Chaney swats Jennifer aside with his free hand, the other gripping the switch blade. Jennifer falls back, brings her knees to her chest, and kicks out, driving the air from Chaney’s lungs.
His blood drips through the floor and stains the slats. He’s still conscious, but he’s mortal. They can beat him.
Darcy’s spasming right arm is useless. It hangs limp at her side as she shakes the murk out of her head. When he clambers to his feet, Darcy raises the gun with her left hand, her arm braced over her knee to steady the weapon.
She squeezes the trigger.
Two gunshots ring out. Darcy’s shot cuts through Chaney’s gut. The second blast deafens Darcy. A geyser of blood splashes from Chaney’s face as the bullet explodes into one cheek and exits through the other. She doesn’t remember pulling the trigger twice. Studying her hands in confusion, she draws in her legs before the killer crashes face-first against the floor. The moonlight frames Hensel from behind in the doorway, the gun fixed on the murderer.
Hensel speaks into his radio. Help is on the way. The killer twitches and gags on the blood gushing down his throat as Hensel stands over the fallen killer. The bloody switchblade glows in the moonlight beaming through the doorway. His fingers reach for the weapon, but the knife lies beyond his grasp, and his body no longer serves him.
Darcy pulls Jennifer into her arms. She wants to yank her daughter out of this house of horrors, find Hunter, and forget she ever brought her family to Darkwater Cove. The fight drained from her body, Jennifer quivers in Darcy’s arms. She’s broken. Something inside her daughter shattered that Darcy can never repair. Chaney did this. He deserves this gruesome death. Darcy wishes she could make him feel more pain.
She squeezes Jennifer’s hand and eases her against the open door. Hensel glares at Darcy as she crawls over Chaney and sticks the gun barrel into his ear.
Darcy leans close to the serial killer.
“What you said before—you can’t kill all of us. I want the name of the guard helping Michael Rivers.”
“Darcy, let it go.”
Ignoring Hensel, she presses down with the gun. A cracking noise like broken egg shells forces Hensel to grab her arm.
“Who is involved besides Bronson Severson?”
A low cackle comes out of Chaney. Then he coughs, spraying Darcy’s pant leg with blood. While he writhes and twitches, Darcy reaches under his chest and fishes her hand into his coat pocket.
“What the hell?”
“I need to know,” she says, shooting a death stare at Hensel.
She pulls out Chaney’s phone.
“That’s evidence, Darcy. Drop the phone.”
“Evidence for what? He’ll be dead in a few minutes. There won’t be a trial.”
Chaney’s face turns to look at her. The floor flattens his torn cheek and bulges his lips. His eyes blink as death approaches. Watching Darcy. Still assessing.
His phone is locked. Even if the bastard could speak, he wouldn’t give her the passcode. She grabs Chaney’s left arm and wrenches it backward. Grabbing his thumb, she presses it against the home button. She needs to wiggle the thumb until the phone reads the print and unlocks.
His arm slaps off the floor when she lets go. Scrolling through his contacts, she locates Bronson’s phone number. There’s no name attached to the listing, just a single-digit number. Three. How many others are involved?
Chaney’s eyes freeze on her now. Unblinking. Gone. She won’t be able to question him further.
His phone battery runs low, but when Darcy interrogates his contacts, she stops on another vague contact. Four. Before Hensel realizes what she’s about to do, Darcy calls the number. A man with a deep, gravely voice picks up on the first ring.
“Speak.”
Her voice catches in her throat. It’s not Rivers. Is this the prison employee who helps him?
“Who is this?” she asks.
A pause. Then the line goes dead. It’s another burner. Nevertheless, she hands Chaney’s phone to Hensel, who groans and grasps the device with his hand inside his shirtsleeve. Without an evidence bag handy, he slides the phone into his pocket.
“Did you expect him to tell you his name? Think, Darcy. You don’t even know if the guy aided Rivers.”
Darcy hears sirens. More emergency vehicles continue to swarm into Alder Park.
A moment later, Ames arrives with Julian at his side. The detective takes in the carnage—bullet holes blasted through the shack walls, the floor slick with blood, Chaney’s ruined form crumpled at his feet—and hisses through his teeth. His face softens toward Darcy and Jennifer, the girl’s arms wrapped around her mother. He couldn’t pry them off with a winch and chain.
“I’ll need your weapon, Ms. Gellar.”
“Take it,” she says, handing Ames the Glock.
Ames drops the weapon into a plastic evidence bag.
“Let’s get that arm wrapped. You’ll need stitches to stop the bleeding.”
“I don’t care about that. Where’s Hunter?”
“Your son is at the hospital. He’s groggy, but he‘ll be okay.”
Darcy tilts her head up at the ceiling and closes her eyes.
“What about the other boys?”
“County General removed the bullet from Aaron Torres’ shoulder. He’ll live, but I don’t think anybody will give a shit what happens to him next. The other three are at the station. They won’t bother your family again.”
The walk from the shack to the trail only takes five minutes, but it seems to last hours. The moon drops below the tree line, and the chill that crawls down from the black sky and stars feels winter-like and unforgiving. Darcy can’t feel her fingers and toes by the time she reaches the clearing, where a GCPD cruiser waits with flashing lights. An ambulance already took Bronson’s corpse, but a dark imprint in the grass serves as a reminder of where she ended his life.
Darcy and Jennifer struggle into the back of the cruiser with Julian at the wheel. Her car remains at the bottom of the hill, but it’s the last thing on her mind as Julian executes a tricky turn to direct the cruiser down the trail.
“You were right about Bronson,” Darcy says, and Julian’s eyes find hers in the mirror. “But I never would have thought he’d aid a serial killer.”
“Some people will do anything for money—”
He stops. His eyes burn with alarm, but he’s looking away from Darcy.
She doesn’t know what’s wrong until Jennifer sags lifelessly against her shoulder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Jennifer, please stay with me.”
In the ambulance, Darcy hovers over her daughter, who lies incognizant on the gurney. The girl’s face is ashen, lips the color of dusk on a winter’s night. A female paramedic fixes an oxygen mask over Jennifer’s face and tells her partner to start an IV.
“She’s in shock,” the paramedic says, drawing a blanket over Jennifer.
Darcy’s college roommate went into shock during their junior years. The girl binge-drank on a ninety degree day and came a whisker away from heatstroke. Darcy knows the next half-hour is crucial. The paramedics need to stabilize Jennifer, keep her warm and hydrated. But they cannot cure the root cause of Jennifer’s shock.
Darcy holds the female paramedic’s eyes.
“How long until we get to the hospital?”
“Ten minutes.”
With the emergency lights of Julian’s cruiser and the ambulance swirling, they reach County General in less time than the paramedic’s optimistic prediction. As they wheel the gurney into the emergency entrance, Jennifer’s eyes swivel toward Darcy, who hasn’t let go of her daughter’s hand since entering the ambulance. And those eyes are lucid, though terrified. A good sign.