The Buried (The Apostles) Page 7

  Hatch swept his hands at the dense forest stretching out behind the bait shop. “Fine, Princess. Lead and I shall follow.”

  Grace cradled the coin in her palm. She’d already played the phone messages from Lia, listening for ambient sounds, ideally something like a jet plane, which could be tracked. But in all of the voicemails, she’d heard nothing but Lia’s increasingly desperate words.

  I’m in a bad place, a really bad place.

  A hand settled on her knee. Golden and steady. This was not her ex-husband but Hatch the Apostle. Hatch who was a master in a crisis situation. She ran her thumb over the face of the coin, and with quirked lips tossed it in the air. The coin spun and fell on the ground between them.

  “Left.” Hatch pocketed the coin and with a seriousness she’d never seen from him, climbed into the SUV and drove into the swamp.

  Grace rolled down her window and leaned out, squinting through the graying afternoon at the road and searching for wide tire tracks with a deep cross-hatch pattern. They inched along a road following a twisting creek lined with reeds and cattails. Raindrops pinged the roof and splattered her arms and hands. A wind blew across the reeds, whisking them in a symphony of brushes and hushes.

  “Liiiiia!” Hatch called. They waited. For a muffled cry. A tapping SOS. A low groan.

  Hush, hush, whispered the reeds.

  “Keep breathing, Lia, keep breathing.”

  Raindrops turned into a drizzle. Hatch flipped on the windshield wipers. Water puddled in the gutters on either side of the road.

  “Keep your head up, Lia. You’re strong, and you can beat this…this thing.”

  At a hairpin turn, Hatch slowed. “What’s that?” He pointed to a section of flattened reeds.

  Grace leaned out the window, shielding her eyes from the rain. “Gator slide. Too smooth to be man-made.”

  This land was filled with dangerous animals like gators and water moccasins and treacherous waterways.

  “What does she need to do to survive?” Hatch asked.

  Grace blinked then noticed a pain in her right fingertips. She’d wound them in the chain of her scattered pearl necklace. “If she runs into an alligator she needs to make noise. Same thing with a water moccasin.”

  “And…” The single word was low and slow.

  She loosed her fingers. “If she has to cross water, she needs to do it midday when the alligators aren’t as active. She can cover her exposed skin with mud to keep off ticks and jiggers. She needs to stay hydrated, drinking water from vines or collecting rainwater in leaves or her shirt.”

  “And…”

  “If she finds a beer can, she’s struck gold. It can be used to make noise and scare off predators, collect and boil water, and cut fronds for shelter.”

  His fingers intertwined with hers. A touch from the living. From the here and now. Damn he was good. She squeezed back.

  Hatch nudged the car down the road, calling, “Liiiiiia!”

  They followed winding side roads until blocked by bogs or creeks or stands of pines or cypress. All the while, Hatch scoured the slow-moving countryside, every muscle in his arms tensed. Just as the sun dipped, her phone dinged, signaling an incoming text. Grace grabbed her phone. Letters and words scrolled across the screen.

  “Ida Red just found Lia Grant.”

  * * *

  Grace ducked under the crime scene tape stretched across a wedge of earth near an old apiary, Hatch at her side, his hand at the small of her back. Here, among stands of tupelo trees and bee boxes, a hound named Ida Red had spotted up on a freshly turned pile of soil, and below that soil, searchers uncovered a wooden box.

  An angry buzz rose from the bees as Grace and Hatch hurried past the boxes, the din much like the thrum building in Grace’s chest. When they reached the lip of a gaping hole in the earth, Hatch tried to shield her from the sight, but she sidestepped his hands. She needed to see for herself.

  Below her in a wooden box that reeked of urine and swamp water was a young woman. She wore a pair of navy blue pants, a white shirt, a purple smock, white sneakers, and a large button that read: How Can I help YOU?

  Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three.

  With the exhale, Grace tried to push out the anger. She tried to relieve the weight of injustice and atrocity pressing down on her lungs.

  Lia Grant was dead.

  Outrage rushed through her veins and capillaries, heated her limbs.

