Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3)

by Melinda Leigh

  His hunting cabin was at the end of this lane. He knew every game trail in the woods around the lake well. He would not let Kruger and Dane get away. His future depended on catching them.

  He returned the first aid kit to his trunk and removed his AR-15 from the rack mounted under his trunk lid, wishing he’d thought to bring his personal hunting rifle. For deer hunting, he preferred the 30-06. His personal rifle fired a larger, heavier bullet with more stopping power at a greater distance. He’d seen too many deer shot with the light AR-15 rounds get up and run, needing to be finished off with another shot. But he’d have to be close to hit his target in the dark anyway. And if possible, he wouldn’t use his official weapon.

  He stooped and picked up the handgun he’d dropped when Kruger kicked him. He’d taken it off a stupid kid a few months before and kept it, just in case he would need a gun to toss next to a suspect. He slid it into his pocket. He’d planned to use the throwaway weapon to kill Kruger and Dane before they’d gotten away.

  He hadn’t expected to have to hunt them down. Kruger’s rush had thrown a wrench into his plans. He should have expected it. The PI was more dangerous than he’d thought. He wouldn’t underestimate him again.

  The rifle felt balanced and comfortable in his hands. It would do. He closed the trunk and turned to the woods.

  Time to go hunting.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sharp left the store with a new phone in his hand, his account data freshly downloaded from his cloud account to the device. A series of messages from Lance popped onto the screen. Sharp read them, stunned by the news that someone had tried to kill Jenny in the ICU, and that Stan was now the top suspect. He dialed Lance’s number, but the call went directly to voice mail.

  He left a message. “Call me after you and Morgan question Stan. One of the boys set up a meeting for me with someone who was at the sheriff’s station on August 10, 1994. I’ll let you know if I learn anything interesting.”

  Sharp pressed “End,” slid his phone into his pocket, and drove to the meeting location, Bridge Park. He stopped his Prius in front of the Revolutionary War monument and parked next to an old Chevy Chevette at the base of the old stone bridge that spanned the Scarlet River. A figure hunched on one of the three wooden benches facing the water.

  Sharp zipped his jacket, making sure his sidearm was accessible. He might not like to carry a weapon, but considering the rate people were dropping in this case, he’d make an exception.

  He got out of the car. Snow fell in lazy eddies of wind and gathered on the grass as he walked across it.

  The figure on the bench stood. “Are you Sharp?”

  “Ned?”

  “Yes.” Ned eased back onto the bench. He was in his seventies. The black wool coat and fedora he wore were old and threadbare.

  “We could have met somewhere warmer.” Sharp turned his face away from the wind.

  Ned shook his head. “This meeting is not public. I’m only talking to you because I owe Bill. He pulled my kid out of a car wreck years ago.” He craned his neck to give the area a nervous scan.

  “What are you afraid of?” Sharp asked.

  “Have you seen all the dead people lately?” Ned’s tone hinted that his fear was justified and obvious. “Bill says you’re investigating the skeleton they pulled out of the lake a few days ago.”

  “Yes,” Sharp said. “The skeleton was identified as Mary Fox. She disappeared August 10, 1994. Bill tells me you were working that night.”

  Ned nodded. “But no one knows I saw anything, and that’s exactly how I want it to stay.” He took a deep, audible breath. “I was a janitor in those days. I took care of the sheriff’s station and a couple of other small county buildings. Sheriff’s station got cleaned twice a week.” He toyed with a hole in the thumb of his black leather glove. “I was in the maintenance closet, getting ready to mop floors. There was a commotion in the hallway. The door was open a couple of inches. I looked out. The sheriff, he was Chief Deputy King back then, he was bringing a young woman in through the back door.”

  A chill settled low in Sharp’s gut. Mary?

  Ned continued. “There wasn’t a camera covering every single inch of the station in those days. The back corridor was a blind spot. Deputy Walsh was struggling with a drunk. King cuffed the woman to a ring next to the payphone that used to be there. He handed her a quarter, told her to make her call, and went to help Walsh. The drunk was raising a ruckus, shouting and cursing and thrashing around. Neither King nor Walsh had any patience left. They beat on him, then it got real quiet.”

