Page 54 of Not This Place

The cops and their police hound veered off to the left. She frowned, watching as they retreated.

The trail seemed to disappear in the fork in the road.

"Be careful, Rae. What's your twenty?"

"Trail leading north from the last marker." She released the transmit button and clipped the radio back onto her belt. Her breath misted in the chill as she turned her attention up to the tree beside her.

The dog had sniffed at the tree but then continued to the left of the fork.

She watched as the two cops moved slowly, flashlights sweeping back and forth across the ground. The dog looked confused now, but one of the cops pointed his light off into the darkness. The two men veered in the direction of the beacon of light, double-timing through the murky forest.

Rachel turned back to the last sign of the trail, the scuff in the dust.

Then… nothing.

As if he’d disappeared.

Rachel's gloved fingers grazed the bark of the nearest tree. It bore the faintest scrape, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless – a sign of contact. She glanced upwards, her flashlight beam illuminating the network of branches above her.

There, a piece of black fabric fluttered gently from a jagged branch, snagged and forgotten in the haste of escape.

"Got something here," Rachel said, examining the torn swatch. It was the right color, the right texture, matching the description of the gunman's sweater.

She stepped closer, angling her flashlight to illuminate the area above. The light beam caught on the bark, creeping higher until it revealed a rocky outcrop jutting out from the tree line. A steep gulley lay beyond, the terrain shifting abruptly from the forest floor to a vertical challenge. She could make out the disturbances in the path of fallen leaves leading up to it—definite signs of a scramble.

Rachel's boots gripped the bark, finding purchase in the rough texture. She hoisted herself up, branch by branch, her arms pulling her weight. Her fingers curled around a thick limb, steadying her ascent.

A snap below. Her foothold gave way. Heart hammering, she swung momentarily, dangling by one arm. She grunted, the sound sharp in the quiet of the woods. With a forceful pull, she regained her position, muscles flexing under the strain. Rachel continued upward.

She reached the final stretch, branches thinning. The night air grew colder as she ascended, the wind whispering through the leaves. Rachel's eyes stayed fixed on the ledge above, calculating each move. One last heave, and she was there, over the edge and rolling onto solid ground.

The gulley stretched out before her, moonlight casting jagged shadows across its surface. Shoes scraped stone here. Soil turned over there. A path well-trod by desperate feet. Evidence clear as day to a trained tracker. Her breath evened out as she scanned the area.

She perched atop the ledge, her breath a misty cloud in the cold night air. She crouched low, stillness enveloping her as she became part of the gulley's rugged landscape. Ears strained for the smallest sound—a snap, a rustle, a whisper of movement. The forest held its breath with her.

A muted thud echoed from the north. Rachel's gaze snapped to the source, piercing eyes scanning through darkness. Another soft scuffle, leaves disturbed. She tensed, every muscle coiled like a spring.

She edged forward, boots silent against the dirt. Her hand rested on the grip of her holstered gun, a comforting weight at her side. A sliver of moonlight caught on something ahead—a figure limping, uneven in its gait.

"Stop," Rachel commanded, her voice cutting through the silence. It was a hammer strike, direct, uncompromising. Authority resonated in each syllable.

The gunman faltered, his silhouette hunched against the pale light.

"Turn around. Slowly." Rachel's hand moved, gun drawn in one fluid motion, the barrel steady and aimed. Her stance was wide, grounded.

"Face me," she said, the words a steel trap closing in.

The gunman's body stiffened, a statue under the scrutiny of Rachel's gaze. A decision teetered on the edge of action. He could lead her, possibly to the one pulling the strings. A cough masked the click of a firearm safety disengaging.

“I said stop!” she snapped.

"I… I'm lost," the man called, feigning a tremor to his voice. "Don't know where I am. I'll just be going. Don't mean to trespass."

“I said stop moving.”

The man turned to face her. He was no longer wearing his ski mask. His features were bare to the night, wide-eyed under the scrutiny of her flashlight. The gunman was no longer a shadowy figure. He was a man, young, with a scruffy beard and short hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His eyes darted around nervously as if trying to find an escape route.

Rachel ignored the man's pleas and kept her gun steady. She took a step forward, her boots crunching on the leaves beneath. She studied his face, etching each line and scar into her memory. "Hands where I can see them."

---