Buried Deep_A dark Romantic Suspense

by Vella Day

“Such a sweet face,” he said, leaning so near she could smell his foul breath. “Yes, I did suffer.” He stepped back, obviously not willing to share his life story. “I have a surprise for you.”

  He turned and sauntered over to the hanging sheet. With great fanfare, he pushed aside the cloth, and she nearly passed out.

  28

  Lara didn’t blink. Vomit rolled into her mouth at the sight of Trevor’s brother in a heap on the ground. “You killed Ethan Kinsey.”

  Robert Hoffman smiled. “He’s for my new tableau. Actually, I wanted his partner, the big Indian fellow, but the man was simply too heavy to move. Then I realized Ethan Kinsey would be perfect. I needed some Caucasians. My third tableau will show the real Native American for what he was—a killer, a thief, and a despicable breed.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him how the land belonged to the Native Americans first, but logical thought played no role in this discussion, so she clamped her mouth shut.

  Her muscles twitched and her throat wouldn’t work. She was going to die. Soon. A tear leaked out and burned down her cheek. Poor Trevor. He’d never survive the blow of losing his beloved brother. He’d believe it was his fault somehow. When he found out she’d been killed, he’d be convinced he never should have let her out of his sight, when in truth, she’d insisted.

  “Won’t you be afraid people will recognize these men despite your slight changes? You’ve done such a remarkable job here.”

  He chuckled. “You’d be surprised. At the funeral home, I made no changes, and yet the relatives often said the person didn’t look like their loved one. Besides, none of their relatives or friends will be anywhere near the National History Museum, so I’m safe.”

  She wanted to rant at the injustice, tell him he was insane, but insults would only incite him further. “Why did you need to kill those people? Why couldn’t you have tranquilized them, and taken a plaster mold of them before letting them go?”

  “Let them go? You don’t understand what their kind did to me.” He bared his teeth.

  She didn’t want to know, but every minute she kept him talking would give Trevor a chance to find her—and he would find her. He had to. She finally knew in her heart that Trevor Kinsey would never abandon her. He didn’t see her as defective, just someone to care for. “What did they do to you?” Her voice came out more even, more confident.

  “Those people, my dear, these Indians, wouldn’t accept me.” He told her about how Nate Roberts had harshly criticized him because the costumes and artifacts weren’t authentic enough. “The rest of the community ridiculed me because the wax figures didn’t look Seminole enough.” He looked up at the barn roof, his jaw trembling. “When I went among them, I had to disguise myself for fear of being attacked.”

  “I’m sorry.” A part of her told the truth.

  “You people say that now.”

  He couldn’t know she was part Navajo. “I’m not Native American. I’m Italian.”

  Robert moved in closer and lifted her chin. “Whether you are or aren’t doesn’t really matter. Your features are perfect to be Pocahontas.”

  She sucked in a breath, and her chest heaved. Lara grabbed the chair to keep from slipping off.

  He leaned in and touched her check, then her brows, and finally her chin. He stroked her arms, turned, and strode over the large tableau.

  He faced her and pointed to the stage. “Here is where John Smith will be kneeling. And here is where you’ll be looking on. Won’t it be spectacular?” His eyes glazed over and his smile took up most of his face.

  Adrenaline racing to her heart, her gaze shot around the barn, desperate for a way to escape this madman. Her breaths came out in large gulps as tears streamed down her cheeks. Robert rambled on, seemingly unaware of the desperation and panic coursing through her. She refused to die. She’d do anything to see Trevor one more time to tell him she loved him, trusted him, and wanted to be with him.

  “You don’t think so?” Robert stepped closer.

  Her gaze raced around the room. The shovel or pitchfork could prove useful, but despite her height, Robert was stronger, especially with all the drugs in her system. If she tried to attack him, he could easily disarm her.

  Think. Think. “Yes. Your tableau is so spectacular you’ll be the talk of Washington.” She waved her tied hands. “I can see it now. Photographers from all over the United States will document the exhibit. They’ll put every detail in the papers across the country, along with clear photos.”

