He ended the call and whispered in Morgan’s ear, “Police won’t be here for at least ten minutes. Then they have to find us in the middle of the woods.”

“And who knows how the shooter will respond to their arrival.” She lifted her head an inch off the ground. “We should move.”

If the shooter decided to circle around and come at them from the rear, they were sitting ducks. Footsteps crunched in leaves. The sound grew louder, as if the shooter was approaching.

“Move.” Lance pushed her forward.

Morgan crawled. When they’d reached the safety of a large oak tree, they got to their feet behind the massive trunk. Lance glanced around the trunk. Another shot zipped into a neighboring tree. Bark chips flew through the air.

“He’s following our movements,” Morgan said, her back pressed to the trunk. “Why isn’t he hitting us?”

“Either he isn’t a great marksman or he doesn’t want to hit us.” Lance bet on the latter. Each shot seemed to be the same distance away.

“Why are you shooting at us?” Lance yelled.

“Get away from my camp!” a male voice shouted.

“We just want to talk to you,” Lance answered, trying to pinpoint the location of the shooter.

Clack clack. Another bullet hit the neighboring tree almost exactly in the same place as the previous shot. The shooter was putting his bullets in precise locations.

Was he trying to drive them away or pin them down?

“You’re thieves!” the man yelled. “You’re here for my valuables.”

Valuables?

“Let me try,” Morgan mouthed. She cleared her throat then called out, “If you stop shooting at us, we’ll leave. We stumbled on your camp by accident. We mean you no harm.”

“Leave me alone,” the voice shifted from angry to sad.

Morgan frowned. “We understand, and we’re sorry we disturbed you.”

A few seconds of eerie silence followed, then the heart-wrenching sound of sobbing.

“We’re unarmed, and we don’t want to take your things,” Morgan said, her voice sympathetic and calm.

But the shooter’s cries were anything but stable. “She’s dead. She’s dead. Dead, dead, dead.”

Lance and Morgan shared an uh-oh glance. Whatever slim grasp their gun-toting camper had on reality, he was losing it.

“Keep talking,” Lance whispered. “I’ll try to get behind him while you distract him.”

Morgan nodded, raising her voice to ask, “Who’s dead?”

“The girl. So pretty. So young. No one can help her now.” The voice rose with anger.

“Did you see who killed her?” Morgan asked.

“So much blood.” The sobbing ceased, the voice shifting to a disturbing singsong. “Everywhere.”

Carefully placing each foot on solid, debris-free dirt, Lance kept his footsteps silent. He slipped behind another tree, then another. With painstaking steps, he worked his way through the trees.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Morgan said. “Would that be all right?”

“No. No talking.” The shooter howled. “Just leave me alone. I want to be alone. I can’t hurt anyone if I’m alone.”

Lance eased around the trunk of a tree and got his first glimpse of the shooter. A man dressed in desert camos sat with his back to a tree. A bolt-action hunting rifle rested across his thighs. He’d streaked his face with dirt as camouflage. His eyes looked wild and white against the dirt. The circles under his eyes were so dark and deep, he could have been a cadaver. Underneath the dirt, his cheekbones stood in sharp relief to his skeletal face.

He wiped a hand across his face, his expression a heartbreaking combination of confusion and devastation. Tears left clean rivulets from his eyes to his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan called. “If you promise not to shoot, we’ll leave now, and we won’t bother you again.”

“Go!” he screamed, and then he began to beat his head against the tree trunk at his back.

The thin sound of a siren floated through the air. Damn it! Why hadn’t they come in quietly? Morgan might have talked the man down. There was no chance of that happening now.

The siren shut off, but it was too late. Fear lit the shooter’s eyes. He jumped to his feet, fumbled in his panic, and dropped his rifle. He scrambled toward it. Lance took the split-second opportunity to holster his gun and dive for the man’s midsection. They went down in a tangle of limbs and rolled across the ground. Lance kicked the rifle away.

Expecting a feral response, he was shocked when the shooter shifted into hand-to-hand mode. The shooter performed an instinctual, textbook sweep, tossing Lance off his body. Lance landed on his back. A forearm to his throat pinned him to the ground.

Lance wheezed. Stars peppered his vision. Bucking to upset the shooter’s balance, Lance grabbed the forearm with both hands. Trapping the man’s foot, he bridged over his shoulder and reversed their positions.

The shooter was malnourished and shaky. Once his initial burst of adrenaline waned, his efforts weakened, and he was reduced to kicking and bucking under Lance’s body. His eyes took on a desperate light. Panic and bewilderment shone in his dilated pupils. The man obviously suffered from some mental illness.

But crazy was dangerous. Despite his pity, Lance needed the man immobilized to ensure Morgan’s safety.

“Freeze!” Morgan shouted. “Or I’ll shoot.”

Lance did. So did the shooter.

Less than ten feet away, Morgan held the rifle in a comfortable grip. She pointed it at the shooter. “Don’t even think about moving. I’m an excellent shot.”

Lance flipped the shooter onto his belly, brought both of his arms to the small of his back, and pinned him with a knee. “Do you see something to restrain him?”

“Do you have him?”

“I do.”

“Here.” Morgan stooped, fished in the shooter’s backpack, and came out with a piece of nylon rope.

Lance fastened the shooter’s wrists together, and then rolled him over and hauled him into a sitting position. Agitated, he immediately began to rock back and forth. He refused to make eye contact, staring at his boots instead.

Sirens blared louder. Car doors opened and shut.

“In here,” Lance shouted. “We have the situation contained.”

Bodies crashed through the brush. Carl Ripton and another uniform burst from the trees, weapons drawn. Lance didn’t recognize the second officer. New hire?

“Lower the rifle, ma’am. Both of you put your hands on your head. Interlace your fingers,” Cop Two ordered, pointing his handgun at Morgan.

She complied, and Carl took the weapon.

“On your knees!” Cop Two yelled at Lance.

“I know them,” Carl said. “You can stand down.” He turned to Lance. “What happened?”

Lance explained as he maintained his grip on the now-limp man on the ground. “He’s been saying odd things about a dead girl and blood. That little camp over there is his.”

“Let’s put him in the back of the car.” Carl pointed at his companion.

“He needs a bath.” Cop Two grimaced as he handcuffed the shooter and hauled him to his feet.

He held the man still while Carl patted him down. He emptied Camo Man’s pockets, tossing a folding knife, some loose change, and a wallet to the ground. Carl opened the wallet and skimmed through it. “His name is Dean Voss.” Carl turned to the man. “Dean? Want to tell me why you were shooting at these people?”