a mile away.
Half a mile. She could do it. She wouldn’t be the victim of circumstance, a victim of “wrong place, wrong time.” There were so many things she had yet to accomplish, things she ached to experience.
Like love.
As she ran steadily, the dog flopping in her arms, she scolded herself for losing focus and thinking about such trivialities. Yet with danger barreling down on her, she was haunted by her biggest fear: she would never experience romantic love.
Because her childhood illness had left her so damaged that no one would want her.
Knock it off, she mentally scolded herself. This kind of thinking would not keep her alive.
She made it to the trail and clenched her jaw with determination, thinking what a great story she’d be able to tell her friends when this was over. When she was safe.
Towering trees reached for the sky on either side of her; the trail was well worn and easy to navigate. Which meant if she could navigate it, so could Shovel Man. She glanced over her shoulder. Didn’t see anything.
She turned back to the trail. Increased her speed.
A few minutes later he called out to her. “Hey! Stop!”
He knew she was there, running for her life. She skidded as she took a sharp turn, but caught herself and managed not to slide over the edge into the abyss below.
She peeked to her right, down into the steep drop, and it gave her an idea. If she could find a way down at the next turn, her pursuer might think she’d continued on the trail. Yes, that’s it.
Somehow she needed to disappear, and quickly. She uncoiled her scarf from around her neck and wrapped the dog in it, then secured him against her chest. Thank God he was a little guy, probably seven pounds soaking wet. This was not something she could do with a golden retriever like Fiona, her sister’s dog.
“Let’s go, Dasher.” Cassie peered over the edge. She needed to stay out of sight only until police arrived. “Emergency, this is Cassie McBride,” she said, speaking into the phone, still in her shirt pocket. “I’m climbing down the mountain to a safe spot, out of view.”
“Is the perpetrator following you?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m about a quarter of a mile south of the cabin. Send help.” She eyed the perfect spot to grab a tree root and lower herself.
“Deep breathing, doggie,” she coached, as if the dog understood her. She grabbed the tree root jutting out from the mountainside, and lowered herself until she found a firm rock on which to plant her feet. The next step would be landing on a small ledge, about ten feet below.
“Just like REI,” she said, referring to a rock-climbing class she’d taken months ago.
She took a slow, deep breath. She could do this.
With a grunt, she edged her right foot onto a thick tree branch sticking out from the mountain wall. She reached for another branch to hold on to.
The branch beneath her foot snapped.
And she dropped.
* * *
Police Chief Nate Walsh had a firm grip of one end of the stretcher, and Eddie Monroe had the other. As a search-and-rescue volunteer, a sense of satisfaction gave Nate the added strength necessary to make the final trek down the mountain carrying the injured woman.
It was a good thing they got to her when they did, since it would be dark soon. Darkness would have made the mission more challenging, even though her injuries weren’t life-threatening.
Although some folks in town had expected him to give up his SAR work when he was named police chief last year, helping people, saving them from the dangers of the wild, gave Nate a sense of control over the random chaos of life.
Random, like his partner’s death nearly four years ago on the Chicago PD. Perhaps if Nate had known where Dean’s head was at he’d still be alive, along with the witness Dean had been protecting.
The witness Dean had fallen in love with.
If Nate had only known, he would have convinced his partner to not let something like love cloud his judgment and ruin his career. Which was probably why his partner decided not to share.
Sometimes people considered Nate’s firm opinions as judgmental, yet he was about protecting family and friends. Besides, Nate wouldn’t be arrogant enough to pass judgment, since he was far from perfect.
These days he’d strive to be as close to perfect as possible for the citizens of Echo Mountain. Volunteering for SAR kept him connected with his community, even if some of these folks wondered how he had the time given his chief duties.
He and Eddie carried the wounded hiker, a twentysomething female named Sylvia, to the command center where an emergency vehicle waited.
“Thanks, thanks, everyone,” Sylvia said. “Thanks, Chief.”
“You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.”
“Chief,” SAR volunteer Luke Winters said. “Dispatch needs you to call in.”
“Thanks.” He shook hands with a few of the volunteers and went to his truck. When he’d taken over as chief, he’d directed dispatch to give him immediate updates on criminal activity calls, however minor. Kids in a small town had a tendency to grow bored and get into mischief.
He fired up his truck and pulled away from the command center, grateful for the successful mission. Another life saved.
“Dispatch, this is Chief Walsh, over.”
“Sir, there’s been a 911 call reporting a wounded, possibly dead body, and the female witness says the killer is still on the premises, over.”
Adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream. “Address?”
“We’re looking it up, over.”
“The witness couldn’t tell you?” What kind of fruitcake didn’t know where she was?
“She had directions, but no address. She works for Echo Mountain Rentals, over.”
Nate’s blood ran cold. Cassie worked for Echo Mountain Rentals. Cassie, his best friend’s sister with the sparkling blue eyes and a contagious smile.
“Did the caller give you her name?”
“Cassie McBride.”
Nate gripped the radio so hard he thought it might crack in his hand.
“I need that address, over,” he said.
“One minute, over.”
He didn’t have a minute. A sweet, lighthearted young woman who looked at the world through a veil of optimism was in trouble. Cassie trusted too easily and believed in the goodness of all and the glory of God.
She hadn’t been tainted by life’s tragedies, and wouldn’t be able to cope with a crisis, much less a violent perp.
“The address?” Nate snapped, pulling onto Highway Two.
“5427 Reflection Pass Drive. We still have an open line to her phone, over.”
“Patch it through, over,” he said.
“Yes, sir, over.”
“Alert all available officers. Did you dispatch an ambulance, over?”
“Yes, sir, over.”
Nate gripped the steering wheel with his left hand and held on to the radio with his right. Coordinates indicated he was about five minutes out.
Hang on, Cassie. I’m coming.
What was she doing up there at this time of night? She should be relaxing in her apartment above the tea shop with a good book, not working. Then he remembered why she’d taken a second, part-time job