  He had to see his scheme couldn’t work; he had to realize he’d be caught.

  Robert faced her. “I see what you’re doing, but won’t do you any good. All I really want is for my father and brother to recognize how talented I am. If I die because of it, so be it.” He shrugged. “I’ll join my mother in heaven that much sooner.”

  All hope drained out of her system. She’d never be able to convince him to stop. Robert had positioned Ethan in a different tableau, so he hadn’t meant for Trevor’s brother to be John smith. “Who have you chosen for my husband-to-be?” Her heart beat so hard it nearly lodged in her throat.

  “You can’t guess?”

  She didn’t dare. “No.”

  “Why Detective Kinsey, of course.”

  Move. Scrape, scrape, and scrape some more. That was Maggie’s motto.

  She was close now. Close enough to taste her freedom. Maggie jabbed the knife into the small hole she’d carved. Using the handle, she pushed on the weakened wall. The cement crumbled, and when air rushed in, she let out a small squeal. She’d done it—reached the outside. Too bad she couldn’t make herself into a one-inch square person. Then she could fly away to freedom.

  She ran to the kitchen, her cramped legs complaining. She needed the heavy saucepan handle to make the hole bigger. While it wasn’t the best tool, it was all she had.

  As long as it was early morning, she figured she was safe from his visit. The earliest he’d ever showed up was six at night after he finished fixing his bodies.

  She shoved the plastic handle through the hole she’d just made and created so much noise she prayed he wouldn’t hear in case he was in the barn.

  Shoving, stabbing, and punching, she made progress enough to get her hand outside and wiggle her fingers. Warm, moist air slapped her palm, but so did a prickly shrub.

  Too bad. She wasn’t going to let some bush come between her and freedom.

  Maggie worked her magic for three more hours, alternating between using a chair leg to widen the hole and her own rapid foot punches to break down the wall. Minutes before exhaustion took her, her last thrust broke the outer block and a wave of air rushed in. Adrenaline drenched her, giving her back her energy.

  An engine sounded.

  Shit. The bush would block the hole unless he came inside.

  When the car moved past the house toward the barn, she knew it was now or never.

  Go.

  Now.

  Go.

  Head first, she crawled through the hole, hoping her hips wouldn’t become stuck or that that he’d catch her making her way through to the hedge. She pulled apart the thorny branches, trying to ignore the blood dripping down her hands and along her arms from all the scratches.

  Maggie squirmed, cutting her knee on the sharp cement, but she didn’t care. She had to get out of there. Branches sliced her tender skin, and the rough wall dug into her legs as she wormed her way out. She froze as more broken bushes cracked.

  With as much stealth as possible, Maggie stood the moment her whole body was outside. Yes! Back to the outside wall, she edged away from the barn. She nearly yelped when she stepped on a sharp rock.

  Be strong.

  Go.

  29

  Robert barged into the barn where Lara lay curled on her side, unable to move from the cold and from the drugs. His mouth moved, but Lara couldn’t make out what he’d said. Her battery pack had died. Before she had a chance to move out of his way, he slammed his foot into her side. She grun
ted, or at least she thought she had. He bent over, grabbed an arm and yanked her to a standing position. Her mind had sorted through the escape options, discarding all of them.

  When he got in her face, she teetered backward. He dragged her over to the stool and shoved her down. “Sit. I need to lure your gentleman friend here.”

  Bastard. “Detective Kinsey is not my gentleman friend. He protected me when he thought I needed protecting. It was merely a job to him.”

  She schooled her features the best she could, like she used to in high school when others mocked her. She had to make Robert understand that he couldn’t use her life as leverage to get Trevor to come here.

  “I’ve watched you two together. He comforted you at the funeral. Yes, he kept watch, but I’m not blind. He cares for you.”

  Trevor had been overly attentive then. She took in slow breaths, not wanting to give into the fear. “I doubt he’d come. He’d smell a trap.”

