LOST CREED: (Book 4 Ryder Creed series)

by Kava, Alex

  She held up a notecard pinched carefully between her thumb and index finger. The envelope it had come from, sat in the middle of the table.

  “When I was packing up my things I remembered this. The front desk handed it to me when we came in earlier. I didn’t give it too much thought.”

  “What is it?”

  She placed it on the table and rummaged through her messenger bag until she pulled out a package of latex gloves. Creed came around behind her chair while she snapped the gloves on.

  The small notecard actually had “thank you” foil-stamped on the front. It looked like one of those that came in a package of twelve. Maggie opened it, still careful where she touched the corners.

  The lettering was bold and the use of a marker made it stand out even more. There was no punctuation. Only two lines. Six words total.

  RELEASE DUNN

  OR BURN IN HELL

  “Who would have guessed,” Maggie said much too casual, “that Eli Dunn would have a fan base.”

  Chapter 33

  It was getting dark again, but the good news was that Charlotte was starting to feel more clearheaded. The drugs were wearing off. But that also meant the pain throughout her body would have no buffer. She rolled over onto her side and realized she had wet herself.

  Iris would be so angry.

  But Iris wasn’t here.

  Then Charlotte wanted to laugh. If she wet herself maybe she wasn’t as dehydrated as she thought she was.

  Her vision was clear, too, despite the dim light inside. She’d been left in the dark so often her eyes seemed to adjust to the least amount of light. She used her hands to push off the floor and sit up. She waited for the spinning sensation. She prepared herself for the rooms to start twirling.

  But they didn’t move.

  She sat still and listened. She tucked a tangle of long hair behind her ear and cocked her head to the side. She expected a response to her movement.

  Was anyone in the house watching her?

  Charlotte had spent too many years listening in the pitch dark to not hear them, no matter how quiet. Without the dulling effect of the drugs, she’d be able to hear someone breathing.

  Her eyes darted to the Santa mannequin in the rocking chair. She could see a tiny glint from the glasses on his nose. She could see the outline of the two rooms and an open doorway to another part of the house.

  And then she heard it.

  A faint scratching. It sounded like it was coming from the room beyond the doorway.

  She squinted, trying to see into the shadows.

  Movement!

  A skitter across the floor, like nails trying to gain traction.

  But Charlotte didn’t flinch. Her pulse began to race. She wasn’t used to the flutter of blood rushing in her ears. Usually the drugs dulled her body’s response. Still, she didn’t jerk away. She had learned to keep her body motionless, her breathing calm and steady. A lesson she had learned years ago. If Iris couldn’t hear or see her in the dark, she’d have to switch on a light.

  Darkness was one of Iris’ cruelest punishments until Charlotte learned to cope without light. In the beginning, Iris had taken away books and magazines, because she knew Charlotte loved to read. But then Iris kept finding her with discarded empty boxes of detergent, labels from paint cans or an old furnace manual. When she realized Charlotte would read anything she could get her hands on, that’s when Iris began leaving her in the dark.

  Learning how to deal with darkness, however, wasn’t the most difficult part of that lesson. Fending off the creatures that thrived in dark, damp places was worse. Charlotte had learned how to keep her body completely still while a rat sniffed her flesh trying to decide whether Charlotte was prey worthy of a bite.

  Another scratch-scratch. It was coming from the room beyond the doorway. Was it possible whoever it was—or whatever it was—hadn’t heard or smelled Charlotte?

  Impossible.

  Charlotte knew she smelled bad. It was only a matter of time before the intruder got bored in that room and ventured out to this area.

  Her eyes darted around without moving her head. She searched for something to use to defend herself. The best weapon was something that extended her arm and fit comfortably in her small hand. Heavy, but not so heavy that she couldn’t swing it. There was a lamp on one of the dusty side tables. Spider webs laced over the shade, but the base looked like it might be metal.

