“And?” Griff asked.
“And while we were searching for personal information on this guy, guess what we discovered? Guess who his cousin was?”
Griff tensed, every muscle tight, every nerve taut. “Cary Maygarden.”
Chapter 22
LaTasha Davies stood in the open doorway of her eight-year-old daughter’s bedroom, which she shared with her six-year-old cousin. It was good to be home, back in Tampa, even if only for two weeks. At least she’d be spending Thanksgiving with her family, something she hadn’t been able to do for the past couple of years. She’d been in Afghanistan two years ago and in Iraq last year and would be returning to the war long before Christmas. Being assigned outside the U.S., she’d had no choice but to leave Asheen with her mother.
“That child’s growing up without you,” LaTasha’s mother, Geraldine, had told her. “It ain’t good for either of you to be apart so much. Asheen’s got to where she’s calling your sister ‘Mama.’”
“You don’t think this is the way I wanted my life to turn out, do you? I’m doing what I have to do to give Asheen a decent life, the kind of chances I never had.”
“I did the best I could.”
“I know you did, Mama. I’m not blaming you. I blame myself for getting pregnant at fifteen and quitting school and letting Marco back into my life over and over again.”
LaTasha had learned all her life lessons the hard way. As a teenager, she’d been pretty and smart and thought she knew more than her mama did about everything including men. Marco Crews had been twenty-five, drove a sports car, and always had money to burn. It wasn’t until after she had given birth to his daughter and gone through two abortions that she finally realized the guy was bad news. Turns out, she hadn’t been so smart after all. Marco had fathered half a dozen children by three different women, but remained single and on the prowl.
When Asheen was four, she’d been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. Her daughter’s illness had been a wake-up call for LaTasha. She’d quit her two part-time minimum wage jobs, where she’d had no benefits whatsoever, and joined the army. She’d believed that her decision was the best way to provide Asheen with everything she needed. The army could also give LaTasha a chance for a good education. And if she wound up getting her head blown off in Iraq, at least her daughter would be provided for.
“She’s a sweet child,” her sister Katari said as she came up behind LaTasha. “She reminds me so much of you when you was that age.”
“Don’t let her forget me entirely,” LaTasha said.
Her sister placed her arm around LaTasha’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “Mama and me talk about you to her a lot, you know.”
“When did she start calling you ‘Mama’?”
Katari sighed. “She don’t do it all the time, just every once in a while.”
“I don’t want her calling nobody else ‘Mama.’ I’m her mama.”
“She hears Tyrina calling me ‘Mama’ and Latarius ‘Daddy’ all the time,” Katari said. “You can’t blame her for wanting parents like her little cousin has. But she knows you’re her mother. She’s not going to forget about you.”
LaTasha pulled away from her sister. “I’m going out for a walk. I need to think about what I’m going to do. If Mama hadn’t moved in with you and Latarius—”
“Don’t go blaming Mama. She’s getting old. She’s worked hard all her life and her health ain’t good. Instead of resenting the bond I’ve got with Asheen, you ought to be grateful that I’m giving her and Mama a good home.”
“I’m grateful.” LaTasha swallowed her tears.
Without a backward glance, she rushed down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Go for a run, she told herself. Work off some of this anger and resentment, then come back and spend the day with your daughter. Make the most of the time you have with her and don’t fight with Katari anymore. She’s right, you should be grateful to her.
And she was grateful. But that didn’t mean she accepted the fact that her child was calling another woman “Mama.”
Griff and Charles David had taken turns visiting with Nic at the morning visitation period in ICU from nine to nine thirty. She’d still been slightly groggy from all the drugs, but coherent enough for Griff to tell her about Rosswalt Everhart and his connection to Cary Maygarden. By their one o’clock visit, Dr. Mandel had made his rounds and ordered Nic taken off the ventilator.
Charles David had spoken to Dr. Mandel, and had asked Griff to join them. As the doctor explained Nic’s condition, it became apparent that she had suffered a horrendous ordeal. By the time the doctor walked away, Charles David had been crying.
Griff knew Nic’s brother loved her and would do anything for her, but he was not strong enough to give Nic what she would need in the upcoming weeks.
Geena Kilpatrick had then explained that Nic’s throat would be sore for a couple of days and she’d be a bit hoarse. The best news was that Nic’s condition had been changed from critical to stable.
Griff had taken the opportunity to ask a question that had been plaguing him, but which Geena whould not have been permitted to answer had Charles David not been there as Nic’s next of kin.
“I … uh … need to ask something,” Griff had said.
“Yes, Mr. Powell, what is it?”
“Nic … Nicole isn’t pregnant, is she?”
Charles David’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.
“No, Ms. Baxter isn’t pregnant,” the nurse said, then patted Griff on the arm before she returned to her other duties.
“You go in and see Nic alone,” Charles David said. “I know she wants to talk to you. I can wait until this evening to see her, but please tell her that I’m here.”
“Thanks,” Griff said, thankful Charles David hadn’t pursued a conversation about why Griff had thought Nic might be pregnant.
He entered the ICU and hurried straight to Nic’s cubicle.
