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“I’ll take him down.” Styles gave her a long hard stare. “I figure what he’s done, killing him is just too darn easy. I want to see him suffer in jail for the rest of his life, in solitary confinement if possible, or out in the general population so he can meet some of the really hardened criminals.” He straightened, squaring his shoulders, and his mouth set in a determined line. “This time, it’s my call.” He met her gaze. “We need to run to that clump of trees. I don’t want him seeing us or he’ll just drive on by and we’ll be stuck here. Stay close behind me.” He signaled to Bear and took off at a run.
Beth caught up with him and they bounded through the tall wheatgrass toward the trees. A step ahead of her, Styles appeared to pitch forward and the next second the ground gave way beneath her feet. Her stomach flip-flopped as she plunged down into darkness. With no time to grab anything, she dropped like a stone. Tumbling into a space without light. Vines whipped at her face as she bounced off the wall and hit something furry. She heard a loud moan and the sound of a body hitting the ground. The next second, she hit bottom, but she hadn’t landed on dirt. A sharp pain slammed into one shoulder, but something had broken her fall. Winded, she gasped for breath and tried to rise, but where was she? Under her hands, she could feel a body. She’d fallen on Styles and he hadn’t said a word.
Panic gripped her, moving could be deadly. They could be on the edge of another mineshaft. The air was hardly breathable, dank and musky with the smell of decay. Beside her, a whine came out of the darkness. Bear was with them, and she reachedout one hand and found him trembling beside them. “Stay, Bear. There’s a good boy.”
Trying to breathe when her lungs ached, Beth moved her hand up Styles’ torso, found his neck, and felt for a pulse. Under her fingers, the artery throbbed reassuringly. She slid her hand to his chest and held her breath, waiting until it rose and fell slowly. All good signs, but he could be injured and being plastered on top of him wouldn’t be helping. She’d need to roll him onto his side, but if he’d broken his neck, she could kill him. In the pitch black she had no idea of the immediate danger surrounding them. Beside her, Bear edged closer and licked Styles’ face. She couldn’t see him but she could hear him. The dog was a protector and his handler was down. He’d never leave Styles’ side. Beth needed to be firm with him. “Okay, that’s enough licking, Bear. I’ll take care of him. Stay, for goodness’ sake. We might be stuck on a ledge.”
Blackness pressed against her like a wall, squeezing the air from her lungs. She needed Styles conscious and moved her hand over his body, found one shoulder, and gave him a shake. He still hadn’t moved. “Styles, are you okay?”
No response.
Fear she hadn’t known existed gripped her for his safety. It was as if a wall had dropped, exposing her emotions, and the uncertainty confused her. She shook him hard again. “Styles, you must wake up. Open your eyes. Wake up!”
Nothing.
THIRTY-SIX
Heart racing, she pushed her hand through the debris-strewn ground, feeling around for a safe place to move. In the dark she’d become helpless and needed to remove her backpack. Her powerful flashlight was in a side pocket. Moving like a snail, Beth rolled away from Styles and found the flashlight. She gasped as the beam moved around them. They were in a small overgrown tunnel. Dried carcasses of dead animals littered the ground, skin stretched grotesquely over bones, and empty eye sockets stared into nothingness. The walls seemed to close in all around her. As she moved the flashlight around, red eyes peered at her and rats scattered in a rush of tiny feet, running in all directions. It was her worst nightmare. She hated small confined spaces, and dark tunnels filled with rats rated high on her list. Pushing down the rising need to scream, she turned the flashlight on Styles and swallowed hard. His face was sheet white and blood trickled from a cut on his brow. He needed help, and she pulled her phone from the backpack to call search and rescue. They’d arrive in under an hour. She stared in dismay at the screen. “Why, when anything bad happens there’s always no darn bars?” She looked at Bear. “It looks like we’re on our own.”
Beside her, Bear whined and stood, shaking the dust from his coat. He looked fine. Beth put out a hand to him and rubbed his ears. “Are you okay?” It wasn’t as if the dog could reply, but just having him there, his intelligent eyes summing up the situation, made her feel better. “Right, I’ll need to check Styles and hope he hasn’t broken anything. Although how the heck I’m going to get you both out of here is anyone’s guess.”
She flinched as pain shot through her shoulder and realized she’d fallen on Styles’ rifle. It had fallen down one arm and lay half under him. With care, she dragged it away. Being the Tarot Killer had opened up her life to many experiences and knowledge. To take down the worst type of killers, she’d masqueraded as many types of people. This meant becoming someone else in every way possible: the herbalist, the physical therapist, the businesswoman, pole dancer, fortune teller, and sex worker, to name just a few of her personas. The physical therapist, she’d actually studied for, it being a profession she needed to complete a sting undercover operation for the FBI. She’d found the knowledge amazingly useful, not only for herself to recover from injuries sustained on the job but in situations like the one she found herself in right now. She stripped off her leather gloves and, with care, checked Styles’ head. He had a lump on the back of his skull, but his neck seemed to be uninjured. She moved over each shoulder, down his arms, and then checked his ribs and moved down his torso. She’d reached his hips when his voice startled her.
