The Girl and the Hunt (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 6)

by A J Rivers

  Lotan walked up to Thomas. The man's body lay crumpled and contorted, his head crushed by the cement. A single shove with the sole of his boot against the back of his shoulder started him over the edge of the pool. Another made him slip through the surface. The last part visible, his bloody fingers, slid across the deck before disappearing into the cloudy darkness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Now

  Sam and I walk around the woods for a few minutes more, trying to find who or what made the sound behind the cabin. I am positive it was a person. I know the sound of two feet in boots compared to the paws or hooves of the creatures who live among the trees. There was somebody there. They got close enough to the cabin for us to hear them from the porch, which means they were only feet away from the pool of light cast by the motion detector attached to the side of the cabin.

  That thought makes me shudder. I shake off the feeling and the image of Jake installing the light on that cloudy day. The shards of glass left over from the previous fixture being destroyed were still scattered across the backseat of my car, where I discovered them. It was a nice touch and distracted me just briefly. When he’d first put up the light, it felt protective, like he wanted to make sure I stayed safe by chasing away anyone who might come close to the cabin.

  Now I can only see that light as a way to make sure he could see me. But that doesn’t matter anymore. It wasn't Jake creeping around among the trees. The grotesque warning in the note left on our car aside, Jake is still in prison. He's under close watch, and there's no way he could have slipped away from them to orchestrate all of this without someone noticing. Not that I think he is the type to have done it anyway. That's not how his mind works. Catch Me wants to play games. Jake hunted.

  Regardless of how confident I feel someone was definitely in the trees watching me, we don't find anything. We make our way back to the cabin, and when we get to the porch, I immediately notice the door standing slightly open. We pause on the bottom step, and I gesture toward it with a slight nod.

  “That was closed,” I say.

  I meant it as a question, wanting him to contradict me and say I'm remembering wrong. But it comes out as a declaration. Because I know Sam shut the door tightly behind us. He always does. It's everything I can do to stop him from changing the locks on my house in Sherwood every few weeks. If he had his way, every entry point to my home would look like Fort Knox. There's no way he would leave the door to the cabin open even slightly.

  “Not only was it closed, it was locked,” Sam nods, tightening his grip on his gun.

  I nod and lift my gun as I push the door the rest of the way open. When nothing immediately launches at me, I go the rest of the way in. Everything seems exactly as we left it. I don't notice anything out of place or obviously moved. There's nothing new or unusual placed on any of the surfaces. We make our way further into the cabin and explore, sweeping through every corner, making sure there's no one there.

  “Living room’s clear,” I call out.

  “Bedroom’s clear. Hallway, too,” Sam replies.

  We carefully comb through every room, hearts hammering in our chests, calling out to each other to mark each room safe. But there’s no one there. No sign of the space being compromised.

  “Why would somebody unlock and open the door and then do nothing?” I ask once we’re back in the living room with all the lights on.

  “I don't know,” Sam says, shaking his head. “It's entirely possible it was somebody from town. Maybe the guy LaRoche had give us the key didn't get a chance to tell everybody the cabin is being used, and they came by to check something or even use it themselves. Maybe it was the Clancy guy you talk about.”

  “Clancy would have no reason to come over here without somebody calling him. They already did repairs and updates after everything happened. Besides, if it was somebody from town, don't you think they would notice our car sitting in the driveway? And why would they leave the door open?” I point out.

  Before he gets a chance to answer, I hear footsteps coming up on the porch. They're heavy and obvious, not the footsteps of somebody trying to cover their presence there. Sam and I scramble up from the couch, our weapons at the ready, just as we hear a solid, forceful knock in the middle of the door.

  Sam looks over at me.

  “Expecting someone?” he whispers.

  I gesture toward the door.

  “Last time I opened it on my first night in Feathered Nest, there was a dead man on the other side. Your turn.”

  Sam puts one hand on the doorknob, the other raised with his gun.

  “Identify yourself,” Sam calls, his voice deep.

  “Feathered Nest police,” a voice says from the other side of the door.

  Sam glances back over his shoulder at me, and I step up beside him.

  “What's your name?” I ask.

  “Miss Griffin, it's Nicolas,” he announces.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I manage it, but the sheer effort of my restraint aches in the muscles in the backs of them.

  “Stand down,” I sigh, pressing Sam's shoulder, so he takes a step back from the door. “I know this one.”

  Opening the door to the young officer is several degrees short of a happy reunion. The same judgmental eyes I dealt with the last time I was here stare at me from the porch, almost daring me to try to fool him again.

  “Miss Griffin,” he says again like he wants to make sure I know he's aware of my real name.

  “That's Agent Griffin,” I correct him. If he's going to get it right, he's going to get it right on both accounts. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is Sheriff Johnson?” Nicolas asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Chief assigned me to you," he explains.

  "Excuse me?" I ask.

  "You'll be shadowing me during the investigation."

