by Rita Herron
“The original developer who bought the property didn’t build because a chemical company was dumping toxic wastes on the land?” Matt asked.
The agents perked up with interest, but Arthur dropped his head forward, sighing in defeat. “That’s correct.”
“You knew about this illegal dumping and didn’t report it?” Matt pressed.
The older man nodded. “But after a few years, the research company folded.”
“And no one was harmed, so what’s the big deal?” A.J. said, defending his father.
Matt let the comment slide. “So you bought the property and built a subdivision on it?”
Arthur rubbed an invisible spot on his tie. “Yes. The developer who bought the property sold it to me. I thought any effects of the chemicals would have long since disintegrated.”
Matt frowned, realization dawning as he recalled Lady Bella Rue’s comments. “Both those boys lived in the new subdivision built on the property near the junkyard, and so did most of the other kids who attacked their families the past few years.” He turned back to the federal agents. “You should check the land. Those chemicals might be responsible for the erratic behavior of the kids who live there. If the dangerous substances were absorbed into the water or soil, or even the trees used to build the log houses, then they could still be harmful.” He continued, speculating out loud. “All the reports show that the crimes occur during heavy bouts of rain. What if the wood used to build the log houses is diseased? Maybe there’s some kind of dangerous mold or bacteria growing inside it, and the rain accentuates it and brings out the spores.”
Agent Gentry muttered in agreement, and Arthur Boles shifted uncomfortably.
“You know something about this, don’t you?” Matt asked, turning to the real estate agent.
“I…no, but I was afraid it might be connected,” he admitted. “I just didn’t understand how.”
Agent Gentry unpocketed his cell phone and began to punch in numbers. “I’m ordering an environmental team out here right away to check the land, water and those houses. If you’re right, Mahoney, you might have just discovered the connection to all these crimes and saved lives.”
Matt hoped he was right, but a bad premonition tugged at his gut. The developer… Boles hadn’t mentioned who he was. What if he was the person who’d killed Ivy’s parents? No, it was more likely that some muscle man from the chemical company was responsible, someone who’d wanted to protect the business even though it had gone belly-up.
Then Ivy might still be in danger, and she was alone, upset and vulnerable.
Matt called the cabin on his cell, and got no answer, so he punched in her cell number, but she didn’t answer that, either. Panic hit him. “Who owned the chemical company?”
Boles cleared his throat. “A man named Russ Kintrell. The company was a small start-up research operation, but like I said, it folded years ago.”
Agent Blackberry handed him a pen and paper. “Write down Kintrell’s contact information.”
Boles scribbled a phone number, and Blackberry snapped it up. “I’m going to pick him up and bring him in for questioning.”
Matt stood. “I’m going with you.”
IVY’S NERVES ZINGED with apprehension when George veered off the main road leading out of town, onto a dirt one that led down to the river. At first she thought they were going to Lady Bella Rue’s, but he passed the old woman’s shanty and turned onto yet another even more isolated road that seemingly went nowhere but deeper into the bowels of the woods. The gray clouds roiled above, warning of another storm, and wind whipped through the bare trees, swirling leaves and debris across the marshy ground.
“Where are you going?” she asked, suddenly nervous. He’d been acting odd ever since they’d gotten in the car. Checking over his back. Looking at his watch. Acting unusually quiet and sullen.
“I did some research on this town myself, and heard about a place off this road that we might want to use in the magazine.”
“What kind of place?” Ivy asked.
“A haunted cabin,” he said, an odd tinge to his voice. “According to the legend, a young boy died here. After that, his brother went crazy.”
Ivy glanced through the shadowy woods. The tall trees and mountain ridges suddenly seemed ominous, the idea of visiting a haunted house sent a shudder through her. “We have enough for the article, George. Let’s just leave town and go back to Chattanooga.”
“Oh, but we’re so close to it, Ivy. They say if you stand in the cabin, you can hear tormented cries at night. Cries of him losing his mind, cries of the brother dying.”
Ivy hugged her arms around her middle. “Does anyone live there now?”
He shook his head. “The cabin has been deserted for years. But I thought you should see it and take some photographs.”
His tone sent alarm bells ringing through her. “Why, George? I told you, we have enough material for the magazine spread.”
He reached across the console and pressed his hand over hers. “Because the cabin belonged to Miss Nellie.”
Ivy gaped at him in shock. “Miss Nellie? She never told me…” Her voice trailed off as faint snatches of conversations with the older woman speared through the black holes of her memory. “Miss Nellie did say that she’d lost a son when he was young.”
“But she never mentioned the second son?” he asked, one eyebrow lifted.
Ivy swallowed hard, sorting through other conversations. “No, never.”
A bitter laugh escaped him, echoing off the inside of the car. “No, she never talked about her other child. She was too ashamed of him. She decided he was crazy, so she sent him away.”
Ivy’s stomach tightened. “Where did she send him?”
“A mental facility where they locked him up, tied him down and beat him. And sometimes they gave him drugs that made his mind spin out of control.”
Ivy gasped. “Oh, my heavens, that’s horrible.”
