The Buried (The Apostles) Page 3

  Lieutenant Lang swept the light in a low, slow arc, illuminating bony turtle heads and flesh-colored salamanders. “No signs of a boat docking. So how did he get to your car and behind the Cypress tree? This isn’t making sense.”

  No, nothing about this evening was making sense.

  Quiet as a cat. Into the black.

  What did those words mean, and how was the person with the phone moving through the area without leaving a trace? More importantly, did any of it have anything to do with Lia Grant?

  “Hey!” A deputy near the ancient cypress tree waved both arms. “Found some freshly broken branches over here. Bring the big light.”

  Grace and the lieutenant ran to his side, the beam slicing at the inky shadows before landing on the ground in front of the deputy. He swatted at loose leaves near the buttress roots.

  Grace dropped to a squat. “A big cat,” she said on a rush of deflated air.

  Lieutenant Lang pushed a handful of springy curls from her face. “Grace, it’s possible a big cat made that sound. This section of the Point is full of them.”

  “It was a phone,” Grace insisted.

  “Or a wild hog.”

  “It was a phone.”

  “Or a bird or insect.”

  Grace slipped her hands behind her back and locked her fingers. “Fine. Let’s call the sound an act of nature, but what about the voice?” Quick as a cat. Into the black. “An animal or the wind didn’t say those words.”

  Lieutenant Lang swept the spotlight across the clearing. “Then where’s the trace evidence? The footprints? The tire tracks? Any sign that a human has recently walked through this area? You’re a prosecutor. You know the importance of evidence.”

  “You want to talk evidence? We have Lia’s phone calls to me, the abandoned purse and car, and the call data report showing Lia’s calls came off the Cypress Point cell tower. Except for this”—Grace jabbed her hand at the spot where she’d heard the voice—“no one has seen or heard anything unusual on the Point tonight. What else do we have?”

  Lieutenant Lang paused a moment before nodding to the deputy. “Get some more lights on this place, and I’ll get a man on the water. The person out here may or may not be Lia’s abductor, but he may have seen something.” She turned to Grace. “And you, counselor, get home and rest. I have every available uniform searching for this girl.”

  Grace shook her head. Not until she heard for herself Lia Grant breathing. “I’m fine.”

  “Yes, counselor, we’re aware of your superhuman abilities, but your dog could use a rest.”

  “He’s not my dog.” Grace glared at the dog then groaned. He sat at her side, his front right paw lifted off the ground. She inspected his foot. He hadn’t torn off the pad, but he’d split it open.

  Back at the shack, Allegheny Blue struggled up the porch steps, plopped onto his side, and closed his eyes. With a sigh, she sunk onto the swing and kicked off her sling backs, now caked with swamp mud and decayed leaves. She’d been in such a hurry to search for Lia, she hadn’t changed out of her suit. After a little rest, she’d change clothes and grab something to eat. The sun would be up in a few hours.

  She scrubbed at the ache in her neck. This wouldn’t be the first all-nighter she’d logged in this week. Thanks to Morehouse, she already had clocked in two sleepless nights. She pushed off, and the swing’s gray, weathered wood creaked like an old man’s bones. Grace found comfort in the rattles and squeaks. In a psych class in college, she’d learned repetitive motions such as swaying or swinging released endorphins, which sent little shots of happy through a person’s body. She tucked her legs under her and rested her head on the back of the swing.

  When she was young, her daddy had hung a tire swing from a sturdy branch in the giant oak that stretched across most of the front yard of Gator Slide, her childhood home. With no brothers or sisters and few children in the upscale neighborhood, Grace usually played on the swing alone, and on good days, with her mother.

  * * *

  “Hey, Momma, give me a giant push,” Grace remembered calling to her mother one evening as she swung from the arms of the giant oak.

  Momma left the porch step where she’d been waiting for Daddy to come home from work. “Have you been a good girl today?” Momma asked with a big smile.

  “The bestest!” Gracie said.

  Momma grabbed the rope swing, dropped a kiss on Gracie’s head, and pushed with all of her might.

  “Wheeeee!” Gracie flew through the air, her ponytails flying behind her. “Higher. Push me higher!”

  “You’re already so high, Gracie, you can almost touch the stars.”

