by Vella Day
“Shit man. Give me a little warning next time,” he said as he slammed on the brakes and fishtailed up the road, dust billowing behind them. He slowed. “So what’s our plan?” Hunter wasn’t able to formulate much in his state of mind. “Do we drive in and confront the bastard, or sneak in?”
“I say we go in to see if he’s there then decide.”
Having a semi plan, and backup on the way, Hunter’s pulse calmed. He steeled his mind against what was at stake and pretended this rescue mission was for someone else’s woman.
“He’s sure to see us coming for a mile.” Hunter eased off the gas pedal, as his gaze searched for a car, a truck, or some kind of vehicle.
“I think I saw something red peek behind the branches.”
“Where?” Hunter had lost his sharp senses.
“There. Behind those trees.”
Less than two hundred feet to go, Hunter pulled off to the side, engine idling. “I say we go in by foot.”
Phil grabbed his arm. “No. Dalton doesn’t know us. Let’s just pretend we heard there was a squatter on the property.”
“I’m not so sure he won’t recognize me. I’ve been to Kerry’s lab several times.”
“We have to chance it.”
Hunter eased back onto the road and drove straight to the recently cleared land, taking the bumps slow. A blue Port-O-Potty sat off to the right. A young man with a shovel in hand stepped out of the forest, matching the description John Ahern had given him. The man waved and smiled. Okay that was not what Hunter expected from a killer.
Once he made sure his weapon was secure, Hunter cut the engine and eased out of the driver’s seat. Phil knew to stay by the cruiser until the right moment. Their routine was solid.
“Hello,” Hunter called. He flashed his badge. As he approached, he let his gaze flick over the property for Kerry. When he saw no sign of her, doubt slammed into him. Was he way off base?
A dark cloud pulled a drape over the sun and a low rumble of thunder echoed in the sky. A quick breeze brought relief against the blinding glare and the oppressive heat.
Hunter needed to bring in Steven Dalton for questioning. He’d like to see him explain away his fingerprints on Chanel Carlitta’s window, but he wanted to ask a few questions first.
“What can I do for you, Officer?” Polite and charming with a hint of confidence.
“I’m looking for Steven Dalton.”
“You found him.” The man’s wide-legged stance, along with his arms slightly edged away from his body, contradicted his overly friendly tone.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about Chanel Carlitta.”
Hunter watched the spray of emotions skate across his features that consisted of surprise, guilt, and arrogance—in that order.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Hunter expected the denial. He could have handcuffed him right then, but he wanted answers about Kerry. “So what are you digging?” His tone came out congenial—or so he hoped.
At first, Steven didn’t seem to understand the question. Then he looked down at his hand. “Oh, this. I’m doing some... soil testing. I bought this property recently and wanted to see if I could put in a pond. I needed to send the contractor some samples from around the property.”
Hunter didn’t believe him. More thunder rumbled and Steven looked up. Splatters of rain hit Hunter on the nose, but he ignored the potential thunderstorm and inched toward his prey.
He didn’t detect any bulges in Dalton’s blue jeans where he might hide a weapon. His tight T-shirt confirmed the man was unarmed. “I’d like you to put the shovel down.”
Steven hesitated, and then tossed the garden utensil on the ground. “What’s this about?
Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter spotted a brush half-hidden behind a rock—a brush with a red handle. Just like the one Kerry owned.
29
Hunter tensed at the sight of Kerry’s tool. The brush implied Steven had kidnapped her, but hunter refused to admit Steven might have already harmed her.
Phil had ducked into the side woods as Hunter expected him to. Thankfully, Steven’s gaze didn’t leave Hunter’s face. Forcing his body to relax, Hunter moved toward him slow and easy. He sure as hell didn’t want to spook Dalton.
Sweat ran down Hunter’s back and forehead, despite the sun’s disappearance. A salty drop stung his eye, but he didn’t wipe it away, not wanting his adversary see how his nerves were eating away at him.
