The River Runs Dry by L. A. Shorter

opposite the dead girl ahead of her.
    “The other girl...she's alive?” asked Jack, turning again to Carla.
    Carla nodded, a look of disgust in her eyes. “Just, but she may not last Jack.”
    “And she's the same? Eyes, hair?”
    “Worse,” said Carla. “Her face was mutilated, her body too. She'd been cut in a hundred places, nothing deep, no vital wounds. She's low on blood, and her eyes are...gone.”
    Jack turned to see the girl still being treated in the ambulance, the man sitting, sobbing at her side. Then the door closed and the van shot off into the night, spilling up a cloud of dust as it went.
    “What happened? Why didn't he kill her?”
    “He must have been disturbed. The father came back – he'd been out of town working – and walked in to see the girls tied up. Gruesome thing to come home to.”
    “So the killer was here, when he got back?”
    “He must have been, unless he wanted to leave the girl alive. The father said he thought he heard movement in the back, the sound of the door shutting, but...”
    “He didn't follow?” Jack asked quickly. “He didn't see the guy?”
    “No, he was checking his daughter's pulse, Jack, trying to stop her bleeding and calling an ambulance.” She spoke bluntly, frowning at him. “What would you do if you saw your daughter like that.”
    “And he called you? When?”
    “Carla looked at her watch. I was on call, got straight down here and then called you. So, maybe 20 minutes ago.”
    Jack's eyes suddenly shot up towards the back of the house and he ran out through the back door. His eyes scanned the ground as he reached for a pocket flashlight and lit up his view.
    Carla came in behind him. “What are you doing? He's long gone.”
    Jack didn't listen, his eyes catching sight of footprints in the dirt outside the back door. They were clearer than before, large heavy duty boot soles that pointed up the alley. He followed, stepping over them and tracing their direction out onto the street, where the dirt began to fade.
    It was clear enough, however, to see that they continued up the road, fairly narrow spaces between them. He'd walked then, not ran, so either he'd left the girl earlier and casually walked away, or hadn't even deemed it necessary to run when caught in the act.
    Jack followed further, before seeing the tracks veer back down another side alley further down the street between a couple of other houses. He stopped and drew his handgun before slowly creeping forward and flashing his light into the darkness.
    There was nothing there, nothing but a short gap off the street leading to a wall about 20 feet away. He drew the light over the ground again, the dirt growing thicker once more, and saw the prints come together and stop.
    He knew why. There were tire marks there too, a clear print of tires pressed into the thin layer of soil.
    The noise of footsteps came behind him and he turned, his gun still in his hand, and lifted it to the end of the alley.
    “Whoa, whoa,” said Carla as she came round the corner, “it's me, it's me.”
    Jack lowered his weapon and turned back to the ground, pulling a small camera from his pocket. “Tire marks?” questioned Carla, as the flash of pictures lit up the night.
    Jack nodded. “Do you know what this means?”
    Carla shook her head. “That we might have an idea of what car he's driving?”
    “More,” said Jack, putting the camera back into his pocket. “It means that the killer must have known who he was killing. He must have parked here for a reason, as a getaway spot. It's also why he picks homes where there's no one there, no one except his victims. He knows he won't be disturbed because he knows that there's nobody there.”
    “Well not tonight, tonight the father came home.”
    Jack nodded. “You said he got back from working out of town? How long had he been away?”
    “Oh, I didn't get that far Jack, he was distraught.”
    Jack nodded his head. “I'll visit him at the hospital tomorrow.