The Night Killer df-8 Read online

  The man wore a rain poncho and a hat that hid the upper part of his face. He held a flashlight in his hand, but it was not turned on. He said nothing; nor did he move.

  “You may be able to overpower me,” Diane said, “but I will hurt you really bad in the process.” Weak threat, but it was all she had.

  “I believe you,” he said. “Are you lost? Hurt?”

  His accent was Midwestern. There was not a trace of North Georgia in the way he pronounced his words. His voice was deep, smooth, with a slight nasal quality to it. A flash of lightning revealed that he had a beard. He wasn’t the man who attacked her, but he could be a partner in crime. Diane turned on her light and shined it around the area. She couldn’t see any dogs but she still heard them in the distance.

  “What are you doing out here?” asked Diane.

  “I’m camping in the national park.” He looked over his shoulder and pointed off in a direction behind him.

  The park, thought Diane. If he was telling the truth, the direction he pointed gave her some bearing on where she was.

  “I’ve been taking photographs at night,” he said. “I saw your flashlight and heard the dogs.” He shrugged. “Got curious about who would be hunting in a downpour.”

  “You’re taking photographs in the rain?” said Diane. She eased back a step. She was shaking-from the cold or fear, she didn’t know which.

  “Why not? It’s amazing what you can find in the rain. What are you doing here?”

  “Running from a strange man who tried to grab me. Those dogs”-she indicated with a motion of her flashlight-“are after me.”

  “You were attacked? In the woods?” he asked.

  “At that house on Massey Road.” Diane briefly explained the circumstances of her trek through the woods and listened to his response for any indication that he already knew the story. He was silent for several moments. Diane sensed he was skeptical, and, oddly, that gave her a measure of comfort. But she didn’t relax her grip on her flashlight or take her eyes off the dark outline of his form.

  “You can go back with me to my campsite and I’ll take you to the sheriff,” he said.

  Diane shook her head. “I don’t know you,” she said, wishing that she did, that he were a friend, that she were safe.

  “The woods at night are not the safest place to be-especially if you’re lost,” he said.

  “Neither is going off with a stranger,” said Diane.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  “You were satisfying your curiosity, even though you heard dogs? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” said Diane.

  “I wondered why anyone would be hunting in a thunderstorm,” he repeated.

  “Why did you think they were hunting?” she asked. “They could be wild dogs.”

  “The dogs are Walker hounds,” he said. “There are three of them, and they haven’t picked up a scent yet.”

  His quiet voice and smooth manner had almost made Diane relax, but her stomach churned again. “How do you know what kind of dogs they are? Are you acquainted with the occupants of that house?”

  “No, I’m not. Walker hounds have a distinctive voice. It has to do with the way they’re hunted. Their owners need to recognize their own dogs from a distance. I had an uncle who raised them. Hear that whining bark? It gets faster when they’ve picked up a trail.”

  “That’s good to know,” she said. “Are they likely to find me?”

  “Dogs have to be trained to track the scent you want them to. Walker hounds are usually trained to hunt raccoons. I’ve never heard of anyone training them to hunt people, but there’s no telling what some people will do with dogs,” he said.

  “Are they vicious?” she asked.

  “Not usually. Hunting dogs that destroy their prey aren’t much good,” he said. “I would think it will be the man who is after you who is the dangerous one.”

  “You believe someone is after me.” Diane felt relieved.

  “You don’t hunt with dogs in a downpour like this, not with all this lightning, unless you really need to find something. I guess that would be you. No one needs a raccoon that badly,” he said. “I’ll take you to safety.”

  Diane shook her head again. “I can’t take that chance. When you get back to your campsite, I would appreciate it if you would go for the sheriff and tell him what happened. Tell him I’m Diane Fallon of the Rosewood Crime Lab. He’ll know who I am.”

  He reached under his poncho and came out with a knife. Diane sucked in her breath and jumped back, raising her flashlight, ready to fight. She pushed the on button with her thumb and was about to shine it in his eyes when he tossed the knife over to her. It landed at her feet. He took off his poncho and hat and tossed them to her.

