Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane 3)

He answered, “Sharp here.”

The Florida PI got right to business. “Owen Walsh is in a hospice facility, dying of cancer. He’s medicated and sleeping right now. He doesn’t have any family to object, so I’m hanging here with him, hoping he wakes up and wants to talk. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

“Thanks,” Sharp said. “Pressure him about Lou Ford’s death. Convince him he wants to go to his maker with a clean conscience.”

“You had a break in the case?”

“I did. Now I need a deathbed confession.” Ending the call, Sharp lowered the phone and stared at it.

Morgan should have returned his message by now.

He accessed the app that would let him track Lance’s phone. The wait symbol rotated and rotated and rotated.

Phone not found.

Ned’s statement played in Sharp’s head on repeat.

The sheriff is one cold-blooded SOB.

Sharp needed to find Lance and Morgan, fast, and he needed help.

He dialed Brody.

Chapter Forty-Six

A half inch of snow dusted the ground. Spotting a game trail, Lance pulled Morgan onto it. The cleared ground would be easier for her to navigate with fewer large obstacles to trip her up.

On the downside, they would also be easier to track if they followed the path. But at this point, he didn’t know how far the sheriff was behind them. King wasn’t a runner, but he was an experienced hunter and outdoorsman. They were going to be easy to follow no matter where they ran.

Lance hoped the trail led to the lake. If they kept the water to their right, that would eliminate one side of possible attack. The sheriff would have to come up behind them or on their left flank.

Lance had no doubt King would catch up with them eventually. Morgan was freezing and exhausted and running on pure willpower. But he couldn’t let her stop. Once she was still, hypothermia would take over, though he could carry her at that point. They had no coats, no food, no water, and no method of communication. Their only option was to keep moving and pray they found help before King found them.

Wishing he could get out of the handcuffs, Lance eyed Morgan’s hair. As gorgeous as it was tumbling around her shoulders, today would have been a good day for one of her courtroom buns and the dozen hairpins that secured them. He was a decent lock pick. “No chance you have a hairpin on you?”

“No, sorry.” Her teeth chattered and her words quivered.

Helplessness flooded Lance. There was nothing he could do to protect her. He squinted through the woods. Had they even traveled a mile yet?

How close was King? The sheriff would be warm and dry and armed. He’d be in no rush. He’d hunt them with steady, dogged determination.

The snow picked up, just hard enough for them to leave footprints, not hard enough to fill in those prints as they walked. Their dark clothes, which had been excellent camouflage earlier in the evening, now silhouetted them against a white backdrop.

The cold blew through the thin sleeves of his shirt, and a shiver swept through his bones. If this night dragged on long enough, the cold would kill them as surely as a bullet.

Morgan stumbled again. Lance caught her arm in his hands. Could he hide her somewhere, then lead the sheriff away? He rejected the option. If the sheriff shot him, she was done. A fire would lead the sheriff right to her, and without one, hypothermia would kill her before morning.

The sound of water moving in the darkness caught his attention. The lake?

Evergreen boughs closed in on the trail, smacking him in the face and blotting out the scant light from the overcast sky. He released Morgan’s arm to separate the branches. As they neared the sound, he realized it wasn’t the lake he’d heard but a stream, which likely fed into Grey Lake.

The trail opened suddenly, the ground dropped off, and Lance teetered on the edge of an embankment. If it hadn’t been for the white of the snow at his feet, he wouldn’t have noticed the steep drop-off.

He stepped into Morgan’s path.

Morgan bumped into his back, then froze.

Leaning over his shoulder, she pressed her lips to his ear. “What is it?”

He leaned to the side so she could see. With her body touching his, he felt the intense shivering racking her body. She was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.

Ahead, the stream cut through a deep gully twenty feet below the game trail. During the spring, it likely ran much higher on its banks. There had to be a path leading down to the water.

Turning his head, he whispered, “Keep moving,” and nudged her gently along a two-foot-wide path that ran along the side of the gully. Morgan’s lack of balance worried him.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.

Her grip was weak and trembling. He was freezing. Morgan had less body fat and lower overall body mass than he did. Her long limbs and thin body gave her more surface area from which to lose heat.

But there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to help her. With King on their trail, they couldn’t stop to build a fire or shelter.

They had to find a place to cross the stream. The snow helped illuminate the ground at their feet, but the topography forced them to slow down. They shuffled along, careful with each footstep. The quiet of the snowy woods was broken only by the gurgle of the stream.

Lance looked as far ahead as the darkness would allow. He had roughly twenty feet of decent visibility. Beyond that, the woods were a dark nothing.

Ahead, the path widened, the embankment becoming gradual enough that they should be able to scramble down without killing themselves.

He pointed with both hands and looked over his shoulder at Morgan at his left flank. She nodded and kept walking.

The snowfall picked up. A glance at the trail behind them showed the flakes settling into their tracks. Maybe King wouldn’t find them. Maybe they had a chance after all.

Morgan stumbled. Lance spun and lunged for her, but her feet slid over the edge. She clawed at nearby branches for a handhold. Lance caught her arm, his feet skidding a few inches in the snow. He fought for traction, his boots sliding closer and closer to the edge. Her eyes were wide open and shining with fear.

If she fell . . .

Lance’s boot hit a rock. Bracing against it, he hauled her back up onto the path, pivoted, and pushed her away from the edge, his heart hammering. She fell to her knees, but she was safe.

Rocks shifted. The ground dropped out from under Lance’s feet. He plunged downward, his body banging into tree trunks, broken branches tearing at his limbs. A hot bolt of pain licked at his leg. He slammed into a rock. A bone cracked, and pain rocketed through his side.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Morgan knelt on the edge of the embankment. A rush of panic lent her body renewed strength. Holding on to a tree, she leaned over the edge. “Lance?”

She shifted her weight, trying to get a better view through the foliage. Beneath her knees, the ground crumbled. Another fat section broke away and tumbled down the slope. Morgan scrambled for solid footing.

Where is he?

Feet first, she stepped down and planted her boot on a tree root. Her finger slipped from their grip on the tree. When she found a new handhold on a rock, she left a smear of blood behind. She used snow to wipe the blood away, then pulled the sleeve of her sweater over the cut. She didn’t want to leave that obvious a trail, but she was too cold, too numb to feel the cut on her palm. She moved carefully, making sure each new hand- and foothold was secure before releasing the previous grip. She wouldn’t be able to help Lance if she fell too, and having her hands cuffed together made the descent awkward.