Deadly Harmony

by Marissa Shrock

  So.

  Much.

  Nicer.

  My grainy eyes fluttered open, and nausea assailed me. I pressed my hand against my mouth, flopped over on my side, and squeezed my eyes shut.

  Something bad had happened. But what?

  I fought against a fog-filled mind. I’d been working ground in my garden. Gus had barked. And then . . .?

  The attack.

  I forced myself to lift my head and observe my surroundings. Four cement block walls in a space that couldn’t have been more than eight feet by eight feet. A metal door. I sprawled on a simple camping cot, but someone had provided a travel pillow and a light blanket that wasn’t thick enough to keep away the chill permeating this claustrophobia-inducing space. In the opposite corner was a ten-gallon bucket with a toilet seat.

  Ick.

  I dropped my head back on the pillow. My stomach roiled, and bile rose in my throat. I should try to make it to the makeshift toilet.

  But it was so far away.

  I slid onto the damp concrete, crawled to the bucket, willing the nausea to pass. I took a deep breath . . . and another. No. Wishful thinking.

  I emptied my stomach into the bucket.

  Propping my back against the cement wall, I tried to shake off my confusion. Quincy disappeared. Elias was murdered. Makayla had taken off. Parker Curtis—BB—was somehow involved.

  Now I was here. But why? How had someone figured out I was close to the truth? And where in the world was here?

  I stared at the block wall as time ticked by and my nausea diminished. With each passing moment, my grogginess subsided, but increasing panic replaced it.

  I examined my body. Other than being drugged, I didn’t appear to have been hurt. Was someone watching? Goosebumps riddled my arms, and I searched for nooks and crannies where someone could’ve hidden a camera, but I didn’t see anything.

  I patted my overall pockets. My kidnapper had taken my phone—which wasn’t surprising. No—I’d dropped it in the dirt.

  I stood on shaky legs and pressed my ear to the door. Straining, I detected faint footsteps but couldn’t be sure where they were coming from. I turned the knob—just in case—but it held.

  Life Lesson #10,958: Always carry a lock-picking kit.

  I shuffled to the cot and plopped down. If I’d been faster, I could’ve placed my call to Detective Hawk. I hoped Preston and Austin would think it weird that I was gone when I’d said I’d be home working. Not to mention I never tethered Gus outside unless I was working nearby.

  How long had I been here? It had to have been between two and three o’clock when the kidnapper had snuck up on me.

  I reassessed the door. Even though it was solid metal, the lock wasn’t any more secure than the simple one on my bedroom door. I patted my pockets to see if I’d stashed anything in them while I was working that would be useful, but I hadn’t.

  I upended the cot and ran my hand over the metal frame, searching for any loose pieces, but the cot was new. A rough edge snagged the skin on my thumb, drawing blood, and I swiped my finger on my overalls.

  My overalls.

  I unfastened the bib and examined the strap. If I could get a metal piece off the strap, I might be able to bend it and turn the lock. I tried tugging the piece off, but the material was too thick. Kneeling next to the cot, I rubbed the material against the rough edge. It took a lot of swipes, because I still felt like I was moving under water, but the durable material began to fray. I pulled on the hole to help it along and resumed sawing. Continuing this pattern, I finally got the material to rip, and I held a metal piece in my hand.

  It would take some doing to manipulate the metal, and the task seemed overwhelming. Closing my eyes, I longed to succumb to sleep. Not now. I had to get out before someone came back for me. When I bent the piece straight, I finally had something I could try to maneuver the lock with.

  I inserted the metal piece into the lock and twisted, but it held fast.

  Please help me, God.

  I tried a few more times before a faint click sounded. “Thank you, Lord.” I slid the metal piece into my pocket and peeked out the door at a narrow hallway leading to a set of stairs at the end. I beat it out of the room as fast as I could, even though I still felt like I was moving through a vat of glue. A large window next to the stairs displayed a small recording studio.

  What was this place?

