CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The footbridge was an ancient steel-and-wood structure, creaking ominously under their weight as they stepped onto it. The river churned below, its rushing water a dark and powerful force in the moonlight.

Finn took the lead, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness ahead. Sheila followed closely behind, every sense on high alert, her fingers curled around the butt of her gun.

"So how are we supposed to find him out here?" she asked. "He could be anywhere in this vast wilderness."

"We head over to where we spotted him," Finn replied, his voice steady. "We listen for movement, look for signs."

"What kind of signs?" Sheila asked, scanning the forest around them.

"Broken branches, footprints, discarded items. Anything out of the ordinary." He paused as they reached the halfway point of the bridge, looking down into the swirling, silver-lit waters below.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of trees in the wind and the distant hoot of an owl. Then Sheila turned to Finn.

"There's something I don't get," she said. "All three of the other bodies were left in the salt flats, but this fourth one he leaves here, in a nearby campground. Why? The salt flats are remote, isolated. This location is risky, with potential witnesses all around."

Finn shrugged, his gaze still on the river. "Maybe he's getting sloppy. Or maybe he's changing up his game."

"But why?" Sheila pressed, feeling a chill ruffle her hair as the wind picked up speed.

"I don't know," Finn said, finally turning to face her. "We'll find out when we get our hands on him."

"As long as he doesn't get his hands on us first," Sheila murmured under her breath.

Finn smiled grimly. "Over my dead body."

As they continued their way, the moon sank lower in the sky, the shadows grew darker, and the air turned colder. They tread carefully over fallen branches and slick leaves, their boots whispering against the underbrush, their flashlights bobbing through the darkness like ghostly lanterns. Sheila's heart pounded in her chest.

They broke through the trees, and across the river, Sheila could see the riverbank where she and Finn had been when they spotted the figure. She looked around, wondering exactly where he had been, and noticed impressions in the soft earth.

Boot prints.

The prints led into the forest, then disappeared in the undergrowth.

Finn followed her gaze and crouched, examining the marks. "He was here," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's see where he went."

They followed the tracks slowly, each step careful, each breath held in check. The forest closed in on them, trees towering overhead, their gnarled roots twisting and protruding from the ground like ancient skeletons.

Suddenly, Finn held up a hand. He tilted his head, listening. Sheila froze beside him, straining to hear over the pounding of her own heart.

A rustle. A snap of a twig.

They turned their flashlights in the direction of the sound and saw a vague silhouette darting between the trees, just barely discernible in the gloom of the forest.

"Let's go," Finn said, breaking into a sprint with Sheila close on his heels. The forest became a blur as they chased after the figure, dodging branches and leaping over fallen logs. The rush of adrenaline overpowered Sheila's fear, and her every muscle tensed in anticipation.

As they neared a narrow clearing, Sheila caught a flash of white—the telltale flick of a deer's tail.

She slowed, disappointed. "Hold up," she said. "That's just a white tailed deer."

Finn pulled up. "You sure?"

She nodded. "Pretty sure. Besides, look at the tracks." She aimed her flashlight at the ground. There in the dirt were the cloven prints of a deer.

Finn shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking very tired. "Damn it," he muttered, the frustration clear in his voice. "So, what do we do now?"

Sheila shrugged, leaning against a tree. "We keep going," she said, forcing determination into her voice. "He's here somewhere. We can't stop now."

Finn sighed but nodded. "Which way do you want to go? We could— "

Before he could finish, both of their phones began to ring at once. Sheila answered her first. It was Dawson.

"I need you to get back to the campground right away," he said, the urgency in his tone unmistakable.

"What is it?" Sheila asked, worried.

"Your killer must've doubled back across the river, because he just stole a ranger vehicle and fled the campground."

***

Sheila reached the bridge first, pelting across it as she raced back toward the campground. "Come on!" she shouted to Finn.

She reached the far side of the bridge, climbed a hill, and burst through a thicket, leaves and twigs snapping loudly in her wake. As she took a moment to catch her breath, she spotted their patrol car parked haphazardly in the campground's gravel lot. Finn closed in behind her, determination plastered across his weathered face.

"Keys!" he yelled as they neared the car, holding out his hand.

"No way!" she answered. "I'm driving this time!"

Finn must have realized there was no point arguing because he simply nodded, allowing Sheila to slide into the driver's seat. She started the car and floored it, gravel crunching under the tires as they sped out of the lot.

The road was dark and winding, trees casting long, ominous shadows under the pale moonlight. The stolen ranger vehicle was nowhere in sight, but Sheila held on to the hope that they might still catch up.

Finn was on the radio now, getting updates and barking orders to every officer within range. "Suspect is driving a stolen ranger vehicle, last seen headed east out of Coldwater Campgrounds…"

"Where does this road lead?" she shouted to Finn.

"To the Mirage Salt Flats," he said, gripping the dashboard as she took a sharp turn.

That got Sheila's attention. It made sense that the killer would return to the area where he'd committed most of his crimes. Maybe he lived nearby, or he was simply familiar with the salt flats and so he wanted to try to lose his pursuers there. Either way, though, Sheila wasn't just going to let him slip through her fingers.

She gunned the engine, leaning forward and searching the road for a pair of brake lights. The Utah countryside whizzed by in a blur of monotone browns and greens, the endless road stretching out before them. In the distance, a faint trail of dust could be seen hovering above the road.