  “I’ll outsmart him. Sit up straight. I need a picture of you.”

  Robert lifted his cell phone and snapped a picture. “Not your finest pose, but I’m sure Mr. Kinsey will be happy to see you’re alive.”

  “Why not take a picture of his brother too?” And give him a clue as to where Robert was holding her hostage.

  Once Trevor recognized he was dealing with a killer, he’d come with plenty of firepower and back up.

  “A good thought, but no.” Robert pulled out a syringe from the box, and her pulse jittered.

  “While I’m away on business, I don’t want you to have any ideas about escaping. This will put you asleep for a good twelve hours. It’s a double dose.”

  Dear God. She hadn’t recovered from the last shot. How much could her body handle? Lara shot off the stool and stumbled toward the door when a needle shot into her butt. She straightened, and then collapsed.

  When she opened her eyes, a thin stream of light leaked through the wooden slats, and her cheek was pressed against the cold cement.

  Not again.

  The air was moist and fresh, like it had rained. With effort, she plucked out the syringe, rolled over, lifted her wrist, and checked the time. It was only four in the afternoon. Robert said she’d be out twelve hours, but she’d slept only nine. She scanned the room for her captor. With all the tableau curtains pulled back, there was no place for him to hide. She was alone. Good.

  Like a newborn colt, Lara rose to her knees, staggered to the rough barn wall and collapsed against it. Water soaked the sides. She peered through one of the slits. Rain splattered the dirt road leading away from the barn, and the trees swayed heavily. Dark clouds scudded above. About four hundred feet away stood a boarded up house.

  Head pounding, she edged her way along the wall, looking outside wherever the wood gapped, but she spotted no other homes. Damn. No one would hear her if she made noise. Even if she banged two shovels together, the thunderstorm would block out the sound.

  She returned to the big barn door. Tugging on the handle with all her might, she tested its strength. It wouldn’t budge. Next to the twelve foot wide door was a narrower one, designed as a pedestrian entrance. She jiggled the handle and pushed against the wood, but it failed to move too. Robert had locked her in.

  Maybe she could find something to wedge between the door and the molding. If she didn’t get out of there soon, he would dip her in plaster and wax.

  Drawing on every ounce of inner strength, she forced her eyes to focus on the barn’s interior. The pitchfork seemed to be the only weapon slim enough to do the job. What a shame she didn’t have the skills to make a bomb out of the fertilizer and blow the damn door off its hinges. She’d done well in chemistry but had never developed any practical skills. If Braham University ever gave a class in Destruction 101, she’d be the first to sign up.

  Doubled over, she fought the nausea and rippling pain as she worked her way to the pitchfork. Damn drugs. What the hell was in the stuff? He’d never confirmed what he’d used, but she’d bet her career it was ketovencuronium, which was made with animals in mind, not humans.

  With her hands bound, she dragged the tool to the entrance, jammed one prong in the opening and twisted the handle, but she couldn’t get enough leverage to move the door or break the lock. After trying for a few futile minutes, Lara slumped against the wall to catch her breath. There had to be something in this big barn to help her escape.

  There were some tools by the tableau Robert used to carve the wax faces. The ax! The one held high by the Chief.

  She leaned the pitchfork against the wall and moved as quickly as possible to the tableau. As she neared, she realized the weapon was a fake—an excellent replica made from wax. Damn it. In case he’d dipped a real metal ax in wax, she bent the tip, hoping the real deal would be underneath. A chunk of wax broke off exposing nothing but more wax.

  “Useless weapon.”

  Back to square one. She stilled. While the pitchfork did nothing against the hard metal, it would slice through human flesh with ease. Wouldn’t Robert be surprised if she skewered him like a pig at roasting time?

  Out of habit, she slid her fingers across her pack to turn it on, only to realize the batteries were dead. Wait a minute. The bulge she touched was the alarm Trevor had Velcroed to her pack. Her mind whirred with the possibilities. He’d told her the whistle would disorient someone long enough for her to act. Given she couldn’t hear, she wouldn’t be affected. Yes! For once, her deafness would be an advantage.

