by Jana Oliver
‘I’ve got the paperwork here,’ he said, beckoning her closer.
As he moved into the light, she realized he wasn’t holding any papers. Instead, he had a taser and it was pointed directly at her.
‘Hadley,’ Donovan said, standing at the side of the hospital bed. ‘How’s it going?’
Cole frowned back. His breathing tube had been replaced by an oxygen cannula and his colour was better, but he still had more wires and tubes than a space shuttle.
It looked as if the loser was going to live, which was perfect for what Donovan had in mind.
‘Who shot you?’ he asked.
‘Beck,’ he croaked.
What if he’s telling the truth? Hadley and Denver had a long history of dust-ups. Had it gone one step too far?
The sheriff leaned over the bed in such a way as to ensure Cole saw his face clearly. It was time to get tough.
‘You’re talking bullshit. If Beck had shot you, you’d be dead. So who pulled the trigger? One of the pukes you sell to?’
No reply.
‘Doesn’t matter. The drugs we found in your pocket are your ticket to prison.’
‘What drugs?’ Cole demanded, shocked. ‘I wasn’t carrying.’
That sounded like the truth and opened up a whole new set of possibilities.
‘Oh, but you were. Cocaine. You’re going down, Hadley.’
‘I wasn’t carrying,’ he insisted. Then the patient’s eyes widened. ‘That son of a bitch! He planted those drugs on me.’
‘That sucks,’ Donovan said, trying to keep the grin off his face. ‘Beck doesn’t mess with that kind of stuff, so who set you up?’
Cole’s face was bright red now and his breathing sped up. ‘That bastard McGovern.’
Donovan’s world spun once and then settled down in a new position. McGovern? That was the last person he had on his radar. He kept his tone mellow. ‘Why would he do that? Did you stiff him on a deal?’
‘No, I saw him in Beck’s truck the night Denny went missing.’
‘Where?’
‘North, on the highway. He lives up that way. I was . . .’ He halted in self-preservation.
‘Out making a delivery, no doubt,’ Donovan guessed. ‘When was this?’
‘About ten or so.’
‘You tried to blackmail him, didn’t you?’
Hadley swallowed hard. ‘We just had a friendly talk,’ he muttered.
‘Until he shot you.’ Donovan shook his head. ‘So where is Denver?’
‘In the swamp. McGovern said it was the perfect burial ground. That whoever goes in there never comes back.’
Donovan pounded a fist on the bed rail, startling the man. ‘Damn you, if you’d come to me sooner we might have had a chance to find him alive.’
‘I didn’t have anything to do with that,’ Cole protested.
‘You covered up a crime, and that’s just as bad in the eyes of the law.’
‘I want to do a deal. You hear?’
‘Then start talking, son.’
Riley edged backwards along the hall. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘It’s nothing personal.’
Like that helps. ‘This is what happened to Beck, isn’t it?’
A nod. ‘It had to happen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was the best one to take the fall.’
Take the fall for what? ‘People know I’m here.’
‘They might, but come morning they’ll think you headed back to Atlanta.’
He moved closer, forcing Riley to continue her blind retreat. ‘That lie won’t hold.’
‘Just needs to hold long enough for me to get on a plane out of the country.’
She reached a door. Where did it lead?
‘That’s where the bodies are kept,’ McGovern said. ‘There’s no way out.’
He’s lying. She twisted the knob and bolted for freedom. If she could get outside, she and Simon could escape, go to the sheriff and . . .
To her relief, there was an exit on the other side of the room, leading to the garage. Once she was in the open space, she sprinted for the outside door, about twenty-five feet away. She’d made it about half that distance when something slammed into her back. Then the pain came and Riley fell forward, her knees, elbows and face kissing the oil-stained concrete.
Had he shot her?
Riley’s muscles twitched and her bones screamed in agony like they were being ripped away from the muscles. She fought to regain her feet, to run, but her body wasn’t cooperating. It was as if someone had cut all the strings to her limbs.
McGovern stood over her, the taser pointed at her. He had a gun stuck in his waistband and she bet it was Beck’s.
