You Can't Hide by Theresa Sneed (uplifting novels TXT) 📕

There was no doubt in his mind that Merrick was back, and no doubt that he’d probably had a partner. No hunter would have accidently fired two shots at the house.

He wondered how Merrick had pulled it off—the switch-with-another-man-in-prison thing. However Merrick had done it, it was clear that the man who’d taken his place on death row, had no problem with dying. So weird. Over the satellite, they’d heard Winnie say that the imposter was a dead-ringer, a Merrick lookalike. The irony, that Merrick had pulled that off once before, hadn’t escape John.

His mind went to what might be in front of him, farther down the path. He hoped he was wrong, and that the real issue was whoever had fired the shots at the farm. It could’ve been some weirdo trying to get their fifteen minutes of fame, but something told him, it was much more. He was almost to the falls, when a noise ahead startled him. He veered off the path and into the woods.

From his vantage point, he saw Elle running beside Sam, and stepped out of his hiding place. “Yo! Hold on.” They gathered around him, questions spewing out so fast, they were all jumbled together.

“Have you seen Sally?” Elle searched his face.

John’s heart sank. He’d expected she’d be with them. “No.”

Sam grabbed his shoulders. “She’s not at the farm?”

“No,” John said, “she came looking for you.”

“They let a thirteen- year-old girl come look for us?”

John shook his head. “Are you serious, Sam? No, Sally took off on her own.” He glanced down the path. “We’ve got to be quieter. Merrick could be anywhere.”

Elle pulled her head back. “Merrick?” She shook her head. “He’s dead, John.”

Relieved at first, John’s relief turned to surprise. “How?”

“Jack pulled him over the falls. He’s not going anywhere.” Sam pointed down the path. “How long ago did Sally leave?”

“Maybe a little over an hour ago?”

“Oh, no.” Elle groaned. She clutched the hair in her fist. “An hour? That means . . .” She fell against Sam. “Merrick got her, Sam,” she sobbed. “And he hid her somewhere.” She glanced around at the tall, thick trees. “But where?”

Agent Thompson approached the falls with caution. A woman and two men hovered over a body at the bottom of the cliff. He assumed they were Elle’s family—the ones she’d set out to find. Putting his fingers to his mouth, he whistled at them, and then dropped his hand. “Hey, you. Get away from that body.”

He could hardly hear what they called back due to the water churning over the falls nearby. He motioned for them to come up the steep ridge. There wasn’t much he could do while they ascended. He contacted headquarters and told them of Snyder’s obvious demise.

Looking over the edge from time to time, he busied himself with examining the top, where an obvious scuffle had taken place. A patch of fresh blood smeared the edge of the rock and trickled down it. Strands of human hair strewn on the rock perplexed him though. Younger hair was thicker, and this was definitely younger hair. He looked back over the ledge. No one had that color hair—or length. It had to have been Sally’s.

They were halfway up. It was obvious they were agitated, and who wouldn’t be? He remembered the first dead body he’d seen, too—not a pretty sight.

Several minutes later, the first of the party made it to the top—a young man, who, Thompson guessed to be Elle’s brother, Jack.

“Grisly sight down there, eh?” Thompson said, pointing his chin toward the edge.

Jack gave a quick nod, while bending over and helping who had to be his mother up and over. The father followed last.

“Okay, let’s head back,” Thompson said, unsure of how to tell them about Sally.

The mother put her hands on her hips. “What are you going to do about him?” She pointed down at Snyder.

“Mom.” Jack held his hand up, as if trying to stop her from speaking. Maybe it was to hurry them along and not linger.

“We’ll retrieve the body before nightfall,” Thompson said.

She squirmed.

“Mom,” Jack said more firmly.

“We need to go,” Jack’s father said. “Now.”

The agent looked at him curiously. “Yes, he’s right,” he said. “This way.” He gestured toward the path.

“But . . .” she said, hesitating.

“Mom. Let’s go.” Jack pulled on her arm.

She sighed. “Right is right.” She studied his eyes and then looked at her husband. “We’re better than this.” She turned back to her son. “Jacky?”

He rolled his eyes. “She thinks,” he said, obviously perturbed, “that there’s a chance,” he continued, traces of reluctance in his voice, “that he’s still alive.”

“What? That’s impossible. No one could survive a fall like that.” Thompson looked over the falls.

“See? That’s what I told her,” Jack said, “but she swears she saw one of his hands move.”

“Oh, that,” the agent said with a shrug. “Postmortem spasm—it happens, sometimes.”

“See?” Jack said, to his mother. “He is dead.”

Thompson got on his radio. “Send a helicopter to retrieve Snyder—possible signs of life.”

Jack shook his head. “What? You just said that kind of thing happens.”

“It does. But we still need to be sure.” He motioned for them to come closer. He held up the stands of hair. “What can you tell me about this?”

Their faces were expressionless, except for Jack’s. His eyes widened. “That evil man,” he pointed back at the falls, “—that you want to save,” anger resonated deep in his voice, “—said it was Sally’s.”

In a fit of sobs, Elle clung to Sam. “He got her!”

“Stop, Elle,” Sam gentle shook her. “We can’t think that way.”

“He’s right,” John said, joining in, “until there’s a bod—”

Elle’s sudden gasp stopped him short. “Um, sorry Elle,” John said, “but it’s true. We need to keep looking.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, sniffling. “Of course.” But where? It was getting dark. They were deep in the woods, on a narrow path that would soon be lit only by the stars. “Sally!” She turned to