Never Die Alone

“It ended badly,” Bentz had offered.

“Well, really?” A sniff of self-righteousness. “What could she expect?”

Unable to extract any more information from the woman, the detectives had left her to her snooping and exited the building.

Montoya reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of nonexistent cigarettes, then apparently remembered that he’d quit. Frowning, he said, “I’ll tell you what. I’m glad that old buttinsky isn’t my neighbor.”

“Buttinsky?” Bentz repeated.

“A term my mother used for people who couldn’t keep their noses in their own business. It applies here. With Frances not-a-guy Kowalski.”

“I guess.” Bentz noticed a news van for WKAM setting up shop on the street. “Looks like the press has caught wind of this.”

“A good thing.”

“I suppose.” Bentz wasn’t all that interested in talking to anyone from the media. Deep down, he hated dealing with the “fourth estate,” though it was part of his job. He considered all reporters to be a necessary evil. The relationship between cops and press should be symbiotic, right? Each helping the other? Both groups looking out for the good of the public? But in Bentz’s opinion, too many members of the press were interested in sensational journalism, creating news rather than reporting it, causing a greater public awareness, but also stirring up fear and sometimes panic. Hence, he was careful in dealing with the press and usually tended to avoid everyone who carried a press card.

The TV crew wasn’t alone. Also standing near Montoya’s Mustang was Jase Bridges from the Observer, the reporter angling for a job in the department. It had happened before, when someone from the outside had landed the position, a reporter no less. But Bentz wasn’t certain that Jason Bridges was the man for the job.

“Hey,” Bridges said. “How about a quick interview?”

Bentz shot him a glare. “You know the deal, Bridges. Nothing for me to say.”

“Working girl, the victim?” he asked, undeterred. Obviously the homicide had already hit the wires. From the corner of his eye, Bentz noticed the approach of Brenda Convoy, a reporter from WKAM. A cameraman trailed a step behind her, shoulder cam in place.

“Look, Bridges, you’re not the PIO yet,” Bentz told Bridges, ignoring the TV reporter. “So talk to someone from that office. We’ve got notifications to make and a case to solve. Until I’ve got a good reason to share the investigation with the public, you’re out of luck. At least with me.” And so is she, he silently added, watching Brenda Convoy hurry along, high heels clicking unsteadily over the uneven sidewalk. In one smooth motion Bentz slid into the passenger seat of Montoya’s Mustang and closed the door. A second later, without a word, his partner hit the gas, maneuvering the sporty car so that it melded seamlessly into traffic.

Pain throbbing in her ankle, Zoe pushed herself to keep moving through the woods.

Through the branches, she saw that the sun was climbing higher in the sky. She’d watched it rise, knew which direction was east, not that it helped her much as she had no idea where she was, couldn’t conceive of where she would find civilization. But at least she was convinced she wasn’t walking in circles. She was able to limp with the aid of a stick, and with each torturous step she put as much distance as she could between herself and the prick who had abducted her. Sick bastard. God, she wished she’d killed him. Maybe, by now, Chloe had finished him off.

Zoe’s heart twisted.

Chloe.

Where was she?

Safe?

Or on the run like Zoe?

“Please, God, no,” Zoe whispered through cracked lips. She pressed her fingertips to them and found them encrusted, probably with mud. Maybe even some dried blood mixed in, too. She was still naked but sunburned and bitten by mosquitoes or whatever creepy crawly things had found her bare skin.

Light-headed from the lack of food, water, and sleep, she stopped and listened again, leaned on her stick, and strained to hear. Over the sounds of insects buzzing and a toad croaking, she heard the hum of traffic, wheels spi

She would make it.

She’d get to that damned road and flag someone down, someone who would drive her to safety. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them quickly away as if anyone here in this godforsaken lowland forest could see her. She’d spent a night listening to bats and owls, looking out for gators and even bears, but finally, she was about to be rewarded. She was going to make it.

But, damn it, she couldn’t tell how far away the road was.

A mile?

Two?

Five?

She wasn’t certain, but she’d get there, pushing through pain, thirst, and hunger. She just had to keep heading in the direction of the sound of engines and tires.

Through the lacy branches overhead she spied an egret sailing in the blue sky, long-necked and snowy white, flying gracefully. She almost smiled as she hobbled forward and brushed the gauze of a spiderweb out of her face.

Maybe she would reach the road in fifteen minutes.

Or it could take an hour.

She wouldn’t let herself think that it would be any longer. Surely she’d find civilization long before nightfall and not have to spend another frightening night alone in the wilderness.

Gritting her teeth, she headed toward the sound.

Somewhere in the far distance she heard a dog barking. Rapid, thunderous barks, as if it had picked up the scent of an animal it was tracking. Poor beast, she thought, relating to the fox or duck or whatever the hound was tracking.

The dog’s cries seemed to get louder and . . . closer. Her heart stopped as a horrifying thought slithered through her brain.

What if the dog was tracking her?

“No,” she said, but the thought took hold.

What if the hound was owned by the psycho who had abducted her?

What if, even now, she, not some woodland creature, was the hunter’s ultimate prey?

Impossible! She’d crossed the river. She’d gotten herself some distance from that horrible cabin with its dank cellar. And all that time she’d spent in the water . . . it had to make it difficult to track her. But still . . .

She swallowed hard. Told herself she was hallucinating. She was safe. Far away from the whack job with his stupid fascination about birthdays.

Right?

But the dog continued to howl, a horrid, plaintive sound that echoed through this shady forest of hickory and pine. Panic skittered down her spine.

How in the world would she, limping as she was, outrun a dog?

It’s not chasing you. Don’t freak out. Just keep moving. Head to the highway. Find a motorist. Get to safety.

And, for God’s sake, Zoe, get there fast!

CHAPTER 24

In her practice, Bria

Unfortunately, her usual techniques were not helping her maintain objectivity with her last client of the day. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe her worries over Chloe and Zoe were wearing away her concentration. Whatever the reason, today she found it impossible to remain emotionally detached from this widower who was heartsick at the loss of his wife, a husband who was having trouble moving on. He didn’t break down, wouldn’t allow himself to shed a tear, but his chin wobbled and he twisted his gnarled hands around a handkerchief so hard the thin square of cloth had become a tightly wound paisley snake.