‘You should have left when I told you to,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You had to stay for that damned loser.’
‘Where’s . . . Beck?’ she gasped.
‘Gone. In the swamp. Probably in a demon’s belly. You’ll be joining him soon enough.’ He raised his hand again to deliver another jolt.
Before she could cry out, there was a shout as someone mowed McGovern down. Simon’s lithe figure struggled frantically with her captor, the taser scooting away from them on the concrete. Simon slammed a fist against the man’s face as McGovern tried to throttle him. As they exchanged a flurry of blows, they rolled into the rear wheel of the hearse, then tumbled back into the centre of the garage.
McGovern regained his feet and pulled the gun free from his trousers before Simon had a chance to react. He pointed it at Riley.
‘Stay put or she’s dead.’
Her heart nearly stopped. Simon slowly regained his feet, breathing heavily and his eyes filled with unrestrained rage. He was going to go after her captor and get both of them killed.
‘Police! Drop the weapon, McGovern!’ a voice shouted.
Donovan and the two deputies spilled into the room. Martin and Newman fanned out on either side of their boss, their guns drawn. The sheriff’s was out as well.
‘Put the weapon on the ground. Do it!’ Donovan bellowed.
Her captor didn’t move.
‘Now, McGovern! I swear I’ll take you down.’
The undertaker slowly lowered the gun, then bent over and placed it on the garage floor.
‘Step back!’
As he complied, he caught Riley’s eye. ‘Damn you, girl, you should have gone home. Then it would have been all right.’
Chapter Seventeen
As she sat in the sheriff’s office, people bustling around her, Riley was sure she’d been flattened by a truck. Her joints and muscles ached down to their individual cells, her head throbbed and there were two points on her back that felt as if someone had driven spikes into them. She’d refused a trip to the ER. She could imagine what the National Guild would make of that insurance report: Apprentice Demon Trapper nearly electrocuted by crazed mortician. She had enough notoriety as it was.
Simon sat next to her now, an ice pack pressed against a cheek that was already darkening, the beginning of a spectacular bruise. His shirt collar was ripped, and his lip was cracked and bleeding. He had a dressing on his right hand and his knuckles were skinned.
As she’d tried to recover from the attack, he’d filled in the missing pieces: the longer he’d sat in the truck, the more anxious he’d become, so he decided to see what was going on. When he found McGovern standing over Riley’s body, he’d lost it. Fortunately, the sheriff and the others had arrived just in time.
‘When are we leaving for the swamp?’ she pressed.
‘We can’t until morning,’ Martin replied. ‘We have no idea where Beck is, so we need daylight to try to track him. I know you’re frustrated. So am I, and I don’t even like him.’
Not until morning. This would be Beck’s second night alone. He must think I’m not coming for him . . . If he was still alive.
Simon touched her arm. ‘You OK?’
Riley shook her head, the tears burning. She swiped them away, angry that she had no way to stop them.
‘We’ll find him. We’ll bring him home,’ he said.
She nodded and then dug for a tissue in her pocket as Donovan entered the office. He laid numerous evidence bags on his desk.
‘McGovern had Beck’s phone and his gun. He’s asked for a lawyer so we won’t get anything more out of him.’ The sheriff sank into his chair. ‘But why?’ he asked, his voice rising in frustration. ‘What drove him to kidnapping and attempted murder? What is McGovern hiding?’
‘Perhaps I can shed some light on that darkness of yours,’ someone said from the office doorway.
Justine.
‘She’s back . . .’ Riley mumbled. Her jealousy raised its muzzle and scented blood.
The reporter looked perfect as usual. Her emerald-green eyes lacked dark circles underneath, her trouser suit didn’t display one wrinkle and her hair cascaded down her shoulders in smouldering red waves. Justine chose a chair next to Riley, probably so everyone in the room could make the comparison between together and total mess.
‘Have you found Beck yet?’ the reporter asked.
‘No. He’s somewhere in the swamp,’ Donovan replied.