  “You need some kind of help,” he said. “If the dogs find you, their handler won’t be with them. If they have radio collars on, cut them off and throw them away if you can.”

  “And if they attack me?” said Diane.

  “If you’re attacked by three vicious dogs, there’s no hope. They’ll get you,” he said.

  Diane’s stomach, already in knots, lurched and she thought she’d be sick.

  “Thanks for these things,” she said, and started to pick them up.

  “Give me your jacket,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your jacket. It’s soaked, but maybe I can lay a false trail. If not, I can leave it in a tree for them to find, somewhere you haven’t been.”

  She took off the jacket and fished her billfold out of the inner pocket and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. Diane had developed a habit when she worked in other countries of always carrying important papers on her person. She never lost the habit.

  “Thanks,” she said again, throwing him the jacket. “I appreciate your help. I won’t forget it.”

  “You’re hard to help,” he said.

  “There are some chances I never take,” she said.

  “I wish you well,” he said. He turned and walked away with her jacket under his arm.

  Diane bent down and picked up the offerings and put them on. When she looked up at him again, he was out of sight. She shined her flashlight around the area and caught no sign of him. She realized she had not asked his name. Who was that masked man? she thought, and smiled in spite of herself, relieved at any levity she could muster.

  At least she had a weapon now. A pretty good one. Better than the flashlight. The knife had about a six-inch blade and an ebony handle. It felt heavy in her hand. She held tightly to it. It made her feel more secure, more in control. It was more precious than her flashlight.

  And she was warm. The hat kept the cold rain off her head, and the poncho kept her dry and held her body heat. Things were looking up. She’d take blessings where she could find them. She was worried, though, that her pursuer had seen her light, even though she’d tried to use it so sparingly.

  Diane set out again, looking for a large creek, listening for the dogs-listening for their strange mewling barks to get more frequent.

  She felt like she’d been walking for hours, climbing up one ridge and half sliding down the next. She tried to keep in mind where the national park was in relation to the Barres’ house, but she still wasn’t sure she was going in the right direction. And worst of all, the rain was letting up and the lightning had stopped. The dogs, at least their voices, had been her ever-present companions the whole while. Don’t they ever get tired? she wondered.

  She stopped to rest, leaning against a tree. She was so weary. She closed her eyes a moment. She dared not sit, afraid of falling asleep. Even in the rain she felt she could easily lie down and fall into a deep sleep. She did doze off a moment, then started awake. Probably about to fall, she thought. Then the realization dawned on her. The dogs-their voices-they were frantic.

  Shit.

  Diane drew a sudden breath and beat down the fear about to take her over. She started off walking again at a faster clip. The rain clouds had shifted, revealing the gibbous moon, and she c
ould see well enough to go a little faster.

  She climbed, hand over hand, to the top of yet another ridge. Her hands were cold and sore where she’d grabbed roots and branches all evening, pulling herself up the side of a ridge or keeping from sliding down the other side too fast. She soothed them by laying her palms on the wet rain gear.

  On top of the ridge, she looked down into the hollow she had just left and scanned for movement. She saw only the trees and underbrush blowing in the wind.

  Maybe they found my jacket and that’s what all the frenzy was about, she thought. She hoped.

  Another sound came into her awareness-water, fast-flowing water bubbling over rocks. She loped as fast as she dared down the slope and stopped at the edge of a creek about ten feet wide, lined with ferns and mountain laurel. This was the creek-she hoped-the one she passed over on the way to the Barres’. She remembered looking at it as she crossed the bridge, how pretty it was, how the water flowed over the large smooth stones, what a picturesque scene it was.

  Now as she looked at the water it looked treacherous. She’d wanted to cross the creek, in hopes that the fast flow of the water would displace her scent. Maybe, along with the rain, obliterate it all together. But as she looked at the slick round rocks and boulders and the white rushing water in the moonlight, she thought better of it. At least not here, she told herself. Maybe there’s a better place.

