Page 35 of Silent Ritual

“That’s not—”

“Not negotiable,” she said.

Finn sighed but didn't argue further. Together, they approached the edge of the sinkhole, their flashlights casting long, wavering beams into the darkness below.

Descending into the pit was far from easy, each footstep causing a mini-avalanche of salt and dirt. Their only saving grace was a narrow ledge that spiraled down into the sinkhole. They made their way gingerly, aware that any sudden movement could send them hurtling down into the dark abyss.

The sight that met them at the bottom chilled Sheila's blood. The stolen truck was wedged nose-first into the ground, the bed of the truck tilted upwards at an impossible angle. The windshield was shattered, and through the spiderweb of cracked glass, she caught a glimpse of a figure slumped over the steering wheel.

Sheila moved toward the truck while Finn kept his gun and flashlight trained on the surrounding gloom. The figure in the truck was unmoving, slumped heavily over the steering wheel. A pool of something dark stained the front of his shirt.

"Finn," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. He was at her side in an instant, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness to illuminate the cab of the truck.

"What the hell?” he asked.

Sheila recognized the figure’s horseshoe hair, hooked nose, and cleft chin. It was none other than Otis Leary, the ranger who had been the first to respond when they’d called for reinforcements to search for the killer. Now that Sheila thought about it, this was probably his truck.

But why in the world had he fled in it? He couldn’t possibly be the killer, could he?

“He was already at the campground,” Finn murmured, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. “Maybe—”

Leary coughed, stirring. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He twisted his head around and peered up at the two officers, looking weak and pitiful.

“Never even saw the sinkhole until I was in it,” he said, then coughed. “So much for situational awareness, eh?”

“Why’d you flee?” Sheila asked. “Where were you going?”

“I was watching the entrance to the campground, making sure the killer didn’t get away…and then suddenly he was stealing my truck. I called it in and tried to stop him…but instead he forced me to drive.”

Sheila peered around warily. “Where is he now?”

“Jumped out a while back,” Leary said.

“So why the hell did you keep driving?” Finn demanded.

“Because he told me he’d kill my family if I didn’t. Had a picture of my granddaughters hanging from the mirror, and the thought of him paying them a visit…”

His voice trailed off, his eyes glassy as the gravity of his situation set in. Sheila, feeling a surge of sympathy, gently patted him on the shoulder.

“We’ll get you out of here, Otis,” she said firmly.

“I need to warn them,” Leary said, weakly trying to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Stay still!” Finn warned. “We’ll have units sent to check on them. More than likely, it was just an empty threat. Just sit tight.”

Sheila and Finn retreated a few steps from the truck.

“The killer knew we’d been tipped off,” Sheila said, her frustration mounting. “He got away because we were focused on Leary, just like he wanted.”

Finn ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, and now we’ve lost any chance of catching him tonight. At least we know Cassandra Jenkins’ theory was right, though. We can predict where the killer will leave the next body.”

"Actually, we can't," Sheila said. "We interrupted him before he could draw the symbols…so we have no idea what he's going to do next."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sheila’s call went straight to voicemail.

This is Star. You know what to do.

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