Shallow Grave

by Karen Harper

  Bronco rushed back in with Nick behind him. Brit left the lamp but moved back to give Nick room. Bronco hunkered down to look. “For sure a grown man could crawl through there, and a woman—well, could be forced to—or dragged.”

  Jace cleared his throat. He’d seen Nick crying earlier, and he was about ready to. Had Claire been conscious? Alive? At least the intruder had left Jackson’s unconscious body behind after attacking him, so maybe she was at least in better shape than that.

  “Grant should see this before you guys leave for the ranch,” he told Nick.

  “I’ll tell him because we’ve got to get going. He asked for a little time to make a couple of calls so people don’t think he’s—he’s missing.”

  Nick helped Jace to stand and handed him his crutches. They grasped hands. No more to say. They’d both loved Claire, and Jace knew he’d lost her through his own stupidity and temper. He just hoped Nick wasn’t going to lose her too.

  As Nick hurried away, Brit stepped back and put her arm around Jace’s waist. He tipped toward her. As he touched his broken foot to the ground to keep his balance, pain shot through him, but a broken bone was nothing. A broken heart was something.

  “They’ll find her, get her back,” Brit whispered.

  “She’s pregnant. She’s on meds for narcolepsy.”

  “Jace, as soon as you call your pilot friend, I know what we can do to help. It’s what Claire would do.”

  “What?” he asked as they started slowly out of Flamingo Isle.

  “Analyze that threatening note. Nick left it in the trailer office—under the glass on the desk.”

  “We’d need fingerprints or DNA.”

  “Which he has in mind if we have to call in the police. But, I mean, we can at least assess that big, awkward printing.”

  “You’re right. Let me call Falcon again, then we can try to psych out that note. Thanks, honey, for propping me up in more ways than one, for understanding and helping.”

  “Understanding you still love her in a way? I knew that. I still want you anyway.”

  Before they waded through the moat, he put both crutches in one hand and pulled her to his side. “I love you, Brit. I really do. I—I keep trying to put this all together in my head—to be strong, strong like you’ve been through losing your father and then what happened to Jackson—losing the BAA and the tiger.”

  The lamp she held illuminated several flamingos nearby, a couple of them asleep, standing on one leg, just like he was, two of them acting lovey-dovey. They’d be leaving here soon too.

  “It wasn’t easy to stay strong, but you helped,” she said. “Claire and Nick did too, so I’m all in to help them.”

  “Any crisis, in the air, or here—like this,” he told her, “I make myself go back to what I learned in flight school. My dad used to drill me on it. I hated his guts—shades of Lane and your dad, right? But Dad was at least proud of me for wanting to serve my country like he had.”

  “Drilled you on what?” she asked, turning to him as they clamped themselves tighter together in a hard embrace. The top of her head fit perfectly under his chin. He could feel her breasts rise and fall.

  “Okay, the so-called Four C’s for emergencies in flights are, first confess the predicament to ground control. Second, communicate with them. Third, climb in altitude if possible for better radar and direction finding.”

  “I like that one. Go high, not low when things get tough. What else, my man?”

  “Comply with advice is the fourth C, but I always add a fifth to myself—keep calm.”

  “We’re doing all that, right now, aren’t we?” she said, lifting her face to his. Tears gilded her eyes in the reflection of the lamp, but she looked at him strong and steady. “You tell your friend Falcon to bring that chopper in case we need it. But maybe Nick and Grant will find her and bring her back. And you and I will stand together to welcome her.”

  He hugged her hard, desperate for her strength. He knew for sure he loved her, wanted her in his life. But he had to help get Claire back—for Lexi, for Nick and himself—or he was going to ignore those four C’s and crash.

  * * *

  “You clear everything with the people you were going to meet tonight?” Nick asked as Grant drove them the short distance to the ranch entrance in the dark.

