The Third Grave

by Lisa Jackson

  It was tricky going, pebbles and rocks slick under her boots, and she braced herself by hanging on to any exposed root or weed on the underside of the shelf. She picked her way around a garden rake and a broken dollhouse that had been carried away during the storm, inching around the point, feeling a burn in her thighs from crab-walking. The thought crossed her mind that this might not have been the best idea she’d ever come up with, but she ignored it and kept moving, shifting her weight, trying not to turn her ankle on the slick pebbles and stones. By the time she’d rounded the point and was on the north side of the grounds, she was wet with sweat. But at least she was closer to the weed-choked rose garden and long lane that curved to the back of the house. Unfortunately, here the shoreline was nearly nonexistent, the overhanging shelf much lower, and ahead she saw in the gloaming that soon the land would level off, the shelf disappearing into a marshy lowland. There would be no hiding place.

  So what then?

  Expose herself?

  Hope Reed had taken off?

  Pretend that she’d gotten past the deputies at the front gate?

  Take a chance that one of the cops would talk to her?

  This would be the tricky part.

  Biting her lip, she dared straighten a bit and peek over the ledge of the overhang, and her heart nearly stopped as she caught a glimpse of white-blond hair. Sylvie Morrisette was standing only a few yards away from the river, but fortunately she was turned back to face the house and didn’t catch a glimpse of Nikki.

  Crap!

  Of all the people to be nearby. Reed’s damned partner.

  Just what she did not need.

  Nikki fought a surge of panic; after all, this was bound to happen. She just had to be careful because she didn’t want to be found out until she could explain the situation to her husband first and convince him that she would be a help rather than a hindrance to the case!

  So what now?

  Keep moving!

  Adrenaline pumping through her, she bent even lower and scrambled over the slick stones and mud. All the while she scoured the area for a spot to hide until Sylvie Morrisette was out of sight.

  Where, where, where?

  There had to be a hiding spot. Had to!

  As the beach narrowed, she was barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Here the river deepened, rushing closer before turning again away from the house, and finally giving way to marshland on the far side of the garden.

  Her legs were cramping and she was seriously second-guessing herself as the sun slid beneath the horizon.

  She started to slip, caught her balance and then spied a willow tree leaning over the water not fifty yards ahead, near the next bend in the river. The tree’s leafy branches draped over the water, some flexible limbs touching the river and being tugged by the current.

  If she could just make it the short distance without being seen, she could hide in the shelter behind the curtain of leaves. She started to move as she heard Morrisette’s twangy voice.

  “Yeah, nothin’ so far. Still lookin’. Probably a wild-goose chase anyhoo, y’know. Hopefully there’s nothin’ more.” Then a pause.

  Oh, God. Morrisette was closer than Nikki had thought, just on the ledge above, and she was talking to someone . . . no, more likely speaking on the phone. To Reed?

  Nikki held her breath.

  Morrisette began to talk again. “Yeah, yeah. Good. Meet back at the house . . . yeah, I can’t wait.” A brittle laugh.

  Straining to hear, Nikki leaned forward. She kept her balance by grabbing a wet, exposed root.

  “It’ll be interesting to hear what our pal Bronco has to say for himself.”

  Bronco?

  “Wouldn’t you know that lowlife would be the one to call it in. Even if he did it anonymously. Makes you wonder what else he knows, y’know. Maybe he can tell us why there looks like a third grave in that basement. Two bodies, three burial spots? I can’t figure it. What the hell’s that all about? Yeah . . . yeah, I know. I hope we don’t find any others. What? Oh, yeah. Deputies are looking for our buddy as we speak, but it looks like Bronco’s gone to ground, y’know? Not at home, not at work . . . Yeah, heard he was laid off from the construction company. . . . uh-huh, staking it out . . . What? Oh, the Red Knuckle. He’s a regular there. Hangs out there every damned evening, the way I hear it. They probably have a stool with his name on it.... What? His home? . . . Yeah, it’s a cabin across the river from here, been in his family for years, I think.... Yeah, yeah, me too. Can’t wait to hear what he has to say.”