  I cringe against the response I really want to give and offer a tense smile.

  “Of course I will,” I mutter. “Who else would he assign me to?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sam looking at me strangely.

  “I was on the investigation into the murders and disappearances the last time she was here,” Nicolas explains.

  “Ah,” Sam nods. It pretty much sums everything up.

  “Did you just come by to let me know that?” I ask.

  “Actually, I would like to talk to you about the investigation. I know you just got to town and are probably settling in, but if you have a few minutes to spare, I'd appreciate it,” Nicolas says.

  He sounds sincere, at least as sincere as he's capable of, past his arrogance and obvious distrust of me. But right now, the way he's talking to me doesn't really matter. If he's willing to talk about the case, I want to hear all of it. Stepping back from the door, I gesture for him to come inside.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.

  “Coffee?”

  “Is that because you enjoy it or because it's going to be a long night?” I ask.

  He sits down on the couch and looks directly at me.

  “Coffee,” he repeats.

  There are no voices coming from the living room as I dig through the cabinets in the kitchen, hoping to find something. When I offered the drink, it didn't occur to me that I haven't gone to the grocery store, and since they weren't anticipating me being here, it's unlikely anybody stocked the kitchen. Fortunately, it seemed there are some basics that just exist anytime there's the possibility of people, and I'm able to find a jar of instant coffee. Unscrewing the top and smelling the stale, freeze-dried crystals, I change my assertion to unfortunately.

  With no other option, I stir a few spoonful’s of the fairly offensive pseudo-coffee into hot water and carry it into the living room.

  “I don't have any cream or sugar,” I tell him. “We didn't exactly come into this prepared.”

  “I don't think anybody could prepare for what happened today,” Nicolas says. “And I'
m sure you understand the gravity of It.”

  “Do I understand the gravity of a woman split open like a fish in the middle of her living room floor and my name written across the wall in her blood? Yeah. I understand the gravity of it,” I snap.

  Nicolas looks down at his hands with a sarcastic grin, then up at me again.

  "What can you tell me about that?" he asks.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You called Chief LaRoche several days ago asking him to check in on Marren to make sure she was alright. She had told everyone she was visiting with her sister out of town, and she wasn't expected back yet. But conveniently, you're the one who discovers her body," he says.

  "Conveniently? You call what happened earlier today convenient?" I say.

  "You have to admit it seems strange," he counters.

  "No. What seems strange is that I have to deal with this shadowing bullshit at all. Maybe you're not aware of the case I'm already involved in, that started because of the note that made me call LaRoche to begin with, but there are three other people dead, and there are going to be more if this doesn't end."

  "I'm aware of it," he says. "And it only makes this investigation more urgent. So, I need you to tell me what you know, and we'll go from there."

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What is it that you think I know?” I ask. “Because I have a strong feeling you’re trying to ask me something without asking me.”

  “I just want to know what you do about this investigation. You said it yourself; you're already involved in a case you seem to believe is linked to this one. If you can provide us any information about it, it could be very helpful,” Nicolas says.

  “I don't ‘seem to believe’ it's linked to this one,” I say. “I know it is. Now I want to know if you are interrogating me or if you're asking my involvement in the investigation.”

  “Before we start,” Sam cuts in, “were you in the woods earlier?”

  Nicolas looks at him strangely.

  “In the woods?” he asks. “What do you mean?”

  “It's not really an ambiguous question,” Sam says, obviously getting the same distasteful vibes off the young officer that I am. “Were you in the woods behind the cabin earlier?”

  “No,” Nicolas says.

  “Then you need to take a note that people are still trespassing. I understand there's probably very little you can do about the house deeper in the woods. But when people are staying in this property, there's a reasonable expectation of privacy and security. Now, I don't purport to know the property lines here in Feathered Nest, but I can imagine the woods within throwing distance of the cabin are the same property. Not long before you got here, there was someone walking right along the edge. Close enough we could hear footsteps from the front porch. As you can imagine, that's not something we particularly want to deal with, considering everything else that's going on,” Sam tells him.

  It's enough to put Nicolas in his place without being aggressive, and my heart warms. This man just keeps finding new ways to make me fall for him. But that's for another time. Right now, there are other things on my mind.

  “I'll make a note of it,” Nicolas nods. “If you see or hear anything else suspicious, don't hesitate to call the department. I will be happy to come out and check it out for you.”

  “Thank you,” Sam says.

  “Tell me what you found in the initial investigation,” I say, taking full advantage of the new, shifted dynamic of the conversation.

  “You saw most of it,” Nicolas tells me. “The team swept the entire house and the property, but we didn't find anything else.”

  “That in and of itself is something,” I point out. “That crime scene was gruesome. The amount of blood means it would be incredibly difficult to not leave footprints. You found nothing? No fibers or blood drops?”

  “We haven't had a full forensic team out. There hasn't been time for that yet. But nothing immediately obvious. It literally looks like whoever did that disappeared into thin air as soon as it was done,” Nicolas explains.

