Unearthed

by J. S. Marlo

  The discovery didn’t explain what the rivet was doing in Rowan’s car or why Bill had stashed the can away.

  Chapter Twenty-

  Seven

  Throbbing in her head woke Rowan. Through the ache, memories from her meeting with Chris rushed back. They’d entered the cellar. She’d tripped and knocked her head. Barrels had tumbled down on her.

  Her eyes flew open. “What—” Darkness surrounded her no matter where she looked. Aches and pains riddled her body, but her shoulders were the worst. They hurt from her arms being pulled behind her back. When she tried to bring them up front, she yelped in pain. A rope, or something similar, cut through her wrists and pinned her back to some sort of vertical beam or post. Hoping to loosen the knots, she squirmed, but the rope only rubbed more painfully against her wrists. She attempted to stand up using the beam or post behind her back as a support, only to fall back down. Bound at the knees and ankles, her legs refused to move. The predicament of her situation sank in.

  She screamed. A long, piercing scream that echoed in the dark.

  Her throat burning from exhaustion, she grew silent and listened. The obscurity enhanced her other senses. Liquid trickled somewhere around her. A pungent odor in the air assaulted her nostrils. Soggy clothes that smelled like wine hugged her body.

  She was fairly certain she was trapped in the cellar, but how long she’d been here remained a mystery. And as her cries for help remained unanswered, fear constricted her chest, and panic threatened to overwhelm her.

  An eternity later, something rattled in the distance. She screamed again. A door creaked, and light flooded the room, blinding her. She blinked to dispel the stars blurring her vision.

  “I see you’re awake.”

  The sound of his voice ignited a revolt inside her mouth, but she swallowed the colorful Icelandic curses she’d learned in the volcanic caves. “How dare you lock me in the cellar?”

  “My mistake. I should have gagged you too.” He turned the ceiling light on, then closed the door behind him. With his clean forest-green scrubs, he resembled a giant leaping frog as he dodged the wine puddles on his way toward her.

  “If this is your idea of a game, I’m not amused.” If she hadn’t already decided to cut him loose, this little stunt would have convinced her to put an end to their arrangement. “Untie me.”

  He crouched in front of her, resting his forearms on his knees. The dark circles under his eyes, the unkempt hair, and the five o’clock shadow gave him a shady, sinister appearance. “Your inquisitive nature didn’t give me much of a choice, did it?”

  Cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. He reeked of alcohol and disinfectant. “I don’t understand.”

  “Who else knows about the scalpel and the markings on the bones?”

  Mad at herself for not asking Avery about the two instruments, she lied. “No one.”

  He crept closer. “What about Mr. Stone?”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” Chris’s obsession bordered on insanity, and she countered it with appeasing lies. “Besides, what does the scalpel have to do with the bones?”

  With his face contorted in a quizzical expression, he reminded her of Bjorn’s grandmother, not a memory on which she wanted to dwell. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” Sweaty from her previous efforts to escape, she slumped against the beam.

  A guttural laugh shook his body. “I can’t believe I mistook you for a witty woman.”

  The insult hit a raw spot, and the fury that had been simmering inside her blood since she’d awakened boiled over. “Excuse me for disappointing you, Doctor. You’re free to let me rot here and disappear.” With any luck, he’d walk out, and the next person to walk in would release her. “A man in your position deserves better than to be associated with a woman who doesn’t understand the subtle correlation between bones and—” Images of the markings on the bones appeared in her mind. According to Avery, a tool had been used, a tool like a pocketknife or— “A scalpel.”

  “I see you just made the connection.”

  She clenched her teeth too late. Her reaction had given her away. “You’re the one who streaked the bones with a scalpel? Why?”

  Hands clasped together behind his back, he began pacing the cellar. The broken barrels had left a trail of splintered staves and steel hooks in their wake. He booted the debris out of his path. “What am I going to do with you?” Eerily calm, his voice carried throughout the cellar.

  A strip of metal landed against her hip. “You could…let me go?”

  “And risk that you’ll tell everyone?”

