by Alex Kava
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HIDDEN CREED
Copyright © 2020 by S. M. Kava
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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Interior design and formatting: Prairie Wind Publishing
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Jacket photograph: Dissolve.com
FIRST EDITION
ISBN: 978-1-7320064-3-0 Hardcover
ISBN: 978-1-7320064-4-7 eBook
ISBN: 978-1-7320064-5-4 Paperback
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
Frank Warren Quote
Authors’ Note
Acknowledgments
A HUGE THANK YOU!
JOIN ALEX KAVA's V.I.R. CLUB
DEDICATION
In Memory of
Sandra K. Rockwood
August 28, 1937 - December 20, 2019
The rest of the journey won't be the same without you.
And
In Memory of my boy, Scout,
(March 1998 to May 2014)
who is the true inspiration for this series.
There are two kinds of secrets,
The ones we hide from others,
And those we keep from ourselves.
—Frank Warren
Chapter 1
Blackwater River State Forest
Sunday, June 14
The scream sounded human.
It pierced through the darkness and sent a chill down his sweat-drenched back.
It’s not a person, he reminded himself though his jaw remained clenched. Tonight the rocking of the boat made his stomach lurch.
The scream came again. Closer.
This time he recognized the bird and tried to calm his nerves. The Eastern screech owl was one of the first voices after dusk. That sound usually didn’t bother him. Tonight he was on edge. Every sight and sound and smell set him off. Earlier he’d twisted around so suddenly he almost tripped over the bag at his feet. What would it take for him to lose his balance and go over the side?
The water wasn’t deep but the current was swift. And it was dark...so very dark.
Settle down.
Why was he so jumpy?
Then slowly, the other night creatures began their symphony.
He couldn’t see them in the dark forest, but he knew their voices—each and every bird, insect, reptile or animal. He could pick out and identify the rasps and the whistles, the tick-tick-tick and the whirs. He could tell the difference between a bird-voiced tree frog and a barking tree frog. He knew to steer clear of the bellow-hiss of an alligator. He could even recognize the huff-huff grumble or jaw pop of a black bear alerting trespassers to its presence.
In a matter of minutes the creatures filled the thick, moist air with their songs. He couldn’t even hear the water lapping at the boat as he steered against the current.
The squawks and chuffs and trills calmed him. And finally he felt some relief.
Maybe he needed to lay off the drugs for a while. He kicked at the two-liter plastic bottle squashed against the black bag at his feet. He didn’t like when the meth started messing with his mind, inviting the voices back inside his head. Maybe that was why the screech owl’s scream unnerved him. It sounded an awful lot like a woman’s scream, one in particular that was still caught in his memory forever.
He shook his head, a quick shake back and forth as if the motion could send the audible snapshot back to a locked compartment.
He lifted his ball cap and mopped the sweat from his face with his forearm then raked his fingers through wet hair. The humidity was so heavy that a fog hovered over the water. He couldn’t see the moon but it was bright enough to give the darkness a misty, silver haze.
Branches stretched above him, swaying in the breeze. They looked like long arms reaching down to snatch him up.
Another shake of his head. His mother always called this the witching hour. She had a whole lot of crazy superstitions.
Superstitions. That’s all they were.
He needed to settle the hell down. He knew this creek by heart. There was no one else around for miles. No screams. No arms grabbing at him out of the mist. He tried to concentrate on the melody of the creatures. The rhythm of the croaks harmonized with the wheezes and gurgles.
He adjusted his trolling motor, anticipating exactly where the current began to increase. Instinctively, he knew when to duck his head before he came to the tree trunk that leaned so far over the creek, it looked as if it could topple into the water at any moment. It created a natural blockade that required looping wide and squeezing along the bank. Without seeing them, he avoided the tangled roots. He steered around the shallow spot that could snag his boat and wedge it into the sandy bottom.
This place was sacred to him. It was a safe haven. He’d found solace and solutions as he floated on these waters. Numerous times the forest relieved him of his problems. He knew he could leave them behind to be swallowed up in the clay and hidden by the shadows of the tall, longleaf pines.
By the time he reached the clearing he was drenched in sweat. The fog pushed down on his shoulders before he yanked at the bag. It was heavier than usual tonight. He hoisted it over the edge of the boat, bending it in two and leaving it while he crawled out onto the sandy bank.
