Page 5

FOUR

STANTON FOREST

Terrified, Amy Clark stumbled along root-covered trails. The uneven ground beneath her feet made every step more difficult. Her blood-caked clothes and skin stank like death. Her legs ached and her tongue stuck to the roof of her parched mouth. Even with the thick jacket she’d brought for the trip, overnight had been a horrifying nightmare and so cold. The sun had been up for some time now, and as she walked, sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, soaking the back of her shirt. The prisoners had their own ideas about what they wanted to do to her, and their suggestions terrified her. Her experience with psychopaths was limited to the few shows she’d watched on TV. She understood it was small things that triggered them into an uncontrollable rage. There could be no reasoning with them, so her only chance to stay alive would be to remain as passive as possible and say nothing.

They’d walked all night, only stopping occasionally for a short break. These men had little to do in prison but work out, and all of them were extremely fit. Mason Margos did all the talking. It seemed that he’d earned respect in the world of maximum security prisoners. As they walked, the smell of woodsmoke drifted toward them, and Amy searched the gaps in the pine trees for any sign of a cabin. Fear gripped her belly. The prisoners had been talking about finding a cabin where they could hole up to get some sleep. As they rounded the bend, the trail ended at a dirt road leading to a small cabin. The roof held antennas and two solar panels. A washing line with an assortment of large men’s clothing waved in the breeze. The distinctive prison garb worn by the prisoners wouldn’t go unnoticed and one glimpse of them would be enough for the homeowner to come out blasting. Beside her, Margos removed the clip from her weapon and handed it to her. She took it and just stared at him.

“Put it in your holster. When the guy comes out, tell him someone crashed into our bus when we were working alongside the highway. It knocked out your communication with the prison and you need assistance.” Margos waved Romero forward. “Keep your gun in her back. If she says one wrong word, shoot her.”

Realizing the reason they hadn’t murdered or raped her, Amy swallowed hard. They wanted to use her as their spokesperson. A distraction to lure people into a false sense of security. If she wanted to stay alive, she must do what they say. Sooner or later, search parties would be out looking for them. If she could just stay alive long enough, help would be on the way. When Romero dug the pistol in her back, she flinched but nodded in agreement. From what she knew about these prisoners, they’d all murdered women. Maybe they would just tie this guy up and be on their way. A knot of worry caught in her throat as the door to the cabin creaked open to reveal the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. The gun in her back propelled her forward a couple of steps. “Hello, we’ve been in a wreck. Do you have a phone I could use? Mine was damaged. I need to get transport for these inmates.”

“Why is a young woman like you walking through the forest with prisoners? Don’t you figure that’s a might dangerous?” A man’s graying head peeked around the door and his eyes widened. “How come you’re covered in blood?”

Trying to stop shaking, Amy met the man’s inquisitive gaze. “We were collecting garbage alongside the highway and a truck clipped our bus. The driver died on scene. This is his blood. I couldn’t just leave the prisoners on the side of the road, could I?” She rested one hand on the handle of her empty weapon. “Do you have a phone I can use or not?”

“No phone, but you can speak to someone on the CB radio. The local sheriff’s office has one now. Come along inside. They can wait there.” The man opened the door, dropping the shotgun so it pointed to the ground.

Before Amy could take a step forward, the bang from Romero’s pistol deafened her. She gaped in horror as red blossomed across the shirt of the man in the doorway. Clutching his chest, he tumbled down the steps, falling flat on his face, arms and legs spread out like a snow angel. Horrified, she stared as the life drained out of him and his eyes stared into nothing.

“Get rid of him. I smell pigs.” Margos grinned. “Go and feed them.” Two of the prisoners rushed forward, took one arm each, and dragged the dead body away like yesterday’s garbage. He turned to Amy, slid out her empty pistol from its holster, and slammed in the clip. He indicated with the gun toward the washing line.

“Collect those clothes. We need to get out of this prison gear, and they look like they’re going to fit just fine.”

Trying to push the image of the poor man from her mind, Amy complied without uttering a word. As she pulled the clothes from the washing line, her heart thundered at the thought of spending time locked inside the cabin with the men. This might be her last few minutes on earth. She gazed up at the trees and the mountains trying to memorize one last bit of beauty to keep locked in her mind. The washing collected, she dragged her legs toward the cabin and up the steps trying to avoid the blood spatter. She stood in the middle of the small room as the men ransacked the cabin.

“See I told you she’d be useful.” Margos smiled at the others and then turned back to her. “Get to work and cook us a meal before I change my mind and feed you to the pigs. On second thought, first go and wash up.” His expression changed and cold eyes raked her body. “Washing is a privilege, and you need to earn them—right? Step out of line, complain once, and we’ll punish you.” He kicked her backpack across the floor to her. “Use the clothes in your backpack.” He waved a hand under his nose. “You’re stinking up the place.”