Chapter 5
The old railway trail was an unpaved, gravel path flanked by towering pine trees that blocked out the remaining twilight. The air grew noticeably colder as Mark and Deputy Miller pushed deeper into the dense woods, their heavy footsteps crunching against the loose stones. The beam of the deputy’s flashlight danced wildly ahead of them, illuminating patches of ferns, mossy rocks, and the occasional discarded soda can from passing teenagers.
"Sarah!" Mark called out into the darkness, his voice echoing off the silent trees. "Sarah, can you hear me!"
"Keep your voice steady, Mark, but don't yell too loud," Deputy Miller cautioned, holding his hand up to halt. He crouched down, shining his light directly onto the damp gravel of the trail. "Look here."
Mark stepped closer, peering down at the ground. Indentations in the soft earth clearly showed the imprint of a woman's bare feet, moving rapidly away from the direction of their house. Interspersed with the bare footprints were deeper, heavier prints of men's boots—at least two different pairs, walking on either side of the smaller tracks.
"They were flanking her," Mark whispered, a cold dread washing over him. "They were forcing her along the path."
"Or she was trying to get away from them, and they cut her off," Deputy Miller corrected gently, though his tone offered little comfort. He stood up, drawing his service weapon from its holster with a quiet click of metal. "Stay behind me, Mark. We're getting close to the old maintenance bridge."
The maintenance bridge was a rusted, iron structure that spanned a narrow, fast-flowing creek about a mile from their neighborhood. It was a local landmark, mostly abandoned and structurally unsound, crossing over churning, rocky white water below. As they approached the clearing near the bridge, a faint, flickering light caught their attention through the thick cluster of cedar trees.
Mark instinctively smelled woodsmoke mixed with something metallic and sharp. Someone was up ahead.
"Deputy, look," Mark whispered, pointing toward the rusted skeleton of the bridge.
Parked just off the access road near the bridge was a dark, unmarked sedan with its headlights turned off. The driver's side door was open, and a figure was leaning against the vehicle, smoking a cigarette. The orange ember glowed brightly in the deepening night.
May you like
Deputy Miller motioned for Mark to drop low into the brush. "Stay here. Do not make a sound," the deputy whispered, moving stealthily toward the vehicle with his weapon drawn.
Mark crouched in the damp ferns, his heart pounding in his ears. He strained his eyes in the gloom, praying that Sarah was inside that car, safe and unharmed. But as the deputy drew closer to the vehicle, the figure by the car turned around sharply, alarmed by a snapping twig.