  “Yeah. Didn’t tell them why. Then I called Stan to say you and I were stopping by,” he muttered as his headlights illuminated the sign and tall double gate to the ranch. Nick realized his friend was really nerved up too.

  Grant reached into the well between their seats and pulled out something that looked like a garage door opener. He held it up and clicked it once. The gates opened inward, and they drove forward. Nick saw in the side rearview mirror that they automatically closed behind them.

  “I knew you were the one to call,” Nick said. He blew his nose, which kept filling up, even though he’d managed to get hold of himself. His eyes were red and prickly; he fought hard to steady his shaking hands. They had no choice but to come to Stan, so he hoped they could trust him on this. No way he’d want bad publicity for his ranch.

  And words his father had written once, which had inspired him then and that he’d held on to since, kept going through his head: I will be safe on the south shore forever more. He’d always figured his father meant in the afterlife, and he’d named his private charity firm South Shores after that quote. Now all he wanted was to keep Claire safe.

  “Sorry for bringing this up,” Nick said, “but did you feel desperate like this when you couldn’t find Steve Rowan and Leslie, when they were missing at sea—and then were never found?”

  He saw Grant’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Yeah. They were both close to me, my mentor—and my girlfriend. She was beautiful and special. She was just twenty-one. I’ve had plenty of female companionship, but maybe that’s why I never risked marriage, because I knew the pain of losing ones I loved.”

  That hit Nick right in the gut. He and Grant had the agony of loss in common. Dear God, he couldn’t lose Claire.

  “The guard’s not on the gate after dark?” he asked as they drove farther in and he leaned forward to look out the front car window. A pale moon, half covered by ropes of clouds, was rising amid a scattering of stars.

  “I guess not,” Grant said with a frown and a shrug. “No one usually comes in after dark unless it’s Stan or a shift change—regular staff.”

  “I’m figuring the hole under the fence I told you about would come through to the ranch near the guardhouse. That’s why I asked.”

  “Still, some of that distance we drove on the road, maybe a quarter to half of a mile, would be between those fences and this road. You aren’t thinking the death of the BAA owner by that tiger attack could be tied to someone wanting to take Claire, are you? I mean, like a bargaining chip or something to make you quit investigating that?”

  “I don’t know, but right now, all I want is to get her back. Good—there’s the lights from the lodge and pool area. You’re driving really slow.”

  “On this narrow road at night, I don’t want to hit any of the nocturnal animals. Besides, if swamp buggies go out at night, their lights are terrible to spot. If we go back into the ranch—which I hope Stan will let us do—we’ll take one of those. Look, Nick, it’s obvious that someone brought her onto ranch land, but who knows if she’s still here? I think the best place to look would be the so-called tree houses way back in. Stan said they’re between guests right now and, if someone knew the ranch well, that would be an obvious hideout. Stan would know if something was going on in the compound area. You aren’t thinking he’s behind this?”

  Nick almost admitted Stan had been his longtime number one suspect, but he didn’t dare. He needed and trusted this man, but Grant had so much at stake here too. “I’m just clutching at straws,” Nick said, knowing that was a cop-out, but if Grant had to c
hoose between helping him or Stan, which would it be?

  “Look, I know Stan. He’s squirrelly at times, but he knows he’s got a good thing going here, and I’ve seen him toe the line more than once not to screw that up. He’s not into abducting women, believe me, nor burying bodies on BAA property, if that’s what you’re thinking. After all, he has hundreds of acres here to do that.”

  “And plenty of women around anyway.”

  Grant’s head snapped up, but he said nothing else. Nick wondered if he’d just said too much. How far could Grant be trusted since he was close to Stan? But it almost didn’t matter since this long shot was all he had right now.

  The appearance of the lighted compound near the lodge made Nick feel better. At least he could see farther than the distance of Grant’s headlights.

  Stan greeted them and invited them into the lodge. The place was either deserted or it had been hastily cleared out, though Grant had mentioned they were between visitors, and Bronco had said something about a transition between German and Russian guests.

