The Girl and the Field of Bones (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 10)

by A J Rivers

  “Keep going,” I announce. “The way in front of us is open, so we keep going. Until something stops us.”

  “I don't like the way you said 'something',” Dean comments.

  “Trick-or-treat,” I murmur.

  We keep going. Behind me, I can hear Xavier humming. There's no particular tune, just a sound that occasionally dips or swells. I don't know if he's giving himself a soundtrack or just trying to fill the space around us. Either way, I'm grateful for it. The silence is too deep. It's the type of silence that makes anxiety slink up inside you, and makes your muscles stiffen up with anticipation as you just wait for that sound that'll scare you.

  I can only hope it's just a sound.

  It isn't lost on me that this could be more than just a tunnel. Whatever purpose it originally served, it could have been modified just as the basement was modified. At any point, we could come out to an underground room or a trap. We might not be alone down here.

  With every step, I get ready. I prepare myself for what might come next. There isn't much space here. There are points in the tunnel where we have to walk single file, and some places that force us to duck down to get through. If something does happen, it's going to be hard to get away.

  “Xavier,” I say. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Would it make any difference if I wasn't?” he asks.

  I laugh. “I guess not.”

  “We'll get there,” he says. “We will get there.”

  A few minutes later, Sam stops in front of me. I crash into his back and clutch onto his shirt.

  “What's wrong?” I ask.

  “The tunnel ahead of us,” he says. “It's partially collapsed.”

  I look around him and shine my light forward. It joins up with the beams from Dean and Sam, and I can see where part of the tunnel has come down. Rocks and rubble litter the floor and create a small space to move through.

  “What do we do?” Dean asks. “Do we turn back?”

  “I'm not,” I tell them. “I can get through that.”

  “You might jostle something out of place,” Dean says.

  “I won't,” I say.

  “Emma,” Sam whispers, but I look up at him.

  “Let me do this, Sam. I’ve got it. Trust me.”

  I give him a kiss on the cheek, then walk around them toward the gap in the rocks.

  “What if you do?” Xavier calls after me.

  I look over my shoulder at him.

  “Run like hell.”

  I walk carefully toward the rocks. With each step, I listen and watch to check for any movement. Nothing happens. I slowly approach the opening and rest my hand against the solid section of the wall. Crouching down, I lift one leg and slither my way through the entrance. I hold my breath and try to keep steady. No shaking. Just slow, deliberate motion. My back hits one of the rocks, loosening it and making it drop. As it slides away, I dive forward out to the other side just as it kicks up a cloud of dust with a loud thump.

  “Are you alright?” Sam calls.

  I stand up from where I landed on my knees and turn to check the entrance. It looks like only that one rock fell. I move to go back toward it, so I can help the guys through. I'm about to reach through the opening when another chunk comes down, sending more dust flying.

  “Emma!”

  The sound of Sam screaming my name is more chilling than the rocks collapsing down on each other. When the dust settles, the tunnel is almost completely blocked. I can still see some of a flashlight beam dancing through, but it's not enough to fit through.

  “It's too dangerous to touch those rocks again,” I call back. “They could shift, and we don't know what would happen.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Dean asks. “We can't just leave you over there.”

  “Yes, you can,” I say. “Turn around and go back up the tunnel. Go back into the temple. Xavier, did you bring the map?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Show them where the tunnel goes. Figure it out. I'll meet you there,” I tell them, fighting to keep my voice steady.

  “What if the rest of the tunnel is sealed?” Dean asks.

  “I'll meet you there,” I repeat.

  “Emma,” Sam says.

  “I love you,” I say.

  Turning my back to the collapsed rocks, I shine my flashlight ahead of me and start to walk. Behind me, I don't hear anything. The men haven't moved from where they were standing.

  “Go!” I shout back. “Get out of here!”

  I finally hear their footsteps retreating, and mine mimic theirs as they get further and further apart. Soon, I hear nothing but my own breath.

  The tunnel continues to get narrower as I make my way down it. Soon I can open my arms only a few inches to the side and run the backs of my hands across the rough stone. My face aches with the cold, and my lungs feel as if they are filling with dust and dirt. I focus on my breaths, thinking about them rather than anything else.

  The silence is horrifying, but I tell myself it's better than hearing something. If I hear something, that means I'm not alone. That's not what I want. I want to hear nothing. I want the silence.

  Until I hear it. Ahead of me. I can't tell what it is. But it's something. There's a sound in the distance. I have no choice but to move toward it. It's either that or stay exactly where I am. and I'm not the type to stand still.

  One hand still wrapped around my phone, I put the other close to my gun and continue down the tunnel. The sound gets louder. High-pitched and thin. Almost like wailing. It takes me a few minutes to realize what it is. Wind.

  There's air moving across an opening somewhere. My footsteps get faster. I run toward the sound. Finally, the light of my phone hits what looks like a broken wooden step. The risers above it are broken as well, but the one on top seems solid. I step up on it and feel around for a handle or knob that'll open the hatch.