  Nikki couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her pulse jumped and her brain raced with the information. The only person named Bronco that Nikki knew about was Bronco Cravens, a two-bit con artist who had lived in the area for years. Bronco had been trouble from the get-go, the son of a preacher and yet always at odds with the law. He’d even been to prison if she remembered correctly. Burglary or robbery or something? She couldn’t remember the exact charge, but she did know that he had a connection to the place.

  Bronco’s grandfather had been the caretaker at the Beaumont place for years. Nikki herself had seen Wynn Cravens, his hair as white as an egret, working in the tool shed or clipping roses in the garden more than once when she and her family had visited the estate.

  She chewed on that for a second, her mind spinning. A third burial spot? In the basement? Two bodies, but three graves? What was that all about?

  And why had Bronco called the police anonymously? No reason, unless he was guilty, right? Was he involved? But surely not the killer—because he wouldn’t have called. Was he an accomplice who had second thoughts? Or, unbeknownst to the killers, had he surreptitiously witnessed the murder being committed? And the police had already figured out he’d been the caller?

  “Okay.” Morrisette’s voice broke into the spool of her thoughts. “Yeah, got it,” she said, and seemed to end the call.

  Dozens of questions racing through her mind, Nikki redoubled her efforts to get to her hiding spot. The tree was much closer now. Crouched over nearly double, she started moving again. If she could just cover the distance of twenty yards or so under the overhang of the bank, she might be okay. She would be able to—

  She saw movement between the branches, the silver-green leaves a shifting veil and hiding something within.

  She froze, her heart hammering as she squinted into the gathering darkness. Had she spied an animal . . . a muskrat or . . . a bobcat . . . maybe an alligator? No good options there.

  And then she caught a glimpse of pale red. As the willow leaves shuddered, turning with the current, she spied the shadow of . . . a boat?

  What?

  She stopped suddenly, the fingers of one hand twined around a clump of weeds that had poked through the rocks, her throat tight. What the hell?

  Why would a boat be moored beneath the tree after a storm the likes of which hadn’t been seen in this part of the country in decades? She thought of a local fisherman braving the swollen river but immediately discarded the idea. More likely whoever had shown up was someone interested in what was going on at the Beaumont mansion, someone who had heard the news that bodies had been located, but a person who didn’t want to be noticed by the cops.

  Someone like her.

  Another reporter?

  Someone who had been held at bay at the main gate and had circumvented the police by boat?

  For the briefest of seconds, the image of Norm Metzger with his neatly trimmed goatee and sneering disapproval flashed before her eyes. Wouldn’t it be just like him . . . but no, he was too damned lazy.

  Maybe some other reporter, or perhaps a nosy neighbor.

  Or the boat could be abandoned, tied to the tree and moving with the current that flowed more swiftly here where the water was deeper.

  That was more likely.

  You don’t know anyone’s there. The boat could be empty. And it could have been there for days or weeks for that matter.

  But would it have survived
the hurricane?

  And if she squinted, she could almost make out a shadowy figure inside, some white illegible wording near the stern.

  Or was that all part of her imagination?

  No matter what, she had to check it out and she needed the cover of the tree for a few more minutes. The evening was falling fast now, dark shadows creeping over the river’s surface, the air thick with insects, but she could still be spotted. And that would be a disaster. The plain hard truth was, she didn’t have much of a choice. Not unless she wanted to be found out by her husband’s partner, which she definitely did not!

  Hurriedly, she took a step.

  Her boot slid.

  She tried to right herself. Frantically scrabbled for something to hang on to, but no.

  Too late!

  Her other foot slipped.

  No!

  Oh, God—no!

  Frantically she searched again for some kind of purchase.

  Nothing!

  A second later, she splashed into the deep water.