  Why, Grace, why didn’t you answer your phone?

  Something hotter and thicker expanded, threatening to melt her from the inside out. This was the wrong ending. She was supposed to find the girl. Lia Grant was supposed to win. Hatch’s hand curled around her waist. Was he holding her steady? Himself? The entire world, which was spinning in insanity?

  Lieutenant Lang joined them. She shifted from one foot to another, bits of earth falling into that gaping hole, which felt as big as the wound in Grace’s chest.

  “What is it, Lieutenant Lang?” Hatch asked, not releasing his hold on her.

  “Lia’s parents just arrived.” A grimace twisted her mouth. “How the hell am I going to explain…this?”

  “I’ll do it,” Hatch said.

  Gone was the golden glow of his skin and amused glint in his eyes. No flash of dimple, no cocky set to his jaw. She couldn’t imagine what he would say to Lia’s parents. Not only was the Grants’ daughter dead, she’d died a painful, gruesome death. What would he say if the parents asked to see their daughter’s body? What if they wanted to know about their daughter’s final words, her final moments on this earth? Would Hatch tell them about the phone calls to Grace? Of Lia’s pleading, of her desperation and terror?

  Hatch gave her waist a squeeze. “I got this one.”

  Lieutenant Lang didn’t argue because Hatch’s tone wouldn’t let her. In the fight against evil, everyone had a role. Hatch, with his honeyed voice and sweet words, was meant to talk and comfort, and for that she was grateful.

  As for her role?

  Help me, Grace. Help me…

  Grief and horror collided with anger so hard, a physical jolt rocked Grace’s chest. She smoothed the string of pearls at her neck. When they found the evil that did this, she’d make sure the only phones he’d ever touch again would be the ones behind the bars of a maximum security prison.

  All around her, the machine of death investigation buzzed. The rain continued to pour. Sheriff’s deputies set up tents and lights to combat the approaching night. A photographer snapped photos. Crime scene techs measured and took samples. The medical examiner took field stats on Lia Grant’s lifeless body.

  Grace continued to stand at the lip of the grave. She’d been a part of Lia’s final moments, and there was something she needed to know. “Conclusive cause of death?” Grace asked the M.E.

  “We’ll know more after the autopsy, but given the retinal hemorrhaging along with lack of ligature marks and no apparent bruising around the mouth, I’d say asphyxiation brought on by entrapment suffocation.” The weight of those words pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  Grace stared at the wooden lid, at the tracks of blood and crescent-shaped gouges no bigger than a young woman’s fingernails.

  Lieutenant Lang pointed to Lia’s right hand. “But with a lifeline.” Lia still gripped the cell phone, its face darkened with blood.

  The steamy swamp spun. Grace tightened her stomach muscles and fought the nausea. Lia had used that phone to reach out in a final cry of help, but Grace hadn’t found her soon enough.

  The M.E. placed the phone in an evidence box, and Lieutenant Lang pointed to one of the crime scene techs. “Get that to the station ASAP. I have a tech specialist on his way.”

  After the M.E. finished with the body, he climbed out of the hole, and two techs spread a tarp on the ground before placing a body bag on top. She’d seen death’s gruesome face but only in photos within the antiseptic halls and walls of a courthouse building. Up close, the girl looked smaller, younger. Beyond the
smell of sweat and urine was a faint hint of strawberries. Was it her shampoo? Perfume? Favorite bubblegum? Grace knew nothing about this young woman being tucked into the body bag. Except for her final plea.

  Help me, Grace. Help me…

  Grace’s entire upper body rocked in a silent sob.

  A hand landed on her shoulder. Hatch. Who still moved as silently as the wind.

  “It’s not your fault,” Hatch said.

  “She called me.” Nine times.

  “With a call any sane human being would have thought was a crank, especially given the previous disturbing messages from Morehouse. Unlike most people in that situation, you reported it to the proper authorities, kept on those authorities, and even did investigative work on your own.”

  “I could have helped her.”

