Free Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) by Carla Norton Page A

and trees.
    The windshield wipers beat back and forth. Maybe he missed the turn. Another mile, he thinks, and then he’ll have to turn around, get reoriented, take another run.
    Something up ahead on the left catches his attention. He brakes, slows, and sure enough, there’s the one-track bridge crossing Shadow Bark Creek. Old and weathered, just like he remembers.
    Farther along, the road narrows and cuts into a rocky hillside. A bullet-riddled sign warns of falling rocks.
    Twilight arrives early as the sun dips below the crags to the west. A rare set of headlights appears up ahead, cutting through the rain. Flint eases over to the shoulder to make room, but doesn’t look at the other driver as the pickup rolls past. His eyes are focused on the sign up ahead.
    Granite Reach Wilderness Area.
    Flint makes the sharp turn into the forest, and the rutted road begins to feel familiar. When he recognizes the old fallen tree, he slows for a good look.
    The tree doesn’t seem near as big now, but it’s surely the fallen fir that blocked the road that first day his father brought him to Granite Reach. His father had jolted to a stop, cursing. But then a strong young man named Walter Wertz had shown up. Pretty soon there was a noisy competition, his father wielding a chainsaw on one side of the road, Wertz working on the other, sawdust flying.
    Daryl had stood back to watch the two slicing fat rounds out of the fallen tree, impressed with their skill, envying their strength. Soon they’d removed enough of the big fir to make the road passable.
    The tree doesn’t look as impressive now, settling in decay, but the way it brackets the road is unmistakable. He recalls patting the pattern of freshly exposed rings, then helping to roll the fat rounds off the side of the road, where they were later split into firewood.
    He smiles at the memory of that first meeting with Wertz, and knows he’s getting close.
    Soon he spies the moss-covered boulder and the turn.
    The driveway is little more than a path, overgrown and muddy. Flint cranks the wheel hard, dodging trees and splashing through puddles.
    There’s the old shed up ahead. It looks the same as always, years past decrepit. He slows and stops, angling the SUV’s headlights to illuminate the padlocked door. The rain has eased to a drizzle, but he puts on his new weather-proof hat and climbs out, leaving the engine running.
    The keys are easy to find if you know where to look, hanging on a nail beneath the eave. He lifts them off and pockets all but the smallest.
    It fits into the padlock which clicks open, and he chuffs a laugh.
    The inside of the shed is dusty, but he finds exactly what he remembers: two shovels, a pickax, a hatchet, handsaws, duct tape, a knife, and a snake-bite kit.
    He hurries back to his vehicle, checking the ground for signs of recent tire tracks. You can never be too careful. Finding none, he climbs back into the SUV and leaves the shed behind.
    As he eases along the winding, bumpy drive, he glances sideways at the overgrown footpath that leads past the graves to Shadow Bark Lake.
    The road has become so rugged it’s scarcely navigable. Saplings brush the doors and windows as the SUV winds through the trees. Uphill . . . downhill . . . uphill again.
    At last, the SUV’s headlights glare on the cabin’s front windows. He parks, angling for the best illumination, and leaves the lights on as he climbs out. A layer of wet pine needles cushions his tread until he steps onto the front porch, where he fits the key into the lock and the door creaks open.
    Except for the splash of headlights, the inside lies in deep shadow. Flint gropes along a table, finds a box of matches, and lights a kerosene lantern. He holds it high. The place is cold and dusty, but everything is pretty much as he remembers: woodstove, sofa, table, chairs.
    His eyes go to the floor. He sets down the lantern, peels back the rug, and locates the seam in the floorboards. It takes a knife and