  I find it, but it's too heavy to move with one hand. I reluctantly push my phone down into the neckline of my sweatshirt, pushing it into place inside my tank top, so I don't drop it. The darkness surrounds me, almost suffocating. My heart beats faster. I can feel the wind now. There's a gap on one side of the hatch, just enough to let the air move over it and create the wailing sound.

  As my eyes adjust, I realize that it is also letting in just a hint of light. It's not much, but it's enough to give me hope. I shove against the hatch with every bit of my weight and strength. Finally, it gives way. I force it aside and scramble up.

  Pulling my phone back out of my shirt, I shine a light around me. I'm in another basement, but not like the one I was in before. It's empty except for a few broken pieces of furniture stuffed up against the walls. There's a quiet feeling here. Desolate. Abandoned.

  Ahead of me, there is a set of stairs leading up, but to the side, light shines down through the broken half of a set of storm doors. I run for them and climb out into the night air. I look around, drawing in the fresh breaths as fast as I can without making myself pass out. I'm in what looks like an overgrown yard and behind me is a run-down house.

  A few yards away from the house, I drop down into the grass. My phone rings in my hand, and I almost sob with relief.

  “The one time I can get reception,” I answer.

  “Are you okay?” Sam asks.

  “I'm okay. I'm out. Are you on your way?”

  Headlights sweep across my face, and I stand up. For an instant, my heart freezes.

  “I see you,” Sam says.

  I let out the breath I was holding and start toward the car. It's barely stopped when the passenger door opens, and he throws himself out, running toward me. His arms clamp tight around me, one hand clutching my hair.

  "I told you I'd meet you here," I whisper.

  "Wherever you are, I will be there," he whispers back. "Always."

  “Emma, I am so glad to see you,” Dean calls over as he exits the driver’s side.

  “You, too,” I tell him.

  “Did you notice where we
are?” Sam asks.

  I shake my head. “Where are we?”

  “See those trees?” he asks, pointing into the distance and a dark row of trees against the deep blue horizon.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Right on the other side is Lilith's house.”

  I look back at him with widened eyes. “That can't be a coincidence.”

  “You know what I always say,” he murmurs.

  We say it in unison:

  “There are no coincidences.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The next morning, I still feel as if the cold from the tunnel hasn’t completely left me. I’m wrapped up in a blanket, sitting on my hotel room bed, going over my notes and piecing things together, when Sam comes in.

  “I told Detective White everything,” he says. “You're going to have to talk to Creagan, but we're going to figure out a way to make the discovery of that tunnel admissible.”

  “It has to be,” I say. “That's how they got out. It's how they took everything from the building. That's tampering with evidence.”

  “If we can prove that there was a crime,” Sam points out.

  I let out a sigh and nod. “There's always that.”

  “We just have to link them to verifiable criminal activity,” he muses. “We just have to find where they slipped up.”

  Dean pokes his head into the room.

  “Am I interrupting?” he asks.

  “No, come in,” I say. “Did you get them?”

  “Right here,” he offers.

  “What is that?” Sam asks as I take the folder from Dean.

  “Hopefully, the resolution to my curiosity,” I say.

  “I'm going to need more information than that,” Sam says.

  The door opens again, and Xavier comes in. His arms are full of different cans of drinks from the vending machine down the hallway. Each of his pockets contains a different kind of snack.

  “You settling in for the long haul?” Sam asks.

  “Just couldn't decide,” Xavier tells him.

  “And sometimes you don't have to,” I say.

  He empties all the goodies out onto the other bed and sits down to start arranging them. I watch him for a few seconds, trying to figure out his organizational technique, but I can't. I turn my attention back to the folder and look at Sam.

  “I just can't stop thinking about the Prometheus members’ reaction when Dean said I was already claimed by Dragon. He said it with complete confidence, and they totally believed him. There wasn't a single person in that room who wasn't completely convinced I was not already promised in some way to the Dragon,” I say.

  “So, he's a good liar,” Sam says. “I think that is part of the job description of a private investigator, isn't it?”

  Dean shoots him a glare. Some other time, I will wax poetic about how nice it is to see two of the most important men in my life finally starting to get along. But right now, I have to keep this train of thought moving forward.

  “It's not that they believed his lie because he was confident,” I continue. “He didn't walk in there and say I was owed to Peter Christopherson just hoping that one of them would think that name sounded compelling enough. He used the word Dragon. And every single person in that room reacted. They were afraid. Compelled to show respect. There wasn't a single question or moment of hesitation. They know who he is.”

  “But he's been dead for years,” Sam counters. “Is it possible they knew who he was before? That he had something to do with The Order before you investigated him?”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, he might have been connected to The Order, but that's not what they were reacting to. This was not the reaction of a group of people who either knew a person was dead or who hadn't heard from them in years. And that got me thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “His death,” I say.

  “It's easy to fool someone when you're the only one watching,” Xavier says.

