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Calm down, calm down. This didn’t change anything. He still would have had to check the other tents, and he’d been very quiet and careful. The same scenario still held: If she was inside the tent, the entrance would be zipped.
Davis’s tent entrance was open, the way the other two had been. Chad checked inside, just to be certain, then straightened and looked around. Where the hell was she, unless the bear had dragged her off? He wished he had some way of knowing for certain. She wasn’t in any of the tents, therefore she was either dead or trying to walk down the mountain. If she was walking, she couldn’t be making very good time, but the fact that it was possible that she was out there made it more urgent that he find those keys and get out of the country. He didn’t know all the paths on this mountain, but he did know the direction in which she’d be going: down. And her destination was the same as his.
Which meant he didn’t have any time to waste. He ducked into Davis’s tent, wiped away the water that was streaming down his face, and began searching. Davis hadn’t brought a lot with him; he had more clothes and gear in the back of the SUV, of course, but everything he’d brought to the camp was in his saddlebags and one small duffel. Chad dumped out the contents of both, muttering under his breath and willing the set of keys to be there. Nothing. He went through everything again, more slowly this time, running his hand into every pocket of every garment, even looking under the inflatable mattress and inside the sleeping bag.
The keys weren’t here.
He sat down on the mattress and took a deep breath. Damn it, he needed those keys! Surely to God Davis hadn’t kept them in his pocket, when there was no use for them up here, but logically, that was the only other place to look. They had to be on his body, or what was left of it. Chad shuddered at the thought of searching a partially eaten carcass, then wondered if the damn bear would swallow keys and clothes, too, the way sharks did. God.
Screw this. He didn’t have time to look for Davis’s remains and paw through bloody crap. Angie’s keys would do just fine; that wasn’t what he’d planned, and that rancher, Lattimore, would be suspicious when Angie’s truck disappeared, but that was a risk he’d have to take. He burst from the tent, for the first time in hours not even noticing the rain, and headed back toward Angie’s tent.
He went through the same process, emptying the contents of her duffel onto the tent floor, kicking things over and out of his way, then looked around for her saddlebags. Abruptly it sank in on him that the saddlebags weren’t here. He checked everywhere again, just to make sure. No saddlebags.
His heart began racing again, because the implication was obvious: She wasn’t dead. She was out there, heading down the mountain, and she had an hours’ long head start on him. She’d come here for supplies first; now that he took more notice of what was in the tent, he realized that her slicker and rifle were missing, too.
He had to make it down the mountain before she did. And no matter how nauseating, he had to find the keys to the SUV.
He left Angie’s tent and hurried once more to his own tent, got his rifle. The bear was probably long gone, but it wouldn’t hurt to have more firepower, just in case. Then he left the camp and cautiously headed toward the cook site, willing himself to move forward. He was furious with himself, because Angie was ahead of him, and she might screw up all his plans. Damn it, he should’ve made sure she was dead, instead of panicking the way he had, taking the horses and running like a scared little girl. Sure, everything had gone wrong. He hadn’t expected Angie to see him shoot Davis, hadn’t expected the bear—who would have?—and he’d panicked. There was no excuse. He couldn’t let that happen again, because look how things had spiraled out of control.
Steeling himself, he pushed through the trees. It wasn’t much farther; they hadn’t gone more than thirty or forty yards, had they? Yes, right there. They’d been standing right there. But Davis’s body was gone. Chad moved closer, and stepped on something squishy. The smell of shit made him gag. He looked down, blinking as it took him a moment to realize his foot wasn’t in a pile of crap, but instead was tangled in a length of shredded intestine. “Shit!” He leaped to the side, then completely lost it.
He couldn’t control his reaction. He turned his head and violently vomited onto the ground, gagging on bile. He hadn’t eaten anything in hours, so in short order he had the dry heaves. Jesus! The pieces of carnage scattered around were no longer recognizable as a man, much less as Mitchell Davis. The rain had washed a lot of the blood into the ground, but nothing could cleanse this scene, nothing could make it anything less than horrible.