The reporter frowned. ‘I know the undertaker’s secret and why he has turned violent as of late. In return, I want an exclusive on the story.’
Riley ground her teeth. She might hate Justine Armando, but the reporter was very good at her job. If anyone could unearth secrets and lies, it’d be the stick chick.
Donovan didn’t hesitate. ‘You got a deal. Talk to me.’
Justine retrieved a notebook from her expensive leather bag and opened it. Running down a page of notes with a polished fingernail, she began.
‘A decade ago a necromancer in Jacksonville began paying a few Florida undertakers to supply him with bodies suitable for reanimation. These bodies were sent for cremation by families who didn’t want to sit vigil at the graveside.’ She shifted to another page of her notes. ‘In late 2009 two Georgia undertakers joined the scam. Bert McGovern was one of them. He served as the collection point for corpses in the southern half of the state.’
‘Go on,’ the sheriff urged, sitting up in his chair now, his attention captured.
‘Instead of being cremated, bodies that were in good condition were transported to the summoner. McGovern filled the urns with concrete dust so the families had no idea their loved one was being auctioned off to the highest bidder.’
‘My God,’ Riley murmured. That was too close to home after her father’s death.
‘One of the bereaved relatives saw their deceased sister in Orlando a few months after she’d died,’ Justine continued. ‘When the police checked it out, the summoner stonewalled them. When my reporter friend heard about this, he began investigating the story.’
‘The Jacksonville Police Department know about all this?’
‘Yes. They arrested the necromancer earlier today.’
Justine closed her notebook, her brows furrowed. ‘I have no direct evidence, but I believe there is some connection between McGovern and the missing boys.’
‘There is now.’ Donovan chose a file from a stack and flipped it open. ‘On November 2011 the Keneally boys broke into three businesses in Sadlersville and stole mostly small stuff to satisfy their growing drug habit. The sheriff at that time worked out a restitution plan, and they got a juvenile record out of the deal in exchange for returning the goods they’d stolen.’
‘A juvenile record,’ Justine said, nodding in understanding. ‘No wonder I couldn’t find the connection. The boys’ parents said nothing about that, of course.’
‘They robbed the tyre store and the video shop and . . . the funeral home. McGovern never reported the break-in and our office only found out about it after the sentencing. He claimed they’d not taken anything so he hadn’t felt the need to file a complaint.’
Justine tapped her notebook with a gold pen. ‘If the brothers had found evidence of the corpse-running scheme during the break-in, McGovern would have been eager to pay them off to keep them quiet.’
‘With drugs and booze from Cole Hadley,’ Donovan added. ‘McGovern was one of Hadley’s customers.’
‘That doesn’t explain why they went missing,’ Martin argued. ‘McGovern would have had to know the boys were in the swamp that weekend to kill them.’
‘Cole did,’ Riley said, finally seeing the pieces fit together. ‘He told Beck’s girlfriend he knew where the boys were going. Maybe he told McGovern.’
‘So the undertaker kills the two boys, but doesn’t know Beck is along for the trip because he’s asleep in the boat. Which still works in McGovern’s favour as there’s someone to take the blame,’ Donovan said.
‘But why shoot the drug dealer?’ Simon asked.
‘Cole saw him in Beck’s truck the night Denver went missing so he tried to blackmail McGovern,’ Donovan replied. ‘Cole didn’t plan on an undertaker pulling a gun on him.’
There was quiet for a time as each of them digested the news.
Riley closed her eyes. ‘So how do we find him? Can the park rangers help us?’
‘The Feds won’t authorize a chopper until four days have passed. We’ll do it ourselves,’ the sheriff explained. ‘There’ll be three teams. One will go in the east entrance, just in case he’s down there, and the other two at Kingfisher Landing. Of those two teams one will take the canal to the west and the other to the south.’
The time for waiting was over. Now they’d be able to do something, even if it was nothing more than bringing Beck’s body home for burial.