Tension vibrated between them as the first stirrings of fear gripped her. “Who told you this, George? I didn’t realize you knew Miss Nellie.”
“Oh, I knew her very well.” He angled his head toward her just as he bounced over a rut in the road and broke through a clearing to a dilapidated old cabin set on the edge of the mountain. “You see, Ivy, I’m the forgotten son.”
MATT TRIED AGAIN TO PHONE Ivy, but still she didn’t answer. Tension tightened every muscle in his body as he closed his phone. She probably wasn’t answering because she didn’t want to talk to him, he reminded himself, but still worry clawed at him.
Agent Blackberry maneuvered his sedan over the mountain to another small town called Ridgeview, noted for its scenic views of the valley and river. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Matt explained his concern for Ivy. “We have to find her parents’ killer or she’ll never be safe.”
Blackberry nodded, then turned onto a long drive flanked by massive trees, which ended at a huge, two-story Georgian mansion. “Apparently Kintrell has done well for himself financially,” the agent stated as they climbed out. Seconds later, he rang the doorbell, while Matt tapped his foot impatiently.
He was antsy to complete this interview and find Ivy. Finally, a maid clad in a uniform greeted them at the door. “Special Agent Blackberry from the FBI,” the agent said, then gestured toward Matt. “And this is Matt Mahoney. I need to speak to Mr. Kintrell.”
The maid looked them both up and down, her nervous gaze shifting as if she might argue, but then she obviously decided she couldn’t stop the FBI, so gestured for them to enter. “He’s in his study. Please follow me.”
As soon as they entered the stately room and introduced themselves, Agent Blackberry explained the situation, including their suspicions about the chemical dumping and its hazardous effects.
Kintrell was a portly man in his fifties, with pocked skin and a tick in his shoulder. He slumped at his cherry desk and rolled his shoulders. “I’m going to call my attorney.”
Ma
tt exploded. “Do you realize what your silence has already cost? Lives, Mr. Kintrell—a lot of lives.” He grabbed the man by his shirt collar and jerked him out of his seat. “Ivy Stanton’s parents were murdered because of that land. People adversely affected by the chemicals have turned on their own loved ones. And someone has been trying to kill Ivy because she’s returned to town asking questions.”
Agent Blackberry reached for Matt, but Matt glared at him and shook Kintrell until his eyes bulged.
“How many more murders do you want on your conscience?”
Kintrell turned a sickly shade of green. “I was afraid there might be fallout,” he admitted in a grave voice. “When Daly became ill, I…I was worried.”
“Daly?” Agent Blackberry interjected.
“The head chemist who was working on the research,” Kintrell muttered. “He was trying to develop a cure for cancer, and we thought we had something that would work, but the clinical studies failed.”
Matt released him so abruptly the man fell into his chair. “Was Daly taking the drug himself?” Matt asked.
Kintrell nodded. “He volunteered to be a control subject. But the drug reacted with the normal body in a different way, eating away brain cells, which adversely affected his behavior. So Daly dumped the chemicals into the soil to get rid of them.”
“And he never disclosed the dumping?” Matt asked.
“No, he had other projects he wanted the company to pursue. Unfortunately, he became ill.” Kintrell dropped his head in his hands in defeat. “He died five years after the study began, and the company folded.”
Agent Blackberry leaned forward on the desk. “And when it did, the land was sold again?”
“Yes, to Arthur Boles.” Kintrell’s shoulder jerked faster. “He knew about the dumping, but we were all certain any aftereffects would be long gone.”
Matt cursed, and Agent Blackberry ordered the man to stand. “We need you to come with us and make a statement. There are some other folks who will want to talk to you, the environmental team I have coming for one.”
“The people who bought houses on that property deserve the truth,” Matt added. “You have no idea the damage your cover-up operation has created in Kudzu Hollow.”
“We also need more details on the land deal and the chemical company’s work,” Agent Blackberry said as he escorted him to the car.
Matt frantically punched in Ivy’s number while the federal agent drove back to the station, but once again, she didn’t respond. Nervous tension gripped his muscles. Where the hell was she?
Was she simply not answering because she hated him, or was she in trouble again?
Frantic, he drove to the cabin. He had to see if Ivy was there, if she was safe.
But a bad premonition clutched at his gut….
AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, it was liberating to finally reveal himself to Ivy. He’d wanted her ever since he’d made contact with her, two years before.
No, that was a lie. He’d wanted her over the years as he’d watched her grow into a woman. He’d fantasized and dreamed about having her the same way he’d had her mother, Lily Stanton. Naked. Vulnerable. Opening her legs to take him into her body.
Then begging for mercy and her life.
The fact that his own mother had raised Ivy after she’d thrown him out had infuriated him. He’d made her pay the last few years by showing up at odd hours when she was alone. He’d sworn that if she told Ivy about him, he’d kill them both, just as he had her parents.
Terrified out of her mind, she had reported to him weekly, reassuring him that Ivy didn’t remember.
“George, you’re scaring me,” Ivy said now.
He almost laughed at her doe-eyed, innocent look. And he could feel the fear radiating from her. That fear stirred his cock.
“You still don’t understand, do you, Ivy?”
