The Night Killer Part 1

Night Killer, The.

by Beverly Connor.

Chapter 1

The gray sky grew darker as Diane watched. The storm was coming fast. She tried not to show her unease as she listened to Roy Barre going on about his grandfather's collection of Indian arrowheads that he was loaning to the museum. The two of them stood beside the museum's SUV, the four-wheel-drive vehicle she had driven to his mountain home. Diane had the driver's-side door open, key in hand, ready to get in when he wound down, or at least paused in his narrative.

"So, you going to put a plaque up on the wall with Granddaddy's name?" Barre said. "He'd like that. He picked up arrowheads from the time he was a little boy. Found a lot of them in the creek bed. That big, pretty one I showed you of red flint-he was crossing the creek, looked down, and there it was, big as life right there with the river rocks."

Diane had heard the story several times already.

"Yes," she said, "there will be a plaque. Our archaeologist, Jonas Briggs, will oversee the display."

Roy Barre was a tall, rounded, cheerful man in his mid-fifties with a ruddy face, graying beard, and brown hair down to his collar. In his overalls and plaid s.h.i.+rt, he didn't look as though he owned most of the mountain and the one next to it. Even with the oncoming storm, had she consented, he would at this moment be showing her the property and the crisscross of creeks where his grandfather had found his arrowheads.

"Granddaddy didn't dig for them, even when he was a little boy-he knowed that was wrong. You know, some people look for Indian burials and dig up the bones looking for pottery and nice arrowheads. Granddaddy didn't do that. No, he didn't bother anybody's resting place. He just picked up arrowheads he found on the ground or in the creek. A lot of them was in the creek, washed from somewhere. He never knew from where. He just eyed the creek bottom and, sure enough, he'd always find something. He sure found some pretty ones. Yes, he did."

The trees whipped back and forth and the wind picked up with a roar.

"Roy, you let that woman go. I swear, you've told her the same stories three times already. A storm's coming and she needs to get off the mountain."

Holding her sweater close around her, Ozella Barre, Roy's wife, came down the long concrete steps leading from her house on the side of the hill.

"Listen to that wind," she said. "Lord, it sounds like a train, don't it?"

"Mama's right, Miss Fallon, you need to be getting down the mountain before the rain comes. The roads can get pretty bad up here."

"Thank you for your hospitality and the loan of your grandfather's collection," said Diane. "I'm sure our archaeologist will be calling you to ask you to tell him your stories again. I hope you don't mind."

Mrs. Barre laughed out loud and leaned against her husband. "How many times would he like to hear them?"

"You know how to get back to the main road?" asked Roy.

"I believe so," said Diane, smiling. She got in the car before Roy commenced another story, and started the engine. She waved good-bye to them and eased down the long, winding gravel drive just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Diane was the director of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History, a small, well-respected museum in Rosewood, Georgia. She was also director of Rosewood's crime lab, housed in the museum, and a forensic anthropologist. It was in her capacity as museum director that she was in the mountains of North Georgia, arranging the loan of the substantial arrowhead collection. Jonas Briggs, the museum's archaeologist, was interested in the collection mainly because LeFette Barre, Roy's grandfather, had kept a diary of sorts describing his hunting trips, including drawings of the arrowheads he found and where he found them-more or less. Jonas wanted to map the projectile points-as he called them-especially the several Clovis points in the collection. Unfortunately he was away, or it would be him, instead of her, up here in the North Georgia mountains trying to dodge the coming storm.

The mountain roads weren't paved, and they were marked by ruts and gullies. She should have left earlier. The storm brought the darkness too soon, and despite what she said, she was just a little uncertain she could retrace her steps back to the main road. She looked down at the pa.s.senger seat for the directions. They weren't there. Well, h.e.l.l Well, h.e.l.l, she thought. Probably blew out of the vehicle while she had the door open. Just pretend it's a cave Just pretend it's a cave, she told herself.

The trees looked frenzied, whipping back and forth against the darkening sky. Diane watched the road, looking for familiar landmarks. The rain began to fall harder. Diane turned her wipers up several notches and slowed down. With the heavy rain and fog, it was getting harder to see the road.

