“Interesting,” Scott said, in a manner that suggested he had other things more important to focus on right now than that sort of coincidence. “Look. I just wanted to let you know to be careful. Sam Reilly’s contacted the Secretary of Defense and the Director of the FBI regarding the names on the list. There’s a team at the Pentagon working round the clock to put it all together. But whatever’s really going on out there, it’s a heck of a lot bigger than we’ve been led to believe, so please, be careful.”
“Cute, Scott. I’m glad to know you care about me.”
“I’m serious. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“All right. I’ll take care.”
Sheriff Gebhart ended the call and put her cell phone back in her pocket.
What the hell’s going on?
A moment later, she felt the prickly tendrils of fear tease her spine, as she heard footsteps come out of the forest behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sheriff Gebhart swore as she spotted the man.
He was tall. Roughly six foot two inches. A solid two hundred twenty pounds of muscles. His face was set hard, but good looking. He wore the military uniform of the 75th Ranger Regiment.
“Wow!” the soldier shouted, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t shoot!”
Emilee expelled a breath. Her hip holster had been unclipped. It was an involuntary response. She didn’t even recall doing it. She clipped the weapon back into the holster.
Meeting the soldier’s eye, she said, “I’m sorry. You spooked me. I could have shot you!”
The man smiled apologetically at her. “My fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”
“You’re damned right you shouldn’t have.” A slight grin formed on her lips. “Especially not since we’re all out here trying to locate some deadly animal that’s taken it into its head to start killing people.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” The soldier offered his hand. “My name’s Jason Faulkner. I’m with the 75th Rangers Regiment.”
She took it. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” she replied. Meeting his intense dark eyes, she asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes. I’m hoping you might help me with our investigation.”
Gebhart shrugged. “I’ll try, but to be honest, your boss recently took me off the case. Declared the entire region of Tillamook a military crime scene, with the entire thing being run by the Department of Defense.”
He nodded. “And your services, I presume are being squandered by managing roadblocks.”
She gave a half-grin. “Hey, I serve at the whim of the people.”
“And I’m sure you do.” His eyes drifted toward the roadblock.
Gebhart said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
He smiled at her. He had a nice smile. It was warm, welcoming, and appreciative. It looked candid, but then again, given whatever clandestine shit-fight the military had got itself involved in, the smile and the genuineness might be all practiced.
Faulkner said, “It’s about a dog ma’am.”
She frowned. “A dog?”
“Yes, ma’am. A golden retriever. We believe it was with the owner yesterday and might provide some vital clues to what’s going on in these woods. I don’t suppose you saw a dog yesterday.”
Gebhart thought about the two visitors in the yellow Ford Thunderbird with the lost dog and sighed. “As a matter of fact, I did. A man said he found the dog in the woods. It had a collar but no phone number or ID. The man was insistent that the dog belonged to someone who had cared for it, but without anything to go off, all I could suggest was that he take the dog to the pound.”
“Did he?”
“No. He said it would break his heart to see a dog like that be put down. Instead, he said he’d look after it until he could find the dog a suitable new owner.”
“Did he say where he was headed?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to access her near perfect memory banks of the previous evening. “Yeah, the man said he was heading to Portland, Oregon.”
“Did you get a name?”
She nodded. “Sam Reilly.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jason Faulkner cut through the forest of junior spruce-fir trees, turning from a fast walk to a run as soon as he was out of Sheriff Gebhart’s sight. The pathway dipped along the ridge and came out at the US-101 junction at Tillamook.
A near-new Santorini Black Range Rover was parked on the side of the road.
He stepped up to the door, and the car’s proximity monitor recognized the keys in his pocket and unlocked the doors. He opened the door and climbed in. The car still had that new car smell. And the scent of money. The cream Napa leather seats were piped with black. The previous driver was shorter than him. He took the time to make the array of adjustments to the electric seats.
He pressed the start button.
The 5L V8 engine started with a gravelly roar that bespoke of a time long before global emission standards within the motor industry.
Jason threw the Range Rover into gear. He turned the wheel all the way to the right, released the electric handbrake and planted his foot down hard, making a U-turn and heading north along US 101. The supercharged engine had great acceleration. Better than turbocharged. No lag. The high-end, sports SUV took off with a lurch.
His lips twisted into a smile.
There had always been something about driving that had made him feel good. A sense of speed and control over one’s destiny, offered by the gift of a private motor vehicle. That gift only got better when it was an expensive SUV.
Of course, he’d stolen the car.
It hadn’t been reported yet and given the state he left the previous owner in, he doubted very much it ever would be. More likely, someone would one day find the car abandoned and then put it together with the death of its owner — maybe.
Jason hadn’t given it another thought. He would be long gone before anyone found the body or the car. He hadn’t even bothered to bury the body of its owner. In fact, he’d barely played with the corpse. There hadn’t been time. That thought had made him think of the sheriff. What was her name? Gebhart? Emilee Gebhart. She had given him her card and he’d kept it. She was a beautiful woman. Strong. Powerful. Intelligent.
Once he’d gotten through with what had to be done, he still might give her a call. That thought brightened his already fine day.
He glanced at the speedo. He was lazily doing 90 miles in a 45 zone. He took his foot off the gas and let the big SUV coast until it slowed to the speed limit. He’d already made much more of a show of Patterson’s death than he had meant to, and judging by the military and FBI response, someone in government had already been alerted to the fact that he’d returned. That meant Dexter Cunningham probably knew it too.
So be it.
Still, it was a mistake to steal the Range Rover. If he was being honest with himself, which he certainly always aimed to do — because if you can’t tell the truth to yourself, who else could ever believe you? — Jason knew it had been the wrong choice. It was a little bit of luxury after the hardship of the past seven years. That luxury might still get him killed, or at least, permanently incarcerated until someone found a good means of taking him apart, or experimenting on him.
That frightened him.
Despite the others’ belief that he was near immortal, he knew that, given enough time, all weapons could be broken. And that is what he was. A weapon.
The thought of being trapped in a small cell and having all his power greedily taken from him frightened him more than dying.
He shook his head.