  “To the stars! Push me to the stars!”

  “And what will you do when you reach them?” Momma asked around a laugh.

  Gracie scrunched her face in deep concentration. Then she let out a happy squeal. “I shall pluck them from the sky and make a bright, shiny necklace for you, so you’ll never be afraid of the dark again.”

  Her mother’s smile slipped away. She clutched the rope, drawing Gracie to her chest as she darted a glance over each shoulder. “They’re everywhere, Gracie. The bad people are on the streets, in our neighborhood, beneath our home.” Her mother’s delicate fingers clawed into Gracie’s shoulders. “They’re watching me, following me, touching me while I sleep. Make them go away, please, please make them go away.”

  Early on, Gracie learned it was the things unseen—the shapes shifting in the shadows and monsters under the bed—that scared Momma. She hopped off the swing, took Momma’s hand, and turned on the porch lights, the light over the garage, and the bright tennis court lights. She settled both hands on Momma’s cheeks. “The bad people aren’t here, Momma, not tonight. It’s just me, and I’ll protect you.”

  With Momma smiling again, they ran back to the giant oak. When they reached the tire swing, Gracie balled her hands on her hips. “Someone broke my swing!” One frayed end of the rope dangled from the tree while the other was curled like a water moccasin on the ground next to the tire.

  “Probably those Dickens boys two streets over. Little heathens.” Momma patted Gracie’s head. “But don’t worry, Gracie, Daddy can fix it.”

  Gracie rolled her eyes at Momma’s silliness. “I don’t need any help, Momma. I can do it myself.” With a huff, Gracie headed for the garage and a new rope.

  That’s when she heard a soft voice say, “Quiet as a cat. Into the black.”

  * * *

  Something hard and heavy and foul-smelling slammed onto Grace’s chest. Her nose wrinkled. Dog. Wet dog.

  Her eyelids flew open and she pushed Allegheny Blue off her chest. Beneath her, the porch swing lurched. She blinked. The sun had peeked over the horizon and early morning rays glinted off Blue’s sopping fur and the pool of water seeping across her porch.

  “Nooooo!” Darting from the swing, she fished out her key and threw open the door. A wave of water rolled over her ankles. She splashed her way to the kitchen where water shot from one of the exposed pipes running up her kitchen wall. She grabbed the wrench on the windowsill and cranked the valve underneath the sink. The geyser tapered to a trickle and finally stopped, but the damage was done.

  The plumber had warned her the first time that she needed to have the plastic pipe replaced with copper tubing, but she didn’t have the money for new plumbing. Hell, she didn’t have two spare copper pennies to rub together.

  She squeezed the water out of her hair. This morning was not starting out well, but then again—she ran a flattened palm down the back of her neck—last night hadn’t ended well.

  Quick as a cat. Into the black.

  She’d heard those strange words after hearing the ringing phone in the swamp. Then they invaded her dreams. She grabbed a dishtowel and swabbed the water from her face and hands. Dreams. Not reality. The conversation with her mother on the tire swing and the broken rope had been real, but she didn’t remember anyone whispering anything about a cat and black.

  She dropp
ed the towel onto Blue and toweled his head and neck. This whole thing with Lia Grant was getting to her. She scrubbed his chest and back and all four legs. Which meant she needed to get back on the hunt.

  Within twenty minutes, Grace fed Blue and got him settled on the front porch, set up fans to air out the shack, and put in a call to the sheriff’s station. Still no sign of Lia Grant.

  “Keep breathing, Lia. Keep breathing.”

  Her car started on the second crank. Just past the myrtles, she spotted a bright yellow truck with a grading blade and a tractor with a ditch digging arm. Construction equipment, AKA dream builders. Thanks to Lia, Grace had forgotten construction on her new home began today. But the dream would have to wait, because right now, Lia Grant could be living a nightmare. Emphasis on living. Lia said the box wasn’t air tight, and Grace envisioned streams of air snaking through the seams and keeping her alive.

  As she sped around a corner, she slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting a sheriff’s department SUV parked in the middle of the road. Her ribs contracted, squeezing her heart. Lia. Something must have happened.

