She turned down the first dirt feeder road. It was bumpy and not well-known. Only the locals used this road when they wanted to fish here. The brambles were overgrown, but she could see tire tracks in the dirt. Someone had been through recently, not that it meant anything. If her nightmares held to what they had done in the past, she had another day, possibly two, before the killer struck. That didn’t mean the murderer wasn’t scouting out his victim right that minute.
She stopped her 4Runner right in the middle of the narrow dirt road, opened the hidden console in the middle between the seats and pulled out her Glock. She had a concealed carry permit, just to be safe, and she was a very good shot.
“All right, Bailey, we’re loaded now,” she said softly as she glanced in the rearview mirror at her dog. “You ready for this?”
The Airedale had gone on alert the moment she pulled out her weapon and loaded it. She eased her rig into gear and once more started slowly down the narrow lane toward the lake. There was a slight bend in the dirt track, and when she rounded the curve, just ahead, she could see two vehicles— one a dark grayish-green truck, the other a dirty navy SUV. She recognized both rigs.
Stella hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she let out her air. Her lungs felt raw and burning. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white as she stared out the windshield at the two men fishing. They were included in the circle of her friends— those she hung out with when she was able to break free of work and have a night off.
Bruce Akins, a man with a dark beard and perpetual scowl, which wasn’t at all his personality, was one of the first business owners she’d made a deal with. He owned the local brewery, employing townspeople and trying to keep the economy up and running in a town where there wasn’t a lot of work.
Stella had sat down with him, convincing him that she could turn the resort around and, in doing so, help the local businesses at the same time. She used his beer, playing it up as exclusive and creating a brochure, eventually having him give a VIP tour of the brewery, which a few of her higher-end clientele paid handsomely for. His beer was good, that was the thing. If it hadn’t been, Stella wouldn’t have gotten behind it.
Many of those who came to climb or ski or backpack came from the Los Angeles area and had money. Once they tasted Bruce’s beer, they wanted to have access to it, and not just at the resort or in the surrounding towns. Bruce was able to secure contracts with a few of the very private clubs in Los Angeles for his beer, and that meant charging a high price for it. Stella became one of Bruce’s favorite people.
Dr. Denver Dawson and Bruce had been close friends for years, at least as long as Stella had been living in the area. Denver was an outdoorsman. He hunted. Fished. He was a strong climber, whether bouldering, trad or sport climbing. He claimed he didn’t like winter sports, but she knew he’d gone out to recover bodies in the snow more than once and he’d triggered an avalanche when they needed to bring down a section too dangerous to leave hanging. He wasn’t afraid of hard work and pitched in wherever he was needed, often at Zahra’s fund-raisers.
Denver was a good man and she liked him a lot. Most everyone in town did. When he hunted, he shared the meat with people who wouldn’t get through the winter without help. Same with his fish. He was quietly generous. As far as Stella knew, although Sam seemed to be polite to everyone, Denver was the only one he was friends with, if he had a friend.
Bruce had a thing for Zahra. She was petite and had that cute-as-hell accent and those dark, dark eyes and perfect mouth. Bruce towered over her, a bear of a man. He almost made two of her. With everyone else he was absolutely confident, but around Zahra he could barely say a coherent word. He had reason to be confident. He was six foot six with wide shoulders and kept himself in good shape. His scowl made him look intimidating, but his blue eyes and his handsome face drew all the women like magnets— all but the one he wanted.
Because Denver was supposed to be his “wingman,” he was seated next to Stella at nearly every event Bruce attended. Stella and Denver ended up laughing quite a bit over their two friends dancing around each other. Stella really liked Denver. He wasn’t smooth and charming like a couple of the other men in their circle of acquaintances, but he could be counted on. He was loyal to his friends. He had a great sense of humor. That mattered to her.
She parked her 4Runner, looking at the colors of the sun shining down on the surface of the lake. The fog edging through the trees gave the sky a shimmering silver effect, amplifying the gold and orange tones spread out over the water. She always wished she could find the perfect colors to paint the visual on canvas. She’d tried in various mediums but could never quite come close to replicating nature.
Stella let Bailey out of her rig. He knew both men, but more importantly, he knew how to behave when men were fishing. He had more manners than most of the tourists that came to the resort. She had actually discussed tips with Roy Fulton, the man who worked at her bait shop for years, putting together a list of common courtesy rules and leaving them in every cabin. She’d asked Denver to add to them when the two of them had been at the bar watching Zahra and Bruce do their careful dance around each other.
The men were a good distance apart, but both had lines in the water. She could see why they liked this spot, especially in the morning hours. Trees grew nearly right up to the shore, giving them privacy and protection from the relentless heat of the sun on the hotter days. There were the inevitable granite rocks, smooth from the years of being in the water with waves lapping at them, shaping them into rounder versions of an egg. Plants grew along the shore, tall reeds rising above the surface, swaying with the waves as the light breeze played over the water.
These two men were her friends. They were a large part of the life in their community and she knew they were at risk. She hadn’t thought in terms of any of her friends being at risk. When that realization hit her, she could barely breathe for a moment. She leaned against the driver’s-side door and stared at the two men as they peacefully fished in the beauty of the lake. It was so beautiful there with the colors of the sun and reflections on the surface of the water. The shimmering silver of the mist creeping in, and the fall brilliance of the leaves, oranges, reds and greens decorating the trees. The men would never suspect, for one moment, that danger lurked beneath the surface.
Her vision blurred. Bailey pressed his head tight against her hip, and she sank her hand into his fur, reaching back with the other to grip the door. What in the hell was happening to her? A full-blown panic attack? She hadn’t had those in years. Just like shoving her fingers against her lips or rocking, she was regressing back to all those childhood habits, but the realization that these two really good men could be at risk was horrifying. Sam fished as well. Most of the men in her circle fished.
“Stella, come here, babe. Just sit down. You need to breathe.” Denver wrapped his arm around her and walked her to a camp chair.
She took a deep, shuddering breath as she sank into the chair and managed to drag fresh air into her laboring lungs. “I’m okay, Denver.”
He must have tossed his fishing pole and come running. That would be like him, to notice someone in trouble. He was the hospital’s anesthesiologist. Dr. Denver Dawson, nicest man on the planet, although his rough exterior put many people off. Make that women. She’d seen it dozens of times. Silly women always went for the smooth charmers, the players, and then they cried when their hearts were broken.