Blood Trail by J. R. Roberts Page B

Talbot urged.
    â€œSorry,” Clint said. “I can’t see as clearly as you obviously can.”
    â€œJust step where I step.”
    â€œI’m trying.”
    But at that moment instead of stepping, Talbot stopped. Clint almost walked into him from behind.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œListen.”
    Clint listened, but didn’t hear a thing.
    â€œI can hear it breathing,” Talbot said. “It knows we’re coming for it.”
    That was bad. They had been hoping to catch the killer watching the camp, perhaps even coming up on it from behind.
    â€œNot good news,” Clint said.
    â€œNevertheless,” Talbot said, “it is out here—and that is good news.”
    Clint thought that remained to be seen.

THIRTY
    Clint still could not hear anything—moving
or
breathing—so he had to depend on Talbot, who seemed to have both senses in an eerie quantity.
    Talbot started to move again and Clint followed. He found himself wondering if he should have let Talbot make him some silver bullets, after all, then immediately pushed the thought away. If only silver bullets would work, that would make his gun—and his abilities with it—useless. It would also mean that he was out here virtually unarmed. That was not a thought he wanted to carry with him. He had to be ready and alert, and confident in his own ability.
    Again, Talbot stopped. Clint turned and looked over his shoulder. He could no longer see the lights of the camp. They were in almost total darkness. Was this really an environment in which Talbot preferred to hunt?
    â€œFrederick—”
    â€œShhh.”
    Talbot stopped again. This time, Clint thought he heard it. Was that actually the sound of . . . breathing?
    Talbot looked back at Clint.
    â€œWe need to separate,” he said. “All right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIf you hear or see anything, shout,” Talbot said. “I will be there with my gun.”
    â€œI have my gun.”
    â€œI have the silver bullets.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œFor my sake,” Talbot said, “shout out and I will come.”
    â€œYou’ve got it.”
    â€œAnd do not take any chances,” Talbot said. “Believe me, you do not know what you are dealing with.”
    â€œAll right, Frederick,” Clint said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    â€œI will go this way,” Talbot said, pointing, “and you go that way.”
    Clint nodded.
    Talbot melted into the darkness. Clint wished he could do it that easily.
    * * *
    Back at the fire, Sarah sat nervously rubbing her hands together. Across the fire from her was Gerhardt, standing and staring off into the darkness. She knew he was thinking of his dead son, Carl.
    The other man, Mueller, was standing at the other end of the camp, watching. From where they stood, the two men could see each other clearly. That was why Gerhardt was able to watch in horror as something came out of the darkness, grabbed Mueller, and dragged him back into it. Mueller barely had time to scream, and Sarah heard nothing. All she saw was the look of horror on Gerhardt’s face.
    â€œOh, my God!” Gerhardt cried.
    â€œWhat?” Sarah asked, jumping to her feet. She turned and looked. “Where is Mr. Mueller?”
    â€œHe is . . . gone!”
    Sarah screamed . . .
    * * *
    Clint heard the scream, knew it came from the camp. He and Talbot had made the wrong decision. They should not have left the camp, not the both of them. One should have remained behind.
    Soon after the scream there was a shot.
    Clint knew Talbot must have heard both. Was he on his way back to camp? Or was he still out in the darkness?
    His own first instinct was to run back to camp, but whatever had happened there was done. There were no more screams or shots. One of each meant that something had happened, probably very quickly, and it was over.
    Still, he was caught in a