Page 41 of Silent Prey

“Is that right? Well, she’s free to leave whenever she wants. One less mouth to feed.”

Sheila shook her head at him, making no effort to hide her contempt. “How do you live with yourself?”

The man stepped closer, his breath reeking of alcohol. “You think she’s some angel?" he sneered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "She's a troublemaker, always causing problems. I can't even count the times she's been suspended from school."

"She's a child who's been failed by her father. Instead of providing her with love and care, you chose to treat her like a punching bag."

A vein bulged out on the man's forehead, and his fists balled at his sides. “I’m toughening her up, preparing her for the world. You don’t just get everything you want handed to you on a silver platter. Sooner or later, that little bitch needs to get it through her thick head—”

She punched without thinking—it was pure instinct. The man’s head rocked back, and when he had recovered, he gazed at Sheila with surprise.

“Son of a—” He took a swing, which was exactly what Sheila had been waiting for. She blocked it and hit him again, driving him back. When he reached for a bottle, she knocked it out of his hand. “You’ll never…touch her…again!” she shouted, punching the man hard in the nose. He fell back, blood trickling through his mustache, and gazed up at Sheila with a mixture of hate and fear. Sheila raised her fist, ready to strike again…

And then stopped herself.

“Go on,” he said thickly. “Get it all out.”

She stared at him. No—if she continued this, she would be just like him, inflicting her own pain on others through violence. This wasn’t just about Star, but about Natalie, too, and all Sheila’s pent-up guilt for her sister’s death. Beating this man wouldn’t do anyone any good.

She lowered her fist and straightened. “If you ever touch her again,” she said, “I’ll be back.”

The man spat blood onto the carpet. “Not much chance of that. She’s never living here again.”

Sheila nodded, feeling relieved at this decision. The thought of Star ever sitting foot in this place again filled her with disgust. Without another word, she turned around and went out, shutting the door behind her.

To her surprise and relief, Star was still sitting in the car. It looked like she’d dozed off, but she sprang up when Sheila opened the door.

“What happened?” Star asked. “What’d he say?”

“He’s not going to touch you again,” Sheila said. “How do you feel about staying at my place for a while?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Christopher Townsend was a little disappointed how easy it had been to capture the woman.

Beverly King had been crouched on her haunches, peering into a nest of Gadwall duck eggs, when he spotted her in the slanting light of dusk.

All alone. None of the other members of her research team were within sight.

It had been easy enough to sneak up behind her and deliver a swift blow to her head. She'd crumpled without a sound, falling into the tall grasses at the edge of the lake, her wide-brimmed hat tumbling away in the soft summer breeze.

Now she lay on a bed of pine boughs at the back of his den, her face pale in the fading light glowing through the cave’s opening. She looked peaceful. Christopher wondered if she was dreaming.

Out of a dream and into a nightmare, he thought, amused.

While she slept, he pawed through her pack of field research equipment, examining the gadgets and gizmos that she used to monitor the island's flora and fauna. He found her name tag attached to a notebook filled with meticulously organized notes.

"Beverly King," he said to himself, flipping through the pages of her observations. "How’d you wind up here?”

It was pitiful, he thought—the way these scientists tramped across the island, studying and documenting the world around them as if they were somehow separate from it, as if they were a spectator and not a participant in life’s unfolding drama. His methods, he felt, were more respectful of nature. He was a predator; she, and the other women, were his prey. It was survival of the fittest—the law of the land.

He knew law enforcement was scrambling to make sense of his actions. He could almost see their desperate attempts at getting inside his mind, trying to decipher his pattern, his modus operandi. They would fail. He was smarter than them—more attuned to the primal rhythms of life and death that governed this brush-stroked wilderness. The screams of his victims were akin to the terrified bleat of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a coyote. It was the song of life, written in blood and sung in the face of death.

He left Beverly unconscious on the bed of pine boughs and ventured outside into the thickening twilight. The cool air kissed his sunburnt skin as he gazed at the hauntingly beautiful view of the shimmering lake. The island was his playground, a theater for his deadly game.

The last rays of sunset were fading away as he moved through the undergrowth with practiced stealth. His ears pricked up at the distant hoot of an owl, the wind rustling through the leaves. The night was alive with a symphony only he could appreciate.

It had been difficult to resist the urge to end Beverly’s life the moment he came across her, but he needed time to prepare. The snake, the badger, the bighorn sheep, even the antelope—they had been easy targets for a hunter as skilled as himself. But the next one—that would be a different challenge altogether.

---