The Buried (The Apostles)

by Shelley Coriell

  “Twice.”

  “Huh?”

  “I told you, he’s double the stupid.” She dropped a dollop of the bear fat mixture on her wrist. Still too hot. “After Allegheny Blue’s first trek, Giroux’s nephew drove down, got the dog, and took him back to Tallahassee, but Blue took off the next day. A week later he arrived on my front porch, this time in worse shape. I called the vet, who made a house call and said Blue wouldn’t make it through the night. The vet offered to take him to his office and put him down, but it didn’t seem right, taking the old dog away from a place he so clearly longed to be. Long story short, I offered to let him stay, and the vet gave him some pain meds. Why not let him die in the place he loved?”

  “But he didn’t die.”

  She grabbed the wooden spoon and gave the mixture two more turns. “Not yet.” Dipping the spoon into the bear grease concoction, she dribbled another spoonful onto her wrist. Just right. With an ease from way too much practice, she slathered the mixture on the old dog’s front right paw.

  “Hold still,” she told the dog. “You need your stupid sock.” She dressed the wound with one of her old tennis anklets and first-aid tape.

  With the dog no longer bleeding all over the place, she walked into the kitchen where the dank smell had dissipated. Hatch, stickier than a jar of tupelo honey, parked his backside at the kitchen table where he thumbed through her mail. She should ask him to leave. Her life would be less complicated that way. But during this hellish day, he’d found a way to make her smile, and for the few moments when she’d been telling Blue’s story, she’d forgotten about Lia Grant and that bloody phone. But now it all came back to her, especially the desperate cries of the girl she’d failed.

  Hatch set down the mail and reached for her hand, his fingers curving around hers.

  He’d always been so good at reading her.

  She stared at his hand. Everything about Hatch was smooth, except for his hands. The ropes of his sailboat had rubbed permanent calluses along his palms and fingers, and tonight she took a strange comfort in the rough edges that took her to a different place, a place filled with sun and light, a place of wind and billowy sails. A place that had almost destroyed her.

  She shrugged off his touch and bent to check on Allegheny Blue’s sock. Good. No more blood. “You can go now,” she said.

  Hatch didn’t move. He was worse than the mildew smell that refused to let go. Mildew? No. Hatch smelled of the sea and sun. And salt, for he was a man who spent his days bare-chested and sweating on the deck of a boat called No Regrets. She breathed through her mouth and looked at Hatch out of the corner of her eyes.

  To her surprise, he wasn’t giving her a sugary grin but frowning at her back porch. “I’ll go as soon as I fix that door.”

  She shook her head in amazement. Evidence of the newly responsible Hatch. If she hadn’t heard it with her own ears, she wouldn’t have believed it. “I can take care of it.”

  “I know. You can take care of everything. Now where can I find a hammer?”

  She pictured him shirtless and working on the deck, sweat trickling down the planes of his back to the slow-slung waistband of his swimming trunks. A man who lived alone, often away from the civilized world, needed to be handy. And what hands he had, she remembered. An unexpected heat crept along her face, and she jumped up and rummaged through a drawer near the sink until she found a small tool kit. “Here,” she said. She had no doubt she could win this argument with Hatch, but in the long run it would be quicker to let him fix the door.

  He squared up the door and began hammering nails, the mounds and valleys of his arms bunched and tightened, and waves of sun-kissed hair flopped over his forehead. Hatch had always been easy on the eye and fascinating to watch. He was always moving, his eyes, his mouth, his long bronze limbs. Now, like then, he proved to be a major distraction.

  She grabbed the stack of mail, anything to keep from looking at Hatch. She thumbed through a catalog from a local tupelo honey co-op and opened another bill from the vet. With a glare at Blue, she reached for the final two pieces of mail, both small envelopes, the type that carried invitations to parties. Inside the first envelope was indeed an invitation from the couple who’d purchased her parents’ house. They invited her to come for tea any time this week to pick up a few things that belonged to her father. Inside the second was a single piece of glossy paper. She flipped it over, a breath catching in her throat. It was a picture of Lia Grant, a red X slashed across her face.