  Gasping, Nikki caught a mouthful of water as the river converged over her and the current tugged her violently away from the shore. Automatically, she kicked, her feet weighted by her boots, air bubbles escaping from her lungs. She’d been in this river a hundred times as a kid, so she didn’t panic, just swam upward, toward a dusky sky visible through the swirling water. Up, up from the depths to break the surface, twenty feet from the shore. Coughing and sputtering, she tried to tread water but was dragged farther downstream, along with branches and boards, bits of plastic, even a doll bobbing past, all churned up from the recent storm. She shoved a branch out of the way, saw that she was getting farther from the house.

  Don’t panic! You can do this! You’re a strong swimmer. The shoreline isn’t that far. Just swim, Nikki.

  She saw the house; now, if she could just—from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the edge of something big and round and black and—Bam!

  An old tire slammed into her head. Pushed her under again. She gasped. Gulped more foul-tasting water. Blinked to stay conscious. Was pulled deeper into the murky depths. She tried to grab on to the slick rubber tire as it bounced, but it slipped away, floating far overhead as she sank.

  Darkness tugged at the edge of her consciousness.

  Her eyes closed.

  The rush of the river seemed to disappear and she felt as if she were floating, being carried softly away.

  Don’t black out. Don’t!

  Her lungs were tight, starting to burn.

  She wanted to let go. So badly . . .

  Nikki, don’t! Think of the baby! Think of Reed! Nikki, for God’s sake, do NOT let go!

  Her eyes flew open, still submerged far below the river’s surface. She blinked and kicked. Forcing herself upward. Ignoring the fire in her lungs. Refusing to give in to the dizzying feeling of weightlessness.

  Don’t even go there!

  With one strong kick she shot upward, one of her boots falling free. She broke through the surface and gasped, blinking, still being swept downstream. Toward the willow, where through drops on her lashes she saw a shadow, movement between the long tendrils of branches. Another streak of red, the side of the boat visible, white lettering she couldn’t decipher from this distance. Whoever was in the boat was guiding it away. If she could let the river carry her downstream—

  “Holy shit! Someone’s in the water!” a woman yelled from the bank. The voice was sharp, edged in concern. Morrisette. Reed’s partner.

  Nikki’s heart sank as she saw Morrisette rushing toward the bank as if she was planning to jump into the water. “No, no, I’m fine,” Nikki tried to yell, but her voice was strangled and she was coughing, but she was okay.

  Too late!

  The detective launched herself, diving into the swiftly moving current.

  No, no, no! This is no good.

  From the back, more people began to shout.

  “What the—?” A deep male voice.

  “Is that Morrisette, what the fuck does she think she’s doing?” A different man was speaking, and she spied a deputy running to the shore. “Hey, we need some help here! Christ, there’s another one in the water.”

  “She’s going to drown!” A woman’s voice this time as Morrisette appeared, bobbing up from beneath the surface. She flipped her short hair from her eyes and got a bead on Nikki. “You!” she sputtered, focusing as she started to swim closer. “For the love of God, what the hell are you doing here?”

  There were more excited shouts from the bank. Deep Voice yelled to someone, “Get a rope! Or something.”

  “What’s that gonna do?” the woman demanded.

  “You got a better idea?” Deep Voice again. “Yeah, right! I didn’t think so. Just get the fucking rope!”

  And then, over it all, another almost-angry voice, “What the hell got into her?”

  Reed! She’d recognize her husband’s voice anywhere. She turned her head and spied him. “Nikki?” Reed yelled. “Nikki? Oh, Jesus. What—?” He was already sprinting toward the bank as if he, too, was going to dive in, just as Morrisette, spitting water and blinking, surfaced about twenty feet from her.

  The detective’s eyes were like lasers as they focused on Nikki. “Why am I not surprised?” She was trying to swim toward Nikki but fighting a losing battle with the swift river. “What the fuck do you think you’re—? Oh, shit!”