  As Chris walked back and forth, she shifted her weight and swung her hips to the rhythm of his pace while slowly nudging the strip behind her. “I won’t say anything. I promise.”

  “Like you promised to stop digging?” His nose scrunched in contempt. “If you’d listened and left the grave alone, we wouldn’t be here. This is your fault, Rowan.”

  Under the guise of caring, he’d tried to steer her away from the gazebo, but she’d kept digging, and to add to the aggravation, Avery had borrowed his grandpa’s medical instruments. “If it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t care less about the scalpel, the otoscope, or the bones. You can have all of them back.”

  He stopped and turned toward her. “Don’t you understand that I have a reputation to protect?”

  With short back-and-forth motions, she rubbed the sharp edge of the metal strip against the rope binding her wrists as she spoke. “You play with dead animals. So what?” She’d met weirder people. “It’s not like you mutilated them or skinned them—” Horrified by the vision she conjured, she shut her mouth and stared at the man shaking his head.

  “Too bad you’re catching on.”

  “You—” The strip nicked her finger, and a yelp escaped her throat before she could swallow it.

  “Don’t cry for some stupid animals.” Anger radiated from every pore of his body. “They were fun experiments, and their deaths contributed to science.”

  “You tortured them alive?” The man was insane. There was no other explanation. “The police will investigate, and you won’t get away with it.”

  “But I already did.” He straightened his shoulders, and an air of satisfaction enveloped him. “I hate to inform you, but you drowned this morning. As far as everyone is concerned, you’re dead. At first, I intended to make it look like a suicide, but accidents tend to appear less suspicious. They found your new car in Buccaneer’s parking lot and your running shoes by the cove. Now, they’re scouting the shore looking for your body, but the sea will never release you.”

  Her stomach twisted into a knot. He’d planned her disappearance down to the last detail. The man wasn’t just insane, he was perverse and dangerous…and completely insane.

  With his right hand, he reached inside the front pocket of his hospital shirt and pulled out a syringe. “Before I put you to sleep, I need answers.”

  The rope around her wrists snapped as he leaned forward. She swung the strip of metal at his face. Here’s your answer. Blood splattered onto her. A wounded howl filled the cellar. He recoiled and fell backward. Driven by his moaning and cursing, she fought to untie the rope binding her legs.

  “Damn you and damn Mattie.”

  The blood on her hands hindered her efforts. Spike up, girl. Almost free, she spared a glance in his direction. He pressed a hand to his face as he struggled to get up. Too bad she hadn’t blinded him. The rope around her ankles came loose. She wasted no time but leaped to her feet and kicked him in the ribs. But the blow given with her sandals didn’t stop him. Like a monster in a horror movie, he extended a bloody hand. A deafening scream whooshed from between her lips. His nails scratched her leg, and he grabbed the hem of her skirt. She tugged and hauled away. The fabric ripped.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Rowan!”

  She dashed for the entrance and pulled on the handle. To her dismay, the heavy door didn’t budge. Keep trying. Digging her heels
into the dirt, she used both hands to yank it open. Come on. The erratic pounding of her heart didn’t drown out the heavy breathing behind her. Don’t look at him. Light filtered around the doorframe. Harder. The hinges screeched in protest. Almost—

  Stars exploded in front of her eyes. Dazed by the blow to the back of her head, she wobbled. He grabbed her right wrist and twisted it behind her back. Pain seared in her shoulder, and she screamed in agony.

  “You’re one feisty woman, just like Mattie.” Devoid of any warmth and compassion, his voice belonged to a stranger. “I didn’t want to strangle her, but she gave me no choice.”

  “You killed Mattie?” The words stabbed her in the chest like a dagger. Betrayed and angry, she made a fist and drove her left elbow backward.

  Fingers wrapped around her left wrist before her elbow connected with anything. “Like you, she wouldn’t leave the gazebo in peace.” He clasped her hands behind her back, then wrapped something around her wrists. “If she’d sold the stupid place to me, she’d still be alive enjoying her retirement, but no, she had to give it to you. I thought the glass I scattered during the storm or the bad reviews I planted would send you packing, but no, you stayed.”