A tire slipped into a rut and spun, and for several moments she thought she was stuck. She pressed the four-wheel-drive b.u.t.ton on the gears.h.i.+ft, and suddenly the vehicle lurched forward and was out. Just ahead, she recognized her first turn. That road wasn't any better. It had heavy gouges and grooves carved into it by years of wheels and weather doing their destructive work. Diane remembered the ruts from when she came up the mountain, but the only annoyance then was a rough ride.

"Doesn't anybody fix roads around here?" she grumbled to herself as she hit a deep pothole and again spun her tires.

So far, she was remembering her way back, but visibility was getting worse. She turned her wipers on the fastest setting. She would have liked to pull off the road and wait for the rain to stop, but she was afraid of getting stuck. She would be on foot if her vehicle became mired in the muddy shoulder of the road; and coming up the mountain she'd discovered that the area had no cell service.

Diane hoped she wouldn't meet anyone trying to get up the mountain on the narrow road as she inched along, looking for the next turn. She couldn't find it. Well, d.a.m.n Well, d.a.m.n, she thought to herself. Did I miss it? Did I miss it? There was no turning around. There was no turning around. At least if I keep heading down At least if I keep heading down, she thought, I'll get to a main road sooner or later. I'll get to a main road sooner or later. She kept going-and looking. She kept going-and looking.

Then she spotted the road-she just hadn't gone far enough. She turned onto another dirt road, slipping in the mud as she did. Up ahead she saw a house that she remembered on her trip up. Good Good. She sighed with relief. She remembered from the map that this was called Ma.s.sey Road.

The house was dark. Diane didn't think anybody lived in it. It was run-down and, frankly, looked haunted, with its gray board siding, sagging porch, and strangely twisted trees in the front yard. Boo Radley's house Boo Radley's house, she thought to herself as she approached.

A flash of lightning and a loud crack caused her to jump and slam on the brakes. The cracking sound continued, and with a sudden stab of fear, Diane saw one of the trees in the yard of the house falling toward her. She put the SUV in reverse and spun the wheels. The tree crashed across the front of her vehicle, and in the strobe of lightning flashes, she saw a human skull resting on the hood of her car. A skeletal hand slammed hard against her winds.h.i.+eld and broke apart.

Diane let out a startled yelp and blinked at the apparition on the hood of her SUV. It took her several moments to rouse herself from the shock, turn off the ignition, and open the door. Rain poured in, soaking her clothes. Her wet s.h.i.+rt clung to her skin. She s.h.i.+elded her eyes with her left hand as she got out of the car to survey the damage, but she couldn't take her eyes off the mottled brown skull grinning at her.

"What the h.e.l.l?" she said.

"You all right?"

Diane jumped at the voice. She turned to see a man dressed in jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt as soaked as she. His hair was plastered to his head. His lips stretched over remarkably even, white teeth. He was in his thirties, she guessed, maybe in his forties. The years hadn't been kind. He looked like the type of person Diane didn't want to meet alone in a dark alley-or on a dark, rainy night on a muddy mountain road. Her already fast-beating heart sped up another notch. She eased back a step against her vehicle. She wondered, if she jumped in the SUV, could she back it out from under the tree?

The man was the Barres' neighbor-sort of-she told herself. He's probably fine He's probably fine. He swung a flashlight back and forth down by his side. From the light it cast, the batteries were running low.

"Oh, fine. I . . . The tree . . ." Diane tried smiling. "There's a skeleton on the hood of my car," she said, and grimaced at how that sounded.

"Skeleton? Where?" he said.

She pointed behind her without taking her eyes off the man.

"You must of hit your head. I don't see no skeleton." He grinned at her.

Chapter 2

Diane's heart beat loud in her ears as she eased back toward the open door. Before she could scramble in, the man grabbed at her, his grip landing on her wet forearm. She jerked away and his wet grasp slipped, sc.r.a.ping her arm with his nails. Diane didn't hesitate-she struck out and hit the end of his nose with the palm of her hand. He yelled and stepped back, hands to his face. Diane ran at him, grabbing his flashlight from his loosened grasp as she brushed past him.

