Page 1

I.

Last night, he’d killed a woman. And Detective Skye Truman hadn’t been able to stop him.

Now Skye stood sentry over the bright-blue tarp that covered the dead ranger’s body, her breath fogging in the damp November mist. How many joggers, cyclists, and dog walkers had passed the abandoned charcoal gray UTV partly blocking the narrow path? A dozen? A hundred? Rain or shine, this trail parallel to the Willamette River was popular.

No one stopped to wonder why there was an unmanned ranger’s vehicle? No one looked toward the river and saw the dead woman among the rocks and weeds only ten feet from the edge?

Skye could practically see the murder unfold like surveillance footage from above. He’d waited on the trail. Stepped out when Angela Banner approached. Flashed that easy smile when she told him the park was closed. He’d offered an excuse—maybe his bike chain snapped or he’d twisted his ankle—counting on his good looks to disarm her, get her to let down her guard. Maybe said he needed a lift to his car? Could she help with his bike?

Whatever he’d said, it was enough to get her out of the UTV.

Then he raped her at knifepoint.

Before, his weapon had been used as a threat to force his victims into compliance. None of their injuries had been fatal.

Last night, that all changed.

Skye turned away from the dead and climbed up the soft embankment, her boots sinking in the rocky soil, until she reached the paved path. Rookie officer Maggie James stood near the crime scene tape to ensure the growing knot of gawkers stayed back. Skye motioned for Maggie to approach; keeping one eye on the onlookers, Maggie stepped aside so they could talk with some privacy.

“Why didn’t dispatch know Banner never came back last night?” Skye asked.

Maggie cleared her throat. Was she nervous about the dead body or Skye’s reputation—only partly deserved—for being a hard-ass?

“Head ranger said budget cuts reduced staff to only two at night. They split up to cover more ground.”

“That doesn’t explain why no one reported her missing.”

Maggie consulted her notebook. “She clocked in at seven fifty p.m. for her eight-to-six shift. Park closes an hour after sunset, which yesterday was four fifty-five. She patrolled her area, rousted a few stragglers, returned to the station at eleven ten for break, headed out again at eleven forty-five. A colleague last spoke to her then and said that he saw her personal vehicle in the lot when he left at six this morning. Day shift said this wasn’t unusual as her boyfriend often picked her up.”

“Any other cars in the lot overnight?”

“The night staff tickets any cars left after closing. There were only two.”

“Get me those registrations, plus info for both her boyfriend and the ranger who worked with her last night.”

She wouldn’t hold her breath that one of the ticketed overnight vehicles was registered to the killer—he wasn’t that stupid. But maybe he borrowed a friend’s car, stole a vehicle, anything where she could lay a trail back to his doorstep.

He was smug enough to believe he’d never be caught, but she would stop him. She had hoped it would be before another woman was attacked.

Skye glanced at the rookie. Maggie was in her mid-twenties, five-five, delicate features belying gym-honed strength. She wore her brunette hair in a low, tight bun at the base of her Salem PD cap. Yeah, she looked nervous, but she didn’t divert from Skye’s sharp gaze. “Thanks.” Then she added, “Good work.”

Maggie nodded, then narrowed her gaze to a pair of joggers trying to get under the crime scene tape. “Hey!” she called out to the offenders as she strode briskly over to the couple, turning them back.

Skye liked her. Maggie reminded her of herself, back when she was young, idealistic, and driven.

Now she was just driven.

Skye walked to the UTV and assessed what the crime scene team had mapped out. Yellow evidence markers directed her attention to blood drops on leaves and the path. A scrap of khaki uniform snagged on a bush. Angela Banner’s hat mixed in with pine needles on the edge of the woods. Bent weeds and snapped twigs showed the killer hadn’t taken her down the riverbank; instead he’d stayed near the path, raped her in plain sight beside the vehicle, and slit her throat right here. He then rolled her corpse down the slope into the reeds. Skye’s only hope was that because there was so much blood, he may not have gotten away clean. There may be evidence here to finally catch him.

For thirteen months of his reign of terror over the women of Salem, he’d been careful. Always a condom. Always a bag over the victim’s head. Always from behind. None of his pubic hair had been found, suggesting to Skye that he shaved the area.

Cruel. Evil. Skye had spoken to each of his victims and recognized his MO. Every detail was the same here as it was with the other victims except she was dead.

She looked around the area. The crime scene techs still working the scene. The crowd swelling at the perimeter of the crime scene. Maggie ordering someone trying to slip around the tape to the east to turn around and go back.

That’s when she saw him.

He stood in the trees thirty yards away, wearing gray sweatpants and a name-brand windbreaker. He watched her. She locked eyes with him.