  Lou Ford.

  Ned paused to catch his breath. He raised his eyes and stared out over the river. “I backed into the dark part of that closet. I didn’t want either of them to know I saw. I didn’t come out until they were both gone.”

  “What happened to the woman?” Sharp asked.

  “I heard King offer her a deal. He’d drop the charges against her if she promised to keep her mouth shut about what she saw.” Ned paused. “He took her right out the back door. Never brought her inside the station.”

  King might have offered Mary a deal, but he didn’t live up to his end of the bargain.

  Ned set his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “I don’t know anything else. That’s all I saw.” He raised a hand, palm toward Sharp. “Before you ask, I will not testify. Nor will I admit this conversation ever took place. Not unless King is six feet underground or in a prison cell. He isn’t the kind of man who lets things go.”

  “You think Sheriff King is killing people?” Sharp asked.

  “There ain’t anybody else left. Walsh moved to Florida. I heard he was dying.” Ned shivered. “Walsh, he was shook up when he realized the prisoner was dead, but King just shrugged it off, like it was no big deal. The sheriff is one cold-blooded SOB.”

  “Thank, Ned.”

  “Nothing to thank me for. We never talked.” Ned walked toward the beat-up Chevy.

  Sharp went back to his car and stared the engine. Holding his hands to the heat vents, he chewed Ned’s revelation down to the bone.

  King must have killed Mary.

  Once Sharp’s brain made that connection, everything stared to make sense. Events slid into place, clicking like the tumblers in a lock when the right key was inserted. They’d thought King was running a parallel investigation. In reality, he had known all the players ahead of time and had used his investigation time to kill off any potential witnesses.

  If Brian had dropped Mary back at PJ’s that night, Mary must have been arrested at the same time as Lou Ford. The other two men had been taken directly to the ER. It made sense that every deputy on duty had been called to the bar fight. At least one would have accompanied the additional two men to the ER. If King saw Mary proposition someone, he might have arrested her too. If P. J. saw King arrest Mary, then once Mary’s body turned up and they connected Mary’s death to the bar fight . . .

  They’d put those pieces together right in the sheriff’s conference room, which put Sharp, Lance, and Morgan all at risk.

  Sharp picked up his phone, a sick feeling rolling around in his belly. He dialed Lance. Still no answer. Sharp’s unease grew as he tried Morgan’s line. She didn’t pick up either. He sent them each a text. Morgan, always worried about family emergencies, paid close attention to her phone.

  Sharp lowered his phone to his leg, his brain still churning out possibilities.

  What happened to Vic? And why kill Crystal and try to kill Jenny?

  What if Mary made that phone call? She would have called Crystal. So Crystal would have known that Mary had been in the station. Was King eliminating anyone who knew that he’d arrested Mary that night?

  P. J. and Crystal could have been able to link King and Mary on August 10, a connection that didn’t matter until Mary’s body turned up. But Sharp had no theories about how Vic or Jenny played into the scenario.

  His phone buzzed a few seconds later. Hoping it was Lance, Sharp snapped it up
. Disappointment filled him as he read the name of his Florida PI contact on the screen.

  He answered, “Sharp here.”

  The Florida PI got right to business. “Owen Walsh is in a hospice facility, dying of cancer. He’s medicated and sleeping right now. He doesn’t have any family to object, so I’m hanging here with him, hoping he wakes up and wants to talk. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

  “Thanks,” Sharp said. “Pressure him about Lou Ford’s death. Convince him he wants to go to his maker with a clean conscience.”

  “You had a break in the case?”

  “I did. Now I need a deathbed confession.” Ending the call, Sharp lowered the phone and stared at it.

  Morgan should have returned his message by now.

  He accessed the app that would let him track Lance’s phone. The wait symbol rotated and rotated and rotated.