  He put a hand on either shoulder and turned her so she faced him. “Did you or did you not call the sheriff’s department and report the call?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And were you not the one who went out at midnight and found the girl’s abandoned car, who got the lieutenant on the investigation?” He slid his palms along her arms, along her neck, and cradled her face.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Grace, you’re not a law enforcement officer. You’re not called on to investigate or protect.” He drew his face within inches of hers until they shared the same breath. “You did everything you needed to do.”

  Ziiiiiip. Lia Grant was gone.

  Grace shoved his hands from her shoulders and jabbed her fingertips at her chest. “I let her down, Hatch. I failed Lia Grant.”

  Chapter Nine

  Grace knew how to rock a set of pearls. She looked sexy as hell in a short tennis skirt. And when draped in only the soft glow of the moon, she literally stole Hatch’s breath. But tonight she wore guilt so thick and heavy it threatened to smother her and everyone else in the conference room at the sheriff’s station.

  Lia Grant was dead, and Grace shouldered the blame. Because she hadn’t answered her phone. Because she hadn’t done enough.

  Hatch settled his hip against a windowsill and crossed his ankles. He’d offered to take Grace home, but she refused to call it a night until she heard the report from the tech investigating Lia’s phone. She was obsessed with the phone, with the fact that Lia had called her again and again. Latent had checked the phone for prints and swabbed for DNA. So far no leads.

  When the tech finally set down the phone, Grace asked, “Well?”

  “Pre-paid with five hundred minutes. Domestic calls only,” the tech said. “Phone history shows only nine calls, all made to the same phone number.”

  “Mine,” Grace said with a snag in her voice.

  Hatch left the windowsill and stood behind her chair. He didn’t touch her but was ready to catch her in case she cracked. Her face was the color of ancient marble.

  “Why did Lia call me?”

  “Because it’s the only number she could dial,” the tech said. “This phone was altered to dial only one number, relatively simple technology sometimes used with parent-controlled phones.” With the tip of his index finger, he pushed send. Seconds later, a soft chirping sounded from Grace’s purse. “The bottom line is anyone using this phone can dial for a month of Sundays and never get anyone but Ms. Courtemanche.”

  “So Lia didn’t necessarily want to contact me, but whoever gave her this phone did.” Grace’s words were as hard as the set of her jaw.

  “What kind of sick SOB are we dealing with?” Lieutenant Lang asked.

  In his hostage negotiation training days at Quantico he’d studied abnormal psychology. “It all comes down to wants and fulfillment,” Hatch said. “Our bad guy wants something, he perpetuates the crime, and he gets his payoff. Sometimes it’s external: money or sexual gratification. Other times the gain is more primal: revenge, hate, fear.”

  “No.” Grace stood, a rush of color heating her cheeks. “I won’t give that bastard anything.”

  “He got your attention,” Hatch said.

  Grace shoved in the chair. “And he’s going to regret the day he did.”

  * * *

  Hatch pulled the SUV into her driveway, turned off the ignition, and pocketed the keys.

  “You can go now,” Grace said. She had too much on her mind tonight to deal with Hatch. Lia Grant had died, and she’d been dragged into a murder by a madman with a phone. “I’m fine.”

  Hatch grabbed a flashlight, hopped out of the car, and poked the light beam through the darkness hanging over her shack. “I know.”

  Grace slammed the SUV door. “The lieutenant has drive-bys planned for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Know that, too.”

  “Dammit, Hatch, would you just leave?” Her words came out in a tangled rush, but that was nothing new. With Hatch, her well-ordered, carefully planned life got tangled.

  Hatch reached out with his free hand and cupped the side of her face. “After I get you inside, but first I want to make sure everything’s okay.”

  No, everything is not okay, she wanted to scream. They’d just unearthed a nineteen-year-old girl who’d been buried with a phone programmed to call only Grace. For the second crazy moment in this crazy day, she thought of leaning into Hatch’s big, callused hand. Which would only add to the crazy.

  She took a step back and hurried up the steps but drew up short when she spotted the big, circular red splotch. She closed her eyes. Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. When she opened her eyes, she still saw red.

  Hatch was at her side in seconds. “What the hell happened here?”