Unfortunately he now blocked the entry to her SUV. Not that getting in her vehicle was a good plan. If she couldn't get the SUV moving, she would be screwed. Diane ran down the muddy road, hoping to avoid anything in the darkness that would twist her ankle. She couldn't afford to fall. She couldn't afford a sprain.

Diane heard the man yelling, but through the noise of the rain, she made out only the word dogs dogs. There was more than one person, and he was telling them to get the dogs. She cut quickly into the woods. The road would be easier to negotiate, but it would also leave her out in the open. When she was hidden by the foliage, Diane stopped for a moment to catch her breath and listen. At first she heard only her heart and the rain. Gradually she became aware, through the sound of the downpour, of dogs barking.

Diane had heard a K-9 officer speak to the Rosewood PD about dogs and their ability to track a scent. She came away with the idea that a dog's nose was so far superior to the human nose that it was almost not a.n.a.logous to the human ability to smell. And that if a well-trained dog and a good handler were on your trail, you were caught. And worse, a well-trained dog could track in the rain. Though in this downpour and on these mountainsides, she suspected the scent would be displaced quite a bit, maybe even washed away. Diane wondered if the dogs she heard were tracking dogs, or perhaps, more likely, hunting dogs. Or maybe they were fighting dogs. She had heard that some people in this county, though it was illegal, trained fighting dogs.

Diane wiped the rain out of her eyes.

d.a.m.n-how did I get in this predicament?

She started at a walk, as quickly as she dared, away from the derelict house. There was no running in dark woods. The only light she had was a flashlight running low on battery power. And flashes of lightning. No, she also had her cell phone on her belt. Though she didn't get any service here, the display had a light that could help a little in pitch-black.

A flash of lightning illuminated the area around her for a moment. It was like a snapshot, and she committed it to memory. Diane was afraid to use the flashlight so close to the house, for fear it would be seen. She continued parallel to the road. Vines and undergrowth slapped her face and scratched her arms.

If she could find her way back to the Barres', she would be safe. But she had been barely able to find her way to their home by road. She had no idea of the way through the woods. They had asked her to stay the night and leave in the morning. She wished she'd taken them up on their kind offer. Now here she was in the forest in a downpour with little light, chased by some maniac, and about to be chased by dogs.

Diane tried to ignore the rain, her soggy clothes, and the sick fear churning in the pit of her stomach as she trudged through the underbrush. She was stopped by a thicket as impenetrable as a wall. She was too wary to go out into the open roadway. Her only other choice was to go deeper into the woods and work her way around the thicket. The ground sloped downward, away from the thicket, and the forest litter was slick. She almost fell, startled by the sound of a loud m.u.f.fler-a vehicle on the road. There was enough of the roadway visible through the thick underbrush for her to see a pickup driving slowly by. She heard barking and thought she saw dogs in the back of the truck. She ducked and lay almost flat on the ground, covering her face with the sleeve of her s.h.i.+rt, just as a shaft of light swept through the openings in the foliage.

Diane watched the taillights as the truck slowly moved down the muddy road. The wind was blowing in her direction, blowing her scent away from the dogs. She was grateful. And she was thankful for the rain, as uncomfortable as it was.

She rose from her hiding place on shaky legs. She peered nervously through the darkness, looking for signs of a flashlight, fearing that someone might also be coming after her through the woods. She saw nothing. She listened for the dogs. It was hard to tell whether the barking was getting closer. She didn't know if they were in pens or on her trail. Diane held her breath and strained to listen. In pens, she decided. She wasn't that far from the old house. Surely they would have found her if they were loose.

The lights of the truck were no longer visible to her, but she heard the engine. It wasn't far, but at least it was out of sight. She started walking, trying to keep parallel to the roadway, but it was nearly impossible. It was so dark. She was probably veering off deeper into the woods. If she could just find a place to hide until daylight. A safe place. What kind of place would be safe? What kind of place would be safe? she asked herself. She pressed on as fast as she dared, trying not to stumble, silently cursing the uneven ground. she asked herself. She pressed on as fast as she dared, trying not to stumble, silently cursing the uneven ground.