  Phone not found.

  Ned’s statement played in Sharp’s head on repeat.

  The sheriff is one cold-blooded SOB.

  Sharp needed to find Lance and Morgan, fast, and he needed help.

  He dialed Brody.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  A half inch of snow dusted the ground. Spotting a game trail, Lance pulled Morgan onto it. The cleared ground would be easier for her to navigate with fewer large obstacles to trip her up.

  On the downside, they would also be easier to track if they followed the path. But at this point, he didn’t know how far the sheriff was behind them. King wasn’t a runner, but he was an experienced hunter and outdoorsman. They were going to be easy to follow no matter where they ran.

  Lance hoped the trail led to the lake. If they kept the water to their right, that would eliminate one side of possible attack. The sheriff would have to come up behind them or on their left flank.

  Lance had no doubt King would catch up with them eventually. Morgan was freezing and exhausted and running on pure willpower. But he couldn’t let her stop. Once she was still, hypothermia would take over, though he could carry her at that point. They had no coats, no food, no water, and no method of communication. Their only option was to keep moving and pray they found help before King found them.

  Wishing he could get out of the handcuffs, Lance eyed Morgan’s hair. As gorgeous as it was tumbling around her shoulders, today would have been a good day for one of her courtroom buns and the dozen hairpins that secured them. He was a decent lock pick. “No chance you have a hairpin on you?”

  “No, sorry.” Her teeth chattered and her words quivered.

  Helplessness flooded Lance. There was nothing he could do to protect her. He squinted through the woods. Had they even traveled a mile yet?

  How close was King? The sheriff would be warm and dry and armed. He’d be in no rush. He’d hunt them with steady, dogged determination.

  The snow picked up, just hard enough for them to leave footprints, not hard enough to fill in those prints as they walked. Their dark clothes, which had been excellent camouflage earlier in the evening, now silhouetted them against a white backdrop.

  The cold blew through the thin sleeves of his shirt, and a shiver swept through his bones. If this night dragged on long enough, the cold would kill them as surely as a bullet.

  Morgan stumbled again. Lance caught her arm in his hands. Could he hide her somewhere, then lead the sheriff away? He rejected the option. If the sheriff shot him, she was done. A fire would lead the sheriff right to her, and without one, hypothermia would kill her before morning.

  The sound of water moving in the darkness caught his attention. The lake?

  Evergreen boughs closed in on the trail, smacking him in the face and blotting out the scant light from the overcast sky. He released Morgan’s arm to separate the branches. As they neared the sound, he realized it wasn’t the lake he’d heard but a stream, which likely fed into Grey Lake.

  The trail opened suddenly, the ground dropped off, and Lance teetered on the edge of an embankment. If it hadn’t been for the white of the snow at his feet, he wouldn’t have noticed the steep drop-off.

  He stepped into Morgan’s path.

  Morgan bumped into his back, then froze.

  Leaning over his shoulder, she pressed her lips to his ear. “What is it?”

  He leaned to the side so she could see. With her body touching his, he felt the intense shivering racking her body. She was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.

  Ahead, the stream cut through a deep gully twenty feet below the game trail. During the spring, it likely ran much higher on its banks. There had to be a path leading down to the water.

  Turning his head, he whispered, “Keep moving,” and nudged her gently along a two-foot-wide path that ran along the side of the gully. Morgan’s lack of balance worried him.

  “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.

  Her grip was weak and trembling. He was freezing. Morgan had less body fat and lower overall body mass than he did. Her long limbs and thin body gave her more surface area from which to lose heat.

  But there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to help her. With King on their trail, they couldn’t stop to build a fire or shelter.

  They had to find a place to cross the stream. The snow helped illuminate the ground at their feet, but the topography forced them to slow down. They shuffled along, careful with each footstep. The quiet of the snowy woods was broken only by the gurgle of the stream.

  Lance looked as far ahead as the darkness would allow. He had roughly twenty feet of decent visibility. Beyond that, the woods were a dark nothing.

