Killer Exposure. Jessica R. Patch
snapped a few photos of the lightning to use with her new filters. Thunder rumbled as she darted in between the employees’ makeshift homes. A commotion came from one of the smaller house trailers up ahead. Not much light due to the sun setting and the blanket of ominous clouds. Greer crept toward the sounds of a scuffle.
The door was cracked open.
A man’s garbled cry sent chill bumps across Greer’s skin. She drew her off-duty Glock 43 and darted toward the camper, swinging open the door.
A man stared at her, his eyes inky and threatening. Her training kicked in. “Drop the knife. Hands up. Come out slowly. Slowly,” she commanded.
Dressed in a carnival maintenance uniform, he held up black-gloved hands, one still gripping the bloody blade. He wore a ball cap that hid his hair, but his short-cropped beard and mustache matched his eyes, his physical features distorted in the dimness.
The man at his feet stared blankly, unmoving. The amount of blood couldn’t have come from only one wound. He’d been stabbed multiple times. Greer feared she’d witnessed his last breath, last sound. “Take it easy. You’re under arrest.” No radio to call it in. But she had the situation under control. Once she got him to lie face down with his hands behind his back, she’d use her cell and get backup out here to cuff him.
A brilliant flash of lightning popped across the sky. The man kicked a bucket through the door. She batted it away, but it startled her. The killer leaped out and ran for the woods. Greer couldn’t let him get away. She rushed inside the mobile home and checked the victim’s vitals. As she sadly suspected—gone.
Sprinting through the light drops of rain, Greer spied him rushing into the safety of the trees.
“Freeze!” She raced in his direction. Eating up the field, she flew into the dense forest and paused, listening. A whiz up ahead. She moved in.
He disappeared.
Her heart pounded as she crept through the trees, brush, limbs and leaves crunching under her feet.
Come on. I need another flash of lightning. Come. On.
A burst of light shot through the night, and the man slammed her into a tree. Greer’s loose grip, due to the rain, was lost, and her gun plummeted into the brush. She swung at the killer and connected with his jaw with a right uppercut. She might be slight in frame, but her brother had been a Navy SEAL, and he’d taught her a trick or two—and she’d been kickboxing since her early twenties.
A raspy laugh belched from his mouth, and the knife he’d refused to drop glinted in the night. Her adrenaline kicked up a notch. Game changer.
She weaved and dodged him, hoping to spot her gun with a fresh flick of light. The camera hanging around her neck thumped against her chest.
No go. Jumping backward, she grabbed a large, gnarly branch and swung it at the attacker. Thoughts of her baby girl recharged her need to fight. The killer rushed her, and she tripped in the darkness, dropping the limb. They tumbled to the ground, and she screeched. But no one would hear. Not this far out. Not over the thunder. Not over the carnival music blaring.
Greer had no one to rely on to survive but herself and God. She screamed again as he shoved her into the dead winter twigs and pinecones. They cut into the back of her cropped denim jacket and T-shirt with a sharp sting. She drew up her knees, putting one against his stomach, blocking him from putting his whole body and weight on top of her. He grabbed her right wrist. She snatched his with her left hand, pulling his arm across her body and pushing with her free leg. She rolled out from under him, her camera strap snapping and sending it to the forest floor. Scrambling to her feet, she sprang into action and tore through the trees as the raindrops turned into a steady, but drizzly, rain.
Breathing ragged. Fear propelling her forward, faster. Stronger. Greer’s lungs screamed for more air, burning in protest. She’d left her hair down, and it matted to her face and eyes.
She glanced back as lightning illuminated the surroundings. He was ten feet away, closing in. Zigzagging, she smacked straight into a tree and bounced off, falling to the ground and landing with a heavy thud.
“Whoa.” The tree spoke. “Hey!” This time the voice roared, and she raised her head to see the man-tree go after the killer. Pushing hair from her eyes, Greer heaved breaths and struggled to get up. He dove onto the guy, and the attacker rolled him over. But he was quick and easy on his feet. He jumped up and put himself in a defensive position to block. Martial arts? The guy swung, but her rescuer blocked him once, twice, then landed a frontal kick, propelling him backward. There was some definite power in those legs.
“Who do you think you are?” he hollered, disgust and something familiar in his tone.
Greer’s head pounded, and her entire body blazed and ached.
The killer rushed him, and as fast as the lightning was striking, the towering oak used a series of hand motions to nail him on the ground. “Stay down!”
No. Greer stood, tottered. Couldn’t be. Had to be the blows to the head... But that voice. That confident, almost arrogant attitude. “Locklin?”
He whipped his head in her direction. “Greer...? Greer!”
The attacker made his move, and before Greer could warn Locke, he swept Locke’s feet out from under him, throwing him off balance, then bolted and fled through the woods.
Locke raced toward her as she teetered, legs like noodles. Nauseated. Headache. Trembling. He righted her as the sky lit up.
His crow-colored hair was a bit longer, shaggier, framing his face and touching his collar. Cheeks, chin and neck were scruffier. But it was storm-chasing season. A camera hung around his neck. “How bad are you hurt?” His hands roamed her face, head, back, arms.
She shrugged him away. His touch, while medically motivated, felt too intimate. Too familiar. Too perfect and safe. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking...and bleeding.” He brushed her hair from her face.
“Stop touching me.” She jerked back.
“Okay, I’m backing off.” He held his hands up as a boom of thunder breached the wooded barrier.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just...rattled. But fine.” That wasn’t completely true. Greer was far from fine. Things were happening so fast. She’d been attacked. Locke Gallagher was here. The past was rushing in, as were thoughts of what she needed to do now as a law enforcer. She was flustered, panicked and afraid.
“I get it, Greer. We gotta go, though. Now.”
She nodded, snagged her cell phone from her denim-jacket pocket and turned on her flashlight. “I need my gun and camera. Help me find them?” She hurried and called in the crime, giving the last known location of the killer and which camper the victim would be in.
Locke stood like a statue, rain slicking his hair to his face.
“Please,” she begged. “I have to get back to the crime scene. Get photos.”
Locke shoved rain-drenched hair from his face. “What is going on?” His words were laced with frustration.
“Did you not hear me call it in? I witnessed him murdering an employee. With this weather, time isn’t on my side.” She searched the area for her gun and camera, rain soaking her to the bone.
Locke finally helped her. “Here.” He found the gun by the tree.
“Thank you.” She needed to answer his questions. Have some kind of conversation. He’d have a million questions, but rain would wash away possible evidence, and a killer was on the loose. She had to focus on her job first, then she’d muster some courage to talk to Locke. “What are you even doing here, in town? In these woods?” she asked as she found her camera, then jogged through the woods and into the field to the campers.
He kept her pace.
Locke