Prey Drive

By Van Argan

Women vanishing from a mountain resort, a reality star in hiding, and a stalker with a foolproof plan . . . 

 

A predator hunts for his prey among the guests and visitors at a luxurious retreat. He's unable to control his brutal impulses to destroy innocence and beauty. But he's perfected a scheme that he believes will keep him from ever getting caught.

 

His victims vanish. No one knows what's happened to them. No one can prove they're even missing.

 

But peculiar clues catch the eye of Paul Waterford, an infamous former coach and one time reality star. He's trying to shed his scandalous past, and to help he'll need to keep his identity a secret. Investigating while underground, with no assistance from the proper authorities, is the only way to make it work.

 

To make matters worse, the disappearances aren't the only mysteries at the resort and someone's on to Paul's biggest secret. 

 

Will the stalker stop him before Paul uncovers what happened to the women?

 

"Prey Drive" is an intriguing mystery and suspense novel by Van Argan, author of "Lurking on the Tightrope."  It is a stand alone and complete story without a cliffhanger ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Van Argan
• Release date: Oct 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393705147

Book preview

Chapter 1

Josie Marigold

THE ABSOLUTE DARKNESS behind the window was too palpable for Josie.

This high up in the remote and rugged mountain foothills at night there were no exterior lights to diminish the fusion of indoors with nature.

Josie's customer hadn't drawn his curtains in the resort casita before retreating to the shower.  She wasn't inclined to alter his room.  But that darkness outside tempted her forward another step to figure out what was happening.

Josie held her breath and stared at the window.  She couldn't see a head or face or shoulders, yet the snowflakes occasionally failed to tumble against the glass. 

Josie Marigold had always loved the snow.  Snowflakes fascinated her.  She liked spending lazy afternoons gazing at the snowfall in her own home, a modest loft above an art gallery in nearby Santa Fe.  She'd wrap herself in a quilt on her sofa, sip black coffee, and become hypnotized by the snow, deciphering its patterns of descent.

Tonight, it wasn't the moments of eerie calm unsettling her.  It was a sense of impending doom, of inescapable vulnerability.

The sensation had been escalating throughout the evening, during dinner and drinks with her customer at the main lodge.  Was this feeling of because of her ex?  He worked at the resort.  Being here caused her to relive their worst moments together.  That controlling, pompous, insidious ass!  Still, Josie didn't want to see herself now through his eyes.  He'd already disapproved of almost everything about her.  All he had to offer her—or any other woman unfortunate enough to fall for him—was pain.

Or had Josie's intuition been triggered by remembering the news reports about the young woman working in the resort's spa who had vanished after Thanksgiving?  She'd never been found.  Her family and friends on the news channels swore the woman would never disappear of her own accord.  They were convinced something sinister and tragic had happened to her.

Josie slowly backed away from the darkness behind the window.  She knew not to battle her feelings.  Her knack for smelling escalating trouble—a natural skill—had protected her in countless situations.  Josie Marigold credited her sixth sense for saving her from swindlers and violent customers.  It had helped her evade arrests.  She knew when it was time to leave.

And it was time to go. 

Now!

Instead of immediately going for the door, Josie paused in the room to empty out the john's cash.  He'd left his wallet out on the counter for her.  He could've locked it in the room's safe.  He wasn't tempting her to steal, Josie imagined, but instead welcoming her to take what he could spare and what she needed. 

Four hundred dollars.  She took it all. 

Josie needed every a bit of it.  She had dreams of starting a new life.  A peaceful life—somewhere, someplace—and it'd take much more than four hundred dollars, or even ten times as much, for her to pull the plug on the way she'd become accustomed to surviving and avoiding hunger. 

The john—actually one of the more pleasant and good-natured chaps she'd met—was singing Annie's Song in the shower.  Josie liked John Denver, too.  The john—Josie called them all Honey to their faces and john behind their backs—had left her in his casita alone, under the assumption that once he bathed they could discuss upgrading his companionship arrangement with another romp.  It was, after all, Valentine's Day night, a time to splurge.

Josie left the john's credit cards intact and didn't rummage further through his wallet.  She put it back on the counter, just like he'd left it.  Yes, he'd get out of the shower, find it empty, and understand.

She glanced again at the dark window.  Unobstructed snowflakes were softly pinging off the glass.  Unless her mind was playing tricks with her again, she really needed to get out of there.

Icy hands stopped Josie's race to the door.  The hands were merciless.  Claws or talons, not cutting her, but choking her.  The more Josie kicked and flailed with all her might, the tighter and more unforgiving the hands. 

She eventually crashed onto the area rug over the tile floor.  Her attacker, behind her, uttered no sounds as he continued squeezing and depriving her of oxygen. 

Josie's final thoughts weren't about herself.  They were about her beloved Eddie.

What would he do when mommy didn't come back for him?  Would he believe she'd abandoned him?

Who'll love and care for my baby boy now?

Chapter 2

Paul Waterford

THE THING ABOUT HIDING in plain sight is, the simplest disguise is usually enough.

It's when curious minds unearth nuggets and peek under rocks and hone in on elaborate theories that even the best disguises are apt to fail.  I think it's because we joyfully seek out sordid puzzles, and feed on the outrage and speculation.