  Ahead, the path widened, the embankment becoming gradual enough that they should be able to scramble down without killing themselves.

  He pointed with both hands and looked over his shoulder at Morgan at his left flank. She nodded and kept walking.

  The snowfall picked up. A glance at the trail behind them showed the flakes settling into their tracks. Maybe King wouldn’t find them. Maybe they had a chance after all.

  Morgan stumbled. Lance spun and lunged for her, but her feet slid over the edge. She clawed at nearby branches for a handhold. Lance caught her arm, his feet skidding a few inches in the snow. He fought for traction, his boots sliding closer and closer to the edge. Her eyes were wide open and shining with fear.

  If she fell . . .

  Lance’s boot hit a rock. Bracing against it, he hauled her back up onto the path, pivoted, and pushed her away from the edge, his heart hammering. She fell to her knees, but she was safe.

  Rocks shifted. The ground dropped out from under Lance’s feet. He plunged downward, his body banging into tree trunks, broken branches tearing at his limbs. A hot bolt of pain licked at his leg. He slammed into a rock. A bone cracked, and pain rocketed through his side.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Morgan knelt on the edge of the embankment. A rush of panic lent her body renewed strength. Holding on to a tree, she leaned over the edge. “Lance?”

  She shifted her weight, trying to get a better view through the foliage. Beneath her knees, the ground crumbled. Another fat section broke away and tumbled down the slope. Morgan scrambled for solid footing.

  Where is he?

  Feet first, she stepped down and planted her boot on a tree root. Her finger slipped from their grip on the tree. When she found a new handhold on a rock, she left a smear of blood behind. She used snow to wipe the blood away, then pulled the sleeve of her sweater over the cut. She didn’t want to leave that obvious a trail, but she was too cold, too numb to feel the cut on her palm. She moved carefully, making sure each new hand- and foothold was secure before releasing the previous grip. She wouldn’t be able to help Lance if she fell too, and having her hands cuffed together made the descent awkward.

  It seemed to take forever to work her way into the gully.

  She was near the bottom when she spotted his black-clad form and bright-blond hair on the snow. He lay still at the base of the slope, a few inches fro
m the meandering stream.

  If he’d tumbled farther, he would have drowned.

  He has to be all right.

  As if answering her thoughts, he stirred. His head lifted and turned as he scanned the stream bed.

  She slid down the remaining few feet of bank and dropped to her knees beside him. She tried to run her hands over his body to assess his injuries, but she couldn’t feel anything. Her hands and feet felt like heavy blocks of ice. She slid her hands over his legs. Her fingers came away from his calf wet with fresh blood. She parted a slash in his pants. A deep gash ran through his calf. Blood ran from the wound. But she doubted the cut was the reason he hadn’t risen. “Where else are you hurt?”

  “Ribs, leg,” he said though blue-white lips. “Help me up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He hoisted his body into a sitting position, his face went gray, and the skin of his face stretched tight as a drum. Despite the cold, his injuries clearly weren’t numb. “We have to keep moving.”

  “We need to stop that bleeding.” She got her shoulder under his arm. The handcuffs got in the way. With his feet under him, he walked two steps and doubled over, his hands pressing against his ribs.

  “Broken?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “Hold on. We’re leaving a blood trail in the snow.” But what could she use to stop the bleeding? They had no supplies. Nothing. Her belt or his bootlace weren’t any good without a bandage of some sort. She must have something she could tie around his leg . . . There was only one thing she could think of.

  She snaked her freezing hands into the neck of her sweater and slipped her bra straps down her shoulders. Unhooking the straps with frozen fingers was harder, but she fumbled through it. She gave Lance her back. “Unhook my bra.”

  Lance made a choking sound. “What?”

  “It’s the only thing I can think of to use as a bandage.”

  “Smart.” His fingers slid up the back of her sweater. With the shoulder straps already unhooked, her bra fell to her waist, and she tugged it out from under her sweater.