  She pointed to Allegheny Blue, who limped from a shadowy corner of the porch. “He happened.”

  Blue plunked down at her side and rested his bony head against her thigh. She nudged him away, but he leaned harder. Good, she could deal with this type of trouble because unlike the killer who murdered Lia, the human skeleton unearthed on her property, or the reappearance of her ex-husband—she knew how to handle the stupid dog.

  She squatted and checked the dog’s right paw. “You went carousing again, didn’t you? And look here, you split it open.”

  Hatch scratched at the stubble along his cheek. “You have a dog?”

  “He’s not my dog. He came with the house.”

  A laugh rumbled from Hatch’s direction. “Now there’s a marketing tool. Buy a shanty, get a free hound.”

  She let go of Blue’s paw and stood, an unexpected smile curving her lips. She appreciated Hatch’s attempt at levity, at anything to lighten the heaviness weighing on her chest. “The dog wasn’t in the contract, and if he had been, I would have had the clause removed.”

  She unlocked the door and walked into the living room, the steamy mildew rolling over her like an ocean wave.

  “Good Lord,” Hatch said with a wave of his hand. “What died in here?”

  “My central plumbing.” She opened the windows in the living room, and Hatch unlatched the panes in the small dining area and over the kitchen sink.

  In the kitchen she took a plastic bag from the refrigerator. “You know I don’t have time for this,” she said to Allegheny Blue, who hobbled behind her as she opened the back door, the molding shifting from the doorframe so it tilted like a fun-house door. The old dog had dislodged it two days ago chasing after a big cat caterwauling by the creek. Outside she fired up a propane stove on the porch. Setting a small, dented pot on a burner, she dumped a dollop of chunky liquid from the bag into the pot and tried not to gag.

  Hatch joined her, sniffing the air. “Remind me to say no next time you invite me to dinner.”

  She stirred the offensive liquid. “It’s for his foot.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bear grease, pitch, and kerosene. Hunters have used the stinking concoction for years to treat the pads of their hounds’ feet. I refuse to heat it inside.”

  Hatch’s dimples carved slashes on either side of his face, and he laughed.

  “It’s n
ot funny,” she said as Blue plunked down beside her. “This is my second batch.”

  Hatch gave the old dog’s ears a ruffle. “He seems to like you.”

  “The feeling is not mutual.”

  Hatch hopped up on the porch railing, the old wood straining and groaning. She waited for the decrepit railing to break, but it held, as did Hatch’s gaze.

  “I’m fine, Hatch,” she said again. “I’m rattled and mad as hell, but I’m fine.”

  Hatch finally relinquished his eagle-eye stare and pointed to Allegheny Blue. “So what’s the story?”

  She gave the pot another stir. Hatch loved a good story, and he’d told so many that summer as they walked the white sand beaches of St. George Island and glided along Apalachicola Bay tonging for oysters. He told tales of hunting for treasure in three-hundred-year-old Spanish ships shipwrecked in the Florida Keys and adventurous yarns about his ’round-the-world trip with his great aunt Piper Jane. It was so easy to get lost in the music and magic of a good story. And maybe that was what she needed tonight, a good story to get her mind off Lia.

  With most of the fat melted, she took the pot off the stove. “Once upon a time there was a really, really stupid dog.” A rumble sounded from Hatch’s chest, and she rested her butt against the table holding the stove. “Said dog belonged to the former owner of this place, Lamar Giroux, an eighty-four-year-old hunter who never married and spent most of his waking moments in the company of dogs and critters they chased. Earlier this year, Lamar broke his hip and moved to his sister’s place in Tallahassee. He sold off all of his canine companions except his favorite, Allegheny Blue, who got a nice new cushy dog bed at Lamar’s sister’s two-bedroom patio home, complete with central air and a therapeutic Jacuzzi. But the canine hero of this tale did not buy into the new living arrangements. The really, really stupid dog walked from Tallahassee to Cypress Bend. Took him three days, and by the time he landed on my front porch, he’d torn the pads from his feet and was nothing but skin and bones.”

  “That’s almost a hundred miles. He walked it all?”