  Diane instinctively felt she should follow the direction of the flow. She remembered looking out the window of her SUV and seeing the creek flowing toward her and passing under the bridge as she traveled up the road toward the Barres. As best as she could tell, she had been traveling roughly parallel to the road the whole time she had been in the woods. The bridge must be downstream from her. If she followed the flow, she would find the road. But what if the road was farther upstream than she thought? She had not been thinking clearly. What if she was so turned around that she didn’t know which side of the road she was on?

  Go with the plan, she told herself. Just go with it. Diane followed along the edge of the creek, ducking under the laurel branches, pushing the brush out of her way, ignoring her stinging cheeks when the branches whipped her face, ignoring her sore, skinned hands, pressing on. The rain had all but stopped and now only the secondhand rain dripping from the leaves fell on her.

  She listened for the dogs as she went, but the creek was louder than the distant sound of the dogs, a reality that made her feel better. Maybe they were far away, happily tearing apart her jacket.

  Diane checked the creek for places to cross as she pushed through the underbrush. Finally, she spotted a promising place. The creek had widened considerably and the water moved with less agitation. She turned on the flashlight to examine the water. The light flickered and went out. She hit it with the heel of her hand. Nothing. It was out.

  “Well, hell,” she said.

  She tucked the light in her waistband and rolled up her pants. Not that it mattered a whole lot. She was drenched, but she thought that maybe she had begun to dry out a little since the hard rain had stopped. She stepped into the water. It was ice-cold. But that didn’t matter. What was one more discomfort? She stood up and began carefully crossing through the water, testing each place before she firmly put her foot down. Even at that slow rate, it didn’t take her long to cross.

  Diane felt a small triumph having made the crossing, as if she had put an obstacle between her and her pursuers. Not that they couldn’t cross as easily as she had, but it was the symbol of the thing.

  She followed along the opposite bank of the creek from where she had been, going with the flow, and came to a spot where the underbrush wasn’t quite so thick. She thought she saw the shine of a light through the limbs of the laurel bushes.

  No, she thought, not after she had crossed the creek; they couldn’t have found her. She half squatted and moved forward slowly. She clutched her knife and took out the dead flashlight for good measure. A weapon in each hand. She listened for dogs. She heard nothing but the wind. Diane crept through the bushes, watching the point of light. It was still, not as if someone were walking with it. She crept closer, moving through the brushes until she was in an open area. She squinted her eyes, trying to see better.

  It was a light in a window.

  A window.

  A house.

  Thank God. Diane almost collapsed with relief. She couldn’t see whether it was the Barres’ house. But it was a house. She stood up with joy, started forward, and stopped suddenly. What if it was the house on Massey Road? What if she had just made a big circle in the woods? People did that. It was hard to go in a straight line in the woods.

  Diane stood for several moments, unable to make a decision. Hell, she would just have to risk it. As she walked slowly toward the house, she put the flashlight back in her waistband and took her phone out of her pocket. She still had no service, but she could see the time. It was 12:17. She was surprised it wasn’t a lot later. She felt she’d been walking through the woods all night. It had been a little over five hours. She put her phone back in her pocket.

  After a few feet she saw, with heart-stopping relief, that it wasn’t the house on Massey Road. She thought she recognized the tall magnolia tree in the side yard, even in the dark. It was Roy and Ozella Barre’s house.

  Diane hurried to the steps that led up to the large porch. They would be in bed, but she was sure they would be happy to rescue her. She climbed the steps and crossed the porch, ready to knock on the door, when she noticed that it was slightly ajar. She knocked anyway and waited. Nothing.

  Diane opened the door, walked in, and called out to the Barres.

  “Roy, Ozella, it’s Diane Fallon. I’m sorry to wake-”

  She stopped. There was an aroma she didn’t like. She slowly walked into the living room and looked over into the dining room.