He yanked off his ball cap and slipped on the headlamp. He flipped the switch and bobbed the light around. The stream caught a pair of eyes before the animal scuttled off. He snapped the lamp off and tugged the cap on over the contraption. It was difficult to see through the gray mist with it on or off. And it was almost impossible to hear anything over the symphony.
Fallen leaves lifted and jumped near his boots, coming alive with tiny tree frogs. He grabbed the black bag and pulled one end until the other plopped to the ground, sending a mass of creatures skittering. It took him too long to yank and drag.
Thirty minutes later he was ready to empty the bag.
It moved.
He froze, feet planted, heart pounding. Was his mind playing tricks on him?
He stared at the black bag, holding his breath and keeping every limb, every muscle, every finger as still as
possible. It was late. He was exhausted. Maybe it was the drugs. He’d experienced hallucinations during binges. They were wild and surreal.
He focused his eyes, willing the silvery mist to allow him a better view.
This was crazy. He was driving himself crazy.
He reached for the shovel again, and this time there was no doubt.
The bag was moving.
What was inside was not dead...yet.
Chapter 2
Blackwater River State Forest
Monday, June 15
Ryder Creed couldn’t keep up.
He watched Brodie glide between the tree trunks like she was riding the breeze. Tall and willow-thin, his sister reminded him more of a skinny teenager than a twenty-seven-year-old woman. After being held captive for sixteen years, Brodie was still playing catch-up physically and mentally. In many ways, she was very much like the eleven-year-old Creed remembered.
That last image of her skipping in the rain toward the rest area bathrooms had been imprinted on his mind. For a long time, it brought sadness and then despair. All those years in between he didn’t know whether she was dead or alive. Turned out she was imprisoned in an earthly purgatory.
He pushed the image away. He needed to concentrate on here and now; on the new challenges that Brodie faced. Besides, she and Grace were leaving him behind.
The vines and holly bushes grabbed at his pant legs. There was no trail that he could see, and yet, Brodie slipped through the forest with little hesitation as if she were following an invisible path.
“Hey, wait up,” Creed called to her.
She stopped and spun around to face him. Her thin shoulders bunched up then heaved with an exaggerated sigh of impatience.
“You’re such a slowpoke,” she said.
Creed wiped at the smile before she noticed it. What he’d forgotten of their childhood, she remembered keenly as if most of it had occurred just last week.
Slowpoke. Did anyone even use that word anymore?
She had always been faster than him as if carried by the wind. He was three years older and stronger, but any footrace left Creed in the dust. Out here, where the pine trees grew thick and close with low-hanging branches, being over six feet tall and broad-shouldered left him at a disadvantage. He had to go slow and weave between the spaces, snapping branches to cut a new path. He wondered how Brodie even knew where she was going. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised. She spent a good deal of time in the forest exploring.
Their fifty-acre property backed up to Blackwater River State Forest and shared an invisible border. Most of it was undeveloped like this stretch. Depending on the time of year and the amount of rain, streams and creeks cut through, sometimes restricting access to certain portions and other times, providing empty riverbeds to add to the adventure. But it also made it easy to get lost.
Creed had made sure Brodie took a dog with her and a well-stocked daypack every time she ventured out on her own. Even now, he could tell that the holster around her waist held a canister of bear spray.
Just then the scrub grass parted, and he saw the tip of Grace’s tail. The little Jack Russell terrier came backtracking to see what the holdup was. She cocked her head at him. He couldn’t help thinking she seemed to mimic Brodie’s impatience.
Creed adjusted his daypack and squeezed through the narrow passage. He surveyed the tree bark before placing a hand on the tree. Oak snakes could blend in easily.
“Have you been this way before?” he asked, stepping over downed branches that hadn’t slowed Brodie.
“No, silly. What kind of adventure would that be?”
“Then how do you remember where you hid the target scent for Grace to find?”
The target scent was a Mason jar with cheesecloth stretched across the top and secured with a rubber band. Inside was a bloody sock.
“I don’t have to remember. Right, Grace?” Brodie said to the little dog. “Grace, go find.” She waved her hand, and Grace took off.
Normally, he wouldn’t let his dogs off leash in the forest—too many unpredictable obstacles. Grace was the exception. She watched out for Creed as much as he did her. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight for long. They’d been through too much together. Most recently, a tornado had swept them up into the heavens for what Creed thought might be their last, wild ride.
The top priority of a dog handler was the dog’s safety. That was one of the reasons he’d started placing GPS devices inside the pockets of his dogs’ working vests. Creed wanted to call out for Grace to go slower.
