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  Charlie had always believed fate had led him to Father Daltry’s church that day. He’d absorbed the priest’s sermons and watched himself evolve from a two-bit hood into a respectable, hardworking member of society. Strength endured in faith, even for those who took half a lifetime to find it. Charlie became the personification of rehabilitation, but there were always skeptics who judged him for his past, even now.

  Still, hope was a gift. Father Daltry had given it to him. Charlie wanted to share that hope with others who needed it.

  His mentor’s scowling face appeared behind his eyes, ready to express disapproval. But Charlie hadn’t listened to him then and wasn’t listening now. Don’t assume no one can change just because you never could. Even a pit bull raised for fighting can be tamed with a little love and kindness.

  Okay. A lot of love and kindness.

  Charlie snapped himself from his memories. The here and now, that was important. At the moment, his mentor’s cynicism seemed valid. Tyler had promised him he would return by curfew. Parole had rules, and Charlie was their enforcer. Charlie’s biggest rule was easy enough to follow: report in when required. Tyler had never missed a roll call.

  Until now. Worse than that, Tyler had betrayed Charlie’s trust.

  He ran his fingers down his face. Charlie had taken a liking to Tyler. In nineteen years on the job, he had seen hundreds of ex-cons come through his door. He had long ago learned to recognize those who regretted their crimes and wanted to start over, who would undo the past if they only could. They were men who would walk the straight and narrow even when he wasn’t looking. Of course, even loyal dogs strayed sometimes. Even the best parolees, especially the younger ones, couldn’t always adhere to the endless bureaucracy that governed every minute aspect of their lives. So Charlie cut them some slack.

  Then there were the killers and rapists and sick, twisted souls who lacked remorse. Half of them would be back in prison after the first month, half of those remaining after the first year. Most of the rest would be dead. The handful of hopefuls who remained, guys like Charlie himself, were men worth saving.

  Tyler seemed to fall squarely into that latter grouping, but Charlie had been fooled once or twice before. He had given Tyler the day, but in his greed, Tyler had taken the night along with it. How am I supposed to overlook this?

  He cracked his knuckles then rubbed his palms together. Lord, I will not give up on him yet.

  Charlie’s devotion wasn’t just for show. He saw his work as a literal fight against the Devil for every wayward soul beneath his roof. His caseload was far too big and filled with too many nasties to save them all, but for those capable of salvation, Charlie would do whatever it took to deliver it.

  He stood and snatched his keys from his desk drawer. He threw on a light jacket and exited his office, locking it behind him.

  “Terry,” he said to the hired muscle posing as security—one of Charlie’s former projects. “Mind holding down the fort? A friend of mine is having car trouble.”

  “No problem, boss,” Terry said, a grin spreading across his face. He tipped his cap. “Give Tyler my best.”

  Charlie laughed. “You know me too well, I’m afraid. But don’t go sounding any alarms just yet. I should be back in an hour or so. And if God is with me, Tyler will be, too.”

  Chapter 9

  Tyler screamed. By the grace of God, perhaps, he had been able to hold it back until then, but Dakota’s last cut had been deep.

  Dakota had seemed to be testing him at first, seeing how far she could go before it really started to hurt—or testing herself, seeing how far she could go before her nerve faltered. The switchblade had been unsteady in her hands. Her movements were unsure. The first slice barely grazed his cheek, and he winced more for her benefit than his own. He had cut himself worse shaving.

  For several minutes after that first cut, she couldn’t even look at Tyler. She buried her face in her trembling hands, likely second-guessing the path she had chosen.

  “It’s not too late to stop,” Tyler whispered.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Dakota’s head snapped from her hands. There was no doubt in the look she gave him—just hate. Gritting her teeth, she charged at Tyler, the ice back in her eyes, her hand clutching the switchblade white-knuckle tight and driving it toward his chest.

  Tyler closed his eyes and braced himself. This is it.

  And though his eyes and mouth opened simultaneously, each hollering out his pain in its own way, Tyler was not dead. Not yet.