The fever and body-wracking chills struck Beck with a ferocity he’d not anticipated. There’d been numerous demon wounds over the years, and after the first they’d been mildly annoying. This time was different. He had no Holy Water to neutralize the toxin and his body was running on empty, the lack of food and enough clean water taking their toll.
When he opened his eyes, there was someone watching him. It was a young Indian, a Seminole, indistinct in the night air. Donovan had told him the ghosts of the swamp’s dead would sometimes appear. The brave inclined his head and then walked away into nothingness.
I’m dyin’. There were no hysterics involved in that realization, because it was the truth. He’d been there before, after that roadside bombing in Afghanistan. Somehow he’d survived.
But this time . . .
The chain wasn’t going to magically break or a buffet appear at his elbow, so that left two options: continue on to the grave or accept Hell’s bargain.
Another chill rolled through his body, clouding his sight. Beck curled up in a ball, shivering so intensely his muscles ached and his teeth chattered. In his fevered mind he saw Riley in the coffee shop in Atlanta, laughing with Ori. She wasn’t looking for him. She’d left him behind.
‘Ya’ll . . . come . . . for . . . me,’ he whispered. ‘Ya won’t leave me here.’
‘She doesn’t care, trapper,’ the demon whispered in his mind. ‘Don’t die because of your pride. Accept Hell’s mark and live. You can get your revenge against all those who hurt you.’
‘No.’
‘Paul Blackthorne gave us his soul. So can you. There is no shame in it. Your life is precious,’ the demon said.
‘Paul . . . isn’t in Hell now. He out . . . witted y’all.’ Beck issued a dry chuckle at the thought.
‘You’re mine, trapper. You will raise my stature in Hell, and I will find favour with the Prince again. You will give me your soul.’
‘Go screw yerself, demon.’
The fiend laughed, a sharp biting sound. ‘You mortals always say that, until the very end.’
It was nearly eight in the morning when she arrived at Kingfisher landing, still aching from the night before. Her guide, a guy named Ray, was hurrying as much as possible, but it took time to do things right. What little patience Riley had was history: she wanted to be actively looking for Beck rather than cooling her heels at the dock.
Ray was in his early fifties and said he’d been
conducting tours of the swamp for over a decade. That was reassuring. Donovan had warned her the journey would be at least five hours long, then it’d take that much time to get back out to civilization. If Beck was in bad shape, he’d need food, water and first-aid supplies, not counting Holy Water if he’d tangled with a demon. An early morning trip to the convenience store had netted those supplies and now they were packed into Beck’s duffel bag and Riley’s backpack. Everything was ready, but they were missing someone, a man named Erik. So far he’d been a no show.
‘What about the other teams?’ she asked.
‘They went out a half hour ago.’
Like we should have.
Simon was on one of them and, to Riley’s surprise, Justine on another. The reporter had refused to stay in town, saying she’d always wanted to see what a swamp was really like.
Maybe an alligator will carry her off.
Ray dialled a number, then spoke with someone. His brow creased in frustration, then he hung up. ‘Erik has backed out of the trip. It’s just us unless I can find someone else.’
Surprise. ‘No, let’s hit the water,’ Riley replied. ‘Beck’s running out of time. We need to go now.’
Ray didn’t argue, but helped her into the boat and then pointed out the blankets underneath her seat. ‘It’ll get cold when we start moving.’
Riley unearthed one of the heavier ones, draping it over her knees. Fortunately she’d thought ahead and had added a few layers under her jacket and bought a stocking cap. As Ray did something with the motor, she studied the area around her. The water was a perfect mirror, reflecting the tall trees and brown grasses along its edges. Birdsong reached her ears and every now and then something would fit from treetop to treetop. There was a unique smell in the air, part decay, part fresh earth, overlaid by abundant moisture.
‘I’ll use the outboard for a while, then switch to the electric motor,’ her guide explained. ‘That way we’ll be able to hear Beck if he calls to us.’
‘Why not use it right now?’ she asked, concerned they might go right past him if he was injured.
‘It’s slower. As I see it, if I was going to get rid of someone in the swamp, I sure wouldn’t leave him close to the dock.’
