TWELVE
At the head of the valley, Mason Lee stood at the foot of a thin waterfall, which fell from a stream about a hundred feet above. Through the water’s veil, Mason could see just well enough to glimpse a small cavern—the only possible refuge for a woman who surely knew she had been trapped. The bloodhounds had tracked her scent to here and blocked all avenues of escape. Mason pictured the girl shivering in fear, making her way down the rock face to the cavern, hoping for safety.
But there was no way to climb back up. Mason was certain: she could only be there, hidden by the water.
He stood just beyond the spray, all the men in his hire behind him. They knew procedure. Mason was always the one to make the final capture.
One of the men had his vidpod in video recording mode and extended it chest high for an unimpeded view of Mason. This was procedure too. The capture would be uploaded for Bar Elohim to distribute to all vidpods in Appalachia, showing everyone that it was useless to defy God and Bar Elohim. Mason liked the publicity, cementing the perception that no one ever escaped him. He’d always wait until the recording was finished to take his private, bloody revenge on the fugitives.
Aware that his next actions would be in full view of Appalachia, Mason Lee held the stock of his shotgun and flipped the front end upward to snap it shut. He aimed the shotgun at the waterfall.
“Come on out,” he shouted. “There’s no place to go.”
This would look good, the girl stepping out from the curtain of water, drenched and pitiful. Where and when he’d gut her he hadn’t decided yet, but there would be plenty of time between now and the return to Cumberland Gap to make it look as if she’d tried to escape. Mason knew there was no bounty hunter alive who would be able to find him once he had the canister. He wouldn’t mind shooting a couple of his own men to make his escape with the canister even easier.
“Come on out,” he shouted again. “Otherwise I’ll send the dogs in.”
The bloodhounds were anxious, of course. Once they started on a trail, they were obsessive and would never quit. They simply needed the reward of finding the fugitive to settle them down.
The Rottweilers, on the other hand, wanted blood. This suited Mason. He wouldn’t even need the excuse of an attempted escape to harvest the girl.
The girl did not leave the waterfall.
Mason looked back over his right shoulder, knowing the vidpod would record this. He didn’t turn his head far enough to get both eyes in view. He didn’t like having his drifting left eye on every vidpod in Appalachia.
“Send the dogs!” Mason ordered.
The dogs needed no urging. Six of them. Black Rottweilers. Massive shoulders. Bone-snapping jaws. They bolted toward the waterfall, snarling and howling.
Mason felt a tingle of anticipation as he waited for the screams to come.
Instead, the snarls and howling faded. Moments later, the dogs emerged and shook water from their hides before dancing around in confused circles at the base of the waterfall.
Impossible. Black anger bubbled within him. How could the girl have escaped?