  Dakota arched her downward strike such that when the point entered his chest, it curved sideways and dug in and back out of his flesh. The blade opened up a three-inch gash, nearly an inch deep at its hot red center. The hole in his T-shirt was much smaller. His blood had sucked it against his skin, where it acted as a kind of nonsterile bandage. Dakota had selected the wrong blade for slicing. Switchblades were meant for stabbing.

  She learned quickly. After two swift jabs, Dakota poked two more small holes in him, one in his thigh, away from the femoral artery, and the other just below his shoulder as if she were trying to miss vital organs. He grunted. These wounds were minor, superficial. He raised his head and met Dakota’s stare.

  Madness flashed across her face, and she lunged at him. This time, she used the pointy end properly and plunged it deep into his side. The blade passed through his skin, for sure, and maybe the meat beneath. His eyes burst open upon the impact, but the lack of pain surprised him. She might have missed everything vital, but maybe not. He tried to think what organ she might have hit. Liver, kidney, spleen—he had no idea. Did it matter? He doubted he needed it anymore.

  When she pulled the switchblade free from his body, Dakota wiggled it. He bit his tongue so hard that he swallowed blood. More blood poured into his waistline. He’d yelled out a barrage of curse words and almost cursed Dakota, but he’d stifled his anger before he could.

  It wasn’t her fault. Dakota thought her cause was righteous. Tyler could do nothing to dissuade her. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  By the time her little torture session was over, Dakota would have done him a favor. She would finally have given him the escape from his memories that he had longed for but had been too cowardly to provide himself.

  As he spat out his last curse word, Tyler heard something other than his own vulgarity. Voices? Dakota didn’t seem to hear them. She was busily scrubbing blood from her hand with a cloth as if the fluid was eating away at her flesh.

  He took in the cabin and for the first time noticed that it had no windows, only a door. One way in and one way out.

  Dakota stood with the knife at her hip. She moved toward Tyler, her face wrought with disgust. He could tell she didn’t enjoy the torture, though it didn’t stop her from advancing for another stab at him.

  “Wait!” Tyler shouted.

  Dakota blinked and jumped backward, obviously confused. It passed quickly. She crossed her arms. “Ready to beg? You must know nothing that you say will save you now.”

  “Listen.” Tyler stared at the door. “Someone’s outside.”

  She tilted her head toward the door and held her breath. “If this is some kind of trick, it won’t—”

  The door flew open and slammed against the wall. She turned to face it, knife arm extended.

  Tyler scanned the crowd that entered. He knew them: the frat boys from the campground.

  “Well, well, well,” said their ringleader, the older kid with shifty eyes and nine o’clock shadow that only grew in patches. He was old enough to classify as a man, but that term didn’t seem to capture his mentality. A scar ran down his cheek, similar to the one Tyler imagined he’d have if he lived long enough.

  “There’s a party going on in this house, and me and my boys weren’t invited? That sounds downright uncool to me, un-American even. What do you think of this shit, bros?”

  “I don’t like it much,” one of the ape twins said. Tyler couldn’t tell if it was Thing One or Thing Two.
<
br />   “I don’t like it much either,” the other twin echoed.

  The frat boys piled into the room, seemingly oblivious to the weapon in Dakota’s hand or the bloodied man dangling from the ceiling. One look at them, and Tyler knew they weren’t his rescue party.

  Shifty walked within two feet of Dakota, a twin hovering at each side as if they were bodyguards for the president’s brat. Their pet, Frosh, came in after them, lugging two cases of beer. He looked exhausted. When his eyes met Tyler’s, his face whitened, and he looked away.

  “Now, what’s a pretty girl like you doing all the way out here by yourself?” Shifty asked. Tyler’s forehead crinkled. Surely, Shifty didn’t think she was alone. How could he have missed Tyler strung up dead center like a side of beef in a meat locker? He coughed. Shifty just gave him a nod and returned to his conversation.

  No, they were not the cavalry. They had come for Dakota.

