Page 6 of Silent Prey

“Damn it,” Finn said, peering around. “He must have climbed up these rocks. Maybe we can pick up the tracks again on the other side.”

Together they started to clamber up the rocky incline. The rocks were sharp and jagged under their hands, covered in a layer of salt that made Sheila's palms itch. Reaching the top, they surveyed the views on the other side.

The sight that greeted them was a vast, barren expanse of hardened earth sprinkled with patches of dead shrubs, the Great Salt Lake sprawled majestically in the distance. Sheila searched for any further tracks, but there were none.

The trail had gone cold.

“We’ll have to send out a team to search the area,” Finn said, sitting down on a rock and wiping sweat from his forehead. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and pick up the trail again.”

Sheila nodded absently, but she said nothing. Instead, she stared down the length of the island, wondering if Bethany's killer was somewhere nearby, hidden from sight.

Just then, the wind picked up, and she caught a foul odor that caused her to wrinkle her nose. "What is that?" she said.

Finn, grimacing, pointed to a cluster of stones nearby. “I think it’s coming from over there. Hear the flies buzzing?”

Feeling increasingly uneasy at what she might discover, Sheila rose and approached the cluster of stones. As she peered closer, a swarm of flies flew out, buzzing past her. She swatted at them and stepped back.

Once the flies had cleared, Sheila leaned forward again. There was a dark shape curled within the protective ring of stones. Something small and furry with a triangular head.

“Is that—” Finn began.

“Yes,” Sheila said, realizing she should have known what to expect. “It’s a badger.”

CHAPTER THREE

Seated at a desk in one of the several ranger stations scattered around Antelope Island, Sheila searched for the news article that the sight of the badger had prompted her to remember.

“It was a snake, you said?” Finn, leaning both muscular forearms on the desk, asked. They were alone in the room, a rustic space fitted with pine tables, a couple of wooden chairs, and a corkboard pinned with various maps and flyers. A wooden plaque on the wall displayed the words “Antelope Island State Park" in carved letters.

"Yes," Sheila replied, her fingers rapidly skimming through news article after news article on the computer. "A few weeks ago, I happened upon an article about this young woman who was found dead here on the island. It stood out to me because there was something about a snake skin… Ah! Here it is.”

The article described how a woman named Amanda Hayes, a wildlife photographer, had been found dead near the northern edge of the island six weeks earlier. The cause of death was drowning, according to the ME. Draped across the victim's throat, investigators had found the bloody skin of a gopher snake.

“Well,” Finn murmured, leaning closer to read the article, “that’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” He was close enough that Sheila could smell his cologne. What was it, sandalwood?

“Quite a coincidence, indeed,” she said, trying to keep her attention on the investigation. "It struck me as strange at the time, but I didn’t think much about it until now."

"But what does it mean?" Finn asked, his brows furrowing in thought. "Why would a killer leave a bloody snake skin on one victim, then patches of badger fur around the body of another? Assuming these murders are linked, of course.”

“It’s hard to imagine they aren’t,” Sheila said. “Look at the similarities. Both victims were women, both were alone on the island at the time of their death, both were physically active and nature lovers.”

“Both were drowned,” Finn added. “Both were found with animal parts nearby. Maybe our killer is a hunter or an animal enthusiast of some sort, someone who knows the island well."

"And someone who wants to send a message. The question is, what does it mean?"

Behind them, the station door creaked open and Hank Dawson strolled in. A broad smile spread across his round face as he said cheerfully, "You two look like you're making progress."

Sheila sighed inwardly. Didn’t Dawson have better things to do than babysit her? Did he think she was perpetually on the verge of a mental breakdown because she lost her sister over a month ago?

The sheriff’s gaze drifted toward the screen. “What’s all this about?”

"Possible lead," Finn replied, falling back on his heels and gesturing to the computer screen where Amanda Hayes' face stared out.

Dawson peered at the monitor, squinting against the fluorescent glare. His previously jovial expression hardened into a frown as he studied the article. "Hayes...I remember this one. Drowned, right?" He shook his head, his mustache twitching with the motion. "Damn shame, that. And what’s this about a snake?”

“Not really sure,” Sheila said. “We found badger fur near Bethany’s body, and a dead badger some distance away. Could be the killer’s signature.”

Dawson nodded, saying nothing. Though Sheila was still relatively new to this line of work, she had done a good deal of reading about serial killers and their methods. She knew that many left unique signatures at their crime scene: a personal stamp of sorts, often symbolic or representative of some twisted psychological need. The snake skin and badger fur could be their killer's calling cards.

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