Pausing at the entrance, he looked at her where she lay on her side, the head of her bed tilted slightly upward. God, she was pale, her eyes weak, her body way too thin and badly bruised. He couldn’t allow himself to think about what she had been through. He had to find a way to help her look forward, not back.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he said as he walked toward the bed.
She looked at him, a fragile smile curving her lips, but he saw the pain in her eyes.
He wanted to hold her, kiss her, comfort her, but she was still hooked up to an IV and other essential equipment. Stable condition meant she was better, but it didn’t mean she was completely out of the woods. She’d been shot in the back, the bullet entering below her shoulder blade and exiting through her side, just beneath her armpit.
“I’m not gorgeous.” Nic rasped the words as Griff sat down in the chair at her bedside.
“Oh, yes, you are. You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” he told her.
She held out her hand. Griff grasped it and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Have they caught him?” she asked.
“Everhart wasn’t at home, but we didn’t expect him to be, if he was still alive, and unfortunately, he is. His housekeeper told Doug Trotter and the parish sheriff that Everhart underwent surgery for a stomach wound at the County General Hospital. But before you ask, no, he wasn’t still at the hospital. It seems he has disappeared and nobody knows where is.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Trotter’s getting a search warrant so he can go over the house and grounds with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Get me a picture of him so I can ID him. Okay?”
“Trotter’s going to send us a photo of him as soon as possible.”
Nic heaved a deep sigh, and then grunted.
“Are you okay, honey?” Griff asked.
She sucked in air. “I’m sore as hell. My whole body aches.”
“They can up your pain meds. I’ll call the nurse and—”
“No! I’m tired of not being able to
think straight. I want my mind back.” She jerked her hand out of his.
“Take it easy, honey. Don’t talk. Just rest.”
“How can I rest knowing he’s out there, alive and free and—”
“Don’t do this to yourself,” Griff told her. “You’ve been through hell. You need to give your body time to heal … and your mind.”
When Nic didn’t respond, he noticed that she was looking away from him, her jaw clenched and her hands clutching the sheet that covered her to her waist.
“Charles David said to tell you that he’s here, outside in the waiting room. He’s giving me the entire thirty minutes to visit with you.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak and didn’t glance his way.
“Nic?”
“Hmm …?”
“When Trotter gets the search warrant, I’m going out there, to Everhart’s plantation.”
“Belle Fleur,” she said as she turned and looked at Griff. “That’s what he called his home.”
“He told you the name of his plantation, but he never told you his name?”
“He referred to himself as ‘the Hunter.’”
Griff noted that she was clutching the sheet tighter and tighter. He reached out and slid his hand caressingly over each of hers, then grasped the fingers of her left hand and forced her to release her tenacious hold on the sheet.
“You’re safe,” Griff told her. “He can’t hurt you, not ever again.”
Nic glared at Griff, her gaze riveted to his face. “Find him and stop him.”
“We will.”
“I tried to kill him.” Nic lifted her hands and looked at her open palms. “I made myself a weapon out of a stick.” She rubbed her hands together. “When I had the chance, I attacked him. I went for the jugular, but I missed.”
Griff watched her as she spoke, understanding that she was reliving every moment as she told him about what had happened.
“He threw me off him and we wrestled on the ground.” Nic rubbed her hands together harder and faster. “I turned the sharp stick toward him and shoved it into his gut as far as it would go. I hoped I’d killed him.” She coughed. “I wanted him dead.” She coughed again and again. “I hated him. He was a—” Nic coughed uncontrollably.
Griff called for the nurse. By the time the woman whose name badge read A. Kennemer came in and took over, Griff was holding a hysterical Nic in his arms, preventing her from flailing about wildly.
Griff held Nic while Ms. Kennemer administered a sedative via the IV tube. Within minutes, Nic was asleep.
“May I sit with her for a while?” Griff asked.
“You have fifteen more minutes, Mr. Powell.”
“Thank you.”
He watched Nic while she rested. He didn’t know if she had ever killed anyone in the line of duty. Whether she had killed anyone or not, the fact that she had not only wanted to kill her abductor but had tried to kill him obviously tormented her. Unlike the madman who had tortured her, she had a conscience.
Griff remembered a time when the thought of killing another human being had been an alien concept to him. But that had been before his years on Amara, before he’d been trained by York to either kill or be killed.
He reached out and caressed Nic’s bruised cheek, then eased several matted tendrils of dark hair away from her face and slipped them behind her ear.
It would get worse for her before it got better. A lot worse.
“But I’ll be here for you, Nicki. I’m going to help you through this, no matter how long it takes.”
Griff and Rick Carson arrived at Belle Fleur around four that afternoon. Sanders had stayed at the hospital with Charles David. A horde of law enforcement officials swarmed the plantation house and grounds, all under the supervision of the bureau’s SAC Trotter. Understanding that they had been given permission to be on the scene as observers, and only because Trotter had sense enough to know it was the best way to keep the Powell Agency under control, Griff and Rick stayed out of the way.