Her hand trembled as she brushed her hair from her cheek. “No, I…I’m sorry Miss Nellie sent you away. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why didn’t she?”
His harsh laughter rumbled through the car as he careened to a stop in front of his old homestead. Memories of the dark days inside those walls rose to haunt him. The cries of his mother when his brother had died.
His own when she had thrown him out.
He recalled the elation he’d felt when he’d returned as an adult to make that land deal. Granted, he’d stolen the property deed from the Stantons after he killed them and forged their signatures, but he’d wanted his mother to be proud of him, had thought that she might finally acknowledge him. Instead she’d turned her back. What kind of mother abandoned her child? Why, he’d almost felt sorry for Mahoney when his old lady had done the same thing at his trial.
But not sorry enough to confess…
He never should have gotten tangled up with Lily Stanton. It was all her fault. She was too much temptation for any man.
But at least he’d made enough money off the first land deal to invest. He had a good eye for investment.
The sound of Ivy punching in her cell phone jerked him back to the present, and he reached out and grabbed it, then flung it out the door.
Ivy cowered against the cold leather seat. “What are you doing, George?”
He latched onto her wrist and dragged her toward him. “You’re finally mine, Ivy. I’m going to take care of you just like I did your mother.”
Terror registered in her eyes as she realized his words were the same ones from the threatening phone call.
“You…oh, God, no, George, don’t do this,” Ivy whispered. “You have to let me go.”
“Not until you love me the way your mother did, Ivy.” He jerked her to him, pressed his mouth over hers and kissed her hard. She struggled against him, then bit his lip. He bellowed, jerking back, any tenderness for her disintegrating.
“You’ll be sorry you did that, Ivy.”
“I’m sorry I ever trusted you,” she said raggedly.
She reached for the car door, but he slapped her across the face. Her head flew forward and hit the dash, then he lunged toward her, grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her from the car. She screamed and shoved her foot into his groin, fighting wildly. He cursed, but she jerked free and ran toward the woods. Spurred by fury and adrenaline, he chased her, dodging tree limbs as he closed the distance.
Run, Ivy. Run like the wind or the monsters will get you.
Oblivious to where she was going, but desperate to escape, she raced through the briars and thick brush, scraping her legs and hands and arms as she struggled to escape. If she could make it to the river, maybe she could dive in and swim to safety. Rain peppered her face, its icy chill slapping her cheeks, and fear tore at her. If she did make it to the river and dove in, she’d probably die of hypothermia.
Maybe she could make it back to Lady Bella Rue’s.
But then George would follow and kill the old woman. Ivy couldn’t put her in danger.
Panting for air, she pumped her legs harder, fighting the darkness and pushing vines and brush out of her way. But the briars and tree limbs stabbed at her, slowing her down, and George bellowed behind her like a madman.
How could she have not seen the truth about him?
Twigs and branches snapped as he closed the distance, and she reached for a broken limb to use as a weapon, but just as she turned, he snagged her by the hair. She thrust the limb at him, but he yanked it from her, swung it down until it connected with her knees. Raw pain sliced through her kneecaps, and she fell to the ground, screaming. Still she pushed at his hands and face, trying to scratch his eyes and throat, but he slammed his fist into the side of her face, and the world spun.
He took advantage of the moment, throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her back toward the cabin. Nausea rose in her throat and she sobbed, pulling at his hair and pounding his back with her fists.
Seconds later, he swung open the door to the cabin and tossed her against the brick fireplace. She scrambled to her knees and tried to stand, but the room
swayed, and it was so dark she had to blink to orient herself. He slapped her one more time, and her body bounced backward. Her head hit the jagged edge of a brick, pain sliced her skull and blood trickled down her forehead as she sank into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PANIC SEIZED MATT AS HE stared at the empty cabin. Ivy’s things were gone. And her tires had been slashed. So where was she?
He phoned A.J. and he sent out his deputy. They searched the woods surrounding the cabin, but found no signs Ivy had gone on foot into the woods. Besides, she had her suitcase.
Frantic, he and Pritchard returned to the police station. He hoped Ivy had gotten a ride, but fear gnawed at him.
Matt paced the sheriff’s office while the agents began the interrogation again, this time with Kintrell included.
“What’s the name of the developer who originally purchased the Stanton property?” Agent Gentry asked Boles.
“The head of the company was a man named Allan Parkins, but a young guy named George Smith actually brokered the deal with the Stantons. He was the only one I ever spoke with.”
“Where can we find this Smith?” Agent Blackberry asked.
“He lives in Chattanooga now,” Boles admitted. “He’s funded several smaller companies, some real-estate based, others not so.”
The hair on the back of Matt’s neck prickled. George Smith—the name didn’t ring a bell, but hadn’t Ivy received a phone call from a coworker named George? Could it possibly be the same man?
The door opened and Lady Bella Rue teetered in, her black veiled hat angled sideways, her long black cloak wrapped around her. When she saw the two suited federal agents, her eyes flickered perceptibly.
“Lady Bella Rue,” A.J. stared. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, waddling on in, “but I had another bad premonition this morning.”