  From the corner of her eye Nikki caught sight of a small boat, unmoored and swirling wildly in the current. The same boat? Or another craft? She didn’t have time to think. It spun crazily, heading straight toward her.

  Her heart turned to ice and she started frantically swimming.

  “Move!” Morrisette ordered, eyes round.

  Upstream, Reed surfaced and he, too, saw the impending disaster.

  The boat was spinning crazily, careening faster and faster, closer and closer.

  “Nikki!” he yelled, his eyes round in horror. He was already swimming toward her. “Watch out!”

  Nikki cut to one side and dove deep.

  Too late!

  Thud!

  The side of the boat slammed into her shoulder. Hard.

  Pain jarred her, radiated from her shoulder.

  Her arm went slack.

  Stunned, she nearly blacked out. Felt something break deep inside of her. The water—so much damned water—swirled and danced around while a dull, throbbing ache crawled up her neck.

  Swim! an inner voice yelled at her and she blinked, then with one arm forced herself upward, making her legs kick, breaking the surface in time to see the boat—red and white in the gathering darkness—careening wildly toward Morrisette.

  No!

  “Watch out!” Reed’s voice boomed from somewhere behind her.

  Morrisette was already swimming toward shore, but she looked over her shoulder and—

  Bam!

  With a terrifying crack, the boat’s prow rammed into the side of Morrisette’s face.

  Blood bloomed across Morrisette’s forehead as she let out a sickening moan.

  Morrisette didn’t move.

  No. Oh, God, no!

  Despite the pain Nikki kicked hard. Using one arm, she fought the current and swam toward the motionless woman. “Morrisette!” she yelled frantically, gulping river water and choking as she swam. “Hang on!”

  But it was no use.

  Before Nikki could reach the unmoving woman, Morrisette sank like a stone.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Reed demanded, raking stiff fingers through his hair. He was seething, his eyes dark with a deep, underlying worry, as he stood at the end of Nikki’s hospital bed in the emergency room of St. Luke’s Hospital.

  The last two hours had been a blur—an ambulance ride after he’d dragged her from the river, doctors and nurses in the ER, checking her, hovering over her while Reed waited impatiently for her diagnosis. He’d been worried sick when he’d pulled her from the river, had been
scared out of his mind that she might not survive, but now that he knew she was going to recover, that she hadn’t lost the baby, his anger was rising. And he wasn’t bothering to hide it. A bad sign.

  She slid her gaze away from his. “I told you, I was working on the story.”

  “Not good enough, Nikki.” To his credit, he paused, looked away, attempted to contain himself, but he was failing. “I asked you not to go to the crime scene,” he said.

  “There was no asking about it,” she shot back, her own temper rising. “You ordered me.”

  “And you disobeyed.”

  “I don’t remember the whole antiquated ‘obey thy husband’ in our wedding vows,” she threw back, staring at him again. “That wasn’t our deal, remember?” She wasn’t about to put up with his attitude. She felt bad enough as it was. Guilt, ever sharp, needled into her heart.

  “No . . . hey, don’t play that game with me,” he warned. “I ‘ordered’ you as a police officer. I ‘asked you’ as your husband.” A vein started to throb near his temple. “And—big surprise—you ignored me.”

  “Sometimes the lines get a little foggy, y’know. Indistinct. Blurred between the cop and the spouse.”

  “Not this time,” he argued, jabbing a finger at the floor. “This time I was talking to you like a detective who is in charge of a crime scene where a homicide had been discovered, a place specifically off-limits to the public and,” he added before she could cut in, “the press. You know that, Nikki.” He glared at her, then threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know what I have to do to get through to you. And more importantly, you put yourself in danger. Not to mention the baby. And Detective Morrisette!”

  Again she felt that painful prick of guilt.

  He looked up to the tiled ceiling. “For the love of—What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I told you, I was going after a story and . . . and . . .” She let out a long sigh. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” He shook his head, his hair gleaming under the dimmed lights of her room at St. Luke’s.