Griff figured that at one time the old house had been a showplace, probably not more than thirty or forty years ago. But time and neglect had turned a magnificent mansion into a sadly decaying structure. Why hadn’t Rosswalt Everhart spent some of his millions to keep the place up? In the initial report Powell’s had done on Everhart during the past couple of hours, they had discovered the man was worth in the neighborhood of eighty million.
Just as Griff and Rick approached the front veranda, Doug Trotter and Josh Friedman emerged from the house. The four men spoke and exchanged handshakes, and then Trotter asked about Nic.
“She was asleep when I left the hospital,” Griff said.
“Has she told you anything about Everhart?” Trotter asked. “I’ve been waiting to question her—”
“Don’t,” Griff said. “She’s not ready.”
Trotter eyed him questioningly. “Nobody’s going to push her, but the more we know about this guy, the better our odds of catching him.”
“I understand. But I’m telling you that other than identifying Everhart from a photo, she’s in no shape for an interview. Not yet.”
“As for identifying him from a photo—we need Nic to do that for us as soon as possible. Cleo Willoughby, the B&B owner in Arkansas, positively identified Everhart as the guy who rented the Cary Grant room from her the day Kendall Moore’s body showed up. She says that she’s sure, even though he had a mustache and his hair was a different color.”
“Nic and I figured as much when Miss Cleo mentioned her one night guest. I’m glad she was able to ID him.”
Trotter nodded. “Friedman, take Mr. Powell to the basement and show him around.” He looked right at Griff. “I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything, do I?”
“No, you don’t.” Griff glanced from Trotter to Friedman. “What’s in the basement?”
“It’s where that sick son of a bitch probably kept Nic and his other victims,” Friedman said. “At least part of the time.”
“And there’s a special room down there,” Trotter said. “You do know the only reason you’re here is because—”
“The Powell Agency will cooperate with the FBI completely.”
Griff and Trotter exchanged quick nods, silently agreeing on the terms.
The interior of the house, filled with priceless antiques, smelled slightly musty, but everything appeared to be relatively clean, the wooden floors waxed and the furniture dusted and polished.
Griff followed SA Friedman down the wide hallway. He paused behind the agent when he opened the door to the basement.
“Watch your step,” Friedman said. “These stairs aren’t very stable.”
Griff stayed a couple of steps behind the agent as they descended into the dark, dank, subterranean level of the mansion. The only illumination came from a single lightbulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling. The moment Griff’s feet hit the dirt and brick flooring and the scent of moist soil, human waste, and rotting rodents bombarded his senses, he stopped dead in his tracks. Unbidden thoughts, memories of another time and place, overcame him. But he quickly took control, willing himself to focus on the present.
“Stinks down here,” Friedman said.
Griff didn’t reply.
“Take a look at the rusted chains that line that wall over there.” Freidman shined his flashlight over the row of rusted manacles. “They must have kept slaves down here before the Civil War.”
Griff noticed a pair of new chains set into the same wall. He paused and stared at the metal shackles and knew without a doubt that this was where Everhart had kept his victims bound. Nic had been held prisoner in this basement.
Friedman came up beside him. “Don’t think about it. That won’t help Nic.”
Griff released a harsh breath, barely containing his anger. The rage inside him demanded revenge.
“There’s a room down here you’ll want to see,” Friedman said. “Just remember not to touch anything.”
Griff nodded, then follo
wed the agent to the door that had been left standing open at the far side of the basement. On the right-hand side of the midsize room, shelves of glass cases lined the wall, all empty except for seven that sat side by side. A mannequin head stared sightless from each case. For a millisecond, Griff closed his eyes to blot out the scene before him, knowing that the scalp atop each plastic head had been taken, postmortem, from each of Everhart’s seven victims.
Nic had been victim number eight.
Suddenly, a vision he’d thought long vanquished appeared inside his head, reminding him of another trophy room as equally gruesome as the one in which he now stood.
“Mr. Powell, are you okay?” Friedman asked.
Griff cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Have you seen enough?”
“More than enough.”
Fifteen minutes later, Griff and Rick met up with Trotter and the local parish sheriff about half a mile from the plantation house. A group of lawmen were standing beneath a canopy of ancient trees, most heavily laden with Spanish moss. The men and women formed a loose circle. Griff stepped forward to get a look at whatever held their attention.
In the middle of the human ring surrounding it, a large metal cage glistened malevolently in the late-afternoon sunlight.
Griff paused, every muscle rigid, as anger boiled inside him. How many hours had Nic spent inside that cage?
He knew what being treated like an animal could do to a person. No matter how strong Nic was, how brave, how competent, she would never be the same again. Her experience as a captive had changed her irrevocably. And not one of these lawmen—male or female—understood that fact. Only someone who had lived through such degradation could ever truly know.
Pudge reclined on the comfortable bed in his private room at the Garabina Clinic. Although medication eased his pain, he had requested that he be given only enough to dull the ache in his belly but not so much that he couldn’t function. He needed to stay at least partially alert in order to remain safe and be able to make future plans. He had hired a Mexican realtor to check into all small islands that rented by the month or leased by the year. Once he had fully recovered from his surgery, he intended to resume his normal activities, only somewhere far from Belle Fleur, and out of the reach of the U.S. government.
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