  But the acrid scent of cigarette and cigar smoke still hung in the air in the main room as if ghosts were here. No ashtrays, though. No empty glasses or beer bottles. He saw wet water rings on a table where glasses might have been sitting—and two that had been missed in the cleanup, both with lipstick marks on them.

  The skin on the back of Nick’s neck crawled. Well, of course, they wouldn’t want a lawyer to know there were women here to please the guests. It was even possible that they were girlfriends of workers here or guests. After all, women hunted, came with men here from time to time, no doubt. Yet, something seemed off here. Grant was totally uptight—well, he could understand that. Nick realized he might have made a mistake to walk into the lion’s den, but that note about not calling in the cops had really scared him. He and their friends had been watched through a fence, glass patio windows and their phones. He had to trust Grant and risk this.

  “The truth is,” Grant told him as Stan poured them straight scotch from a bottle in his office, “I had to tell Stan we needed his help and why. I thought it might take too long to explain it here.”

  So that was why he was so nervous. Grant must trust Stan. At least that meant they could get down to business. However much he wanted a drink, he turned the scotch down.

  Pouring himself a slosh of whiskey, Stan said, “Grant and I have worked together for a long time—trust each other. You don’t want the cops or any media loudmouths to know what’s happened till you find your wife, and we don’t either. I swear, we’ll get to the bottom of this, call in staff, search the grounds, whatever it takes to recover her for you—if she’s here. I swear, I didn’t have a damned thing to do with her disappearance or whatever bodies you found on BAA land, right, Grant?”

  “Absolutely. I know Nick’s on edge, and I am too, so let’s get going.”

  Nick hesitated, however good that all sounded. Because suddenly, his lawyer instinct for spotting liars kicked in, and he didn’t believe Stan. Something about his nervousness, his not looking him in the eye now, and probably even more signs Claire would have picked up. But Stan didn’t dare do anything to harm him since so many knew Nick was here. Still, he didn’t like that these two seemed to have an aura of not only friendship but collusion.

  “Hit me again,” Grant ordered, rapping his glass on the counter, then getting up to stretch while Stan poured him more scotch.

  Stan told Nick, “I’ve got a swamp buggy with lights ready, so we’ll head out.”

  Then something hit Nick in the back of his head, and black night descended.

  * * *

  The man in the other room who had been on the phone, then was quiet for a while, came back into the room where Claire was madly kicking the glass eyes on the floor out of his way. She didn’t want him to know she’d spilled them trying to grab a knife.

  But he slipped on some of them anyway and slanted his flashlight beam onto the floor, then into her eyes.

  “Oh, great,” he said. “Look, this taxidermy guy’s an artist, and he’ll have my head for that. That’s a joke around here. Wanta see some of his heads on the walls? Hey, I got something even better to show you ’fore we end all this.”

  She smelled liquor on his breath, though she hadn’t before. After his phone calls, he’d been drinking. Had someone fired him as a driver on the golf course? He’d been told off for something, that was sure.

  He yanked her to her feet and dragged her into the next room. Heads of stags with huge racks of antlers stared down at her. Also mounted heads of a bear, a wolf and so many alligators with their jagged jaws open.

  He shoved her into the single chair in the room and dug into his pocket for a short chain of keys. He lifted them out, rattled them, eyed them, then chose one. “Mr. Brilliant got no idea I have this one. But got to protect myself and the man, case Mr. Brilliant ever tries to turn us in. He was so excited to get these samples to work on ’stead of a bunch of animals, so he’ll keep his mouth shut or else.”

  She wasn’t following his stream of talk. Just words, words but she wanted to put them together. As he unlocked a cabinet in the back corner of the room behind the cluttered work counter, Claire fought to clear her head. She had to pay attention, remember what he said and did. If they went outside again, and he didn’t leave her here, she’d have to know the way they went on the golf course to bring others here later—no, not a golf course, but that animal ranch.

