Black Hills

blessed quiet. He could hear the wind whisper through the trees, and the clomp of hooves on snowy ground, the creak of leather.
    For a day or two he wouldn’t have to think. About payroll, overhead, grooming, feeding, his grandfather’s health, his grandmother’s mood.
    He could do what he hadn’t had the time, and maybe not the inclination, to do since he’d come back to South Dakota.
    He could just be.
    They rode for a full hour without a word between them before she pulled up and he came up alongside her.
    “This is stupid. You’re stupid. Go away.”
    “Have you got a problem breathing the same air as I do?”
    “You can breathe all the air you want.” She waved a hand in a circle. “There are miles of air. I just don’t see the point in this.”
    “There is no point. We’re just going in the same direction.”
    “You don’t know where I’m going.”
    “You’re going up to the grassland where you saw the cougar take down the buffalo calf. The same place, more or less, we found the body.”
    Her eyes sharpened. “How do you know that?”
    “People talk to me whether I want them to or not. They talk to me about you whether I want them to or not. That’s where you usually go when you go on your own.”
    She shifted, seemed to struggle. “Have you been back since?”
    “Yeah, I’ve been back.”
    She clucked to Rocky to get him moving again. “I guess you know they never found whoever did it.”
    “He might’ve done others.”
    “What? What others?”
    “Two in Wyoming, one in Idaho. Solo female hikers. The second one two years after Melinda Barrett. Another thirteen months later. The last six months after that.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I was a cop.” He shrugged. “I looked into it. Ran like crimes, did some work on it. Blow to the head, stabbing, remote areas. He takes their pack, ID, jewelry. Leaves them for the animals. The others are open and unsolved. Then it stopped, after four killings, it stopped. Which means he’s moved on to other types of kill, or he got busted for something else and he’s inside. Or he’s dead.”
    “Four,” she said. “Four women. There must’ve been suspects or leads.”
    “Nothing that panned out, or stuck. I think he’s inside, or dead. It’s a long stretch without anything that matches his pattern.”
    “And people don’t change that much. Not the basics,” she added when he looked at her. “That’s what killing is. It’s basic. If it’s the same killer, it’s not because he knows the victim, right? Not especially. It’s the type of victim—or prey. Female, alone, in a specific environment. His territory might range, but his prey didn’t. When a predator is successful in its hunting, it continues.”
    She rode in silence for a moment, then went on when he didn’t respond. “I thought, or convinced myself, that Melinda Barrett was some sort of accident. Or at least a onetime thing. Someone she knew, or someone who knew her, targeted her.”
    “You put a marker where we found her.”
    “It seemed there should be one. There should be something. I tagged a young male up there four years ago. He’s moved on to Wyoming. That’s where the camera went down a couple days ago. It’s infrared, motion. We get a lot of hits. The animal cams, on the refuge and in the field, are popular on the website.”
    She caught herself. She hadn’t meant to get into conversation with him. Not that it was, really. More of a monologue.
    “You’ve sure gotten chatty over the years,” she commented.
    “You said you didn’t want company.”
    “I didn’t. Don’t. But you’re here.”
    So he’d make an attempt. “Do the cameras go out often?”
    “They require regular maintenance. Weather, wildlife, the occasional hiker play hell with them.” She stopped when they reached the stream. Snow lay in drifts and piles, crisscrossed with the tracks of animals who came to hunt or to drink.
    “It’s not memory lane,” she repeated. “Just a good campsite. I’m going to unload before heading up.”
    It was upriver from the spot where they’d often had picnics. From where they’d first become lovers. He didn’t mention it, as she knew it. Lillian Chance knew every foot of this territory as well as other women knew the contents of their closet.
    Probably better than most. He unloaded as she did, making quick work of setting up his tent a good five yards from where she set hers.
    The deliberate distance might have been the reason for the