  “It was you?” The bindings dug into her skin, and tears clouded her vision. Keep him talking. “Then why did you loan me the money?”

  “I’m no monster, Rowan. As long as the gazebo kept my secret safe, I didn’t mind indulging your folly.” He pushed her. Hard. “We both knew it was only a matter of time before you declared bankruptcy, and Buccaneer would have been mine.”

  Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold cement of the cellar floor.

  ***

  On the lookout for a two-story building with a bakery located on the lower floor, Avery drove along the commercial street.

  A giant loaf of bread waving at the corner of the sidewalk caught his attention long before he spotted the poster in the front window advertising fresh French pastries and whole wheat bread.

  No money is worth the humiliation of impersonating a walking breadstick.

  Shaking his head, he steered his Blazer into a tight parking spot across from the bakery and added two quarters to the parking meter before crossing the street into the narrow alley separating the bakery from the video store next door. A steep staircase spiraled up alongside the bakery wall.

  Twice he stopped in the staircase to rub his leg. The pain didn’t bother him as much as his lack of strength. His physiotherapist would call that improvement and recommend more rigorous exercises. Avery preferred the term resilience.

  Curtains obscured the window adjacent to the door. Instinctively, he reached for his missing gun. “Bloody shooting,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. Armed with a cane and a nasty temper, he pounded on the door with his fist. Squawking seagulls circled the roof, drowning any sound coming from inside.

  “Come on, Bill. Answer.”

  He waited fifteen long seconds during which he surveyed the streets and parking lots below. Seeing no signs of Bill’s truck, he leaned his cane against the brick wall.

  “Let’s see if I can still do this under three heartbeats.” The pinkish latex gloves he’d borrowed from the first aid kit in the kitchen fitted too tight, but like his grandpa used to say, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” His fingers tingled in anticipation as he pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and selected a pick and a tension wrench. It’d been a while since he’d broken into someone’s home without a proper warrant.

  The doorknob turned like a knife through melted butter. “Under two heartbeats.” Pretty good for an old Mountie.

  Adrenaline surging through his veins, he cautiously broke into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

  “Bill? You there?”

  Light filtered around the curtains, casting silent shadows on the furniture. A couch, a lamp, a chair, a coffee table, a—

  His gaze made an abrupt stop on the coffee table. “Rowan?”

  Surprised to see a candid shot of her while she jogged alongside the cliff, Avery lifted the wooden frame. In the picture, she wore a dark sock on her left foot and a bright pink sock on her right. Her lack of fashion style pleased him. It verified his suspicion that she didn’t leave matching socks in her running shoes. “I know you didn’t go for a swim. Not with the jellies. So where are you?”

  Her picture in Bill’s living room raised red flags. Stalking was a crime, and it often preceded kidnapping or murder.

  Not caring much about how many laws he broke, Avery marched past an archway into a modest kitchen. An electric bill lay on the table, unpaid. “Money problems, Bill?” Being cut from Mattie’s will could have pushed the handyman to take revenge on Rowan. Seeing nothing of interest in the kitchen, he moved into the bedroom and froze. More pictures of Rowan cluttered the top of the dresser.

  This is not good. Left unchecked, obsession and revenge could quickly and easily transform into a lethal combination. He needed to find Bill before the handyman disposed of Rowan.

  On the night table, under the alarm clock, he glimpsed a piece of blue paper. Seeking any clue that might give him an idea of Bill’s whereabouts, Avery tugged on the corner. It was a receipt from a local florist for a dozen yellow orchids.

  The O’Reillys’ grave. On the day Avery had visited the cemetery, someone had put fresh yellow orchids on Thelma and Wilmot’s graves.

  According to the receipt, the flowers had been delivered earlier in the day. Bill wouldn’t wait for the flowers to wither before he delivered them.

