CHAPTER 33
It was 11:02 a.m. by the time Angie had crossed the river with Claire in the jet boat and hiked into Budge Hargreaves’s spread.
Angie stood on the porch and banged on the door of his cabin. The log structure was nestled near the back of a clearing about a half acre in size. Barking erupted inside, presumably Tucker. But no one came to the door.
Claire, who stood in the mud below the porch, glanced at a black pickup parked under the carport attached to the cabin. “Odd that he’s not answering,” she said. “His truck is here.”
Angie banged louder, using the base of her fist. Still no response other than another explosion of barking from Tucker.
Angie stepped off the porch and squelched through the mud to the carport. Her pulse quickened. The truck was a Dodge. Diesel. Covered in mud. It had extra-large wheels, silver studs. Dirt smeared the plates.
She entered the carport, walked slowly around the Dodge. The right side had been recently dented and scraped.
Claire looked from the truck to Angie, uneasy, which unsettled Angie further. Angie exited the carport and walked into the clearing between the cabin and several outbuildings. The sheds were in various stages of decay. She studied the ground.
“Fresh ATV tracks, do you think?” Angie said, pointing.
Claire came over and examined the grooves in the mud. She then turned to study the dense fringe of conifers around the property. “Maybe he went off into the woods on his quad or something.” Her attention returned to the truck. “You ... don’t think it was him, do you?”
“Your father said it was hunters. Plural. If it was Budge he’d run into, he’d have mentioned him by name, wouldn’t he?” Angie held Claire’s eyes.
Something unreadable sifted into the young woman’s features. “Yeah, for sure he would have.” She didn’t sound so sure. “Besides, like I said, these pickups are a dime a dozen.”
“His truck does have fresh damage down the side, though,” Angie said, testing Claire’s perception of her dad. She felt a resistance rise around Claire. This woman, Angie guessed, if pushed into a corner, would turn against her in order to protect her family. She needed to tread carefully.
“Budge gets dinged up a lot. I reckon he drives after a few too many far too often.”
“Despite a drunk driving charge all those years ago?”
Claire’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “He has a DUI?”
“You didn’t know?”
Claire held her eyes. Wind rushed through the forest. Clouds had started gathering in the north again—the weather in this area as capricious as the terrain.
“Well, it doesn’t look like he’s here.” She jerked her chin at the gathering clouds. “We should get moving before that storm blows in. Could come fast. Snow in the forecast, and we’ve still got a ways to hike to Axel’s place and then to the moss grove before we head back over the river.”
Angie nodded. “One last check to be sure,” she said. “Why don’t you see if he might be in that shed behind his cabin? I’ll go over and check those outbuildings on the other side of his property over there.” Angie motioned to three wooden sheds near the forest fringe. She wanted to peek inside them. This place was giving her an odd vibe, her cop sixth sense raising hairs on the back of her neck.
“Sure,” Claire said, her voice clipped. She stomped off in her boots. Angie waited for her to round the cabin, and then she made quickly for the biggest shed. She found the door slightly ajar. She stilled, her senses on red alert. Something felt ... off.
“Hello?” she said, knocking on the shed door. “Budge Hargreaves? Are you in there?”
Silence.
Angie creaked open the door. A few flies buzzed. It was dark inside, but she smelled it instantly. Blood. Warm. Fresh. Meaty. She sensed a presence.
Wind gusted in through the door behind her. A squeaky groan came from her right. Angie swung to face the sound, heart beating fast. As her vision adjusted, she saw what had moved. A buck. It swung from a creaking meat hook. Its throat was slit and gaped raw and red. A glassy eye held hers. Angie tensed. Another gust made it move again, and the dead creature’s eye seemed to plead with her. She stepped closer. It had a small wound on the side of its neck. Not a bullet hole. The wound appeared to have been made by a sharp little blade. Arrow, she thought. Her gaze dropped to the concrete floor. Blood dripped and congealed in a puddle below the kill.
Angie placed her palm against the flank of the animal. It was still warm. This kill was very fresh.
She scanned the dim interior of the shed. A workbench ran the length at the back. On the bench lay a hunter’s bow and a quiver of arrows with yellow-and-white fletching. To the right of the workbench stood a stained chest freezer. A memory slammed into Angie—the freezer in the basement of serial killer Spencer Addams’s suburban home. His mother’s dismembered torso inside. She swallowed, a sinister coolness filling her.
She began to back out of the shed.
A sound behind her stopped her in her tracks. Angie froze as she recognized the rack of a pump action shotgun. A sick sensation leaked into her gut.
“Hold it right there.” The voice was male, low, quiet.