  A new plan emerged. She dragged the chair to the side of the door, grabbed the pitchfork, and leaned back against the wood, dreaming of when she’d end his pathetic life.

  Trevor stared at his office phone, willing it to ring.

  The captain barged his way to Trevor’s desk. “We got something.”

  Trevor straightened. “Tell me.” His voice cracked.

  “Odessa sheriff’s office called, asking for our help. A kid, driving his bike along a dirt road, spotted a woman asleep under a tree. When he couldn’t rouse her, he called 9-1-1. She was unconscious when they brought her to the hospital, but once they determined she was diabetic and pumped her with insulin, she came too. She’s coherent. Kind of. And boy, does she have a whopper of a tale to tell.”

  “Is the woman Lara?” Trevor dragged a hand down his face. “Never mind. Lara’s not diabetic, what am I thinking.”

  “It’s Maggie Sanchez.”

  He froze. The image of George Sanchez on the beach with his throat cut and blood pooling out of his chest gave him an instant visual. “The woman is alive?”

  “Yup. Maggie told us about some guy who made wax figures from humans. Native American look-alikes.”

  “Shit. Bernie was right. The bastard took Lara.”

  “You and Wolfe talk to the girl to see if she knows where he’s holding Lara hostage.”

  And hopefully Ethan. Trevor was on his feet in a second. “Let’s go.” He tossed Wolfe the keys to the cruiser. “I don’t trust myself to keep my mind on the road.”

  The drive seemed to take forever. Once they arrived at the Emergency Room entrance, they sprinted inside, showed their badges and found Maggie in record time. The woman in the bed looked different from the picture her brother had sent. The scratches and IV hook-ups didn’t help her youthful looks, but he had no doubt she was who she claimed to be.

  He slid into the seat nearest the bed. “Your brother, Ben, is worried about you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Ben? He tried to find me?”

  “He and your parents have tried for months, but they didn’t look further than Ohio.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “How did Ben know to contact you?”

  While he hadn’t come to satisfy her curiosity, the witness wouldn’t be able to focus on the killer until he told her what she wanted to know. “Ben took a look at your computer and found your reservations to come down to Tampa to elope.”

  “George. Poor George.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips pressed together. “The bastard killed
him. Right in front of me.” Her hand reached over to the phone. “He took me, and I’ve not been able to contact anyone.”

  He was happy for her, but he needed information first. “Tell me about Robert, the man who made the wax figures. Do you know where he held you captive?”

  “Robert? That’s his name?”

  “Yes, he’s a mortician.”

  “Mortician? That’s what I smelled. Formaldehyde. I called him chemical guy.” She scooted back in the bed and adjusted her gown. “I watched him kill George, and then he drugged me. When I came to, I was in some boarded up house. I couldn’t see out, couldn’t tell the time of day, and couldn’t get help.” The young girl rolled over, planted her face in the pillow and sobbed.

  He waited for as long as he could, his mind focused on Lara. Trevor couldn’t imagine the despair and fear she’d been through.

  When Maggie’s episode subsided, Wolfe tapped her shoulder and handed her a cup of water.

  After she took a sip, she inhaled and dragged a hand across over her damp eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Was anyone else with you?”

  “No. I still can’t believe I’m free.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “I dug my way through the cinder block wall.”

  What a gutsy girl. “What did you see when you escaped?” He prayed she’d been observant.

  “There was nothing there but a house and a barn.”

  Wolfe pulled out a pad and pen. “What did the barn look like? And the house? The land around the buildings?”

  “I don’t know, except the house was one story and old. I only glanced at the barn though this Robert guy took me inside once.” Her gaze bounced around the room, as if she were trying to visualize the setting. “The house sat back from the road. It had a driveway made of shells. I know. That’s how I cut my feet so bad. I think I walked for a good two hours and never saw another house.”

  He needed more specific information. “Do you remember the color of the house?”