A rock the size of a fist on the ground caught her eye. She grabbed it, pushed to her feet, and broke into a jog. Out of breath, she sucked the freezing air in through her mouth. If it was King on her trail, he’d hear her gasping for air from a half mile away. Lungs on fire, she ducked behind a tree.

The crashing came closer.

Once she stopped moving, Morgan shivered. She pressed against the tree trunk, using it as a shield and wind-block.

Please, let it be Lance.

Steeling herself, she peered around the tree and raised the rock over her head. A body flew toward her. Black pants. Black shirt. Legs churning. Strides sure and swift despite the hands bound behind him.

Lance.

Relief weakened her for a second. Then she pushed away from the tree and staggered toward him.

“Keep going.” He barely broke stride, his voice just a whisper.

She stumbled after him. She had no idea how far her initial sprint had taken her, except that it wasn’t far enough.

He slowed his pace and lined his shoulder up with hers. For him, the pace was a light jog.

“Where is he?” she whispered in three pants.

“I don’t know,” Lance said, his words barely audible over the sound of her footsteps. He frowned at her. “Let’s walk for a minute.”

She slowed to a walk. A stitch in her side doubled her over. She pressed her hands against it.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Fairly sure I broke his nose, but I doubt that will slow him down for long. We need to keep moving. You got through your handcuffs?”

“I fell.” She huffed and puffed, her lungs working like fireplace bellows to catch up on airflow. But the incoming air was so cold, she felt like she was inhaling needles. “Seemed like a good time.”

He nodded and veered to the left.

Morgan jerked her hands to the right. “But the road is that way.”

“It’s unlikely that a car will come by this late at night. The road is too open. He’ll catch us. There are houses on the other side of the lake.” He scanned the darkness. “Our best chance is to keep the lake on one side.”

Morgan’s gasps and heart rate slowed, but with the reduced activity, the cold hit her hard.

“Can you move faster now?” he asked.

She nodded and broke into a heavy, toe-dragging jog. She tripped. A thin branch cracked under her foot, the sound carrying through the quiet woods. She regained her balance, but the temperature and exhaustion were taking their toll. Her movements were clumsy.

She was running as fast as she could. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He could move a lot faster without her. She would slow him down. He was going to get killed because of her.

“You should run ahead and get help,” she said. “I won’t make it. It’s too cold, and I’m too out of shape.”

“I will not leave you. We are stronger together, remember?”

But tonight, she was the weak link in their partnership. Physically, she could not match Lance’s strength and conditioning.

She hadn’t even begun to process what the sheriff had done. Did this mean King had killed Crystal and the Hoolihans? What about Mary? Had the sheriff tried to kill Lance’s mother? Why?

Whatever it was must be related to Mary’s death and Vic’s disappearance. King had been the chief deputy in 1994. Only one thing linked the sheriff’s department to August 10, 1994: Lou Ford’s death.

A mental image of Eric’s bruised face appeared in her mind. My face hit the floor when the sheriff handcuffed me.

The sheriff had used excessive force when he’d arrested Eric. Had he been involved in Ford’s death? How? King hadn’t been the arresting officer. As chief deputy, had he initiated a cover-up?

Morgan tripped over a rock and stumbled to her knees. The pain brought her back to the present.

Lance took her fall as an opportunity to roll to his back and work his cuffed hands in front of his body the same way she had.

She got her foot under her body and stood, swaying from lack of oxygen.

They paused for a moment. Morgan caught her breath. Lance listened.

He put his lips to her ear. “I don’t hear him.”

“He’s out there.” Morgan felt the sheriff behind them, a shadowy presence, a threat that her body recognized even if her eyes and ears couldn’t discern his location.

“Stop thinking,” he whispered. “Just put one foot in front of the other.”

But they both knew that King wouldn’t let them go. He was out there. And he was coming after them.

Chapter Forty-Four

He should have known Kruger wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Face aching, he climbed to his feet and holstered his pistol. Kruger was too far away to hit with a handgun. He watched the handcuffed man disappear into the trees. Kruger moved with impressive speed and agility.

But he wasn’t worried.

He walked to the rear of his vehicle and opened the trunk. Opening his first aid kit, he mopped the blood from his face. He punched an instant ice pack and held it over his throbbing nose. Kruger had likely broken it. A few minutes with an ice pack now might stave off some swelling. Clogged nasal passages would slow him down.

Besides, he was in no rush. They were miles away from help, and even Kruger couldn’t run at top speed through the woods in the dark. The PI would have to slow down or risk breaking an ankle. But even if Kruger could make good time, he didn’t have to catch Kruger. He only had to catch Ms. Dane. The counselor was smart, loyal, and determined, but she was not athletic.

And Kruger would never leave her.

The key to a successful hunt is knowing your prey and being able to predict its behavior.

They were both handcuffed and unarmed. No one knew where they were.

He moved aside the evidence bag containing Kruger’s and Dane’s personal possessions. When he’d stashed their phones in the trunk, he’d removed the batteries. No one would be able to track them. Their last known location was outside Stan Adams’s house. If Dane’s sister on the SFPD went looking for her, that was where she’d start.

Maybe he could plant some evidence at Stan’s house . . .

He’d sort it out later. Tonight, his focus had to be on stopping Kruger and Dane. Those two were relentless. They’d discovered Lou Ford’s death. It was only a matter of time until they tied Ford’s death to Mary’s.

He removed the battery from his own phone. He wanted no GPS record of his upcoming trek through the woods either.

After laying the ice pack aside, he took four ibuprofen tablets from his kit and swallowed them with water. He stripped off his coat and uniform shirt and tossed his Kevlar vest into the trunk. Kruger and Dane weren’t armed, and the vest would slow him down. Instead, he layered a long-sleeve thermal shirt and a fleece pullover, then put his coat back on. He exchanged his campaign hat for a wool cap.

Then he began loading his many pockets: water, protein bars, spare fully loaded magazines, a flashlight he wouldn’t use unless necessary, a compass, fire starter sticks, and matches. He didn’t plan to be out all night, but a good hunter was always prepared. Reaching back into the trunk, he added a silver emergency blanket.

His hunting cabin was at the end of this lane. He knew every game trail in the woods around the lake well. He would not let Kruger and Dane get away. His future depended on catching them.

He returned the first aid kit to his trunk and removed his AR-15 from the rack mounted under his trunk lid, wishing he’d thought to bring his personal hunting rifle. For deer hunting, he preferred the 30-06. His personal rifle fired a larger, heavier bullet with more stopping power at a greater distance. He’d seen too many deer shot with the light AR-15 rounds get up and run, needing to be finished off with another shot. But he’d have to be close to hit his target in the dark anyway. And if possible, he wouldn’t use his official weapon.