Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  To read more from Steve Gannon, visit: stevegannonauthor.com

  Inge-Lise Goss: The Tegen Cave

  The Tegen Cave

  By Inge-Lise Goss

  Author’s Rating:

  Language: * Sexuality: ** Violence: ***

  For your convenience each book in this collection has been rated by the author for language, sexuality and violence, so that you as a reader can make an informed choice.

  Our collection includes books that span the intensity range.

  Language Intensity:

  * - No or mild profanity, if any

  ** - Stronger profanity, with up to 5 uses of the f-word

  *** - Strong language

  Sexuality Intensity:

  * - Sexual reference or no sexuality

  ** - Sexual reference which might include some details.

  *** - Intense, descriptive sexual scenes

  Violence Intensity

  * - Violence, but no gory details.

  ** - Mild violence, fairly detailed with some blood

  *** - Detailed violence

  The Tegen Cave

  Copyright © 2013 by Inge-Lise Goss

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, places and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Blurb

  On the run from her ex-boyfriend’s powerful criminal family, Sara Jones hides in Billings, Montana. When she receives a mysterious package containing a hidden spider, people around her start dying from poisonous spider bites and she fears that the family has found her. Is it possible to escape their reach?

  Life takes an even more bizarre turn when Sara seems to be not only immune to the spider venom, but also surrounded by a sinister group of people using spiders to incapacitate their prey. Even her new boyfriend starts acting suspiciously. Who can she trust?

  To make matters worse Sara's twenty-fifth birthday approaches, and her dark heritage begins to emerge. She is forced to make a life-or-death decision. And somehow, she must find a way to deal with the crime family.

  Prologue

  As they drove away from town, Candice placed her hand on his thigh and gently squeezed. He turned, his dark blue eyes glowing, and gave her a coy smile. She sensed something was wrong from his distant behavior at the restaurant. She peered out the side window as the city lights vanished behind them and thought, Does he know about me?

  Towering pine trees and leafy maples lined the road. Thick clouds snuffed out the moonlight. “The hotel was only a couple of blocks away,” she said.

  “I want to take you some place special.”

  Her body tingled as she leaned closer and caressed his muscular arm. “Your room was pretty special last night.”

  “This place you’ll never forget.”

  Candice could no longer spot any house lights through the dense foliage. A ping of uneasiness flew over her since she had only known her date for less than two days. Wanting to make her weapon easily accessible, she snatched her purse from the floor and lowered it onto her lap. “How far away is this place?”

  “Right up here.” The blue-eyed man steered the car onto a dirt lane almost hidden by the overgrown shrubs and spreading trees. The corner of a stone house appeared, only lit by a sliver of the moon between the passing clouds.

  “Whose house?” Candice asked. Then she blinked as the harsh glare from headlights approaching behind struck the side mirror. “I thought we were going to be alone.”

  “Maybe the driver’s lost. Let me check.” He stepped onto the ground.

  Candice pushed her long, blonde tresses away from her eyes as she turned, looked through the back window, and watched a man climb out of the vehicle as her date walked toward it.

  The clanging sound of metal being hit echoed through the car. Candice swung her head around and saw a guy tapping on the car’s hood, flanked by two other men. Her light hazel eyes darted between them looking for weapons. None were visible. Wondering what was going on, she stuck her hand into her bag, searched for her pistol, and smiled when she felt the cold steel.

  Her car door flew open and she gazed up at her date. “You a cop?”

  “Far from it.” He leaned down and slid his hand behind her neck.

  Something sharp scraped into her flesh. “Ow!” she yelled, tugging on his arm. “What have you got?” He flipped his hand over, revealing his palm. She stared at his fingers, trying to grasp what she was seeing as perspiration drizzled down her face. “What the..?”

  “Crimes have consequences.”

  “Who…what are you?” She attempted to raise her gun, but didn’t have the strength to free it from the bottom of her purse.

  He dropped a spider on her chest just above her low-cut sweater. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound escaped. “She’s ready,” he said to the other men.

  They lifted her limp body and headed toward the back of the house. Passing the stone structure, her date envisioned the pretty brunette he spotted in the hotel lobby and thought, She’ll be the next one I bring here.

  1

  The Package

  I stared at the brilliant crimson stone in the ring on my finger. He had given it to me when I moved into his home in Houston, Texas. Flashing back to what had been one of the happiest days of my life, my hand shook more than I expected when I slipped it off. I placed the sentimental ring on the shelf next to my cell phone and closed the locker door. I leaned against the wall with quivering lips, feeling I had betrayed him. With everything I had learned, I knew we could never be together again. Still, part of me wanted to leap out the side doors and apologetically run back to him. I couldn’t justify it to the voice inside me that screamed to never look back. My heart and mind warred against one another to rationalize my fear, obsession, and sense of justice into one clear guiding sentiment. I was left paralyzed and confused in the crossfire.