  Sitting in their dining room chairs were Ozella and Roy Barre. She in her nightgown and he in his pajamas. Each of them had a large, gaping gash across their throat. Large bloodred stains obliterated the designs on the front of their nightclothes.

  Chapter 4

  Diane stood in shock, denying what she was seeing-the Barres sitting completely still, like grotesque mannequins.

  “No, dear God, no.” Her voice came out in a tearful whine.

  Diane squatted on her haunches and put her head in her hands. On her cheek she felt the cold blade of the knife she held and stood up quickly, looking at it as if it were a snake. Surely not, she thought. But what was he doing out in the thunderstorm taking photographs?

  “Get hold of yourself,” she whispered. “Call for help.” Diane felt she had to tell herself out loud what to do to break out of her shock.

  “Call nine-one-one. Where is the phone?”

  The telephone was near the door on an antique telephone stand. She carefully retraced her steps to the doorway and took a tissue from a box of Kleenex she found near the phone. She wrapped the knife in the tissue and wrapped it again inside of the rain hat and stuck the hat in her waistband for when the sheriff arrived. She took another tissue and lifted the receiver gently from its cradle in a way so as to disturb as little as possible any fingerprints that might be on it. There was no dial tone. She jiggled the plunger on the cradle and listened again. Nothing. She traced the line to the wall. It was plugged in, but dead. She shouldn’t have been surprised. The killer had probably cut the phone line outside.

  With a jolt that sent shivers down her spine, Diane realized that the killer could still be inside the house. Start thinking, damn it. She listened to the sounds of the house-raindrops from the wet trees falling on the tin roof, the refrigerator humming, wind, clocks-little else. She didn’t hear walking or floors creaking, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still here. She needed to get to the sheriff. Damn, another long hike-to somewhere. She knew the way to the county seat if she were driving from Rosewood, but she wasn’t sure from here. Jesus, it could be ten or twenty miles away. No, I just have to make it to another h
ouse. Surely there was one within walking distance.

  The sheriff. Damn it. That was another problem. Leland Conrad was the sheriff of the county, and he wouldn’t call in the GBI for help with the crime scene. Though he might ask them to do some of the forensic analysis. He certainly would not call in her crew from the Rosewood Crime Lab. Not that the way another county ran its government was any of her business, but she felt a responsibility to the Barres. Sheriff Conrad liked to say that he did things the old-fashioned way-the right way-and anytime he needed outsiders to do his job was the time he needed to hang it up.

  The problem with the way he executed his investigative philosophy was that all strangers were suspicious, because he knew everyone in the county and what they were capable of. If Diane were being kind, she would say he used more psychology than forensics to solve crimes. Truthfully, she didn’t think he knew his neighbors as well as he thought he did.

  Still, Diane had no choice but to contact him. There were two things about that prospect that nagged at her. The sheriff would not do a good job of working the crime scene, and when she told him about the stranger in the woods, he would jump on that as a solution. If the mysterious stranger was the murderer, fine, but if not, the real killer would still be out there, and the man, whoever he was, would be in deep trouble.

  How long had they been dead? Diane traced her steps back to where she had stood looking into the dining room. Ozella Barre was facing her, sitting at the end of the table. Her hands were secured with duct tape to the wooden arms of the upholstered host chair. Her head was against the back of the chair. Her eyes were open and covered with a milky film. So-she had been dead over three hours, at least. Not before seven thirty, because that was when they were standing on their steps waving good-bye to her.

  Diane did the math. They were killed between seven thirty and nine p.m. Small window for a terrible murder like that. If he’d gotten there right after I left, it would only be less than an hour and a half. She had been walking around in the woods for a little over five and a half hours. It seemed much longer. When, during that time, had she seen the stranger? How long had she been walking before she encountered him, and how long was it after they parted that she found the house? Shit. She didn’t know. Why hadn’t she been keeping track of time? She may not have had service, but the phone displayed the time. Then again, why should she have? Her primary concern had been survival, not punching a clock.