The Night Killer

She shook her head and continued down the slope of the mountain to the next hollow.
    The lightning flashes were more frequent and the thunder louder. She wasn’t particularly afraid of thunderstorms, but she usually didn’t take hikes in them. The rain beat down harder and she would have loved to stop and take a break from it. Maybe there was a rock overhang somewhere. She had more of a need to push on. The lightning flashed again several times. That was when she saw a man not twenty feet from her.

Chapter 3
    Diane stopped dead still, not breathing. Burning acid rose up, stinging her throat. Her gaze darted around for something to use as a weapon. A stick, a stone, anything. But it was too dark to find anything. She should have picked up something earlier. Damn it . Diane squeezed the flashlight in her hand. It was her only weapon.
    The man wore a rain poncho and a hat that hid the upper part of his face. He held a flashlight in his hand, but it was not turned on. He said nothing; nor did he move.
    “You may be able to overpower me,” Diane said, “but I will hurt you really bad in the process.” Weak threat, but it was all she had.
    “I believe you,” he said. “Are you lost? Hurt?”
    His accent was Midwestern. There was not a trace of North Georgia in the way he pronounced his words. His voice was deep, smooth, with a slight nasal quality to it. A flash of lightning revealed that he had a beard. He wasn’t the man who attacked her, but he could be a partner in crime. Diane turned on her light and shined it around the area. She couldn’t see any dogs but she still heard them in the distance.
    “What are you doing out here?” asked Diane.
    “I’m camping in the national park.” He looked over his shoulder and pointed off in a direction behind him.
    The park , thought Diane. If he was telling the truth, the direction he pointed gave her some bearing on where she was.
    “I’ve been taking photographs at night,” he said. “I saw your flashlight and heard the dogs.” He shrugged. “Got curious about who would be hunting in a downpour.”
    “You’re taking photographs in the rain?” said Diane. She eased back a step. She was shaking—from the cold or fear, she didn’t know which.
    “Why not? It’s amazing what you can find in the rain. What are you doing here?”
    “Running from a strange man who tried to grab me. Those dogs”—she indicated with a motion of her flashlight—“are after me.”
    “You were attacked? In the woods?” he asked.
    “At that house on Massey Road.” Diane briefly explained the circumstances of her trek through the woods and listened to his response for any indication that he already knew the story. He was silent for several moments. Diane sensed he was skeptical, and, oddly, that gave her a measure of comfort. But she didn’t relax her grip on her flashlight or take her eyes off the dark outline of his form.
    “You can go back with me to my campsite and I’ll take you to the sheriff,” he said.
    Diane shook her head. “I don’t know you,” she said, wishing that she did, that he were a friend, that she were safe.
    “The woods at night are not the safest place to be—especially if you’re lost,” he said.
    “Neither is going off with a stranger,” said Diane.
    “Fair enough,” he said.
    “You were satisfying your curiosity, even though you heard dogs? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” said Diane.
    “I wondered why anyone would be hunting in a thunderstorm,” he repeated.
    “Why did you think they were hunting?” she asked. “They could be wild dogs.”
    “The dogs are Walker hounds,” he said. “There are three of them, and they haven’t picked up a scent yet.”
    His quiet voice and smooth manner had almost made Diane relax, but her stomach churned again. “How do you know what kind of dogs they are? Are you acquainted with the occupants of that house?”
    “No, I’m not. Walker hounds have a distinctive voice. It has to do with the way they’re hunted. Their owners need to recognize their own dogs from a distance. I had an uncle who raised them. Hear that whining bark? It gets faster when they’ve picked up a trail.”
    “That’s good to know,” she said. “Are they likely to find me?”
    “Dogs have to be trained to track the scent you want them to. Walker hounds are usually trained to hunt raccoons. I’ve never heard of anyone training them to hunt people, but there’s no telling what some people will do with dogs,”