Free The Shadowkiller by Matthew Scott Hansen Page A

half miles north of the Dillard Road turnoff on Lone Mountain.”
    â€œCopy.” A moment later, “One david thirty-two, be advised S & R is ten-thirty-nine and will be on scene in approximately twenty minutes. The nine-twenties are Mitchell Roberts and Jack Remsbecker. They may be in the vicinity and may be unable to respond. Use caution.”
    â€œOne david thirty-two, copy that. I’m going code six.”
    â€œCopy.”
    Bill put the mic back and reached onto the passenger side floor for his rain hat. Outside his safe little cocoon of light and warmth was wet, black isolation, and suddenly he didn’t want to leave. It was an out-of-place feeling, especially for a guy who had grown up around these woods. But finding that Weyerhaeuser guy’s truck a few days before, door open, engine dead, and keys in the “on” position, well, it was downright spooky. Twenty-five-year-old Deputy Bill had just watched an X-Files episode dealing with alien abductions, so finding that empty truck sent his mind racing.
    He left the patrol car idling, shook off his anxiety, grabbed his Maglite, and opened the door. The mist kissed his face as he stepped out and closed the door. The patrol car’s exhaust swirled around him as he swung the flashlight about the perimeter to get his bearings. He left the cruiser’s dome light and headlights on, which gave him an idea of the immediate terrain.
    Pointing his flashlight into the Cherokee, he saw a gym bag on the passenger side floor, a jacket, and a Barney doll in the back cargo area. Nothing suspicious. The vehicle was locked. Bill moved toward the trail.
    â€œHello? Hello?” he shouted.
    No echo returned as the moisture-deadened air sucked up the sound. All he heard was the slight hiss of rain. Moving toward the trail, swinging the beam back and forth, he looked for something, anything.
    â€œHello? Mitchell Roberts?” he shouted again, this time vainly hoping a name might bring a result. “Jack Remsbecker?”
    Slowly heading up the rocky slope, he didn’t plan on going too far, given his peculiar uneasiness and the fact that search and rescue would be arriving pretty soon. Less than fifty yards later, his warning system, that unconscious mechanism that keeps you from walking out in front of a car or putting your hand on a hot burner, was going off full-bore in his head. Just as Bill reached his absolute turnaround line, where he was about to lose sight of his car, his flashlight glinted off something. Washing the light beam over his surroundings, he saw and heard nothing else, so he walked toward it. Six feet away he recognized it as a keyless car door opener with a few keys attached.
    Deputy Bill looked before touching, searching for clues as to how it got there.
    Thrown? Dropped? Dropped on the way out? Way back?
    Reaching what few conclusions he could, he picked it up, wiped the flecks of mud away, and pocketed it. Who knows? It might not even belong to the Cherokee.
    He swept the area with his flashlight, and a sizable reddish brown stain on the rocks stood out from the grays and browns. He crouched to examine it more closely. It appeared to be congealed blood, a liver-colored spatter about half the size of one’s hand. It had been raining all day, so Bill knew that if this were actually blood the original amount had probably been much greater. As he stared at the dissipating gore, he felt a sensation wildly out of place on that black mountain trail in the middle of a chilly, light rain: sunshine. He could swear he felt it all the way through his uniform and his rain slicker.
    He didn’t stop to analyze it, he just turned tail and ran. As fast as he could.
    It was nearly one hundred yards to the cruiser and he made it in record time, jumped in, slapped it into reverse, backspun his tires in the muddy gravel, and took off. He didn’t care whether they asked him why he left. He’d make up an excuse if he had to.