  “What is it?” Hatch asked from across the kitchen.

  She checked the envelope. No return address. No postage meter mark. Her hands shaking, she squinted at the handwritten notation along the bottom of the photo:

  Me: 1

  You: 0

  Lia’s smiling, buck-toothed face slipped from her hands.

  “Grace?” Hatch was at her side in less than a second, looking over her shoulder. “What the hell?”

  “It’s a game,” she said. Hatch settled his hands on her shoulders, and for the first time she realized her entire body shook. She pointed to the jagged red X, horror sending tremor after tremor through her fingers. “It’s a game, Hatch. Someone abducted Lia and gave her a phone programmed to call only me. Then it was my turn. I was supposed to find her, but I struck out.”

  Hatch stared at the photo and envelope, and slowly, his face twisted with a sickness Grace felt to her core.

  The lack of oxygen was making her head dizzy. Names, hundreds of names, spun through her head—she had so many enemies. She’d spent the past decade putting bad people behind bars, most recently whorehouse king Larry Morehouse.

  Hatch dug out his phone and called the lieutenant. Good. They needed to have the photo and envelope checked for trace. Her mailbox, too, as it appeared the message was hand delivered.

  All day Grace had struggled with anger and shock and profound sadness, so much sadness as she looked at Lia’s tear-streaked face and shredded fingertips.

  Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three.

  But now a warm wave of powerful relief surged through her. If someone was indeed playing a game with her, bring it on.

  Chapter Ten

  Get your hands in the air, stranger, or I’ll zap you with my super-charged titanium brain blaster.” A child in dinosaur pajamas pointed a wooden spoon at Hatch.

  An identical child aimed a spatula at Hatch’s midsection. “He’s a secret agent for the Axis of Evil. Get back, Agent Evil, or I’ll turn you into a block of ice with my Freeze-All Vision.”

  Hatch raised his hands in defeat, covertly checking his watch. He had twenty minutes to get Alex to the cemetery for his first day of community service and then to Grace’s. “Alas, I have been bested by Superheroes Ricky and Raymond, and I surrender.” The boys circled closer. When they reached for his legs, Hatch lunged, scooping a boy in each arm and crying, “Into my evil clutches you go!” He spun until squeals and giggles filled the room.

  “Losers,” Alex said as shuffled past them and into the kitchen.

  “Don’t mind Alex. He’s a grump in the mornings,” one of the upside-down twins said.

  “Alex is always grumpy,” the other twin added.

  With a sigh, Hatch settled the two boys on the floor.

  One of the twins tugged at Hatch’s shorts. “Granny says you’re a real FBI agent. What’s your superpower?”

  “Superpower?” Hatch asked.

  “You know, the special power good guys use to fight all those bad guys.”

  He’d love to have a superpower to deal not with bad guys but with a kid with a bad attitude. With lightning speed, Hatch grabbed the spatula and wooden spoon. “I have the power to turn little boys who should still be in bed into sea cucumbers.”

  The twins squealed and ran down the hall. This was the type of kid interaction he could deal with, like a favorite uncle who sailed into town for holidays. Now it was time to be a father. He stepped over blocks and Matchbox cars as he followed Alex into the
kitchen.

  Alex’s grandmother stood in the back doorway puffing on a cigarette. “I know.” She raised the cigarette to her lips. “It’s bad for me and the boys, but sometimes you just need ’em.”

  “No need to explain yourself to me, ma’am,” Hatch said.

  Alex grabbed a jug of orange juice from the refrigerator and yanked off the cap.

  “Get a glass,” Mrs. Milanos said, “and don’t spill on the fl—” Bright orange liquid trickled down Alex’s chin and onto the cracked linoleum. “Come on, Alex, wipe it up.”

  Alex slammed the juice on the counter, a stream of orange pooling on the countertop.

  Hatch grabbed the boy’s arm. “Your grandmother told you to wipe up the juice you spilled.”

  “And who’s gonna make me?” Alex asked with a curl of his lip.

