Page 50 of Silent Prey

He stared at her for several long moments. Then, finally, he sighed and nodded. "Okay, Dana. Okay."

It was clear to Dana he was acknowledging her stance rather than agreeing with her, but that was okay. He didn't have to believe—she would just believe for the both of them.

They mounted the ATVs, revving the engines into a loud growl. Kicking up a cloud of dust, they tore off across the landscape, the harsh sun reflecting off their mirrored sunglasses as they headed toward the dense wilderness in search of the missing Beverly King.

The ATVs were too loud for them to talk, so they rode in silence, following a narrow trail through thick undergrowth that led deeper into the park. The vegetation on either side became denser, a wild tapestry of greens and browns. Birds took to the skies in startled flight, their piercing cries drowned out by the drone of the engines.

As they neared the northeastern area Jones had pointed out, the terrain grew rocky and treacherous. Sheila, driving in the lead, slowed as she searched for any sign of the cabin Ranger Jones had mentioned.

Her knuckles whitened on the grips of the ATV as she scanned the area. They were deep in the wilderness now; the scent of pine filled her nostrils. Despite the apparent calmness of nature, however, a sense of urgency hung in the air.

To her left, she noticed a faint trail that veered off from the main path and veined into a series of dense bushes. Squinting at it, she saw what looked like a footpath paved with a mixture of trampled grass and compressed soil. It was barely visible, and she might have missed it if she hadn’t looked directly at it.

She turned off her engine. Finn, who had come to a stop beside her, did likewise. As the sound of the engines faded, the vast silence of the wilderness returned. They dismounted, leaving their helmets hanging on the handlebars.

They moved cautiously along the faint trail, their senses heightened. The stinging scent of pine intensified as they ventured in deeper. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves that crunched gently underfoot.

Then, as they passed a particularly large rosebush, Sheila saw it: an old hunting cabin, its exterior worn and battered by years of neglect. Its solitary window was clouded with dirt and grime, offering no view into the darkness inside.

Sheila and Finn both drew their sidearms and approached at a crouch, their eyes focused on the ramshackle structure. The silence of the surrounding woods seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

Suddenly, a branch snapped somewhere behind the cabin. The abrupt noise shattered the stillness, and both Sheila and Finn spun toward the sound.

A deer bounded away, its white tail flashing through the underbrush. Sheila and Finn let out their held breaths simultaneously, lowering their weapons and sharing a nervous laugh.

"Damn wildlife," Finn muttered, turning his attention back to the cabin.

They approached slowly, checking around the corners before finally standing before the worn wooden door. It hung slightly ajar and creaked in the breeze.

Finn gave the door a perfunctory knock before slowly pushing it open.

Inside was a single room thick with dust and cobwebs. Light filtered through holes in the roof, casting long ghost-like fingers across the room. A rickety table sat in the middle, its surface littered with remnants of the past—abandoned playing cards, a rusty hunting knife, empty bottles. An old, moth-eaten mattress was pushed against one corner, its once vibrant pattern faded and stained.

As Sheila and Finn began moving around, Sheila’s intuition buzzed under her skin like an incessant fly beating against a windowpane.

“He’s not here,” Finn muttered. “Probably never was.” He kicked at a discarded can of beans, frustrated.

Sheila glanced out the window and noticed the faintest trace of a footpath leading away from the cabin into the dense underbrush. Even from a distance, she could see the distinct mark of boot prints.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she told Finn, pointing. “There’s a trail!”

They hurried outside. Sheila paused, crouching to study the boot print, but Finn strode forward.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s catch this bastard.”

As Sheila scanned the trail, however, she noticed something strange about the ground, like it had been oddly disturbed. There was a square of space where the light seemed to disappear, almost as if there were no ground beneath the leaves.

“Wait!” she cried, but she was a second too late. Finns stepped on the patch of leaves, and there was a crunch as his legs broke through a series of branches interlaced across a hole. He sank in up to his knee and cried out, grimacing.

Sheila hurried over and peered in. The trap was lined with a number of sharpened stakes, one of which had gashed Finn's leg, slashing through his jeans and into his flesh. Blood soaked the fabric and dripped down into the pit below.

"Damn it!" she muttered under her breath. There was no time to panic, she reminded herself as she knelt beside the pit, trying her best to suppress her mounting fear.

Finn was gritting his teeth, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tried to pull himself free. "I'm fine," he grunted as he tried to pull himself out of the pit, but there was no mistaking the pain in his voice.

“Like hell you are," she said, extending an arm for him to grasp. With a heave, she helped pull him from the sharpened pit and onto solid ground.

He winced as he propped himself up against a nearby tree, his hand going instinctively to his injured leg. "Damn," he muttered under his breath, pulling up the leg of his jeans to inspect the wound. The deep gash was oozing blood.

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