CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bailey’s plaintive howl snapped Carrie York awake with a start. The Irish setter had whined at the door earlier. After letting him out, she must have fallen back to sleep.
Raking her hand through her hair, Carrie rose from the guest room bed and peered out the window into the night. Streams of moonlight cascaded over the field behind her father’s house and draped the freestanding kitchen house, barn and chicken coop in shadows. In the distance, she spotted the dog, seemingly agitated as he sniffed at something hidden in the tall grass.
“Hush,” she moaned as his wail continued. The neighbors on each side of her father’s property—one Amish, the other a military guy from nearby Fort Rickman—wouldn’t appreciate having their slumber disturbed by a rambunctious pup who was too inquisitive for his own good.
Still groggy with sleep, she pulled on her clothes, stumbled into the kitchen and flicked on the overhead light. Her coat hung on a hook in the anteroom. Slipping it on, she opened the back door and stepped into the cold night.
“Bailey, come here, boy.”
Black clouds rolled overhead, blocking the light from the moon. Narrowing her eyes, she squinted into the darkness and started off through the thick grass, following the sound of the dog’s howls.
She’d have to hire someone to mow the field and care for the few head of cattle her dad raised, along with his chickens. Too much for one person to maintain, especially a woman who knew nothing about farming.
Again the dog’s cry cut through the night.
Anxiety tingled her neck. “Come, boy. Now.”
The dog sniffed at something that lay at his feet. A dead animal perhaps? Maybe a deer?
“Bailey, come.”
The dog glanced at her, then turned back to the downed prey.
A stiff breeze blew across the field. She shivered and wrapped the coat tightly around her neck, feeling vulnerable and exposed, as if someone were watching...and waiting.
Letting out a deep breath to ease her anxiety, she slapped her leg and called to the dog, “Come, boy. We need to go inside.”
Reluctantly, Bailey trotted back to where she stood.
“Good dog.” She patted his head and scratched under his neck. Feeling his wet fur, she raised her hand and stared at the tacky substance that darkened her fingers.
She gasped. Even with the lack of adequate light, the stain looked like blood.
“Are you hurt?”
The dog barked twice.
Bending down, she wiped her hand on the dew-damp grass, then stepped closer to inspect the carcass of the fallen animal.
A gust of wind whipped through the clearing and tangled her hair across her eyes so she couldn’t see. Using her unsoiled hand, she shoved the wayward strands back from her face, and holding her breath to ward off the cloying odor, she stared down at the pile of fabric that lay at Bailey’s feet.
Her heart pounded in her chest. A deafening roar sounded in her ears. She whimpered, wanting to run. Instead she held her gaze.
Not a deer.
But a man.
She stepped closer, seeing combat boots and a digital-patterned uniform covering long legs and a muscular trunk.
Goose bumps pimpled her arms as she glanced higher. For half a heartbeat, her mind refused to accept what her eyes saw.
A scream caught in her throat. She turned away, unable to process the ghastly sight, and ran toward the house, needing the protection of four walls and locked doors.
The setter followed behind her, barking. Between his yelps, she heard a branch snap, then another. Straining, she recognized a different sound. Her chest tightened.
Footfalls.
Heart skittering in her chest, she increased her pace, all too aware that someone, other than Bailey, was running after her.
Coming closer.
She sprinted for the house and slipped on the slick grass as she rounded the corner. Catching herself, she climbed the kitchen steps and pushed open the door. Pulse pounding, gasping for air, she slammed it closed after Bailey scooted in behind her. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the lock. The dead bolt slipped into place.
She ran into the family room. Drawing the curtains with one hand, she grabbed the phone with the other and punched in 911.
Listening, she expected to hear footsteps on the porch and pounding at the door. The only sound was the phone ringing in her ear.
Grateful when the operator answered, she rattled off her father’s address. “I found someone...in the back pasture. Military uniform. Looks like he’s army.”
Her father—a man she hadn’t known about until the lawyer’s phone call—had died ten days earlier. Now a body had appeared on his property. Touching the curtain that covered the window, she shivered. The horrific sight played through her mind.
“Someone c...cut the soldier’s throat.” She pulled in a breath. “So much blood. I...I heard footsteps, coming after me. I’m afraid—”
Her hand trembled as she drew the phone closer. “I’m afraid he’s going to kill me.”
* * *
Working late at his home computer, Criminal Investigation Division special agent Tyler Zimmerman heard sirens and peered out the window of his rental house. A stream of police sedans raced along Amish Road, heading in his direction.
For