  “Something like that,” I say. I open the folder and flip through the information. “Remember I told you he died in a crash of a prison transport van? He was the only prisoner being transported at the time. The body inside was so horrifically burned and mangled, there were no features available to be compared visually, but the driver walked away with only a slight burn and a broken wrist.”

  “How is that possible?” Sam asks.

  “I don't know, but does that sound familiar to you at all?” I ask.

  “It sounds like Mason Goldman,” he says.

  “Exactly. A body burned beyond recognition. Identified based on circumstantial evidence.” I flip through the pages and pull out the one I am looking for. Slapping it flat down on the comforter, I point out the bottom line.

  “Both death acknowledgements were signed by Judge Sterling Jennings. He's alive. All this time, he's been alive.”

  “What does it mean?” Dean asks. “What would the Dragon have to do with The Order?”

  “How many times do you think I can visit somebody in the hospital before the administration blacklists me?” I ask.

  As it turns out, I don’t even get the opportunity to risk being banned from any future visitation. When I step out of the elevator, Gloria gives me her usual bright smile.

  “How's your arm feeling?” she asks.

  “Good,” I say, lying through my teeth.

  The truth is my arm hurts, and I've just had to get used to it. When all this is over, I'll rest it. Until then, I need both arms.

  “Great to hear,” she smiles. “And in another bit of good news, Millie was discharged.”

  I was on my way around the nurse’s station to her room, but I stop.

  “Discharged? When?” I ask.

  “Early this morning. She's doing so much better,” she says.

  I manage a smile. “Good. That's good. I'm really glad to hear that.”

  I'm worried as I ride the elevator back down and walk to my car. Something tickles the back of my brain. I reach for my phone to call her, but before I can, it rings. It's not Millie. The name that shows up is far more of a shock and that.

  “Hello?”

  “When I told you to leave me alone, I meant all your little friends, too,” Rachel Duprey growls through the phone.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Please don't act stupid,” she says. “I already have to encounter enough idiots in my daily life. I don't need somebody else behaving like one. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

  “Actually, I don't. I've had a few things on my mind other than you.”

  “Don't talk about my family,” she seethes. “Don't contact me or try to research my father or me. Don't even think our names. What you are doing is reprehensible. I've looked into you, Emma Griffin. I know about your past. Think about how it would make you feel if somebody kept dragging up your mother's death over and over again.”

  “Ms. Duprey, I have no idea what you are talking about. I’ve been busy investigating my case.”

  “If I hear from you or that woman Lydia again, I will be in contact with my lawyer. I'm tired of being harassed with all these questions,” she says.

  “Ms. Duprey, I didn’t—"

  The call ends abruptly, and I sit in my car for a few seconds, just going over the conversation in my mind. Shaking my head, I dial Lydia. At this point, she hasn't just irritated me and possibly compromised the investigation. She's conjured up a potential lawsuit. It's probably not something I can stop, but the least I can do is warn her about it.

  But she won't answer her phone. Still.

  I grab my computer from where I keep it tucked under the front seat and open it up. Lydia's cold case database website is bookmarked, making it easy to pull it up quickly. I don't see anything new on it, but when I go to the contact page, I'm able to connect with several of the other contributors.

  They each respond to my messages within seconds. Not one of them has heard from Lydia within the last couple of days. None knows where
she is.

  It's concerning, and I'm really starting to worry until a thought flashes into my mind. I know exactly where she is.

  Setting my phone in its stand on my dashboard, I connect to Bluetooth and call Sam.

  “Babe, I just wanted to let you know I will probably be gone for most of the afternoon,” I say.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Apparently, Lydia Walsh has been calling Rachel Duprey and asking her a bunch of questions. Now Rachel is threatening to sue us. Lydia won't answer her phone, and none of her friends at the database knows where she is. Which tells me there's only one place she is. If I'm right, I need to get to her before she causes us any more trouble. It's about an hour away, but I'll keep in touch with you. Is everything doing okay on your end?”

  “Everything's fine,” he says. “The forensic team was able to reconstruct three of the skeletons from the cornfield. There are a couple of small pieces missing, but it's enough to return to the families.”

  “Good,” I tell him. “Let me know when we know their names.”

  “I love you,” he says.

  “I love you too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Two weeks dead …

  She wasn't protected where she lay. The insects still found her.

  The sheet around her was nothing but a veil.

  But it was the only one she would ever wear.

  The ground became her altar.

  She had already begun to transform, to offer herself up.

  Pale to green to red to black.

  Soon only white.

  There were still questions above ground. People were still asking where she was.

  Maybe he hoped she would be found.

  Maybe he hoped she wouldn't.

  Two weeks dead, straddling reality. Her name still in people's mouths. Her face still in their minds. But her body becoming one with the earth.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A little more than an hour later, I pull into the parking lot of the Garden View Hotel. I can immediately see what Rachel meant when she said it used to be a popular hotel. The shell of something grand and beautiful is still there, but it's been battered with time and neglect.