People are drawn to struggles and discovering the truth.

For me, hiding in plain sight was achieved, at least at first, with just a beard, a polite veneer, and a flimsy cover story about needing to retreat into the mountains to finally complete my first historical fiction novel. 

It's difficult to pick a starting point for this story.  I think, however, it all has to begin with the anguished crying of two young children.

I heard their sobbing as I headed for my car, which was parked in one of the paved areas nearest to my casita at Angel Box Retreat.  My inclination was to proceed without looking at them and interfering in a family squabble, instead tucking my chin down into my jacket to ward off the bitter morning chill of early March.

But those cries . . .

I walked toward them with great alarm.  The kids—a girl and a boy—probably eight to ten years of age—begged for the attention of a frumpy woman, presumably their mother, who ignored them as she loaded two suitcases into a hatchback with a Colorado license plate.

Mommy, why? the girl wailed, tugging at the loose fabric of her mother's pants.  The girl was the older and taller of the two kids.  Her younger brother's pleas were unintelligible through his sobs.

Excuse me, I said, stopping about six feet away from them and removing my sunglasses.  I directed my comments to the adult.  Are all of you okay?

The woman looked me up and down with disapproval.

I persisted.  Is there anything I can help with?

In the pause before responding, the woman tossed eye daggers at me, then said, We're fine, mister.

That obviously isn't true.  Has someone gotten hurt?

The emotion dried from her face and her features dulled to a blankness.  No, I think you should mind your own business.

Daddy lost Roger, the young girl blurted out.

Roger is some sort of toy? I asked her.

The question upset the girl, who stomped her foot and yelled.  He's our dog!

The woman attempted to push the two children behind her with sweeping motions of her arms, implicitly signaling for them not to speak to me.

I was about to put my sunglasses on, then hesitated.  Where'd Roger get lost?

The girl pointed behind the resort at the rising foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

I addressed my question to her mother.  When did this happen?

Early this morning, she growled, through gritted teeth.  As I've said, it's not your concern.

Glancing at the kids' red and teary faces, I reminded myself to try and not humiliate their mother in front of them as I responded.  Devastated kids and a dog alone in the mountains?  Pardon me, but this is very much a concern.

Then talk to my husband about it.

The woman bent down to the children and made eye contact with them, looking from one to the other.  She said, Remember, what I told you?  We'll be back next weekend for Roger.  He'll be okay until then.  I promise.

The children kept crying.  They knew her promise was hollow.

A portly man, equally frumpy, except for expensive-looking tasseled loafers, carried two more suitcases toward the hatchback.  I intercepted him in the parking area.

I said, The two children over there are terribly upset.  Their dog is missing.  Are you their father?

Who're you?

I almost replied with my real name—Paul Waterford—then caught myself in the nick of time.  I'm James MacArthur.  Would you like assistance finding your dog?

The man stopped walking.  He didn't set the suitcases down, though, and his shoulders sagged from the heavy weight in both of his hands.  He said, He up and ran away.  He's got a mind of his own.  But he can take care of himself.

In the mountains?  No, not a chance.

Well, um, you don't know our Roger.

The man began waddling toward the car again.

Unbelievable, I said.

The man said, without looking back, I'm taking my family to breakfast, then returning to look for him some more.  He'll be fine.  That was all he intended to say about the matter. 

I had a mind to push this further, and at least chide him for his nonchalance about imperiling his dog.  But to what end?  Attacking these parents in front of their children?  I've seen too much of that type of degradation and the result only ends up scarring the kids.

I got to my car—a Ford hybrid SUV loaned from a friend, another aspect of my disguise—and made it down the long, winding drive out of the resort.  I'd even made it another two miles away on New Mexico State Road 592.  Then, too agitated to continue even another hundred feet, I made an illegal U-turn.  Minutes later I was back at Angel Box Retreat, leaving the SUV in the same spot in the parking area.  The hatchback family was gone.

Heading in the direction of the mountains the young girl had pointed at minutes earlier, I walked uphill on the long and winding promenade paralleling the resort's main road.  Elegant casitas, sometimes referred to as jewel boxes, dotted the resort's acreage.  The casitas were linked only by small walkways branching out from the promenade, thereby providing guests with some measure of solitude and privacy.

Past all of the casitas for guests, the promenade and road ended at a parking lot for the Mountain Garden Terrace.  The terrace itself was blocked off by a traditional Southwestern fence—a cedar and latilla coyote fence of vertical posts with tree bark intact—but I stood on my toes to see over it.  The crescent-shaped terrace contained no people, dogs, furniture, or machines.  It was empty space containing a grass lawn in the portion closest to the fence, while flagstone pavers filled the rest.  A wall about three feet high, made of the same pavers, rimmed the round edge to protect guests from tumbling down the bluff. 

The whirring buzz of an electric motor coming up behind me ended my peek over the fence.  One of the resort's utility carts sped toward me and came to an abrupt halt.  It resembled a golf cart, though painted forest green and brown, presumably to blend into the environment.  These carts were the motorized vehicles the staff used to get around the expansive property on the steep incline.  The driver, a uniformed man in his mid to late twenties, had an identification badge on the chest pocket of his shirt indicating his name was Hugo.