  Grace jammed the car in park and dove out the door. No deputy. No construction workers. She followed a trail of fresh footprints along a patch of camellia bushes and spotted a man in a hard hat leaning against a ditch digger. She tapped his shoulder.

  The construction worker jumped, letting out a breathy curse. “Whoa there, Miss Courtemanche! You scared the snot out of me.”

  “What’s going on? Why is the sheriff’s department here?”

  “Delbert over on the back hoe found something. Has everyone a little spooked.”

  “Lia Grant? Did he find Lia Grant?”

  “That little gal who’s missing? Nah. Don’t think it’s her. Least I hope not.”

  Her chest tightened. “You don’t think? What’s going on?”

  “Delbert was digging stumps and found some old bones in one of the sand hills.”

  Grace’s ribcage let go of her heart. “Of course you’re going to find bones around here. Lamar Giroux’s hounds spent sixty years burying them.”

  “Not these kind of bones, least I hope not.” He led her through the camellia patch to a shallow ditch where a half dozen construction workers and a sheriff’s deputy stood in silence.

  “What kind of bo…” Her voice trailed away as she studied the land where her new tennis court was scheduled to be built. Poking up from No Man’s Land, the section between the baseline and service line, was a human skull.

  Chapter Four

  Excuse me, Agent Hatcher, but your son is ready for you.”

  Hatch’s fingers froze midway through the inch-thick folder the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department had gathered on thirteen-year-old Alex Milanos, his son.

  “Normally we don’t keep children overnight,” the clerk continued. “Not for something like this, but his grandmother didn’t know what to do.”

  And I do? Hatch ran a hand through his hair.

  He’d docked No Regrets at the Cypress Point Marina in Apalachicola Bay early this morning and hitched a ride to the sheriff’s station where he now sat in a small conference room wondering how the hell a thirteen-year-old kid could have amassed an inch-thick rap sheet. And not just any kid. His kid, one he didn’t know existed until twenty-four hours ago. He ran his other hand through the other side of his hair. He was still getting his head wrapped around the idea of being a father, and here he was expected to act like one. Was he supposed to give the boy fatherly wisdom? Tough love? A boot in the ass? The floor shifted beneath his feet.

  “Alex is in one of the holding rooms, Agent Hatcher. You can talk to him there.”

  He was supposed to talk with this boy. That he could do. He thumbed through the mountain of papers. Alex was his son, but he was also a kid in a crisis situation, and in those cases, Hatch had plenty of miles on his dock shoes.

  Hatch took a final look at Alex’s file. Truancy. Underage driving. Curfew violations. The latest infraction: The boy and two unknown accomplices broke into Buddy’s Shrimp Shack and lifted forty bucks from the register. As they tried to escape, the manager nabbed Alex. The other two got away. The kicker was that the manager agreed not to press charges if Alex would ID his fellow delinquents. The kid refused. On top of that, Alex had taken a swing at the deputy bringing him in.

  Hatch slapped shut the file folder. This kind of crisis he could handle. “Let’s sail.”

  The clerk, a twenty-something named Susie who had a sunny smile to match her bright yellow heels, led him down the hall toward the holding area. “Are you really one of Parker Lord’s guys?” When he nodded, she leaned toward him as if to tell a secret. “You know he’s one of ours, a Florida legend. Agent Lord first worked human trafficking in Miami, but I hear he’s become a real maverick, butts heads with FBI brass on a regular basis. Is it true he answers only to the president?”

  Hatch scrubbed the stubble at his chin. Parker Lord was called many things: maverick, mad man, God. And although his boss worked for the FBI, he served justice, which could never be fully embodied in a single institution or one man with presidential powers, both of which had proven sorely fallible over the years.

  “Parker Lord answers to his conscience,” Hatch said. So did the entire SCIU. It was what set them apart. And it ruffled a whole hell of a lot of feathers. Not that any of his team cared much about pillow ticking.

  Hatch followed the clerk through a keypad entry door when something crashed at the far end of the hall, followed by a shout. He ran down the hall, pulled up beside a holding room, and inched his head around the doorjamb to see a red-faced deputy standing in front of a kid with shaggy blond hair. The kid’s lip curled in a snarl, and the chip on his shoulder was so big it cast a shadow over the entire room. Definitely Hatch’s flesh and blood. And the kid apparently had the same teenage disposition Hatch once had.