A Nike swoosh symbol emblazoned the side of Steven’s sneakers. Christ. They looked close to a size ten, the same size as those near Kerry’s grandfather’s place. Had he broken into Tom’s house and stolen the skull? If he were the killer, it would make sense he’d want to screw with Kerry’s ability to identify the victim.
Hunter stopped and shoved his left hand in his pocket, keeping his gun hand loose by his side. “I have another question for you. I was hoping you’d know where I can find Kerry Herlihy.”
Steven’s gaze didn’t falter. Damn. “Haven’t seen her.”
Again, his answer came as no surprise. He certainly wouldn’t admit to harming her.
A tractor, Dalton’s empty car, and an old Port-O-Potty were the only manmade items around. Where could she be? Could Steven have hidden her in the trunk of his car? Was she tied up on the floor of the back seat? Or had he killed her? His hand shook and his legs weakened at the thought.
Right on cue, Phil slipped out from the woods behind Dalton, his gun raised. Hunter’s muscles instinctively flexed. Lightning lit up the sky, and five seconds later a loud clap of thunder shook the ground. Dalton didn’t flinch and Phil didn’t shoot.
Hunter shuffled his feet on the dirt path and kicked a stone into the leafy underbrush in an attempt to cover Phil’s movement as his partner snaked closer.
Time to go for the kill. “Mr. Dalton, we found your hand print on Chanel Carlitto’s car window. Can you explain how it got there?”
A twig cracked behind Steven. Shit. Dalton spun around. In one fluid motion, Steven pulled a 45-caliber pistol from the back of his jeans, drew and fired at Phil.
“Noooo.” Hunter wrenched his Glock from his holster, pulled back the slide and nailed Steven in the back. Both Phil and Steven dropped to the ground just as the rain came down in earnest, as if to punctuate the grand finale.
Adrenaline kicked into high gear as panic threatened to freeze Hunter’s muscles. He leaped toward Steven, kicked Dalton’s gun away from his hand, and then sprinted to Phil.
A large red splotch between Phil’s shoulder and heart oozed blood. Writhing on the ground, Phil moaned. His face paled. His partner was going into volume shock.
“Hold on, buddy.”
“It hurts... like a ...bitch.”
Hunter winced at the effort it took for Phil to say those few words.
At least he was alert. That was a good sign. Hunter shielded his phone from the rain and called 9-1-1. He gave the dispatcher Phil’s respiration rate and other vitals he could guess without any equipment. “I need my hands free to stop the blood,” he told the woman on the line. He knew she’d ask him to remain on the line until help arrived, but he had to give Phil assistance.
Hunter stashed the cell in his pants pocket, ripped off his own shirt, and told Phil to hold the wadded material over the wound to stem the bleeding. “I’ll be right back.”
Hunter raced to the car, snatched a blanket from the trunk, and zoomed back. He shoved the soft fleece under Phil’s head, which rested in a one-inch deep puddle. “This should be more comfortable, buddy. The ambulance is on its way. Hold on.”
Phil coughed, and blood dribbled out of his mouth. Fuck. Phil couldn’t die. He might have been a pain in the ass some times, but he’d had Hunter’s back more times than he could count.
Less than five minutes later, a van raced up the road. He glanced over his shoulder at the racing ambulance. God the EMTs were fast. Gotta love ‘em. Hunter leaned over his partner to keep him comfortable and
to give him support. A door opened and closed. Footsteps sounds behind him. He waited for the paramedic to drop down next to him.
Instead, the click of a gun sounded right behind Hunter’s head, and his heart stopped.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
Paul Dalton.
Hunter’s body shot to high alert. The doctor jammed the gun against Hunter’s scalp. He froze, debating whether he should whip around and attempt to disarm his attacker. If Hunter and Dalton struggled, and the gun went off, Phil could be shot again.
Hunter glanced down at Phil’s face. Eyes closed, his breaths were coming out in short bursts, and his complexion was waxy. Phil was losing blood fast. He didn’t have long to live.
Hunter didn’t turn around. “Howdy, Doc.”
“Stand up. Slowly.” Paul Dalton could have frozen fire with his command.