The rain had thoroughly soaked her clothes and sneakers, and her wet socks were already rubbing the heels of her feet. She stopped a moment to rest, leaning forward with her hands on her thighs. Diane wasn't so much tired or out of breath as scared. She needed to calm down, to think. She brought the image of the map to the Barres' house up in her mind and tried to visualize the lay of the land. Where was the road in relation to the house? She looked around, squinting at the dark trees and underbrush blowing and moving with the wind and hard rain. How in the world could she translate her location to a position on the map? Impossible. She thought she was going in the right direction, but she didn't know. She could be heading ninety degrees from the direction she needed to go.

She listened again. The dogs were just as loud as before, but the rhythm of their barking had changed. They were loose and on her trail. Diane turned on the flashlight for a few moments and selected a direction to follow. She could make out trees in the darkness, and the hill beyond, but that was about all. The small hollow she was in had ended and she had to climb the next ridge. She started walking again. Her footfalls were quiet on the wet forest floor. Thank heaven for that. The sound of the rain was louder than the noise she made walking through the underbrush.

Diane stepped in a small hole and almost fell. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. She was tempted to use her light, but she didn't dare s.h.i.+ne it for more than a few seconds. She climbed the steep grade. The chill made her legs ache on the incline. She was accustomed to putting discomfort in the back of her mind, ignoring it. As a caver, she had experienced more than one occasion when she had to endure discomfort for long periods. There were more hills between her and the Barres', so she tucked away any aches she felt and concentrated on putting distance between her and the mysterious house. She was tempted to use her light, but she didn't dare s.h.i.+ne it for more than a few seconds. She climbed the steep grade. The chill made her legs ache on the incline. She was accustomed to putting discomfort in the back of her mind, ignoring it. As a caver, she had experienced more than one occasion when she had to endure discomfort for long periods. There were more hills between her and the Barres', so she tucked away any aches she felt and concentrated on putting distance between her and the mysterious house.

She climbed the hill, sometimes grabbing at roots to help her up the slick, steep incline. At the top she thought she heard the rumbling m.u.f.fler of the truck off in the distance. She definitely heard the dogs. They were after her, with or without a handler restraining them. She increased her speed and almost slid down the slope. She grasped at a limb to keep from falling. It raked across her hand. She put her stinging palm on her cold, wet jacket for a moment and kept going.

I need a plan, Diane thought. There were thousands of acres here and few houses. She realized she was no longer walking parallel to the road. She could be getting farther away from any roadway or the Barres' house. She stopped, leaned against a tree, and thought a moment.

On the way to their house she'd crossed several small bridges-several creeks. Okay, creeks. That was her plan. The first creek she came to, she would follow it upstream, hoping that it would take her back to one of the roads. Not much of a plan, and if she were thinking more clearly, she would find lots of holes in it. But it was the only thing she could think of at the moment. Moreover, she didn't remember any large creeks on the road near the mysterious house, so if she got lost, at least she would be lost away from the house.

And what the heck was that skeleton anyway? She'd been so frightened and focused on running that she had forgotten about the skeleton. She'd been so frightened and focused on running that she had forgotten about the skeleton. Where in the h.e.l.l was the thing? Up in the tree? Where in the h.e.l.l was the thing? Up in the tree? She shook her head and continued down the slope of the mountain to the next hollow. She shook her head and continued down the slope of the mountain to the next hollow.

The lightning flashes were more frequent and the thunder louder. She wasn't particularly afraid of thunderstorms, but she usually didn't take hikes in them. The rain beat down harder and she would have loved to stop and take a break from it. Maybe there was a rock overhang somewhere. She had more of a need to push on. The lightning flashed again several times. That was when she saw a man not twenty feet from her.

Chapter 3

Diane stopped dead still, not breathing. Burning acid rose up, stinging her throat. Her gaze darted around for something to use as a weapon. A stick, a stone, anything. But it was too dark to find anything. She should have picked up something earlier. d.a.m.n it d.a.m.n it. Diane squeezed the flashlight in her hand. It was her only weapon.

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 p.r.o.nounced 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 s.h.i.+ned 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 Ma.s.sey Road." Diane briefly explained the circ.u.mstances 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 racc.o.o.ns. 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.