  Her body stiffened. She waved the knife in front of her. Tyler couldn’t guess how she knew these boys and the trouble they brought with them. What it meant for him was a bigger mystery. The only thing he knew for sure was that these college kids were trouble. He had seen their kind plenty of times in prison and, even before that, when he’d been on the receiving end of gang brutality. These kids were predators.

  All except the youngest one. Tyler knew the look on Frosh’s face. He’d seen that look a hundred times before, on the only prison mate who didn’t deserve to be locked up just before he got his daily beat down. Stupid kid. Wrong place. Wrong time.

  “Stay back, Mark,” Dakota warned, swishing the blade through the air. “Keep your thugs back, too. I won’t think twice about stabbing you.” She sounded as if she meant it. Looking one of the twins dead in the eye, she yelled, “You got that?”

  “Poor Dakota.” Mark mimed a tear. “Always getting herself into trouble.” The ape twins’ low laughter resonated behind him. Frosh hung back, his face pale, his eyes averted.

  Mark took a half step forward.

  “You’d better stay back,” Dakota warned.

  “Oh, but I can’t, Dakota. I never could stay away from you. And you see,” he said, running a finger along his scar, “we’ve got ourselves some unfinished business, as they say. I owe you some payback, and by the looks of it, now is as good a time as any.”

  “You owe me payback. If you didn’t have your boys backing you up, I’d kill you right now, you son of a bitch.”

  Mark was small, but his hand moved swiftly. The back of it hit hard across Dakota’s face.

  She rolled with the slap. When she straightened, blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Something rabid seized her. She sprang at Mark, the switchblade aimed at his throat.

  She might have ended him if not for the ape twins. Thing One yanked Mark backward as Thing Two clenched his hand around Dakota’s wrist. He squeezed, and the blade dropped to the floor. Dakota twisted out of his grasp and slowly backed away.

  Mark smiled. “I don’t know what you had planned for this chump,” he said, pointing at Tyler. “But I’m sure he won’t mind if you put his fun on hold for a bit. Besides, you know how jealous I get when people play bondage without me.”

  “The cops are on their way.” Dakota’s voice wavered. She backed closer and closer to Tyler. “They’ll be here any minute now.”

  Mark laughed. The twins laughed with him. “I seriously doubt that. But even if they were, they’d never believe you, not with your record and him hanging there, while me and my boys are impeccable citizens.” His lip curled beneath his nostril. His eyes had the sheen of an animal’s.

  Dakota bumped into Tyler as she retreated. The lavender smell of her shampoo mixed with the stink of sweat and clotting blood. She stopped beside him.

  “Free me,” he whispered. “You need my help.”

  “Master,” Frosh stuttered, his voice scarcely a decibel louder than the squeaking mouse’s. “Um, maybe we should just leave.”

  “Shut it, Frosh. Boys, hold her down.”

  Mark and the twins advanced. Dakota turned and ran. Frosh dropped the beer and bolted out the door.

  Chapter 10

  “Are those headlights?”

  Abigail could hardly believe her eyes. They wouldn’t be spending their entire night traipsing through woods after all. An access road, something wide enough to drive on, was nearby. Better still, someone was driving on it.

  “Hey!” she yelled. “Over here!”

  KY joined in, and for once, Abigail welcomed the sound of his voice. Side by side, they sprinted toward the vehicle, breaking their promise to stay on the trail.

  Her flashlight’s beam swayed as she ran. Her backpack hung heavy as if loaded with iron weights. Its straps dug into her shoulders. But all the aches and pains of a hard day dissipated under those halos of light. They were more than just electrical components. They were proof of other human life out there in the wilderness, reminders of civilization and all its comforts, and omens of a brighter future. Abigail smiled wider the closer she came to them. Finally, they’d found a way out of that hellhole.

  I am never going hiking again.

  “Ah!” KY wheezed behind her. She slowed and glanced over her shoulder. Her husband had stopped. His hands rested on his knees. “Keep going,” he managed to say as he struggled for breath. “I’m fine… I’ll catch up.”