  Hatch’s hand twitched. I suggest you knock that smirk off your face, Son, or I’ll do it myself. Smack. The twenty-five-year-old memory sent a tremor along his jaw and burned the backs of his eyelids. Hatch released Alex’s arm. He used words, not fists, to resolve problems. “You need to take responsibility for your actions,” Hatch said.

  “Responsibility? That’s too funny, someone like you lecturing me about responsibility.” He jerked out of Hatch’s grip and stormed out of the kitchen.

  Every muscle in Hatch’s legs tensed. Should he run after the kid and drag his butt in here to apologize and clean the mess? He ran a hand through the waves along the side of his head. Or should he just plain run?

  Alex’s granny lit another cigarette and hauled in a long draw. “I’m too damned old to be raising three boys on my own. Don’t have the patience. Don’t have the energy. Don’t have the strength. But when Vanessa left, it was me or foster care. The twins’ father, he isn’t in the picture, either. So what’s a granny to do when her heart won’t let go?”

  Heart holds on, Hatch commiserated, even when every other part of your body and brain tells you to set sail. For almost a year after Grace sent him packing, he didn’t have a woman in his bed. Hell, he didn’t even look at another woman because his heart hadn’t let go of hope that Grace would realize her epic mistake and come running into his arms. But this wasn’t about him and Grace. Three little hurricanes were bearing down on Trina Milanos, including his disrespectful son. “There are people who can help, Mrs. Milanos. Social service agencies, boys’ clubs, and school personnel.”

  Outside, a horn blared. Through the window, Hatch spotted Alex leaning on the SUV’s horn. Hatch shot him a warning look. His son scratched his nose with his middle finger. Hatch tried one of Grace’s deep breathing moves. Grandma took an extra long puff.

  The horn blared again.

  “I’ll make some phone calls today,” Hatch said.

  Alex didn’t say a word as they drove through town to the cemetery, which was fine, because Hatch had no idea what to say.

  They found Black Jack in the far north section of the cemetery at a patch of land with no marble headstones or fancy sprays of flowers. Simple brass discs marked graves along with a few worn, wooden crosses. The caretaker stood next to a hole in the earth, turning a hand crank to lower a plain wooden box into the ground. He steadied the box, never allowing it to brush against the earthen sides of the grave. Alex shuffled next to him, kicking up dirt. Hatch stilled him with a single look. His son would respect the bodies and the process.

  At last the gravedigger turned to Alex. “Time to work.” Black Jack led them past the newly dug grave to a twelve-foot pile of crushed oyster shells. “Two inches thick. On the path only.” He pointed to a freshly graded footpath winding through the paupers’ graves.

  Alex stared at the shells in disgust. “You mean I gotta spend all day shoveling shells?”

  Black Jack walked to the hole, picked up a shovel, and hummed an old spiritual as he tucked earth around the wooden box.

  When Alex turned to Hatch, clearly ready to complain, Hatch handed him the shovel Alex brought from home. “You got your ass into this situation, Alex, and you’re going to shovel your way out.” He thumped Alex on the back and tapped his fingers on his forehead in farewell to Black Jack. Shoveling two tons of oyster shells was going to be a hell of a lot easier than what he’d be up against today with Grace.

  * * *

  Grace poked pearl studs through both ears. Straightening the pearls at her neck, she grabbed her purse and phone from the nightstand. Last night Lia’s killer had sent her an invitation to a deadly game of murder, and she was suited up and ready to play.

  Allegheny Blue heaved himself from the rag rug in front of her bed, his old bones creaking.

  “You need to take it easy today. No more treks through the swamp. No more digging.” She pictured his latest bone, the knobby joint with dried bits of flesh, and shivered despite the steamy morning. The forensic team was still digging, searching for more bodies. She ran her knuckles over Blue’s head. “Just stay on the porch today, okay?”

  Blue plodded behind her to the front door. When she reached for the handle, his ears curled forward. A low growl rumbled in his throat, setting the hairs on the back of her neck upright. She checked the security system. Still red. She peered out the peephole. Nothing. As she reached for the door, Blue lunged, heaving his body between her and the door.