When he could control his stomach, he wiped his streaming eyes, then his mouth. He took small steps forward, trying not to step on anything else that had once been part of Davis. Even in the rain, the stench was almost overpowering. He tried to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose, but then he could actually taste the stench. His stomach heaved again, and he went through another convulsive spasm, bent over from the waist, snot streaming from his nose. He found himself looking at a piece of a shirt beside what looked to be a part of a hand. Yeah, that was a finger—badly mauled, but still recognizable.
Then he found that, after the initial horror, his brain either began accepting what he was seeing, or shut down any reaction at all. When he could straighten up and breathe again, even though he was wheezing like a hundred-year-old geezer, somehow the carnage didn’t seem quite as bad. Maybe one piece of body wasn’t any worse than the next piece. Forget about Davis; he’d already been dead when the bear began gnawing on his body, so it hadn’t made any difference to him.
Feeling calmer, Chad scanned the clearing until he saw a scrap of denim. He made his way to it, looking only at the fabric, not the scattered remnants of what had once been a man. When he got closer, he saw that the denim appeared to be a scrap of a lower pant leg. That was useless. There were other blue scraps scattered here and there, some too small, too shredded, to be what he was looking for. If the keys had fallen to the ground, in this muddy mess, he might never find them. Damn Davis; why hadn’t he left the keys in the tent? Or let Chad drive?
There was nothing here. Despairing, he turned in a complete circle, looking beyond the clearing into the undergrowth of bushes, and finally something that, well, it wasn’t blue, but it was—He went closer, pushed the bush aside, yelped when a thorn cut across his palm.
He swallowed hard, then dropped to his haunches and stared at what was left of the torn, bloodstained jeans. Some of Davis was still in them. Not much, but he started gagging again. He steeled himself, then reached out and stuck his hand inside the pocket that was closest to him, searching for the keys. Even the inside of the pocket felt squishy and sticky. He closed his eyes, tried to pretend that these were just another pair of jeans, just another pocket. His fingers dipped all the way to the bottom of the pocket. No keys.
Fuck! In a fit of rage, he stood and kicked the piece of carcass. Now what was he supposed to do?
Think, he commanded himself. Think! What would Davis have done with the keys?
Then he almost slapped himself on the forehead. He was an idiot. Davis was right-handed, so of course the keys would be in the right pocket. He’d poked through the mess in the left pocket, not the right.
Using the toe of his boot, he kicked and prodded until the piece of carcass was rolled onto its other side. “One more time,” he whispered as he shoved his hand into the pocket. This time he wasn’t so squeamish; he had to have those keys. If the bear had eaten them, he didn’t know what he’d do. Ride his horse into the next town, steal a car, run like hell … The odds that plan would work were slim to none, and he knew it.
His fingers brushed metal. He grabbed the keys, pulled them out, held them clutched in his fist. He almost burst into tears.
For a minute he just stood there, eyes closed, keys clutched in his hand. He was so elated and relieved he almost couldn’t believe he’d actually found them, that something had gone right after such a fucking miserable night when everything else had gone wrong.
Okay. He was back from the brink of disaster. This would still work. Maybe Angie Powell was out there, but he had a horse and she didn’t, and he had a plan and she didn’t. He’d worked too hard for this to let one woman screw it up.
Maybe he’d run into her along the trail. Maybe he’d get another chance to kill her. He wouldn’t look for her—that would take too much time and priority number one was making his escape. But if he did run across her, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her. This time he’d make sure she was dead before he ran.
Holding the keys in his hands made all the difference. Things were back on track. He was in charge of his own fate again, and by God, nothing was going to get in his way.
Chapter Seventeen
The bear roused. After it had fed all it wanted, sated and tired, it had taken shelter from the storm under a giant deadfall that had partially blocked the wind and rain and slept through the rest of the night.
It had fed well the past few days. Early in the evening, before the storm, it had gone back to its previous kill to finish eating, and picked up the fresh scent trail of another human. He followed it to a place that was rich with odors, that of big animals mingled with more of the humans. Then the smell of fresh blood had all but exploded in his nose and he hadn’t been able to wait, the prey was there, the meat still hot and fresh, the blood still flowing. This prey hadn’t even run; catching it was much easier than before.