To his surprise, Brodie beat him to it. “Grace, slow down.”
Up ahead in a clearing he could see Grace stop and look back at them. She pranced in place, waiting. Threw her head up and nosed the air.
“You seem distracted,” Brodie said over her shoulder, keeping ahead but at a slower pace for his benefit. “Are you thinking about Maggie?”
“Maggie? What? No.”
Maggie O’Dell was an FBI agent he’d worked with on several cases over the last two years. In fact, it was Maggie who helped find Brodie. Each time Creed and Maggie grew closer, Creed swore he became more confused by their relationship.
“Aren’t you looking forward to seeing her?” Brodie wanted to know.
She was coming to Pensacola but for another case. What else? They were supposed to have dinner together while she was here. She always seemed in a hurry to head back. It had become a sort of dance. One step forward, two steps back.
“Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing her. Maggie and I are friends.”
This time Brodie stopped to look at him, and he almost ran into her.
“Just friends?” she asked.
“I think you’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
“And I think you haven’t been reading enough of them.”
But suddenly, her hand shot up to shush him. She tilted her head to listen.
“I think she’s close to finding it,” Brodie whispered, and with that, she turned back to their adventure with Grace.
Relieved to change the subject, Creed followed. He stayed close, watching and fascinated by this woman in front of him who seemed to know exactly where to skip, step and duck. She was braver than he gave her credit. And she was getting stronger every day. To Hannah’s two little boys, Brodie was a superhero who removed spiders from their bedroom and snakes from their backyard with her bare hands.
That always made him smile. He could still remember Isaac and Thomas, their eyes huge and mouths open as they watched Brodie slap a spider with the palm of her hand.
He needed to stop worrying about her so much.
For weeks, Brodie had been nagging to be included in one of his training sessions. But he could see now that she had already learned from simply observing.
Over seven years ago, Creed and his business partner, Hannah, had created a training facility where they rescued abandoned dogs and turned them into scent tracking heroes. That Brodie showed an interest, pleased him. When she first came to live with them just six months ago, she was afraid of dogs. Her captor, Iris Malone, had used dogs to stop Brodie from escaping. A scar on her ankle was a vicious reminder.
Now, Brodie stopped in the middle of the clearing. Creed saw Grace dart off into the trees in the opposite direction, but Brodie stayed put. She turned slowly, surveying the area, glancing around.
Creed came up beside her but kept quiet.
He could hear a faint buzzing sound. Instinctively, he reached up and adjusted the red kerchief around his neck. Brodie had a matching one. Both were soaked with a concoction Hannah had created that acted as an organic mosquito repellent. It usually worked wonders. All his handlers used it, and so did their dogs. But it wasn’t mosquitoes he was hearing.
“I think she might have missed it,” Brodie told him. She pointed off to the left of where Grace had disappeared. “I came from the other direction when I planted it, but I’m pretty sure it’s on the other side of that ravine.”
> She glanced back at Creed, apologetic and a bit embarrassed. The expression on her face was almost childlike. He hated that sometimes she still looked as if she expected to be punished.
“I should have taken a turn before that huge oak tree,” she said. “I forgot about the ravine. No way we can cross it from this side.”
Then panic flooded her face. “You don’t think Grace would try to cross the ravine?”
Before he could answer, Grace came back out from between the trees in the exact spot where she’d disappeared.
“She’s okay,” Creed told Brodie, pointing to the little dog and hoping to calm his sister.
Then he did a double-take back to Grace. She was staring intently at him. She was alerting that she had found the target.
“Is it possible your directions are mixed up?”
Brodie looked at Grace and knew exactly why he was asking. Instead of answering immediately, she surveyed their surroundings again, turning her entire body to take it in. Her eyes came back to Grace.
“I guess I could have come all the way around,” she said.
Grace was getting impatient, stomping her front paws and wagging her head over her shoulder as if to direct them.
“Okay, girl,” Creed told her.
He started to unzip his daypack to get her reward, but Grace darted back into the trees. Brodie didn’t hesitate. She hurried to follow. Creed felt his phone vibrate against his hip and stopped to check the text.
Okay, so maybe he was anxious to see Maggie. They talked frequently but he hadn’t seen her since March. Before he could grab the phone, he heard a rustling sound then a thud.
“Brodie?”
She didn’t answer. Creed rushed into the trees. He punched branches out of the way as he ran. Vines threatened to trip him. Twigs whipped into his face.
“Grace! Brodie!”
