A rumble in the sky spins her around. It’s not thunder. The noise grows louder, and she recognizes the chuff-chuff-chuff whirs of helicopter blades.
As she searches for a break in the canopy, a hand reaches out of the night and clamps over her mouth. Darcy swings her elbow and kicks out as the figure drags her into the shadows.
“Shh. It’s me.”
She twists her head and sees Hensel staring back at her in his dark blue FBI windbreaker and cap.
“He took Jennifer,” Darcy says, shrugging free of his grip. “And Bronson shot Aaron—”
“We know. Haines is with Hunter and the boys back in the clearing, and an ambulance is en route. The roadblocks are up, and we’ve got police guarding every exit in the park. Chaney isn’t getting past us.”
A branch snaps inside the forest. Hensel presses a finger to his lips, then points up the ridge where the noise came from. Keeping his voice low, he radios Ames.
“East end of the forest, a hundred yards south of the rim trail.”
He motions Darcy forward, and she follows Hensel into the forest. He draws his gun and puts his back against the trunk of a rogue elm tree sprouting out of the sea of pine. When he spies Darcy with the Glock, he scowls and shakes his head.
“He’s got my daughter,” she mouths, just as a bough rustles in the dark.
Not waiting for Hensel, Darcy races ahead and crouches behind a stand of witch hazel. He assails her with a tight lipped grimace and hurries to catch up, but she’s off and running toward the next shrub before he can grab hold of her.
She hears the cove lapping at the shore now. Smells the briny air rising off the water. They must be close. The cliffs loom ahead, no escape unless Chaney takes a hundred-foot plunge into shallow waters.
As Hensel closes the gap, Darcy motions him to sweep around to the left. He sets his jaw and glares at her. Darcy refuses to waver. Seeing no alternative, he complies.
Adrenaline carries her up the ridge as Hensel circles toward the cliffs from the opposite direction. She should see breaks in the trees by now, but the forest appears endless.
Darcy worries she’s lost her direction again when the wooden shack materializes out of the gloom. A blank window stares back at her like the eye of a sleeping cyclops. There must be a door on the other side. A thump inside the cabin brings her to a stop. Darcy throws her back against a tree as she sneaks glances around the trunk. If only she had a radio to contact Hensel.
But she has a phone.
After sliding behind the next tree, she drops to one knee and sends Hensel a text message.
Supply shack in the woods near cliffs. Chaney inside.
She gives Hensel a chance to reply, but he doesn’t. Searching the forest, she expects to see his silhouette converging on the shack. Darcy can’t wait any longer.
She darts from the tree to the rear wall, avoiding the sight lines from the window. Ear pressed to the wooden exterior, she listens. It’s quiet inside until she hears the noise again. Softer this time. It’s impossible to stop her teeth from chattering. The November night wicks the heat from her body and drains her strength. She can’t feel her fingers and worries she won’t be able to shoot. Hypothermia is a growing concern, but she’ll worry about that after she has Jennifer and Hunter at her side and this nightmare ends. Standing in the dark, her mind contrives an image of Michael Rivers behind her. If she spins around, she’ll find him towering over her, the chains around his wrists and ankles snapped and dragging, his toothy grin bloodstained.
When the sound inside the shack comes again, Darcy slides along the wall, careful her sneakers don’t crunch the fallen leaves scattered outside the frame. Around the corner, she locates the door—paper thin and brittle. Even if it’s locked, she can kick through. Though every second lost brings her daughter closer to death, Darcy isn’t fit to fire her weapon. Shoving her hands under her shirt, she crams her fingers against her skin and wills them to thaw until the numbness abates. Still no sign of Hensel.
Finally able to control her gun, Darcy takes a step toward the door. Chaney underestimates her. He terrorized Darcy for weeks and stole Amy’s life, but she’s the woman who shot the lunatic he worships. She’ll take Chaney down the same as she did Bronson.
Darcy touches the doorknob and gives it a gentle twist. Locked. No, not locked. The knob is jammed from disrepair.
She rears back and kicks the door. It blasts open in a shower of splinters and smashes against the wall.
Darcy passes through the gates of hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Pitch black and rotting wood smells roll out of the interior. A bulk juts out of the far corner—a closet. Pulling open the door, she aims the gun inside and finds the closet empty. There’s a long, rectangular crate on the floor, disturbingly coffin-like. Chaney etched a crude smiley face on the lid. Darcy passes it off until the thumping sound comes from inside, followed by a muffled moan.
Jennifer?
Darcy pries her fingers under the lid and yanks the top off. Jennifer lies inside, wrists bound and positioned over her chest in the position of final rest. She’s breathing. Alive, thank God. The girl’s eyelids pop open as she screams into the gag.
Ropes snake around Jennifer’s wrists and shins. Darcy drops to her knees and unravels the knot around her daughter’s ankles.
The panic on Jennifer’s face warns Darcy too late. Chaney’s shadow fills the doorway a moment before he thunders across the room. She fires the gun at the same time he kicks her arm. The bullet blows a hole in the roof as she stumbles backward. Her head slams against the wall. She sees the mud-crusted underside of his hiking boot a second before he stomps down on her hand. Her fingers swing open in white agony as the gun bangs off the floor. Reaching for the weapon, she searches with growing desperation. A switch blade flicks open.
“Don’t you see? You can’t kill all of us. He’ll never stop until you’re dead.”
Jennifer thrashes to free herself inside the crate. A wicked smile curls the corners of the serial killer’s mouth. Then footsteps clamber through the brush outside and divert Chaney’s attention.
The pause is all Darcy needs. Her fingertips brush over the Glock, and she snatches the weapon, aims, and pulls the trigger in one motion.
The bullet rips through Chaney’s collarbone and spins him around. Yet he stays on his feet and slices the blade across her forearm. Hot lifeblood soaks her shirtsleeve. She sees her daughter’s frightened eyes as Chaney grabs the bubbling wound and grits his teeth. They’re both injured and teetering. He’s close enough to kill her if he finds the strength to swipe the blade across her throat. And she can’t control her hand below the laceration.
Anger surges through Darcy. Jennifer isn’t dying in Alder Park tonight, and neither is Hunter. When Chaney lunges, she switches the gun to her uninjured hand. Without a second hand to aid her with the shot, the bullet veers wide and blows a hole in the wall. Chaney drives her against the closet. Her head cracks against the hardwood, and she slams to the floor with his full weight atop her.
His head snaps backward as Jennifer tugs him from behind with her bound wrists around his neck. Scrambling to her knees, Darcy swings the Glock and knocks Chaney’s head sideways.
“Run!”
Jennifer meets Darcy’s eyes. She won’t run, won’t obey her mother’s command to save herself. Because she’s a fighter. In her daughter’s eyes, Darcy recognizes the pain Chaney and Bronson brought upon them, and with the pain comes hatred and a molten fury that knows no boundaries.