  I trudged up the stairs, and when I reached the top, I caught my breath and pressed my ear against the door. The Jeopardy song filtered through, which meant I’d been locked up for hours, because that show came on at seven-thirty.

  At least, it came on at seven-thirty at home. With all the time that’d passed, I shouldn’t assume I was still in central Indiana. Holding my breath, I turned the door handle. Creeeaaak. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut.

  No, no, no!

  I froze. Seconds ticked by. When no one came, I edged into an empty industrial kitchen. I closed the door and tiptoed across the black and white tile floor. The exit was on the opposite wall, and a window in the back door displayed fading daylight. I shivered.

  Great. If I made it out, I’d be running through a strange place in the dark.

  I passed between an eight-burner gas range and a stainless-steel prep counter with giant pots and pans stacked on the shelf underneath. A large serving window was open to a dining space with rows of tables. On the far end of the dining hall was an elevated stage with a screen hanging in the middle. American and Indiana flags stood on either side.

  At least I hadn’t been dragged out of state. I slumped against the counter. Was this a camp? I looked into the dining hall again, hoping to see something on the wall that would give me a clue.

  Goosebumps rose on my arms. Hadn’t Stuart Ashbrook said his wife volunteered at a music camp? Camp Win-something. Had they abducted me because of the questions Cal and I had asked? Were he and Janet capable of kidnapping if it meant protecting Quincy?

  I searched for a phone hanging on the wall but didn’t see one.

  “Avoiding a lawsuit is ideal, so I still support the deal,” a muffled male voice said, causing me to jump. “She’s almost got it ready.”

  Lawsuit? And who was she? I considered cracking the door to see if I could identify the man, but it wasn’t worth the risk. I knew one thing—the man wasn’t Stuart Ashbrook. The voice was deeper than Stuart’s, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t Parker Curtis.

  “We lucked out when that Kurtz guy turned up dead.”

  Who would’ve benefitted from Elias’s death?

  “Take care,” he said.

  Refusing to waste another second, I slipped out the back door and into the woods, my feet squishing and slithering in the mud. I stumbled forward in a slow jog until I doubled over with a stich in my side. Taking a deep breath and vowing to get an actual membership at Fitness Universe if I survived, I tried to get my bearings. The setting sun clued me in to directions, but unless I could figure out where I was, that wouldn’t be helpful.

  On heavy legs, I stepped over fallen trees and moved toward a cluster of cabins in the distance. If there was a trail leading away from them, I could find my way to a main road for help. I staggered to the three log buildings that were arranged around a firepit and benches.

  I didn’t stop but followed the tree-lined path that led away from them. Now that the sun had vanished, the creepiness factor in the woods had multiplied by about twenty as darkness invaded. I whipped my head back and forth, while praying my captor wouldn’t realize I was missing. I hadn’t exactly been careful blazing my trail over the soft ground.

  Ahead, I spotted four cement-block buildings with green metal roofs, and I ducked behind a sycamore tree and did a little reconnaissance. The buildings were dark, but between two of them, I identified a road in the distance. Judging from the noise, there was plenty of traffic. Surely, I could get someone’s attention.

  But first I’d have to pass through a large clearing with zero trees.

&nbs
p; I pressed my hand against the sycamore tree’s bark and reconsidered my plan to flag down a passing car. A better strategy would be to find a phone and call for help. One of those structures had to be an office, and there would surely be a landline.

  This seemed like a better choice because there was no guarantee a driver would stop to help, and if someone did, it’d probably be the only serial killer within a thousand-mile radius.

  Because there was no luck quite like Georgia Rae Winston Luck.

  That should be Life Lesson #10.

  I sucked in a deep breath, darted out from behind the tree, and stumbled across the clearing with “Silent Running” playing on a loop in my head. I chose the largest of the four buildings, but the back door was locked. I wasn’t going to take the time to pick it when there was a glass pane.

  Next to the cement stoop, I found a medium-sized rock. I struck the upper corner of the window until the glass shattered at my feet. Reaching in, I flipped the lock.