  Now, that Charlotte’s mind wasn’t obstructed by drugs, she needed to make the rest of her body work before she could crawl to her feet. Bare feet. She couldn’t remember the last time she wore shoes. She had found an old pair of socks once and coveted them, stashing and hiding them until Iris discovered them.

  Charlotte pressed her hands together, intertwined and flexed her fingers all the while keeping quiet. Satisfied when she didn’t feel any pain in her hands, she ran them over her feet. The right ankle hurt but it wasn’t swollen. There was a cut on the bottom of the foot. She felt a bruise on her hip. The right side must have taken the brunt of her fall down the basement stairs.

  Her oversized T-shirt smelled bad but it didn’t appear to be torn. Otherwise, all she wore were underpants, but those were now urine soaked. None of that mattered. She hated that her hair was long, tangled and dirty more than she cared what she was wearing. She’d give anything for pants and long-sleeves to cover her wounds and give them a chance to heal, protecting them from scraping open again and again.

  Both her knees were skinned raw. She didn’t need to check her elbows. They were always scraped and scabbed in a perpetual cycle that never healed. That’s why she tried so hard to protect her feet. On hands and knees, or worse, on elbows and knees, was a slow way to travel. When her feet were in good shape she was quick. She could outmaneuver Iris and run so fast, the woman couldn’t catch her.

  Until the day Iris sent the dogs after her.

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to remember the fangs clamped around her ankle and yet, once again, her fingers shot to the area and wrapped around it as if to protect it. That was the ankle that hurt. It was the ankle Iris had strapped the tracker onto. The skin had barely healed from the dog bite, and Iris pulled the strap tight, locking it in place. She told Charlotte she would never be out of her sight no matter how fast or how far she tried to run.

  Now Charlotte felt a sinking feeling. The tracker was still on her ankle. She could see the tiny green light. Why hadn’t Iris removed the tracker?

  Her eyes scanned the shadows, up and down. She strained to listen. The sound had quieted. She tested her feet while holding onto the side table. It surprised her how strong she felt. Still, she gripped the edge of the table.

  A crash came from the other room.

  Something had fallen or was thrown, and this time Charlotte jerked to attention. She reached for the lamp and ripped off the shade in one swipe. She tiptoed toward the sound, acutely aware of too many distractions, too many sensations overwhelming her senses. There was carpeting beneath her feet. Moonlight streamed through the boarded windows. Her hair stuck to her forehead and snaked around the back of her sweaty neck.

  As she drew closer to the doorway she saw something run across the floor in the next room. She heard claws on a hard surface floor and felt her stomach clench. Still, she tiptoed forward, holding the lamp as a weapon and peeking around the doorframe until she could see inside the room.

  Moonlight washed across the countertops of the kitchen. It was coming in a small window high above the sink. Too high to look out but not boarded up. Two brown paper bags were pushed over on their sides. Boxes and packages, apples and bananas spilled out of them onto the counters. There was a stack of water bottles next to the bags. Several had been toppled over.

  Charlotte’s mouth watered at the sight in front of her. It took every ounce of control to stop herself from running and ripping the cap from
a water bottle. Even her stomach threatened to spasm, again. But she stood stock-still, expecting to see someone watching from the shadows. Her eyes darted to every corner, scanning the appliances, the table and chairs. Certainly, whoever left this bounty of food would be waiting to see if they had tricked her. Why bring it and scatter it all over if not to tempt and tease her?

  But while her eyes examined all the places she expected someone to hide, she had forgotten about the floor. That’s when she felt the fur rub against the back of her legs. Her breath caught in her throat, making her gasp out loud before she could control it. Without moving anything but her head and eyes, she glanced down just in time to see the kitten turn and rub the length of her small body against the front of Charlotte’s legs.

  Chapter 34

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Maggie left Creed and Grace. She had sealed the note and envelope appropriately to hand off to the Douglas County Crime Lab. She stopped back at the hotel’s reception desk, but the clerk who gave her the notecard hadn’t been on duty when it arrived. That clerk would be back in the morning.