  God had one cruel sense of humor.

  Alex’s hand jerked, and he poked a jagged chunk of wood at the deputy. From the looks of the broken chair in the corner, Hatch had a damn good idea where the kid had found his improvised weapon.

  The deputy, a bear of a man with two chins, pointed his index finger at the kid. “Put that down, boy, before someone gets hurt.”

  Alex’s fingers tightened around the splintered chair leg. “Don’t tell me what to do! I’m tired of everyone telling me what to do.”

  “Make a few good choices, and folks’ll talk a might different to you.” The deputy slid a club from his belt.

  Hatch ground his back teeth. Idiot. And he wasn’t talking about the boy.

  “Fuck you, dickhead!”

  The deputy tapped a club against his thigh. “I think someone needs to take soap to that mouth of yours or maybe a strap to your backside.”

  Wrong words. The whole thing was wrong. Hatch stepped into the center of the doorway. “Yea, fuck him, fuck the whole thing.”

  Alex looked up. The wood slipped from the boy’s hand, but he grabbed it before it hit the ground. “Shut up! I don’t need nothing from you.”

  Hatch needed coordinates. He needed to know exactly where this kid stood. “You know who I am, Alex?”

  Those eyes narrowed into slits, as if trying to block out as much of Hatch as possible. “Granny told me she was going to call the old man. Said that since you were some high and mighty FBI guy, you’d take care of everything. I told her don’t bother because you’re nothing.” He jabbed the splintered chair leg at Hatch. “You hear that? You’re fucking nothing to me!”

  The words crept past the badge and slammed into the center of Hatch’s chest. He took a step back as Alex’s anger, wave after wave of rippling heat, filled the room. The deputy lifted the club, and Hatch gave his head a shake. Words hurt, but they were also the most powerful weapon known to mankind.

  “You’re right.” Hatch leaned against the door frame. First listen. Then empathize and build rapport. Finally exert positive influence. Hostage Negotiating 101. The kid needed to be in con
trol, or more precisely, Alex Milanos needed to think he was in control.

  Hatch tipped his head toward the deputy who wore a nametag that read W. FILLINGHAM. “You want Deputy Fillingham here to give you some room?”

  The boy shrugged one shoulder then the other. “Uh, yeah, that’s what I want, for Deputy Dickhead to get off my ass.”

  With a tilt of his head, he motioned the deputy to walk toward the door. The lawman trained narrow eyes first on Hatch then the kid. Now, Hatched mouthed the single word. The deputy backed out.

  Now time to distract the boy from that giant pot of anger and resentment he was brewing. Hatch took a bright yellow scarf from his pocket and snapped it in the air. He made a fist with his other hand and tucked in the scarf. Waving his fist in the air, Hatch opened his fingers one by one and revealed an empty palm. The kid stared at his hand, which gave Hatch a moment to study this thirteen-year-old in crisis. Alex Milanos was no longer a boy, but not quite a man. He was in that awkward, in-between stage where nothing fit. Not his clothes, his words, his emotions. Everything was off kilter.

  Hatch took a seat at the table centered in the room. He opened the fist of his other hand, and a royal blue silk scarf floated to the table.

  Alex tapped the scarred wood against his leg. “This is bullshit.”

  Hatch flattened the scarf on the table.

  “The break-in—hell, no one got hurt. We didn’t even have a real weapon, just a little pocket knife.” Alex swallowed hard. “A stupid one I used at Boy Scout camp, and the only time I had it out was to pick the lock.”

  Hatch folded the scarf three times and nodded thoughtfully.

  Alex waved the stick around the holding room. “This is stupid. All this for forty bucks.”

  No, this wasn’t about forty bucks. This was about one angry, screwed-up kid who just wanted to fit in.

  Alex’s hand shook, the stick bobbing. “It wasn’t even my idea. I told the guys we wouldn’t get anything. The shrimp shack doesn’t keep much money in the cash register on a weeknight, but I went along, and I was the one who got caught. The deputy said he’d release me if I squealed, but I can’t do that, can’t rat on my guys.”