  Inhaling deeply, I forced myself to put on a pair of large, worn jeans and a plaid shirt with tattered cuffs, the frumpy clothes I had brought in my gym bag. Since I prided myself on stylish fashion, I hoped to avoid any recognition. Then I tucked my long, brown hair under a floppy brimmed hat and hid my eyes behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. Grabbing my previously packed duffle bag, I headed to the fitness center’s exit.

  The clock on the wall read 7:45 a.m. I had fifteen minutes to get to the bus depot before my imaginary yoga class came to an end. I hurried through the parking lot to the sidewalk and began to jog the rest of the way. I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder. It felt as though my past was catching up with me already. I started to sprint and held back tears as the wind bit my dry cheeks.

  I entered the brightly lit depot with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. Sunlight shone on rows of seats filled with people, while others milled about. Despite the ban on smoking, stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. I peered out through the automatic glass doors. No one had followed me. My departure in 20 minutes was bound for Rapid City, South Dakota, but that was not my final destination. With potential danger lurking in any corner, I needed to get away fast, and that bus was the next one scheduled to leave Houston. I had purchased the ticket yesterday at a different location. It was here waiting for me under the name Ethel Martin, the name that appeared on a driver’s license I had retrieved from the lost and found at work. I hoped Ethel, whoever she was, wouldn’t get in trouble because of me. The picture on the license was hazy. I still held my breath when the ticket agent looked at it since, except for the brown eyes, the description didn’t fit me. I was 24, five-foot-eight, and weighed 125 pounds. Ethel was older, taller and hea
vier.

  With my ticket in hand, I went outside and scanned everyone I passed. I sat close to the rear of the bus and stared at the passengers as they boarded. Two broad-shouldered bald men wearing reflective sunglasses, black suits, and ties entered the bus. They began walking toward me. I froze, thinking they were coming for me and it would be over soon. Was that bulge I saw under one arm a holster? They moved along the bus aisle with a wide gait, then sat in a middle row without looking back. I sighed with relief.

  A stocky, gray-haired woman made her way down the aisle. “Is this seat taken?” she asked with a warm smile.

  “No, not at all.” I dipped my chin at the seat to welcome her.

  Her body made a tired thud as she sat down next to me.

  The engine roared, and the bus pulled out of the depot. I lowered the brim of my hat, leaned against the window and cried as I thought about Conner. I hated leaving him. My heart was broken. He had become part of my life. Now I was alone again.

  “Are you okay, my dear?” the gray-haired woman asked.

  I tried to come up with an excuse and thought of a lie. “Yes. Lost my job and apartment.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” She handed me a tissue and patted my arm. “Are you traveling to relatives?”

  She seemed like a sweet woman, probably someone’s grandmother. “No. Don’t know where I’m going. Just need to get away and find a job elsewhere.”

  “Maybe you should think about Billings, Montana. It’s such a nice place with friendly people. That’s where I lived until my husband passed away. Now, I travel around helping out the kids, but I miss Billings. My brother moved there and immediately found a job. Hope to go back someday.”

  For half an hour she raved about Billings’ nearby lush forests, high-quality schools, and its wonderful climate with the changing seasons.

  “I’ve never lived any place where it snows,” I said, and thought maybe I could forget Conner in Montana. I decided to make Billings my destination. Leaning my head against the window again, my eyes watered, and then I sobbed.

  During my first six weeks in Billings, I hadn’t seen anyone following me or skulking around. I was pleased at how well I had planned my escape and was glad I didn’t change my name. In the local phonebook, there were three people named Sara Jones. Thousands more across the country. My parents had chosen that name well; it suited my purpose in a way they never could have anticipated.

  Now I had a job and a car. Hopefully with the help of Nancy Stewart from the property management company, I’d find an apartment. Then I could finally move out of the Towne Hotel.

  On my way to the elevator I ran into Brett, a 25-year-old petroleum engineer living in the hotel while on a short work assignment. His room was right next to mine. He was good-looking, well-built at six-foot-three with a short-clipped beard and sandy brown hair setting off his deep blue eyes. I’d noticed him in the lobby when I checked in. He caught my glance as he left the hotel with a woman. We had become good friends who occasionally went out together, but not romantically. I passed him often in the hallway after he finished his morning jog.

  “Going apartment hunting?” he asked, dabbing his forehead with the towel hanging from his shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  “How about a movie later?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Give me a call when you get back. I’ll be at work finishing a project and maybe swiping pens—a little white collar crime.”

  “On Saturday?”

  “Unfortunately. You know I’d rather be reading Kafka, perusing world news, or eyeballing pretty chicks in the lobby. Anything, but work. But a man’s gotta make money for cool jogging shorts.” He lifted his sun shades while raising his eyebrows.

  I grinned and turned to leave. “See you later.”