  Maggie had had her share of ominous notes delivered in a variety of fashions. This was tame by comparison. But it was always an interesting development when something struck a nerve and propelled someone to threaten law enforcement officers. In her mind, she was already conjuring up a profile for Eli Dunn’s vengeful messenger.

  Now, back in her own suite, she stood against the door and released a long sigh.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” was something her friend, Dr. Gwen Patterson said often. It certainly applied in the case of Eli Dunn. She had wanted to push the man into making a deal and telling his secrets. What good were those secrets if he took every last one with him to prison? But of course, things never played out quite as planned.

  She checked her voice messages and scrolled through her texts. Everything seemed to be ready for tomorrow morning. Pieces were in place, but something nagged at her. Something didn’t feel right.

  It was Creed and Grace.

  She was feeling overly protective. But that wasn’t all she was feeling. From the minute he walked into the conference room back at police headquarters it was as if all her nerve endings had been turned on. There was undeniable electricity between them that always took her off guard. Those indigo blue eyes against his tanned skin, that carefully manicured bristled jaw, the subtle smile that started in his eyes then hitched up the corner of his mouth. There was a quiet confidence like he simply didn’t care what others thought of him. He had an unsettling affect on her, and yet, he was one of the few people she trusted to not hurt her. Beneath his handsome, rugged exterior was a heart of a rescuer.

  It was late. An hour later on the East Coast, and she scrolled until she found her friend’s number. She hesitated with her finger over the CALL button then tapped it anyway.

  Gwen answered on the third ring.

  “Sorry to call so late,” she said in place of a greeting.

  “Not a problem. R.J. and I were just having a glass of brandy.”

  “Brandy?”

  Maggie tried to imagine R.J. Tully sipping brandy. He was her sometimes partner and Gwen’s significant other. In Maggie’s small repertoire of trusted friends, Tully came very close to the top. Together they’d worked some of the most difficult cases of their careers. Once upon a time she’d rescued him on that scavenger hunt in Blackwater River State Park. He was brave, principled and honest, but Maggie had witnessed the man eat a stale honey bun from a hotel vending machine. Tully also considered pork rinds an appropriate serving of protein. So she was having a difficult time imagining him sipping brandy.

  “We’re celebrating,” Gwen told her. “I’m one year cancer free.”

  “Oh, Gwen, that’s fantastic!” Watching her friend battle breast cancer had been one of the scariest things Maggie had experienced.

  “What’s going on?” Gwen asked, cutting to the chase, not because she wanted to get back to her celebration, but because the woman had a keen sense of detecting when something was wrong. There was fifteen years between the two women and sometimes Gwen’s maternal instincts toward Maggie came to the surface.

  Gwen was the one who convinced Maggie to tell Creed about the Polaroid.

  “Remember you said I needed to let Creed know and make his own decision?”

  “Sure.”

  “I did.”

  “Good. I really believe he deserves to know.”

  “He’s here. He and Grace showed up, and he wants to be a part of the search and recovery for the victims.”

  “And you’re thinking he’s too close to the subject matter to do that?”

  “Of course, I’m thinking that. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “From what you told me about Ryder Creed, he’s been doing exactly this for the last . . . what? Seven years?”

  “This is different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a good chance Brodie is one of these victims.”

  “But, Maggie,” Gwen said in her calm and steady voice. “He believes she could be one of the victims. That’s exactly why he’s there.”

  Maggie let the silence hang between them no matter how uncomfortable. She had been pacing, and now she sat down on the sofa.

  “Maggie,” Gwen said softly. “Could the problem be that you’re realizing that you care about him much more than you thought?”

  “Ben and I—”

  “No, don’t use Ben to weigh your feelings for Ryder. You’ve spent your career learning to compartmentalize your emotions. Separate the feelings you have for both of these men. How you feel about one should have nothing to do with your feelings for the other.”