  "No," I reply firmly. "It's not like they disappeared. They were there. They brutally murdered Marren Purcell as a part of this twisted game I'm in the middle of, and then they left. Which means they left some sign somewhere. There has to be something."

  “If there's trace evidence, the forensic team will find it. For now, we have to move forward with the more obvious elements of the scene. Like the note found on the victim's body. I'm sure you're very familiar with its contents,” Nicolas says.

  We've been talking for less than five minutes, and I've already begun to twitch at his speech patterns and habits. Having him as my filter throughout the entire investigation is going to wear on me, but again, that's exactly what LaRoche wants. I have to keep my head. I can't let it get to me.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “I read through it several times.”

  “Can you make any sense of it?” he asks. “The wording is incredibly strange.”

  “Of course it's strange. It's not meant to be a manifesto. The point is not to say what he did or why. Like I told LaRoche, it's a game. The next piece of a puzzle,” I tell him.

  “He?” Nicolas asks, clamping down on the one detail he thought might be a slip-up. “Do you have some sort of indication of who it might be?”

  “No,” I tell him. “But the behaviors are much more consistent with a male. I can't be absolutely positive, of course. But if I had to make a guess, an educated assumption based on my personal experience in the Bureau, I would say this is the work of a man.”

  “Alright,” Nicolas notes, not sounding convinced. “And why would this man kill Marren?"

  "I don't know yet. This man has been toying with me, knowing my need to know what happened to my mother.”

  “What happened to your mother?” he asks.

  “She was murdered seventeen years ago. It was never solved, and there are a lot of questions surrounding it,” I tell him.

  “Emma Griffin,” he says, as if the name has just occurred to him. “Your father was Ian Griffin.”

  “My father is Ian Griffin,” I correct him.

  "He's been missing for years."

  "Eleven. Missing, not dead. He disappeared when I was eighteen years old. But for six years before that, it was just the two of us, because of my mother's death. We never knew what happened to her, and I have spent my life dedicated to finding out and to ensuring it never happens to anyone else. Somehow he knows something, and he's using that to drag me through a gauntlet," I say.

  "How?" Nicolas asks. "How are the cases linked?"

  "On the train, there were notes that led me from one part of the train and one victim to the other. They were all like this. Disconnected, strange, almost like riddles. I had to figure out each little piece in order to move on to the next. At this point, he's escalating. It's hard to imagine escalation from what he did on that train, but writing with the blood on the wall is a major jump."

  “She'll be the last,” Nicolas insists. “We'll figure it out, and he won't be able to hurt anybody else.”

  I let out a sigh and swallow down a sudden, painful lump in my throat.

  “That's the thing. He might have already," I tell him. "The three victims on the train were already dead before he sent me searching for them, but he made the clues seem like I could stop it. What I was really stopping was the bomb that would have detonated if the train got to the station before Sam and I found it. At this point, I have to work like there is someone else whose life is already hanging in the balance. He keeps daring me to catch him, and that's exactly what I have to do."

  "Then we need to focus on this investigation, put everything into it. When the department solves the murder, we catch him," Nicolas says.

  "No," I tell him. "It's the other way around. As much as I'd like to think he slipped up and left enough clues at Marren's house for the department to find him, I know he didn't. Three people were murdered, one incapacitated, and another strapped to a bomb on a train
, and the detectives managing that case still haven't found any conclusive forensic evidence. No security footage. Nothing. He knows what he's doing. He's not going to slip up. It's too important I keep following him. He knows what I don't, and he's taunting me with it because he has some twisted conclusion in mind.

  “He thinks we're in the middle of a giant round of The Game of Life. Well, I went on my education path, I chose my career card, I got in my tiny plastic car, and I'm doing his bidding. I keep playing because I have to. It will hopefully lead me to what happened to my mother. But in the end, the outcome is more straightforward than that. If he wins, more people die. If I win, they don't. It's as simple as that."

  Nicolas stares at me for a long, silent stretch, then offers a slow nod.

  "So take your turn."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ian

  Seventeen years ago…

  Ian carefully measured the ingredients, ensuring he got the proper ratio of each. If he was off, even by a little bit, it could end terribly. This wasn't the first time he had to do this. But he hated it. He hated every time he did it, every time he had to watch the effects of it. But it was his only choice. Sometimes it just needed to be done. And this was one of those times.

  He’d studied diligently before the first time, and he never let up on his concentration. Everything was measured; everything was double-checked. Triple-checked. He never trusted himself to gauge the proper amounts on his own. This was far too delicate, too precious. Especially now.

  When he finished the mixture, he transferred it into a needleless syringe and went into the living room where Emma still slept. She was so peaceful. Ian knew she’d been crying the night before. He felt the heat of her tears soak through his shirt as she rested her head on his shoulder. He wasn't comforting her. She was comforting him. Not even twelve years old, and already she was holding him up.