  Mildew and stale coffee lingered in the hallway, and I passed through the first door. Hanging on the paneled wall above a dented metal desk was a Camp Winland sign. A phone nestled among stacks of papers, and my shoulders slumped in relief. I lunged for the receiver, but there was no dial tone.

  With shaking fingers, I followed the cord to see if it was plugged into the wall jack, and it was. I removed and reinserted the cord before trying the phone again. Silence. My heart plummeted.

  Fantastic.

  “Hello?” a muffled voice yelled. “Is somebody there?”

  “Makayla?” I dropped the phone into the cradle.

  “In here!”

  I followed her shouts into the hall and located a locked door. I reached for the metal piece from my overalls, turned the lock, and burst into the windowless room.

  Makayla sat at a small desk facing a laptop. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her legs were tied to a metal chair.

  “Georgia!” Her terrified, blue-green eyes met mine. An angry welt marred her cheekbone, and her pink Rainbow Brite T-shirt displayed a bloodstain.

  “Are you all right?” I knelt beside her.

  “Yes. Sorta. Not really.” Her voice trembled. “How’d you get here?”

  “I was kidnapped and just escaped the dining hall basement.” I examined the ropes with multiple knots binding her hands and ankles. “Who did this?”

  She looked up at me, her eyes welling with tears but blazing with fury. “Quincy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tears spilled onto Makayla’s cheeks. “I went to Fillmore Cemetery because I thought I was helping Quincy. Someone—I think it was a man—grabbed me from behind, and the next thing I remember, I woke up here, and she’s forcing me to finish this song we started writing together.”

  “‘Broken’?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s about a loved one dying.” She took a shuddering breath. “She told me yesterday if I didn’t write faster, she’d provide extra motivation . . . and . . . I’m trying . . . but I always write my poetry and lyrics in a journal, and I’m not used to using dictation . . . and I’m so sorry because I’m sure that’s why they nabbed you.” She ended with a sob.

  “Try to stay calm. I’ll get you out.” I fiddled with the ropes around her wrists. Someone had done thorough work on the binding. “Has Quincy or the guy she’s working with checked on you lately?”

  “Quincy was here like an hour ago.” She sniffed. “I haven’t seen anyone but her this whole time.”

  Quincy’s partner would surely realize I was missing before too much longer, and she could pop in at any minute. “I don’t suppose that laptop is connected to the internet.”

  She shook her head.

  I wedged my nail into the first knot and tried to loosen it, but it wouldn’t budge. “I’ll be right back.” I rushed to the office, hunted down a lone pair of rusty scissors, and returned to Makayla. My mind whirred as I worked at severing the rope with dull blades. “Why is ‘Broken’ so important?”

  “I asked, but she didn’t answer.” She tugged the ropes.

  “Hold still. When I was in the dining hall, I overheard a man on the phone talking about avoiding a lawsuit. Is Quincy in legal trouble?”

  “I don’t know!” She sounded like she was about ten seconds away from full-on hysterics.

  “Okay, okay. After you were kidnapped, I learned Parker Curtis’s nickname is BB—Boneyard Boss from his time as the lead singer of the Boneyard Rebels. That’s the band Quincy ran away with in high school.” I freed her hands. “What if Quincy made a songwriting deal with Parker, and she’s about to get sued because she can’t deliver?”

  Makayla rubbed her irritated wrists, and being partially free appeared to ease her panic. “Maybe. She’s terrible at writing lyrics. That’s why we partnered up in the first place. We were going to enter a contest, but we got busy and didn’t finish. But Parker Curtis? Why would he need her?”

  “Good question, but there has to be something big, or she wouldn’t have abducted you.” I sawed the ropes binding her right leg and considered the man’s words about Elias. We lucked out when that Kurtz guy turned up dead. “How would Quincy have benefitted from Elias Kurtz’s death?”

  She swiped teary cheeks with the back of her hand. “Kimberlee Samson told us Quincy and Dr. Kurtz had a falling out over money because she owed him for Tune products, but other than that, I don’t know.”

