Page 26 of Silent Prey

"Everything okay?" Finn asked.

“Yeah," Sheila said, pocketing her phone and lifting her gaze to meet his. “I was just talking to my dad about something.”

Finn nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions, for which Sheila was grateful. In the silence that followed, Sheila felt a sudden urge for clarity, a need to understand where she and Finn stood.

“Listen,” she said. “After the last case, you said some things about losing me, and how hard that would be…”

Finn wiped his mouth with a napkin, then sat back. He had an excellent poker face.

"I just wanted to say," she continued, "given everything going on recently—"

That was as far as she got before she was interrupted by the buzzing of her phone. Smiling apologetically, she pulled it out.

It was Hank Dawson.

The boss, she mouthed to Finn as she answered. “Evening, chief.”

“Are you still on Antelope Island?” Dawson asked without preamble. His tone troubled Sheila.

“No,” she said, frowning. “Why—”

“Well, you’d better get back there in a hurry. Your killer just claimed number four.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Antelope Island State Park was a very different place at night.

As Sheila and Finn hiked toward the crime scene where the body of the latest victim, a thirty-year-old nurse named Diana Morales, had been found, Sheila felt a chill that had little to do with the drop in temperature. The island was alive with a cacophony of night-time sounds: crickets chirping, twigs snapping underfoot, the faint rustle of unseen animals in the undergrowth. Ordinarily Sheila would have found these sounds intriguing, maybe even comforting.

But it was different when she knew she was sharing the island with a serial killer who could be hiding behind any tree, watching them from beneath any bush.

Finn clicked his flashlight on, and its glow cut a path through the darkness, illuminating the trail they were following. Amid the dark silhouettes of trees and shrubs, the light seemed oddly intrusive, an unwelcome trespasser in a world where humans did not belong.

As they rounded a bend, the crime scene came into view. Yellow police tape cordoned off a small clearing where several flashlight beams moved around, revealing the presence of a trio of park rangers speaking in low voices. One of them, a woman with rounded shoulders and a kind, maternal face, noticed the two officers and moved toward them.

“You must be from the sheriff’s department,” she said. "I'm Janice, the head park ranger."

Sheila extended a hand, which Janice shook solemnly. "Officer Sheila Stone," she said. "This is Officer Finn Mercer."

Janice nodded before turning toward the cordoned off area. Her face was drawn with worry, cheeks pale under the flashlight beam. "We found her along the beach, by a stream that trickles down from the hills. It's not a location many visitors trek to since it's off the main trail."

“Who found the body?” Finn asked.

“I did,” Janice said. “A couple hours ago, Miss Morales was reported missing by two of her friends. So we started a search, and—well, you’ll see how she looks. Nobody’s touched her.”

Sheila nodded, bracing herself for the sight as they followed Janice to the body. The moon was out in full force, casting long shadows on the ground. The cool wind rustled through the leaves overhead, as if whispering secrets of a tragic tale.

Diana Morales lay motionless on her side less than ten feet from the edge of the Great Salt Lake, her body curled in the fetal position. A mane of dense black hair hid her face from view.

Nearby, perched atop a stack of stones like some pagan offering, a fist-sized object gleamed in the light.

Gleaming with blood.

Sheila’s mouth went dry. “Is that—”

“It’s not hers,” Janice said quickly. “It’s animal—the heart of a pronghorn, I’m told.”

Sheila thought back to the animal parts found near the other bodies: badger fur, a snake skin, the horn of a bighorn sheep, and now the heart of a pronghorn antelope.

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