Page 89 of Whispers at Dusk
“Something here, too. I’ll be checking into it. Thinking we’re getting a little far apart, so we’ll reposition after we’ve seen what we each find.”
Della didn’t reply. There was something almost like a clearing ahead of her and Gideon. She looked at him and arched a brow.
“Bootleggers of the 1920s,” he told her. “Hunters use it sometimes, but rarely.”
She pretended to use the remote but didn’t need to—in the event that it was taken from her, Stephan wouldn’t realize her earbuds kept her in close contact with Mason and the team.
“I think this might be the kind of place where we might find this man. People will come by eventually, they will find bodies displayed in their bloodless beauty, but the place is not at all heavily trafficked. He wants them found—but maybe not immediately after he’s displayed them.
“Same here. I understand there were families that survived certain years out here, running stills, hiding out. Easy to see how it might have been good business—without much chance of the law descending,” Mason said over the radio.
If Stephan Dante was anywhere near them, he could hear the conversation.
And he would know she was alone.
Except, of course, she wasn’t. She smiled to herself. Gideon was with her.
“I’m moving ahead,” she said.
She nodded to Gideon and they walked across the clearing. Vines and leaves covered the decaying wood of the structure and tree branches growing through it.
But—with her gun drawn—she looked for an entry. The door to the place had long ago rotted from its hinges. But there had been a door and that allowed her to duck under a sagging beam and enter.
There was nothing in what remained of the shelter other than the decaying remnants of years and years of discarded items and refuse. Broken bits of rotting wood lay crumbled on what might have been a low bed or pallet along with bits and pieces of blanket. Weeds grew through the floorboards.
She spoke aloud. “Well, nothing here. Rot and decay. Nature is reclaiming the place.”
“There was a rustling sound. Someone is outside, watching, listening,” Gideon said.
“Then it’s time to put the game into play,” she said.
“He’s there?” Mason asked.
“We believe. Someone is out there. If so...just keep listening.”
She held her Glock out as she stepped around the broken entry of the old shack.
And Gideon was right. He was out there.
“Well, well, well, Special Agent Della Larson in the flesh!”
It was Stephan Dante—as Stephan Dante—no disguise. And as himself, she could see how he had appeared as a handsome and normal young man with charm and an easy smile.
“Why?” she murmured.
“Why?” he queried. “Why not?”
“Because no one has the right to steal life from anyone else!”
“Oh, come on! Man has ripped up man from the beginning of time. Sometimes we call it war, and men—and women—get to go crazy killing one another. We are born to kill. And just as there is a chance there is a god, there is a chance the whole vampire thing might be real—why not kill cleverly? Oh, and rid the world of a little trash as one goes.”
She had her Glock on him. He was smiling, unarmed, casual. He was dressed as Della was in denim jeans and boots, and ready to face the elements out here.
He wasn’t pointing a gun or any kind of a weapon at her. He probably had one stashed somewhere. And he knew damned well she was going to try to get him to take her to his hostages.
“So, you’re going to shoot me, eh?” he asked.
“I try not to shoot people,” she told him. “So, if you would be so kind as to tell me where to find the girls—”