  He opened both doors of the cupboard. He came back to her, pulled her to her feet. Oh, she remembered who he was now, the man in a photograph she’d seen looking through a fence. A man who had terrified his wife and son, but she had to keep him from scaring her.

  He put the gag back in her mouth, then pushed her close to the cupboard and slipped his flashlight beam inside.

  She felt her baby move, punch at her as if to say Stay alert. But how could she not? Because there, staring at her with glass eyes that reflected the light, were two heads of—of people. Real people. Dead people, mummy heads with parchment-like skin stretched over their skulls. Surely they weren’t real, but reconstructed masks of missing persons this man was trying to scare her with. She’d seen the work of forensic artists who re-created what someone missing looked like when just their skulls were found, even years later.

  But from the depths of her being, she wanted to scream because—because she knew who they were, didn’t she? And why the skulls of the bodies in the shallow grave were missing.

  The preserved head of the white-haired man had front teeth with a big space between them. And the much younger female had a face Claire had seen in a photo too, and she still had her long, lovely red hair.

  34

  Nick jolted awake, bouncing along in some vehicle. His head hurt like hell, but his screaming thoughts seemed clear and awful. He and Grant had been talking to Stan about searching the ranch for Claire. And then someone—Grant?—hit him, knocked him out.

  He saw he was in a swamp buggy, and Stan was driving through the pitch-black night. Grant sat next to Stan, and Nick lay on the back seat. He tried to move. Tied, wrists and ankles. Damn, he’d been played for a sucker, so desperate to find Claire he’d ruined everything. Grant had to be in it with Stan. But no—Grant must have been the enemy all along.

  Nick tried to test and stretch his bonds. He was not tied tight. That gave him hope he could roll off the back of this swamp buggy, hide and get loose somehow. But maybe they were taking him to her. And for the wrong reason. Maybe Stan had taken her because she’d found out something about him. Maybe her phone had been monitored again. Or else someone Stan worked for just wanted to make them back off investigating the goings on at the ranch or even Ben’s death.

  Thoughts poured through his brain. He’d tried a case a couple of years ago in which the killer had admitted to the cops that he didn’t tie his victim tight so when the corpse was recovered, the
re would be no marks of restraint, so it would look like the victim killed himself. Could that be their play here? He was terrified for himself but nothing mattered if he couldn’t find Claire.

  His captors weren’t talking much, as if they were angry with each other. Could he use that? An odd pair, but partners. Partners in crime.

  Stan drove the swamp buggy past an area Nick recognized in the wan moonlight. It was the entry to the verboten “back forty” area of the ranch. In the darkness, he couldn’t read the words on the sign they passed, but he recalled what it said: STAY OUT. No wonder Stan had let slip they should check out the tree houses where high rollers stayed. His hopes rose they must have Claire stashed there, but who had taken her from the BAA?

  They drove into a stand of what looked like huge fica trees with their massive twisted roots and trunks. He saw lights on in the one tree directly overhead. The tree houses?

  They came to a halt. They must be getting out here. He didn’t think either man had looked back at him, so he’d try to be deadweight, pretend he was still unconscious. Just before he shut his eyes when Stan killed the motor and climbed out, he saw the glint of a gun in Grant’s hand. He closed his eyes and prayed hard, that Claire was here and that she was alive.

  And that he’d find a way to save them both.

  * * *

  “It’s gonna take you how long to get here?” Jace asked Falcon on his cell phone. He didn’t like what he’d just heard.

  “Look, man, you want the helo for something like this, I said almost an hour, give or take. I’m not near the airport, but I’m pretty sure the helo’s gassed up. Tell me more. You think your ex-wife was targeted, so per my earlier theory, maybe it could be someone wanting to get to you?”

  “Someone wanting to get to her, not me, I swear it. She and her husband—a friend of mine, really—are investigating a murder case, but let me fill you in when you land. I swear I’ll pay anything for fuel, your time, anything.”