Hunter held up his hands and stood, not wanting to piss off the doc.
“Drop the gun, Detective.”
Hunter lifted his weapon from his holster and lobbed his Glock five feet from him. He turned around in slow motion and prayed backup would arrive soon.
Dalton came dressed in his green scrubs, which by now were rain soaked. He must have been in quite a hurry. His nephew probably called him after taking Kerry—if he had Kerry. Or had the doctor killed her already?
Kerry. Hunter’s soul burned.
“You killed my nephew.” Paul Dalton spat in Hunter’s face, but Hunter didn’t react.
“He shot my partner,” Hunter tossed back.
Keeping his tone even had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He wanted to beat the shit out of Paul Dalton, but if he too was shot, who would search for Kerry? For her he had to stay cool.
“Doesn’t matter now. They’re both going to die.”
He wanted Dalton to focus his attention away from Phil. “Take a look. I think Steven’s still clinging to life.”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed as he backed up. A quick flash of hope crossed his face, surprising Hunter that the man was capable of caring.
“What are you doing up here?” Hunter asked the good doctor.
“None of your business.” Hunter hadn’t expected him to say he was here to harm Kerry.
“Mind if I tend to my partner? Killing a cop will shorten a person’s freedom. If Steven lives, it would be in his best interest if Phil does too.”
Dalton seemed to mull over the situation. He sidled over to Hunter’s gun, picked it up and chucked it far into the woods. “Go ahead, but don’t make any sudden moves.”
God, the man sounded like he was a scriptwriter for a bad B movie.
As Hunter knelt next to Phil, he angled his body to keep an eye on both the uncle and the nephew. The doctor leaned over Stephen and felt for a pulse. His back stiffened.
“Is he alive?” Hunter wanted Steven to live, to pay for what he’d done.
“Barely.”
Hunter swiped the rain from his eyes, wondering where Dr. Ahern was. After all, his sole job was to follow the doctor.
Sirens sounded in the distant. Gotcha! Hunter wondered what Dalton would do when the cavalry arrived.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Dalton jumped up. “Sorry, Detective.” He aimed his gun at Hunter. “I see you already called for backup. I can’t afford to have any witnesses. You’ve been a thorn in my side for way too long.”
Out of nowhere, John Ahern sprang from behind Dalton’s auto and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck. Dalton’s gun fired, the bullet missing Hunter by inches.
Ahern and Dalton struggled. While the forensic pathologist was no Bruce Lee, and the man’s arthritis put him out of commission more days than not, surprise was on his side. Hunter flew toward him, and wrenched the weapon from the doctor’s hand.
“John, it’s okay. I got him,” Hunter said. “Get the cuffs from my cruiser.”
Hunter spun Dalton around and slammed his face against the Mercedes. Ahern backed away, his breaths coming fast. A diesel engine vehicle roared up the road.
“I hope you’ll enjoy prison,” Hunter said.
“Fuck you. You have nothing on me.”
Once the ambulance transported Steven Dalton and Phil to the hospital, and backup had carted Dalton off to jail, Hunter slumped against his car. The rain had disappeared as fast as it had arrived.
“You find any signs of Kerry?” John asked.
His gut soured. “No, just her satchel in the trunk of Steve Dalton’s car. If Paul Dalton came racing up here, Steven must have called and said he had her. Let’s spread out.”
John headed for the Port-O-Potty and ripped back the door. “She’s not here.”
“Kerry has to be somewhere.”
“I’ll check the other side of the drive.”
Hunter studied the area for clues. The shovel meant Steven had been digging. Only where?
A strong claw twisted Hunter’s gut as he headed into the woods. He halted the moment he spotted a large rectangular plot of fresh dirt packed down. Oh shit. He doubted the guy was taking soil samples. That job belonged to the EPA.
His mind reeled back to when he’d first met Kerry. The mass gravesite they’d worked on looked like this one, and panic clouded his brain.
“Ker-ry,” he yelled and dove to the ground, furiously pawing the dirt.
Tears stung his face as he scooped handfuls of mud and tossed them aside. She can’t be under there. She can’t be dead. The bastard couldn’t have killed her. Not Kerry.