  The vehicle, too tall to be a car, passed them, but it was moving slowly. Maybe its driver was looking for them. He had to be. The ranger had sent someone out for them, and if she didn’t move, that someone would drive right on by.

  “Wait!” Abigail lengthened her stride. “Stop!” She burst onto the trail only a few yards behind the vehicle—a Jeep Cherokee, she could see now, the kind the park employees had. She stood on a path less than eight feet wide and covered in shin-high grass. It hid the tracks of the SUV, swiftly covering up any reminder of human passage.

  Madly waving one hand above her head, the other hand aiming her flashlight into the Jeep’s rear window, she tried to flag down the driver. It worked. The Jeep stopped.

  Abigail held her light on the Jeep, lowering it slightly to illuminate the words written beneath the rear window: “Kansas Department of Wildlife, Parks, and Tourism.” She breathed in exhaust, marveling at how seven innocuous words could feel like salvation.

  KY nearly tackled her as he tripped onto the path. He stood and dusted himself off. Mud caked his knees. His dopey smile filled his face.

  Useless. Abigail huffed. She tapped her foot as she waited for the driver to emerge from his vehicle. At last, the driver’s side door creaked open. A black-booted foot appeared, followed by olive green khakis. A tall, lanky man with a long, wiry beard and a slight potbelly exited the Jeep.

  “Hiya, folks,” he said, approaching. He put a hand over his eyes as if his absurdly large hat wasn’t enough to shade them. “Ma’am, would you kindly refrain from shining that light in my face?”

  “Sorry.” Abigail shook the flashlight as if it were defective and clicked it off. The Jeep’s taillights brightened the path behind it and briefly lit the man as he passed in front of them. As if the vehicle weren’t proof enough, the man’s garb made it clear that he was a park ranger, tried and true. His name tag read, “Merwin.”

  He turned toward KY, hand extended. “I take it you’re the folks I spoke with earlier.”

  KY nodded. The ranger shook his hand.

  “KY.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  When KY stared back blankly, the ranger cleared his throat. “No? Well, I’m Merwin. Says so right here on my name tag.” He pointed to over the breast pocket of his tannish-green shirt.

  “Well, since you ended up on this trail, perhaps I wasn’t clear on the phone. You should have taken a left at the fork.” Merwin stared at KY then squinted as if sizing him up. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I told you that.”

  KY shrugged and chortled. Abigail fumed silently.

  Merwin presented her his hand. She to
ok it and was surprised at the strength of grip from a skeletal waif of a man with a malnourished-looking potbelly.

  “And you must be the brains of this operation,” he said, smiling politely.

  Abigail smiled back. Already, she liked the park ranger. The fact that he was going to get her back to her home and into a nice, warm bath placed him somewhere near Jesus Christ and Superman. She would have to remember to send him a thank-you card.

  “Anyway,” Merwin said, breaking several seconds of silence, at which point Abigail realized he must have been waiting for her name. “When you guys never came moseying into the station, I figured I’d better come have a look for you.”

  KY gave her a look, his silly grin running rampant. She met it with a look of her own that said, in no uncertain terms, to shut his hole about the ranger’s use of the word moseying.

  By the time she turned back to face Merwin, all trace of her anger had vanished. “We are extremely glad you did,” she said, blushing. She elbowed KY in the side.

  “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Why didn’t you introduce me?”

  “Uh, this is my wife—”

  “I’m Abigail. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Merwin said, bowing slightly. “Well, hop on in. These woods can be downright treacherous at night. I don’t give a damn how much bug spray you two are wearing—and believe me, I can smell it over your stink. You are going to be scratching like mongrels tomorrow, I reckon.”

  “There’s something to look forward to.” Abigail rolled her eyes toward KY. She didn’t have to belittle him again. His silence served as proof that he recognized how badly he’d screwed up.

  The three walked toward the Jeep. Abigail took the passenger seat. KY sat behind her, out of sight. It was going to be a quiet ride home.

  Merwin got in, dropped the emergency brake, and shoved the clutch out of neutral. The Jeep jerked forward.