  “We assumed their disagreement had to do with Tune, but maybe it didn’t.” I tore the ropes away from her right leg.

  “Hold on.” Makayla put her hand on my arm. “Dr. Kurtz wrote music.”

  I recalled the line in his online biography that mentioned he was a composer. “Did Quincy ever collaborate with Elias?”

  “I don’t know. When Quincy and I were writing ‘Broken,’ she mentioned working with somebody before, but she changed the subject when I asked who.” She stretched her freed leg. “If it was Dr. Kurtz, that would explain her evasion. Besides, the song he performed at the Brenneman talent show was good—like it could’ve been a major hit.”

  A major hit.

  I cut the ropes surrounding her left leg and reconsidered Kimberlee’s words. “She owed him and refused to pay him back. It really hurt him.” Had Kimberlee misunderstood the conversation? She’d only heard Elias’s side.

  The music from “Refund” played in my head. Repay each day I dared to care. Parker Curtis had been in the music business a long time, and after years of struggling, he’d recently had his first major hit. “What if—and this is crazy—Quincy and Elias co-wrote ‘Refund’?”

  Makayla drew a sharp breath. “Parker claims he wrote that song about his ex-girlfriend.”

  “What if he didn’t?”

  “Why not give them credit and tell everyone he could relate to the song? Singers use songwriters all the time.”

  I plucked away pieces of frayed rope. “What if Quincy and Elias offered the song for no credit because they were trying to get started in the business?”

  “I guess they could’ve made a ghostwriting deal. Parker would pay them up front for the song—but they wouldn’t get credit or royalties. Quincy and Dr. Kurtz both would’ve had to agree to it.”

  “What if they didn’t, and Quincy sold the song to Parker without Elias knowing?” I unbound her left leg.

  She stood and swayed. “Dizzy.” Gripping the chair back, she closed her eyes briefly and continued. “If Dr. Kurtz could prove he helped write the song, that’d be grounds for a lawsuit.”

  I pocketed the scissors and turned toward the door. “And if I were Parker, I’d sue Quincy for deceiving me.” I considered the note Makayla had found in Quincy’s dress. You can’t ignore this deadline. “What if Quincy promised Parker another song in exchange for not suing her, and she was going to use ‘Broken’? It wasn’t like she could turn to Elias for help.” I peeked out at the hallway, and it was clear.

  “Parker agreed, but when she couldn’t finish, I was her last resort.”


  I motioned for her to follow, and we crept down the paneled hall.

  “Right,” I whispered. “Quincy may’ve found a solution for herself, but Elias was still a threat to Parker.”

  “So Parker killed him . . . and Quincy might’ve helped.”

  Except something major didn’t fit. “Parker had a concert in Chicago on Saturday night.” I calculated times. “Elias was murdered between one and three in the morning. The show probably ended around eleven. With the time change, he’d lose an hour coming to Indiana. Unless he flew in a private plane, he would’ve barely made it to Richardville in time.” I stopped at the backdoor and peered out at the darkness engulfing the camp.

  “I read in a magazine that Parker hates flying.” She opened the door, and when it creaked, we cringed. “Quincy must’ve acted alone.”

  “I doubt it. She’s had help this entire time.” I thought of the man I’d overheard on the phone.

  “If it’s not Parker, it has to be someone who really cares about him—and his career.”

  “And who could’ve passed her the note at the chorale concert.” Only one person fit that description.

  “Lukas Dawes,” we whispered in unison.

  “Brava,” a male voice said.

  We whipped around.

  Lukas blocked the hallway—and pointed a gun at us.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Please let us go. Makayla will finish the lyrics and send them to Quincy.” I jumped in front of her.

  A burst of cynical laughter spewed from Lukas’s throat. “You know too much.”

  Makayla inched inside the office door.

  “Get back where I can see you, or I shoot!” Lukas shouted.

  She edged closer to me.

  “Why would you do this?” I was having trouble comprehending how Brandi ever had feelings for this guy. She hadn’t been kidding when she said he’d changed.