  Driven by desperation, Avery rushed to his vehicle. The cemetery was located on the outskirts of town. Tourists jaywalked in front of the cars, slowing the traffic down, and he resisted the temptation to honk.

  The big iron cross in the middle of the cemetery acted as a beacon.

  A sick mind had taken Rachel and her baby. He couldn’t let Rowan suffer the same fate.

  He parked under a tree, a few feet away from Bill’s truck. And as he’d predicted, he found the handyman kneeling on one knee in front of the O’Reillys’ plot, where he’d deposited a bouquet of yellow orchids.

  Deep in prayer or meditation, the older man appeared unaware of his approach. “Are you confessing a crime or seeking forgiveness?” Avery taunted.

  “Today was Thelma’s birthday.” A muscle twitched at the back of Bill’s naked skull. “Don’t you have any respect for the dead, Mr. Stone?”

  The quivering in Bill’s voice didn’t elicit any compassion from him. “What about the living?” he thundered, hoping to generate a reaction from the man twisting his baseball cap between his hands like a Catholic rotating a rosary between his fingers. “What did you do with Rowan?”

  “I lost her. I couldn’t…” Bill choked on the last words and braced his chin against his hands.

  The touching theatrical performance gobbled Avery’s last ounce of patience. He grabbed the handyman by the back of his shirt, pulled him up to his feet, and spun him around. Bill’s sunglasses flew to the ground.

  “Where is Row—”

  Rowan’s name died in his throat as Bill looked at him with grief-stricken eyes—a gray eye and a brown eye.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Not impressed by the emergency call that interrupted his enlightening little chat with Rowan, Chris dumped her limp body in the abandoned lighthouse and barred the door with the same rusty iron rod he’d dislodged to get her in.

  That’ll do for now. No one ventured here anyway.

  He slammed the door of his car and drove to the hospital, where he needed to attend to a teenage patient. Had he been given more time, he would have stopped at home, but setting the fire and moving Rowan had cost him precious minutes—minutes his young patient might not have.

  As he neared an intersection, he glanced down at his shirt. The wine stains would arouse the nurses’ curiosity, but lucky for him, he could weave a good tale faster than a spider spins a web.

  Once at the hospital, he would discard the used
syringe and the empty vial he’d tossed in his glove compartment. The sodium amobarbital he’d injected Rowan with had loosened her tongue and set the story straight. If her life hadn’t hung in the balance, he would have laughed at the irony that they’d been on different wavelengths all along.

  In the restaurant when she recognized his grandfather’s initials, he’d wrongly assumed she’d seen them on the handle of the scalpel, not the otoscope that Stone stole from his bag.

  Back when he was a teenager, he’d killed dozens of small animals that he later buried in the woods. Dissecting them alive had been fun. Maybe if he’d called them science experiments, Rowan would have understood. The practice had honed his surgical skills and given him an edge in med school. If only Mattie’s unexpected return from her long trip hadn’t taken him by surprise.

  “This is all your fault, Mattie.” In a hurry to dispose of his last three kills before Mattie discovered his secret hobby, he’d buried them beneath the gazebo instead of taking them into the woods. Weeks later he realized he’d dropped the scalpel with the remains. By then, Mattie had thanked him for his services and hired Bill to take care of the property while she revamped it into a bed-and-breakfast. She’d never given him a chance to retrieve the scalpel.

  When he heard of Mattie’s intentions to move the gazebo, he’d made a substantial offer for Buccaneer. In order to protect his secret, he’d been willing to pay much more than what the property was worth, but she’d refused to sell.

  Her niece’s death was on her hands, not on his conscience.

  He derived no pleasure from the prospect of killing Rowan. If she’d loved him, he might have considered sparing her life. But no, she fancied two pitiful men over him. Hearing Stone and some foreign boy’s names spoken softly from her lips under the power of the drug had been a blow to his ego, and it had eased his guilt. At least he didn’t need to think of a plan to get rid of Stone. The drunken cripple never made the connection between the scalpel and the bones, of that much Chris was certain, or the Mountie would already have arrested him.