Stella observed the individual as the couple approached him. Clearly it was a man, although it was impossible to tell his size or even his build. He wore a dark rain hoodie over his jacket, the hood covering his hair and shielding his face. The closer the couple got to him, the more that ominous, pervasive feeling of menace grew.
She tried to yell to the couple to stay back, but already the male had hesitated in his forward progress. He obviously spoke to the killer, who shook his head and indicated he felt sick.
The male took out his water and walked over to the killer, the female trailing behind him. Stella cried out a warning, but nothing could be heard. She could only watch helplessly as the killer, who had feigned altitude sickness, rose suddenly. In a blur of motion, he gripped the male with both hands and turned so the male hiker teetered on the edge of the cliff. Oddly, it looked as if he reached out and caught at the hiker’s left ring finger as he shoved him.
The female stood frozen, in clear shock. It had taken the killer all of two seconds or less to throw the male over the side. She probably had no idea what actually happened. The killer turned to face her and she opened her mouth to scream. Before a sound could escape, he was on her, one hand slamming over her mouth as he shoved her right to the very edge. He held her there a moment.
Stella couldn’t imagine how the poor girl felt, looking down, knowing she was going to die. She didn’t understand what the killer was doing, but he appeared to hold her finger, the way he’d done to the male, slowly, cruelly, tipping her over the edge. Then the woman was gone, out of Stella’s sight, and only the killer remained, crouched down, looking around him to make certain there were no signs that he was there.
He didn’t go up to the summit but, head down, body slumped, began to make his way back down as though he’d already made the climb and was on his way down to Trail Crest. The lens snapped closed and she couldn’t stop it, although she tried.
SHE HAD NEVER gotten a clear view of him. Not his face, not his size. Not one identifying mark. He could have been anyone. He was faceless, shrouded in his hood, stooped over, and no doubt if he met anyone on the trail he would feign altitude sickness. If he heard them coming, he would lie down, curl up, and wave them on, assuring them he would be fine, he was hydrating. They would never see his face or actual build.
She woke, wanting to scream out her frustration, but at least she knew the couple would drop their backpacks at Trail Crest. There would be a two-day window for the killer between this nightmare and when he struck. They would have to monitor Trail Crest for couples in those two days, but surely they could stop the couple from climbing.
She tried not to think about James Marley and how the killer had murdered him when he hadn’t been able to kill his first victim. If they saved the first couple, would he simply select someone else to kill and take them instead?
“Stella, you already know you have to work through this,” Sam’s calm voice came. Always reassuring. “You write it down and sketch it. You’re going to talk to Vienna today. Raine said she’d look for permits. Vienna and I will go up Whitney. It makes sense for us to go. We’re the ones they’d call for Search and Rescue and we can easily make an argument that we need to figure out faster and better methods to get to people in trouble. Vienna will be able to get us onto the trail both days.”
Stella knew he didn’t want her there, but she also knew that made perfect sense as well. “You’re right, it’s just hard to see him murder two innocent people. He pretended to have altitude sickness and they were going to help him. I hate that doing something nice for someone got them killed.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We’re going to stop him.”
Stella hoped he was right. It was just that watching the killer, he seemed so invincible somehow. So completely bold, hiding in plain sight. Usually, there were several people on the trail that early in the morning, but somehow his luck held.
VIENNA MORTENSON WAS tall, blonde and gorgeous, with the looks of a supermodel. Her Scandinavian ancestry was very evident in her pale hair and large green eyes. She hadn’t come from money, but she made it by playing cards, and she’d put herself through nursing school with her earnings. She was a serious card player, eventually playing high-stakes poker in Vegas, although she kept a fairly low profile when possible. She said it was never good to get the wrong people interested in you. Some were very sore losers.