  More silence.

  Maggie leaned back, but the sofa cushions were stiff and unyielding.

  “I hate it when you make so much sense,” she finally told Gwen.

  “It’s probably the brandy. Now tell me everything else that’s going on.”

  But before she could start filling Gwen in, she had another call.

  “I have to take this other call,” she told her friend and they exchanged quick goodbyes.

  “Lucy,” Maggie said, clicking over. “Please tell me you’re able to join me on this scavenger hunt.”

  Maggie had met the retired medical examiner on one of her previous trips to Nebraska. At the time, the county sheriff had prefaced Maggie’s introduction to Lucy Coy by calling her “that crazy, old Indian woman” who practiced “black magic.” But Maggie’s first impression of Lucy included absolutely nothing that would come close to including the words “old” or “crazy.”

  In fact, Maggie remembered the first time she saw the woman coming down a rain-soaked ridge in the middle of a forest. She was reminded of a dancer, toe-stepping in hiking boots and making her descent look graceful and elegant with an unassuming confidence.

  Since then the two women had kept in touch with brief phone calls and texts. Lucy lived outside of North Platte, Nebraska, in the shadows of the National Forest. Her beautiful acreage was a secluded retreat where she took in and cared for abandoned dogs. One of those dogs—who looked more like wolf than dog—had rescued Maggie. Now, she couldn’t imagine Jake not being a part of her life. But despite their history, Maggie knew what she was asking of Lucy was significant. The retired medical examiner just happened to be in Lincoln, some fifty miles away, teaching forensic investigation to state troopers. She wasn’t just asking the woman to interrupt her schedule, she was asking Lucy to accompany her on what could be a difficult search and recovery.

  But of course, Lucy Coy wouldn’t look at it that way at all. Her answer only reminded Maggie of the calm and steady guidance the woman would bring along.

  “Of course, I’ll join you, but I believe the term scavenger hunt needs to be replaced. Perhaps we should consider it a spirit walk.”

  Cha
pter 35

  Florida Panhandle

  Last night when Jason got back, a car with Georgia plates was parked in front of the house. He didn’t want to interrupt if Hannah had company, so he went directly to his trailer. He slept better than he expected. Scout was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The dog had already gotten into the habit of sprawling on his side of the bed, rolling onto his back, feet in the air and sometimes pedaling in his sleep.

  It had only been about two months since Jason and the dog had moved from the floor in the spare bedroom to the queen-sized bed in the master. The trailer was luxurious compared to what he was used to, and somehow he felt more comfortable in his sleeping bag on the floor of the empty bedroom. Scout was happy to sleep curled up alongside him no matter where they were.

  The night Jason moved from the floor to the bed was the first time he believed he might be finished fighting the demons left over from Afghanistan. Explosions still visited his nightmares, but those were becoming less frequent. It actually helped to be woken by a tongue-bath, and there were times Scout had nudged and licked Jason awake in the middle of the night.

  He wondered what the dog thought when he watched his partner thrash around in his sleep. The undeniable evidence surrounded him when he opened his eyes to blankets bunched up, sheets pulled off the mattress and once, even a lamp knocked to the floor. But every single time he woke up, Jason saw that big nose, bright eyes and felt the long tongue licking his face.

  These days Jason got up smiling and laughing instead of stashing pills and planning on what order to take them by their shape and size and ability to take him away from this world as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  This morning he had a text from Hannah to stop by for breakfast. He knew she’d want to hear how yesterday’s search had gone. He felt better about things after talking to Creed, but this morning he couldn’t wait to get back to the Woodson’s and start, again.

  Sheriff Norwich had reassured him that their search efforts went beyond Jason and Scout’s help. She had deputies knocking on doors. An Amber Alert had been issued. Neighbors were keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. And Jason had overheard the deputies talking about a truck driver boyfriend of Mrs. Woodson’s. But still, Jason felt the weight of his failure.