Page 163 of Dead Man's List

Outskirts of Julian, California

Thursday, January 12, 8:45 p.m.

“This isn’t creepy as fuck,” Connor said sarcastically, because it was, indeed, creepy as fuck out here in the woods.

They’d turned into three driveways searching for the Suburban. That the trailer might still be with it was a long shot, but Kit was going to remain optimistic.

And it had finally paid off. The fourth driveway was unmarked, without even a signpost bearing an address. The driveway itself was over a mile long, winding through trees that weren’t dense enough to be a forest, but still dense enough to create a feel of absolute darkness.

A light fog had crept in, not as a bank but as sinewy fingers twisting through the trees. Shadows seemed to lurk on the edges of the dirt driveway, and even their high beams only allowed them to see a few feet in front of them.

Anything could be out there. Or anyone.

Creepy as fuck.

And they were there in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone signal. She checked her phone again. Still nothing.

“Oh my God,” Connor whispered, slowing the car to a stop.

Because illuminated in their headlights was the trailer. There was no sign of the Suburban. About fifty feet away sat a small cabin, maybe five or six hundred square feet and rustic. It was dark, the whole area seeming to be abandoned.

“We should have brought a sat phone,” Kit muttered. “We need to call for backup.”

“Let’s take a quick look around and then head into Julian. We can get help from the sheriff’s office there.” Connor drew his weapon, grabbed a Maglite, and got out of the car. “If he is here, he now knows we’re here, too. I don’t want him to get away.”

On high alert, Kit followed Connor to the trailer.

“Fucker,” Connor breathed as he shined the light into the empty trailer.

Kit grimaced at the sight of the blood. It was dried and brown and covered the floor, the walls, and even the trailer’s ceiling. She swallowed hard. There was an old table in the middle of the trailer with a vise at its head and restraints at the four corners. She thought of the dents in Munro’s skull. Blood covered the table as well.

There were fingers and toes littering the floor, like garbage. This was where Brooks Munro had been tortured.

“Two sets of tire tracks,” Connor said, sweeping the trailer’s floor beneath the table with the light. “There was a car in here before the table was brought in. Those tire tracks are about the width of a Ferrari. I wonder if it’s here. Behind the cabin, maybe.”

“We can come back and check,” Kit said. “One of us can stand on the main road, while the other goes to Julian, just incase he’s here and tries to run. But I don’t want to be standing here. We’ve got no cell signal and there’s no cover.”

“Yeah,” Connor agreed, but he did one more sweep of the interior. “There’s also a set of single tire tracks. He had a motorcycle in here. And Sam’s rehab contact had said Neckbeard was holding a motorcycle helmet.”

“Connor, let’s go. Now.” Kit turned for the car, hoping he’d follow. She understood Connor’s desire to catch Neckbeard—whoever he was. But being here without backup was just plain stupid.

Reluctantly, Connor stepped back from the trailer. “We need to clear the cabin.”

“We need backup.” Kit’s instincts were firing on all cylinders.

He frowned at her. “You’re normally the one to go charging inside.”

Yes, she was. Was she growing soft?

Get out of here.

The voice in her head would not be silenced. “I’ll charge inside once I have backup. Let’s go.”

She was two feet from the car door when the first shot rang out, followed by a loud thump and a grunt of pain. Immediately she dropped into a crouch. A second shot was followed by Connor’s vicious, breathless curse.

“Connor?” she called, trying to stay calm.

For a moment there was no reply. “I’m…hit,” he called back, the sound of his breathing between words louder than the words themselves.

---