"There!" She pointed to the cloud of dust rising against the backdrop of night. "That's got to be him!"

Finn nodded, his fingers tightening around the small radio. "Be advised, we have a possible confirmation…"

The road began to level out as they approached the Mirage Salt Flats, the terrain changing from bumpy forestland to vast, flat expanses of salt. The dust trail in the distance became more defined, a beacon of hope in the desolate landscape.

"Be ready," Finn warned, keeping his gaze fixated on the distant vehicle. "He might try something."

Sheila's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as she pressed harder on the gas. The speedometer needle climbed higher.

The stolen truck suddenly swerved off the road, kicking up another cloud of dust. It sped across the open expanse of the salt flats, tires skidding in a desperate bid to escape. Sheila didn't hesitate, swerving off the road and gunning the accelerator. The car jolted across the rough terrain, but she kept her focus on the taillights ahead.

"Damn it," Finn muttered. "He's trying to lose us in the salt flats."

"We won't let him," Sheila said through gritted teeth. The stolen vehicle swerved again, kicking up more dust.

As they closed in on the truck,

Sheila squinted through the cloud of dust, and her heart stopped. The truck was headed straight for a massive sinkhole that had opened up in the middle of the flats.

"Look out!" Finn shouted.

"I see it!" she shouted back, yanking the wheel hard to the left. Tires skidded on salt and stones as they swerved away from the pit. But the stolen truck didn't slow down, barreling straight into the sinkhole.

"Oh, God," Finn whispered as they skidded to a halt at the chasm's edge. The taillights of the stolen vehicle were disappearing into the darkness below.

Sheila sat frozen, her breath hitching as she stared at the gaping sinkhole. For a moment, they could only hear the echo of rocks crumbling into the abyss, then utter silence. Dust and salt gradually settled, revealing the empty expanse of the salt flats under the cold moonlight .

Finn pulled out his flashlight and shone it into the sinkhole. "There!" He pointed into the murky gloom. Headlights shone weakly from the bottom of the pit, reflecting off salt-encrusted walls. The truck was nose down, half buried in loose soil and salt, wheels still spinning uselessly in the air.

"Dispatch," Sheila said into her radio, her voice shaky but firm. "We have a…we have a situation. Send EMS to our location immediately. We have a vehicle down in a sinkhole on the Mirage Salt Flats."

Finn was already unbuckling his seatbelt, pulling out his gun and flashlight as he made to exit the car. "I'm going down there," he said.

Sheila quickly got out too, retrieving her own flashlight from the dashboard. "I'm coming with you."

"That's not—"

"Not negotiable," she said.

Finn sighed but didn't argue further. Together, they approached the edge of the sinkhole, their flashlights casting long, wavering beams into the darkness below.

Descending into the pit was far from easy, each footstep causing a mini-avalanche of salt and dirt. Their only saving grace was a narrow ledge that spiraled down into the sinkhole. They made their way gingerly, aware that any sudden movement could send them hurtling down into the dark abyss.

The sight that met them at the bottom chilled Sheila's blood. The stolen truck was wedged nose-first into the ground, the bed of the truck tilted upwards at an impossible angle. The windshield was shattered, and through the spiderweb of cracked glass, she caught a glimpse of a figure slumped over the steering wheel.

Sheila moved toward the truck while Finn kept his gun and flashlight trained on the surrounding gloom. The figure in the truck was unmoving, slumped heavily over the steering wheel. A pool of something dark stained the front of his shirt.

"Finn," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. He was at her side in an instant, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness to illuminate the cab of the truck.

"What the hell?" he asked.

Sheila recognized the figure's horseshoe hair, hooked nose, and cleft chin. It was none other than Otis Leary, the ranger who had been the first to respond when they'd called for reinforcements to search for the killer. Now that Sheila thought about it, this was probably his truck .

But why in the world had he fled in it? He couldn't possibly be the killer, could he?

"He was already at the campground," Finn murmured, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. "Maybe—"

Leary coughed, stirring. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He twisted his head around and peered up at the two officers, looking weak and pitiful.

"Never even saw the sinkhole until I was in it," he said, then coughed. "So much for situational awareness, eh?"

"Why'd you flee?" Sheila asked. "Where were you going?"

"I was watching the entrance to the campground, making sure the killer didn't get away…and then suddenly he was stealing my truck. I called it in and tried to stop him…but instead he forced me to drive."

Sheila peered around warily. "Where is he now?"

"Jumped out a while back," Leary said.

"So why the hell did you keep driving?" Finn demanded.

"Because he told me he'd kill my family if I didn't. Had a picture of my granddaughters hanging from the mirror, and the thought of him paying them a visit…"

His voice trailed off, his eyes glassy as the gravity of his situation set in. Sheila, feeling a surge of sympathy, gently patted him on the shoulder.

"We'll get you out of here, Otis," she said firmly.

"I need to warn them," Leary said, weakly trying to unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Stay still!" Finn warned. "We'll have units sent to check on them. More than likely, it was just an empty threat. Just sit tight."

Sheila and Finn retreated a few steps from the truck.

"The killer knew we'd been tipped off," Sheila said, her frustration mounting. "He got away because we were focused on Leary, just like he wanted."

Finn ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, and now we've lost any chance of catching him tonight. At least we know Cassandra Jenkins' theory was right, though. We can predict where the killer will leave the next body."

"Actually, we can't," Sheila said. "We interrupted him before he could draw the symbols…so we have no idea what he's going to do next."