The terrace is closed today, sir, he said, using the formal and friendly tone apparently required of the resort's employees.  May I help you with anything?

What's this space for?

Weddings, mostly, sometimes reunions and other private gatherings.  But I'd say virtually all of the functions held here on the Mountain Garden Terrace are for sunset weddings, beginning in mid to late spring once the temperatures are warmer.

Ahh. 

I could easily envision a wedding there.  The lawn for the mingling.  The pavers for the ceremony.  The distant western mountains as the picturesque backdrop for the nuptials at sundown.  Plenty of room for one hundred or one hundred and fifty people.  I bet it cost a small fortune to reserve the space, but I didn't have any interest in asking Hugo for the prices.

Where would somebody find a missing dog around here, high up on the hill? I asked. 

Did you lose your dog, sir?

No, but I ran into some of your other guests here this morning and they lost him.

Hugo shifted the utility cart's gear stick into park position and turned off the engine.  What's the dog look like?

I shrugged.  They called him Roger.  I have no idea what size he is or anything.  I couldn't get much detail out of them, except one of the children indicated Roger was lost in the mountains to the east.  The family already took off.  Their hatchback is gone.  They said they'd be back for their dog after breakfast, supposedly, or next weekend.

Hugo shook his head and gazed in the direction of the mountain horizon.  The dog isn't likely to survive out there long at all.  We've got wolves, mountain lions, bobcats, and even bears in the Sangre de Cristos.  If he makes it till sundown, he won't last too long after that—unless he is damn lucky and can run really fast.

Well, shit.  I restrained myself from releasing more curses.  Have you ever heard of a guest abandoning a dog here before like this?

No, sir, not at Angel Box Retreat.

People are reckless and ignorant.  They do so much goddamned harm.

They probably lost their dog on Caballo Trail, Hugo said.

What's that?

A trail, about two miles long, that skims the crests of the surrounding foothills east of here, toward the bigger mountains.  It's popular with guests who want to hike for spectacular views, especially at daybreak.

Okay, I said.  Where do I find Caballo Trail?

Hugo gestured toward the resort's main lodge, which housed its lobby, restaurant, bar, conference rooms, and administrative offices.  Look for the wooden sign, low to the ground, near the edge of the circular driveway outside of the lobby.

Thank you.  I began heading for the trail.

Wait.  Don't you have hiking boots and a heavier jacket? Hugo asked.

Sure, in my casita.

You'll need the right apparel, sir.  The Caballo is a rigorous trail.  The winds on the elevations are sometimes strong enough to knock a person down.

Fine.  I'll hurry and change and then head up there.  It may already be too late for the little guy.

Can I ask for your name, sir?

I gave him my fake name.  MacArthur.  James MacArthur.

Hugo restarted his engine, and said, Mr. MacArthur, I'll search around the immediate grounds here for him while you're on the trail.

Good.  I appreciate your help.

Since you're starting on the north end of the Caballo, if I don't find him on the grounds I'll check out the south end of the trail, accessed near the tennis courts.

Let me give you my cell number in case you find him.

There's virtually no cell service on the trail.  I'll post a note on your casita door, either way.

When Hugo drove away I decided to search for Roger around the perimeter of the terrace before going to my casita for my boots.  Could he have fallen over the bluff?  He could've crawled under the fence at some spot and hurdled the wall made of pavers without realizing it was on the edge of a slope. 

The way the terrace was positioned into the hillside I couldn't get all the way around it.  I was able to get to the base of the incline directly below the bluff, but I didn't see anything until I returned back up to the coyote fence, followed it to where it reached the corner of the parking area for the terrace, and looked down into a small canyon on the opposite side of the hill.  I noticed the sun shining on a round lump of some kind, dark brown and almost black, on the rocky terrain.  It wasn't moving.  I maneuvered closer, more convinced it was the dog with every downward step.  It sure seemed like fur, but had he already died?  There was no movement from breathing.  No reaction to the sound of my approach.

Halfway there, the sun went behind a cloud and I lost sight of the lump.  Without the sun directly hitting it, it was suddenly invisible.  I continued on, however, moving to the point where I'd seen it.  I started to believe the dog had been alive after all and had run away as the sun became obscured.  Finally, though, I reached the portion of the terrain where I'd made the sighting.  The lump was actually still there, and still not moving.  The fur was long, like hair, and I thought it might be a dead cat, curled up in a ball, instead of a dog.  By the time I picked up a twig and poked it, I knew what it really was.  A wig.  One of those voluminous ones that cascade down beyond a woman's shoulders with three times as much hair as would be humanly possible to ever grow.  The underside of the wig showed evidence of dirt and decomposition, unlike the hair I'd mistaken for a living being.

Having lost valuable time in the hunt for Roger, I shouted in anger, threw the twig further down into the canyon, and summoned the energy to get out of there as quickly as I could.

Chapter 3

Paul Waterford

WHEN I'D BEEN MY REGULAR self—in excellent health, before a recent string of lung and chest surgeries—the Caballo Trail