  “For heaven’s sake.” She nudged him aside. “There’s nothing out there.” She threw open the door and rushed out, slamming into a rock-solid wall of flesh and bone.

  A scream tore up her throat but sputtered on her lips when she recognized the shaggy, golden head crouched in front of her doorbell. She flattened her palm on her chest. “Theodore!”

  Hatch stood and pointed at the little box on the door frame. “Your doorbell’s broken.”

  “I know. The entire shack is broken.” She hitched her bag up to her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to take you to breakfast.”

  Dining with Hatch was the last thing she wanted to do. “I ate.”

  “How about a game of tennis? I’ve been working on my serve.” Hatch tossed an imaginary ball in the air and swung.

  “I can’t deal with you today.” She held open the door and waited as Blue, now calm and slow as swamp sludge, hobbled across the porch and settled on a rag rug in a patch of sunshine.

  Hatch rested his shoulder against the door frame. “Or we can play catch with your dog.”

  “He’s not my dog.” Grace set the alarm, locked the door, and barreled past Hatch to her car. Hatch and his team had done their duty. They’d helped find Lia Grant, and he’d soon set sail. Because that’s what Hatch did.

  She jammed her keys into the ignition and cranked. No, not today. Please, please, not today. Again she turned the keys, but the car remained deathly silent.

  “How about a lift?” Hatch asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “I can call you a cab.”

  Grace popped open her glove compartment. “Dammit, Hatch! Go away!”

  He leaned his hip against the fender of her car. “You are so damn beautiful when you’re angry.”

  Grace closed her eyes. Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. “What do you want?”

  She expected a wink, a sugary comment about morning delight, but Hatch’s face grew uncharacteristically serious. “You safe.”

  “I can take care of myself.” She pulled out the hammer.

  “And most of the free world, I know, but this isn’t just about your safety. There’s a crazy person playing a sick game, and you’re the only one who’s been invited. Someone needs to keep an eye on you for the next few days, and more than the few drive-bys the lieutenant scheduled last night.”

  “I hardly need a babysitter.”

  “If you refuse my company, the lieutenant will assign deputies to watch over you, which is essentially pulling man-hours from the investigation.” Hatch pressed a palm to his chest. “And I can assure you those deputies won’t have my charm and sunny disposition.” He aimed his pointed f
ingertips to the borrowed SUV. “Your carriage awaits, Princess.”

  Yesterday she’d welcomed Hatch’s support as they searched for Lia, but she had serious work today, and Hatch was clearly in a far-from-serious mood. But he was right about one thing: She didn’t want resources pulled from the hunt for Lia’s killer. She tossed the hammer in the glove box and climbed into the SUV. “We’re going to Port St. Joe. I want to talk to the manager of the store where the cell phone found in Lia’s hand was purchased. I’m looking for a paper trail, surveillance video, anything to link us to the person who bought the phone.”

  He turned his face to the SUV’s headliner. “You can’t stand by and let others do the work, can you?”

  “It’s not who I am. You of all people know that.”

  He jammed the keys in the ignition. “Yeah, I know.”

  They barreled along the highway, Hatch’s right hand loped casually over the wheel, his right leg jiggling. She’d forgotten how he was always moving when something was on his mind. For not the first time in the past two days she pictured that blue-eyed, blond-haired boy who’d most likely brought Hatch to Cypress Bend and kept him anchored.

  “You have a son,” she said.

  “You always go for the jugular, don’t you?” A lopsided smile slid across his face, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “I can see you in court, counselor, going at your prey. Sometimes you sneak up on them from the rear, other times you go straight for the kill.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Hatch scrubbed the stubble at his jaw. “I could never bullshit you, could I?”

  “Not in this lifetime.” She knew Hatch, and she knew what he was doing, or at least trying to do, divert her attention to keep from talking about anything serious, including his son. “What’s his name?” Grace asked again.

  The jaunty grin slipped away. “Alex Milanos, and until two days ago, I didn’t know he existed.” He told her about Vanessa Milanos, a woman he’d met the summer before they were married who had admittedly sabotaged a condom because she’d wanted his child.