They were illuminated in the headlights of an approaching car.
Please … stop. Please stop, Carrie’s mind begged, but the car continued on, tooting its horn as it passed as if in encouragement.
Carrie continued to struggle against Bret, trying to push him away. “No,” she stammered, more of a plea than a command.
Finally, the frustration became too much for him. Bret shoved her explosively, the palms of his hands slamming into her chest. She stumbled backward and fell, scuffing her hands on the pavement as she tried to catch herself.
Before she could gather herself, he was coming at her again, his hands clenched in rage. She knew what was coming, and she turned her head in anticipation of the blows.
Someone coming out of the bar called out, “Hey, what’s going on?”
Bret looked their way and then turned and took off, disappearing down the darkened alley.
Carrie picked herself up off the street as two guys came running around the car.
“Are you okay?” one of them asked.
“Yeah … I think so,” Carrie said dazedly.
One of the guys put his hand on her arm to help her. She flinched in pain and jerked away and then quickly climbed into her car. She didn’t want anyone touching her.
Inside the car, she locked the doors and sat there as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt like she was going to puke.
CHAPTER 11
Montana
Five miles south of Poulson on Highway 93, the Flathead County sheriff’s Yukon slowed as it neared the Salish-Kootenai People’s Center. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t looking for it among the string of billboards for lakeside campgrounds, antique stores, business parks, and car dealerships, or one of the numerous new casinos that had sprung up along the road since he had last been here. Sheriff Greyhawk looked out the window, his cold gray eyes expressionless as he passed the large tepee set up alongside the highway for the benefit of the tourists. It had been many years since he had been here, and he might never have returned had it not been for the call from someone claiming to have information about the Hungry Horse murders.
The past week and a half had been spent chasing down leads in relation to the killings only to be frustrated time and time again as they all proved fruitless. To make matters worse, a local man had disappeared while he had been skiing last week. Search teams had been organized, and his car had been found at a lookout point near Swan Lake; however, they had yet to find any trace of him. While it wasn’t uncommon for someone to become lost or wounded in the wilderness, the man had been an experienced skier, and there had not been any sudden storms that might have caught him unprepared. His disappearance had only served to fuel the growing paranoia among the area residents. Leads had been pouring in from all over the valley, people reporting everything from a headless skier to Bigfoot himself.
George felt certain this one, like all the others, would turn out to be nothing as well, but when he had seen the name of the person claiming to have information, he had decided to check it out personally.
The reservation wasn’t in Flathead County, and therefore, it wasn’t under his jurisdiction; however, because he knew the caller, he hadn’t bothered to request permission from the Lake County authorities. There was no law prohibiting a county sheriff from visiting his grandmother.
Just past the visitor center, he turned off the highway onto a gravel road. A collection of rundown trailer houses wedged between the visitor center and a lumber company formed a small neighborhood of a sort. A group of mangy dogs ran loose, barking and snapping at each other while several kids played in the dirty snow. As George made his way down the road, he fought to keep the memories of his childhood here at bay. Things had been a lot different back them.
At the end of the block, he pulled up in front of one of the houses, a faded, yellow-gold one with aluminum foil
Please … stop. Please stop, Carrie’s mind begged, but the car continued on, tooting its horn as it passed as if in encouragement.
Carrie continued to struggle against Bret, trying to push him away. “No,” she stammered, more of a plea than a command.
Finally, the frustration became too much for him. Bret shoved her explosively, the palms of his hands slamming into her chest. She stumbled backward and fell, scuffing her hands on the pavement as she tried to catch herself.
Before she could gather herself, he was coming at her again, his hands clenched in rage. She knew what was coming, and she turned her head in anticipation of the blows.
Someone coming out of the bar called out, “Hey, what’s going on?”
Bret looked their way and then turned and took off, disappearing down the darkened alley.
Carrie picked herself up off the street as two guys came running around the car.
“Are you okay?” one of them asked.
“Yeah … I think so,” Carrie said dazedly.
One of the guys put his hand on her arm to help her. She flinched in pain and jerked away and then quickly climbed into her car. She didn’t want anyone touching her.
Inside the car, she locked the doors and sat there as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt like she was going to puke.
CHAPTER 11
Montana
Five miles south of Poulson on Highway 93, the Flathead County sheriff’s Yukon slowed as it neared the Salish-Kootenai People’s Center. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t looking for it among the string of billboards for lakeside campgrounds, antique stores, business parks, and car dealerships, or one of the numerous new casinos that had sprung up along the road since he had last been here. Sheriff Greyhawk looked out the window, his cold gray eyes expressionless as he passed the large tepee set up alongside the highway for the benefit of the tourists. It had been many years since he had been here, and he might never have returned had it not been for the call from someone claiming to have information about the Hungry Horse murders.
The past week and a half had been spent chasing down leads in relation to the killings only to be frustrated time and time again as they all proved fruitless. To make matters worse, a local man had disappeared while he had been skiing last week. Search teams had been organized, and his car had been found at a lookout point near Swan Lake; however, they had yet to find any trace of him. While it wasn’t uncommon for someone to become lost or wounded in the wilderness, the man had been an experienced skier, and there had not been any sudden storms that might have caught him unprepared. His disappearance had only served to fuel the growing paranoia among the area residents. Leads had been pouring in from all over the valley, people reporting everything from a headless skier to Bigfoot himself.
George felt certain this one, like all the others, would turn out to be nothing as well, but when he had seen the name of the person claiming to have information, he had decided to check it out personally.
The reservation wasn’t in Flathead County, and therefore, it wasn’t under his jurisdiction; however, because he knew the caller, he hadn’t bothered to request permission from the Lake County authorities. There was no law prohibiting a county sheriff from visiting his grandmother.
Just past the visitor center, he turned off the highway onto a gravel road. A collection of rundown trailer houses wedged between the visitor center and a lumber company formed a small neighborhood of a sort. A group of mangy dogs ran loose, barking and snapping at each other while several kids played in the dirty snow. As George made his way down the road, he fought to keep the memories of his childhood here at bay. Things had been a lot different back them.
At the end of the block, he pulled up in front of one of the houses, a faded, yellow-gold one with aluminum foil
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