Please God, don’t let her be dead.
A second pair of hands joined his. “Jesus Christ. You think the bastard buried her?”
“I don’t know.” Hunter fought for air as blackness pushed its way around his heart.
The two worked in madman tandem. John was bent over the mound like an egret digging for worms as he helped claw away the dirt.
“She’s in here. I can feel it. We have to get her out. We have to dig.” Hunter swallowed his tears. “Faster.” Stones and twigs cut his fingers. His muscles burned and his fingers bled as he scraped the dirt from the earth. He touched something. “Wait.” He brushed back more dirt. I hit wood.” His body froze.
John moved next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and together they pushed aside the earth. Hunter nearly suffocated from lack of air.
“It’s a coffin, all right,” John announced.
Kerry’s coffin?
“Keep digging,” Hunter commanded. “I’ll get a crowbar.”
Faster than he’d ever moved, Hunter did the hundred-yard dash to the cruiser in under twelve seconds, or so it seemed. He wrenched the crow bar from the cruiser’s trunk and flew back to John. He dropped to his knees and winced when his kneecap cracked on a rock. Hunter pried up the top.
And lifted the lid.
30
Empty.
The goddamn coffin was empty. Air whooshed out of Hunter’s lungs as he collapsed back. “If she’s not here, then where the fuck is she?” His voice cracked, and he didn’t bother swiping away the tears that cut a ridge down his cheek.
John grabbed Hunter’s arm in a tight grip. “She has to be here. We have to keep looking.”
Without either giving directions, the two of them raced into the woods at a forty-five degree angle. Less than a minute later, John called out. “Over here. There’s another grave.”
Hunter crashed through the underbrush to reach John. Tree limbs scraped his arms and bare chest. Bugs flew at him and a spider web lodged in his mouth, that he didn’t even bother to spit out.
When he saw the fresh dirt level with the ground, he knew all hope was lost. Another grave, another coffin. But this time, he knew the coffin wouldn’t be empty. Or would it?
What had possessed Steven to dig two holes? Digging was a bitch. Was this a joke? Or merely a game to drive him insane?
Steven had left a second shovel against a nearby tree. Hunter snagged it and tore through the dirt, while John churned at the mound with his hands.
“Kerry. We’re here, sweetheart. Hold on,” he yelled.
In case she could hear him, he wanted to assure her help was on the way. He refused to believe she was dead, though his mind screamed he was in denial.
John’s breaths turned shorter—too short, in fact. Hunter feared the older man wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. “Come on, come on,” Hunter urged, pushing himself just as hard.
“Oh, shit. Kerry’s has some hand shovels in her satchel,” John said with a hint of excitement.
“Wait. Bring the other shovel Dalton dropped near the car.”
“Yes.” The big man lumbered away, each step seeming to take more effort.
Hunter threw himself into uncovering the grave. Kerry couldn’t be dead, she just couldn’t be.
“I love you, Kerry,” he sobbed. Sweat poured down his face and over his back.
John returned with two hand shovels as well as the one Dalton had discarded. They must have looked like rabid dogs searching for a bone. Hunter was the first to hit wood.
“I’m there.”
He tossed down the shovel, grabbed the crowbar and cracked open the small end of the coffin, wanting to get air inside.
“We’re going to get you out, Kerry. I promise.” He continued to babble as he smashed through the casket. Bare feet glistened in the light. “Oh God. She’s in there.” His heart stopped. The cop in him knew she was dead, but his soul refused to give up hope.
Blood pounded in his ears as he cracked open the top. With one fell swoop, he lifted the lid and tossed it away. It bounced and crashed on the ground.
Kerry lay in the casket.
Naked.
Eyes closed.
Skin gray.
Duct tape clung to her mouth, hands, and feet. Dear God what had the man done? A primordial scream nearly bubbled out.
John leaned over the casket and dragged his two fingers over her throat. “There’s no bloating. She might be alive.”
Hunter held his breath, willing away all his possessions if only she’d be alive.