  He snapped the towel he had worn on his shoulders into the air and made a loud pop as he often did as an extra goodbye salute. As Brett headed toward his room, I waited for the elevator and fantasized about him. He was sharp-witted, charming, and well-read. Maybe he could make me forget Conner.

  As I entered the lobby, Ralph, the hotel clerk, raised his arm and motioned to me from behind the check-in counter.

  “Good morning, Miss Jones.”

  “Hello, Ralph.” I gave a pleasant head bob to our short, stocky man who greeted everyone with a smile.

  He picked up a small package from the counter. “This was dropped off for you a few minutes ago.”

  A wave of terror crept through my body as I wondered if Conner’s family had found me. “Thanks,” I said, hesitantly taking the package. My eyes focused on it, searching for the return address. There wasn’t one. I noticed the postmark said Billings.

  “Are you Sara Jones?” a well-dressed, slender woman in her late thirties said, walking up from behind me.

  “You must be Nancy Stewart.”

  “Yes.” She stretched out her hand, and we shook.

  “Would you mind waiting here while I run this package to my room?”

  She held up a thick folder. “There’s a long list of apartments that might interest you. I’d like to narrow our search before we leave. Could we talk about them upstairs where it’s quieter?”

  “Of course.”

  When we reached my room, she sat on the sofa and laid out some documents on the coffee table. I stood next to the window looking for mysterious cars and opened the package. Inside was a gray box. I raised the lid and found a silver ring with a large black stone. No note—nothing indicating who sent it. Could it be from Brett? I knew he wanted to be more than just friends. Needless to say, after what I had been through I wasn’t ready to get involved in an emotional or romantic relationship. Even though I knew about Conner’s family’s business, I still missed him and as must as I tried, still could not suppress my constant thoughts of him from filling my head. I put the opened box down on the table next to Nancy’s documents.

  “Oh, what a beautiful ring,” she said. “Is that stone an onyx?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I worked for a jewelry store several years ago. Would you mind if I looked at it?”

  “No, go ahead.” I wasn’t concerned about the stone; I was concerned about who had sent it.

  Nancy carefully took the ring out of the container and held it up in the light. “Oh, how brilliant.” Rotating it around, “Ow!” she yelped, and dropped it.

  “What happened?” Panic hit, sending waves through my body.

  “Something bit me.”

  “What?” I tried to project an air of calm despite my growing fear.

  “A bug. I think it was a spider,” she said, looking at her hand.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I can’t move my fingers.” Her lips quivered. “I don’t feel well.” Her eyes drooped and her face became shockingly white.

  With all I knew about arachnology, I couldn’t think of a spider that could cause this quick a reaction. My eyes flitted back and forth over the floor searching for it. I caught a glimpse of a brown spider crawling under the cushioned chair.

  “Let’s get you to a doctor.”

  She put her arm on the edge of the sofa and made an attempt to rise. “Can’t stand,” she sighed, her voice just above a whisper.

  I tried to pull her up by her arm.

  “Talk…hard…mouth…,” she gasped. Her hands trembled; beads of perspiration trickled down her forehead. Then she became completely motionless.

  “I’m calling 9-1-1!” I eased my arm around her and laid her down on the sofa. Picking up the phone, I felt my muscles tightening and a clutching sensation in my chest, fearing the Crussetts had found me and Nancy was suffering for it.

  “What is your emergency?” a man asked.

  “A woman has been bitten by a spider. It’s paralyzed her,” I said, breathlessly.

  “You are calling from the Towne Hotel?”

  “Yes. Room 841.”

  “An ambulance has been dispatched.”

  “Nancy, the ambul
ance is on its way,” I said in an uneven voice after the call. “Can you talk?”

  No response. Her eyes were wide open and hazy, her skin ash white and shining with perspiration. I hurried to the bathroom, moistened a washcloth, and returned to Nancy, placing it on her forehead. Then I held her limp, damp hand and said, “If you can hear me, shut your eyes.” Fidgeting with my fingers, I gave her a moment to respond. Her eyes remained fixed, staring straight ahead. “Can you move them at all?”

  A knock on the door startled me. I opened it. Two paramedics came in, pushing a gurney. Standing behind them, I continued observing Nancy, hoping she’d show some sign movement was returning to her body.

  “What’s your name?” a paramedic asked, leaning down next to her.

  “Her name is Nancy Stewart,” I answered.

  “How are you feeling, Ms. Stewart?”

  She didn’t utter a sound as he checked her pulse while the other paramedic checked her blood pressure.

  “When was she bitten?” he asked.

  “Ten, fifteen minutes ago. Right before I called 9-1-1.”

  After they finished taking her vital signs, they lifted her onto the gurney and rolled it to the elevator. I grabbed my purse and followed.

  A crowd had gathered in the lobby. I watched along with numerous people as the paramedics put Nancy in the ambulance and drove away. While the crowd dissipated, I went to the front desk.