“If you’re planning on continuing, I’ll expect a wedding ring.” Styles blew out a long breath.
Relieved, Beth glared at him. “Oh, very funny. Don’t move. You’re bleeding. I’ll get the first aid kit. You were out cold, and I was checking for broken bones, is all.”
“I guessed as much.” He grinned at her and then winced. “What the heck happened? Where are we?” He lifted his headand moaned. “Oh, I must have cracked my head and I figure my ribs are bruised.”
Handing him the flashlight, Beth cleared her throat. “I tried to call for help but there’s no bars down here.” She sighed. “You fell down the shaft first, and then Bear and I landed on top of you. I’m not surprised your ribs are bruised. I was concerned you’d broken your neck. You didn’t look so good for a time.”
“My head hurts at the back. I guess my landing wasn’t so good.” He looked her over. “You’re hurt. What can I do to help?”
Shaking her head, Beth rubbed her shoulder. “I hit the rifle when I landed. It will be bruised, is all. I’m fine.” She glanced up the mineshaft. “So much for preventing another murder.”
“We’ll never get out of here in time to save her.” Styles let out a long sigh. “That poor woman is as good as dead now.” He shone the light around the confined space. “Ifwe ever get out of here.”
“First things first. Right now, you’re my priority.” Beth found the first aid box, pulled on examination gloves, and went about cleaning the laceration. It needed stitching and she pressed a dressing hard against it in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “Don’t move. It’s difficult seeing what I’m doing as it is, and this cut needs sutures.”
“Your bedside manner needs a little adjustment. You’re supposed to at least try and make me feel better, Beth.” Styles looked at her, but he was his usual calm, collected self. Nothing seemed to worry him.
Blowing out a breath of frustration, Beth flicked him a glance. “We’ll I did check on Bear first and he’s not complaining.” She pressed his chest to keep him still. “Now hold the light steady and stop complaining. Trust me, this is my best bedside manner.”
“You’re concerned about me, and you never look worried.” Styles put a hand to his head and Beth batted it away. “Are my brains hanging out or something?”
Shaking her head, Beth found a packet of Steri-Strips and stuck them along the cut, doing her best to pull the sides together. She shook her head. “No. You’ll be fine if you allow me to fix you up.” The distinct echo of a shot rang out high above them and she stared at Styles. “But I don’t like her chances.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Broken Bridge
Terrified, Cheyenne Dimple didn’t move a muscle. Playing dead was her only chance right now. She’d endured a terrible night with a local delivery driver. She’d watched in horror as he’d shot the clerk and then turned the gun on her. With his promises of release, she’d complied to his demands. Her parents had told her she could do anything she put her mind to, and so she’d kept her mouth shut and endured. The one thing about the entire horrific night was that, apart from the actual shooting, he’d made no attempt to conceal his identity from her. He must know she recognized him. He’d been by the general store delivering items many times she’d been there working. In fact, she had to bite her tongue to prevent using his name a few times. He’d been so nice during her ordeal, as if he had been doing her a great favor by hurting her. She’d realized very fast he wasn’t acting normal. This wasn’t the man she’d met previously. He was usually quiet without too much to say, but the moment he’d gotten her inside his vehicle he couldn’t stop talking.
If she’d had the guts to escape overnight, she’d have tried. The gun had slipped from his fingers and had lain on the mattress beside him most of the night. If she’d been strong enough, she’d have shot him dead and run away, but if he’d woken, he’d have beaten her again. If she had escaped, she had no idea where he’d taken her. Outside was wilderness and a long slow death of starvation, thirst, or exposure. She couldn’t take his truck and had no idea where he kept the keys. Her only hope was that he’d keep his word and set her free come morning. What a fool she’d been. Could anyone be that stupid to fall for his charm? Her mind wandered to her parents. How would they cope when they discovered what had happened to her? Would the church throw her out? Would her friends disown her? No man would want her now.
A remoteness came over her, a floating strange feeling like being on the edge of falling asleep. She blinked, watching ants walking in single file toward her prone body. The line of them stretching out beyond her field of vision. It was strange how one eye seemed to work just fine but the other didn’t. He’d shot her in the head, she understood that well enough, but it hadn’t hurt at all. The fall, face down on a patch of concrete, left over from when a shed was built there many years ago, hurt more. Her nose throbbed and her chin had scraped along the rough surface. As a pool of blood ran into her line of vision, a strange calmness came over her. She’d been shot in the head and left to die in the middle of a field of wheatgrass. No one would ever find her body, let alone come dashing to save her life.
She couldn’t allow him to get away with what he’d done to her. If there was one chance someone would find her, she needed to leave them a message to tell them who had killed her. She waited until the roar of an engine sounded along the highway and disappeared into the distance before attempting to move. The left side of her body was unresponsive, but she liftedher right arm and moving it like a snow angel, wiped away the dirt to clear a space on the concrete slab. She dipped one finger in the blood pooling around her face and painstakingly slowly, wrote his name and added the wordsmy killer.
