“Would he have lit a fire to eat or something?” Sam asked.
“Possibly. Or get rid of evidence. But if you don’t put a fire out properly, it can take hours to settle down and that’s damn dangerous in these woods. I think we should walk past and swing back around, come down from the high ground. He may have come back and gathered things and set off again in a hurry, worried he was being followed.”
“Or Will got to him,” Sam said.
“Or that. Let’s do some recon before we make any decisions, okay?”
They regrouped and started again, stealthier this time, off the trail, careful not to make too much noise. Sam thought they were a damn sight noisier than the rabbits or grouse or turkeys or whatever they kept passing on the trail, but for a tired, scared mad bomber, who possibly had some percussive damage to his eardrums from his latest blast, maybe they wouldn’t be noticeable.
Sam could smell water. There must be a lake nearby. Sure enough, fifteen slow paces later, the edge of the forest began to slope, and below them shimmered a moonlit mountain lake. Sam had never seen anything so stunning. She couldn’t help but stop and stare. Wildflowers paraded down into the valley below, marked like gray frost by the moon’s path, and the water lapped gently at the edges of the soil, which looked nearly black.
They stayed still, watching. An elk, a stag by the size of him, ventured to the water’s edge, drinking long and deep, secure in the knowledge that he was safe from predators for the moment. Then the wind shifted, and his head jerked up in surprise, and he crashed away into the brush, sounding like a small army moving through.
They took advantage of his thrashing to move again, traced their steps back and up the hill, and Roth found a sinuous deer path, which they started up. There was a small clearing ahead, Sam could see where the branches lessened, and knew that would be the right place for them to stop and regroup before entering the camp again.
They stepped from the trees and froze.
Ryan Carter was squatting next to a man Sam had to assume was Will Crawford, who was on his back, blood bubbling from his mouth and nose. He wasn’t dead, but damn close to it.
Carter reminded Sam of a child who’d just pulled the wings off a fly and was watching, mildly curious to see what would happen next, not understanding or caring about the pain the fly was experiencing.
He didn’t seem to hear them, or mind their presence if he did. Crawford, on the other hand, seemed to sense movement and tried to turn his head to see what was happening.
Xander swung his M-4 toward them and used a tone Sam had never heard before, his voice ringing with authority. She couldn’t imagine anyone hesitating for a moment to obey him.
“Carter. Step away. Step away and get on your knees, facing me.”
Carter didn’t move. Crawford whined, a high-pitched sound laced with pain, and it was all Sam could do not to rush for him, to help.
Xander tried again, louder and more forceful, and this time, Carter turned his head, slowly, to face them. Sam was surprised by how normal, how plain he was. He didn’t have the face of evil that she’d seen before. He just looked like a man, a regular guy, neither handsome nor ugly, just plain. His face didn’t change, or even acknowledge that he was looking at the business end of a weapon.
Before she could blink, he took off, leaping to his feet and rushing away through the trees. With a muttered oath Xander followed, and Sam heard the shouts and shots as he tried to catch him.
Roth followed his son into the darkness, and Sam was left there, motionless, until her system finally responded to her mental commands and her legs started to work again. She ran to Crawford and fell to her knees at his side.
She ripped off his shirt and saw the entrance wounds, three of them, a tight grouping midsternum. He was losing a lot of blood, and having trouble breathing. She used the shirt as a compress, pushed hard with her palm to stop the bleeding. But she could see the damage was done. The blood coming from his mouth and nose was the indicator; without some sort of serious intervention, he would drown in his own blood.