The Survivors Club Read Online Free PDF

dwellings slumping into the earth, wood shacks bent out of shape by the elements, corrugated steel roofs were a patchwork of silver and rust. In mid-April, the mesquite was just budding out in halos of bright green.
    The crime scene tape was still wrapped around the falling-down cabin, strung out to include two white oaks.
    The Tahoe bumped along the dirt track and she parked behind the stone foundation of the stamp mill. The oaks and mesquite grew wild there, and Tess knew the vehicle couldn’t be seen from the road. It wasn’t an overt act of concealment, but Tess didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone driving along the road. Tourists and hikers used this road, and she didn’t want to deal with anyone today.
    As she’d done the first time, she started seventy yards or so away from the cabin where Hanley had died and walked all the way around. As she walked, she looked down at the ground, but also at the hills and mountains and mining buildings of Credo, paying par ticular attention to windows, doorways, and trees. With her eyes, she tracked the cabin where Hanley was shot and killed, getting closer with each circuit.
    Found “high sign” on an animal path coming down one hill.
    Strands of burlap clung to the bushes and mesquite. Burlap meant someone had been moving drugs—most likely marijuana. She found a thread of flannel, as well. Flannel was a good shirt for early spring. The fabric breathed, it could be cool or it could be warm, and repelled burrs and thorns. That was why border crossers often wore flannel shirts.
    Tess had a few small plastic evidence bags with her, and tweezers. She took a few samples of the flannel and burlap, and photographed the bush they’d been caught on. Plenty of footprints—maybe even more than last time.
    Even though the road was blocked by a padlocked gate, anyone could come through here on foot, or even on horseback. Anyone with wire cutters could get through a four-strand wire fence with horses or mules, or slip in on foot.
    She worked her way to the cabin.
    Every shell casing—all thirty of them—had been circled with iridescent orange paint before being taken for evidence.
    Tess couldn’t think of one instance of an enforcer for one of the cartels killing a US citizen on this side of the border.
    She crossed her arms and rested her hands under each armpit, so she would not be tempted to touch anything. She stepped up onto the cabin’s porch. Even at this time of the day, a chill emanated from the doorless entry.
    Tess paused outside the doorway. The smell of musty adobe overlaid the membranes of her mouth and nostrils. She peered into the darkness at the opposite wall. Blood everywhere. Geysers of it on what was left of the chalk-like gypsum board.
    From the trajectories and blood spatter and the way Hanley was found, Tess was sure her theory was correct: he had been pushed back by the assault, and stumbled backward until he hit the wall.
    She closed her eyes. And saw him.
    Grouped shots, mostly center mass, Hanley’s neck turned into pudding. Two shots to the face—both eyes.
    The duct tape pasted across his mouth.
    Hanley’s Denali was a burned-out husk—there would be little, if any, evidence. They’d identified it by the VIN number. Plaster casts had been taken of the tire treads near the place where the Denali had been driven off the road, as well as shoe prints. But they would need something to match them to.
    Tess looked around the cabin. There were long sections of the rafters open to the sky, sun and shadow striping the concrete floor.
    He’d had a weapon, but didn’t draw it. This surprised Tess. You’d think that out here he would hear someone coming. There was no way someone would be able to sneak up on an ex-cop. Tess knew Hanley would have kept the careful habits that had seen him through his sixty-eight years. If she were him, coming out here late in the day like that, she would have scouted the area. She would have looked for trouble ahead