samantha Owens

The scenery was breathtaking. Rhododendrons lined the wooded walkways, lush and full. The banked walls on either side of the path were glowing with the apex of multiple spring flowers and grasses. A riot of color overwhelmed the senses: yellows and purples and blues and greens, all vivid and clear. Something about color in the mountains was different. Sam could hear the water from the river flowing nearby, smelled the cool green sap from the evergreens. It was paradise. Paradise with the backdrop of a very serious hell.

They’d arrived at the coordinates Whitfield had slipped Sam at midmorning. They made it to the spot easily; the path was rated green for unskilled hikers. Fletcher kept looking around, as if he expected Whitfield to jump from the trees and yell, “Surprise!” Sam knew it wasn’t going to be like that. He was too smart to give himself up without expecting something in return.

Was the man guilty, or trying to help? She was of two minds. Either he was a master manipulator and they were walking into a trap, or he was truly trying to help them solve the murders. Sinner, or saint? It would be interesting to figure out which.

Sam didn’t really know what to expect. Would the man meet them there? Was he waiting for them? Would there be some sort of scavenger hunt to find him? Surely the spill of armed men, two with dogs straining against their leads, would be intimidating. Right?

But Whitfield was a soldier. As skilled as this group may be, he’d faced much worse than a D.C. tactical team. And they were all on his turf now.

Fletcher directed the team to disperse throughout the woods. Sam tried to fathom how he could set up an ambush for a man who was trained to see them, and was expecting them. But Fletch seemed to have an idea of what he was doing, so Sam stowed her concerns and followed him into the forest.

Ten minutes later they veered off the path. The foliage was thick, and the men disappeared into the brush, melting away as if they’d been set for camouflage all along. It was just her and Fletcher, standing side by side in front of a seemingly deserted forest ranger station.

The hunted come to the hunter.

In the solitude, as the quiet shrillness of insects and whispering breezes and the running river became overwhelmingly loud, Sam grew nervous. They were sitting ducks. Whitfield could pick them off one by one. This had been a very bad idea.

She could feel Fletcher’s unease, as well. There was no way he thought Whitfield was really the killer, or else he’d never have let the show go down this way. He must think Whitfield had the answers. Or he was trying to protect a man who didn’t think he needed protection. Fletcher didn’t strike her as a careless man, but maybe he was. Maybe he didn’t know any better. It wasn’t like he could defend them one-handed.

Breaking the interminable silence, Fletcher’s cell phone rang, making them both jump. Sheepishly, he fished it out of his jacket pocket and answered.

He listened, not saying anything, until he finally muttered, “Yeah. Keep me informed,” and hung up.

Something was wrong. Sam could see it in his face. Hart? Susan?

“What? What is it?”

“I don’t want you to freak out. But Susan Donovan is missing. They found her car at the house, parked in the garage. There was broken glass and blood on her kitchen floor. The blood’s being tested right now.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Sam turned, started marching away, into the woods, back the way they’d come.

“Where are you going?” Fletcher asked.

“Where do you think? We have to go back. We have to help look for her.”

“Sam, stop. We’re three hours away. We already have a mission. Roosevelt’s working with the Fairfax County guys and her mother-in-law. They’ll find her. I promise, they’ll find her.”

She kept moving, ducking under branches. She had to get back. She had to help find Susan. She couldn’t help but feel that this was her fault, that she’d done something to curse this family. Brought her own sorrow and misfortune to bear upon them, perhaps.

Fletcher ran after her. “Come on, Sam. We need to stick to the plan.”

She didn’t listen, just kept crashing away through the brush. She didn’t care if Fletcher heard her cry. How could he blame her? This was all turning south. Every decision she made was the wrong one.

She heard him running behind her, but he was off balance, fighting one-handed with the branches and undergrowth that she was able to thread through more easily.

“Sam. Please. Stop!”

She halted at last. He was right. She was being foolish, yet again.

Fletcher walked up to her and pulled her into his arms. She broke away immediately, panic flooding her system. God, she hated to be touched when she was upset.

“Don’t,” she said, started walking again, fast.

“Sam. Sam! I’m sorry. But you have to stop. We’re off the path. You’re going the wrong direction. If you want to head back to the car, that’s fine, but we need to go the other way. And we’re not safe out here alone.”

She quit walking. This time, he didn’t try to touch her, just turned and gestured back the way they’d come. She folded her arms across her chest and strode past him. He followed in silence.

They went for a minute until Sam heard a branch snap to her left. She stopped dead in her tracks, crouched, coiled, her heart pounding.

“Fletch. Fletch, did you hear that?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, the trees just to her right rustled, then parted. She wanted to run, to scream, but she was frozen.

A dark-haired man stepped out of the forest, silent, deadly. A knife was strapped to his thigh. He had the strap of an assault rifle slung across his chest, the weapon trained on both Sam and Fletcher. He gave them a sad smile.

“Detective Fletcher is absolutely right, Dr. Owens. You’re not safe out here alone.”