Murder in the Smokies

by Paula Graves

  “Of course.” Her mother, Arlene, had perfected the art of passive-aggressive accommodation. “I can freeze the pot roast for next time.”

  Ivy laid her head back against the headrest, feeling a vein throbbing hard in her temple. “You know you should always call me before you go to the trouble of cooking anything, Mom. My schedule is crazy.”

  “I know, Birdy.” Ivy stifled a smile at the old nickname her mother still used for her. “I just need to talk to you soon.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call you as soon as things slow down.” Although, she reminded herself with no small measure of guilt, there wasn’t any reason she shouldn’t head over to her mother’s now instead of sitting here stalking Sutton Calhoun.

  Ivy pressed her fingers against her gritty eyes. Go to your mother’s house, Hawkins. Just put your car in gear and go before you embarrass yourself any further.

  “Mom, listen.” She had already reached for the ignition key when she saw a dark gray Ford Ranger sweep by the parking lot entrance, heading east. The truck looked a lot like Sutton’s Ford, though in the waning evening light, she couldn’t get a good look at the driver through the tinted windows. As it moved past, she spotted the Alabama tag on the rear bumper.

  Before she thought better of it, she started her Jeep and pulled out onto the road behind him. “Mom, I’ve got to go. Something’s just come up. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can reschedule, okay?”

  She hung up her phone and followed the Ranger east.

  * * *

  WHOEVER WAS DRIVING the black Jeep Wrangler behind Sutton was pretty good at tailing. If he weren’t already on high alert and well trained, Sutton might not have spotted the vehicle keeping track of him. He’d noticed the Jeep as he entered the Smoky Mountains National Park. It stayed a couple of vehicles behind him, never getting too close. But the Jeep never let him get too far ahead, either.

  Hell, maybe he ought to just pull off at the next scenic overlook and see what happened.

  A glance at the truck’s dashboard clock killed that idea. He was already cutting it close. Clingmans Dome was over an hour’s drive from Bitterwood, and if the gathering clouds lowering over the mountains were anything to go by, a storm was brewing. Rain would slow him down. And even if he arrived with time to spare, there was the climb to the observation deck, possibly in the pouring rain.

  The fifty-four-foot-tall concrete tower ending in a saucer-shaped deck stood at the summit of Tennessee’s highest elevation. To get there, a visitor generally made a steep half-mile trek up a paved road. Sutton had hiked that road more than once during his boyhood, usually as part of a class trip or as the guest of another boy whose father, unlike Cleve Calhoun, wasn’t allergic to a little exertion.

  He hadn’t been there in years, but he found the twisting mountain roads leading to the Clingmans Dome Trail familiar. The mountain straddled the state line between Tennessee and North Carolina, right in the heart of the Smoky Mountains. Some of the roads seemed to fold in on themselves as they tunneled through the mountains and curved around rocky outcroppings, making for a hair-raising drive.

  Why Clingmans Dome? he wondered yet again as he kept one eye on the winding road and the other on the Jeep behind him. Why tonight at seven, with the setting sun being quickly swallowed by dark rain clouds and temperatures dropping to twenty degrees colder than in the valleys below?

  He’d known, as a native of these hills, to bring warm, weather-resistant clothes, for even in the summer, evenings in the Smoky Mountains could be uncomfortably cool and wet. Up on Clingmans Dome, over a mile above sea level, the temperature could dip near freezing on an early September night, and the whole area was a coniferous rain forest, which meant getting wet was always a strong possibility.

  It was an odd spot for a mysterious rendezvous, and his decision to comply with the note hadn’t been made lightly. Following protocol, he’d called Jesse Cooper to tell him about the mysterious message. Cooper had wanted to send backup, but Sutton had talked his boss out of the idea. The note had said to come alone, and if his combination of Special Forces training and Cooper Security refreshers had prepared him for anything, it was to face dangers on his own if necessary.

  Of course, if the Jeep trailing doggedly behind him kept up the tail, he wouldn’t be going alone after all.

  He knew it was possible, perhaps even likely, that he was driving toward an ambush. He’d prepared for that possibility, from wearing a GPS tracker that Jesse Cooper was even now monitoring from his office in Maybridge, Alabama, to strapping on an extra pistol—a SIG Sauer P238 in an ankle holster on his right leg in addition to his Glock, currently nestled snugly in a holster under his leather jacket.

  And there were other ways to hike to the top of Clingmans Dome besides the tourist trail.

  * * *

  SOMEWHERE SOUTHEAST OF Gatlinburg, heading east on Highway 441, Ivy made a rookie mistake. She let an 18-wheeler pass her on a downhill straightaway and ended up stuck behind the behemoth as it groaned its way up a steep grade, putting her farther and farther behind Sutton’s Ford Ranger. By the time they came across another safe area to pass and she whipped the Jeep around the lumbering truck, she’d lost sight of Sutton’s vehicle completely.

  “Damn it!” she growled, banging her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Her decision to follow Sutton this far out of Bitterwood was already looking like complete idiocy, and now she’d botched even that. She was almost an hour away from home, with gritty eyes wanting to slam shut, and she was the worst cop in the world at tailing a vehicle. And piling on the bad news, there wasn’t a decent turnoff for the next few miles, which meant she would have even that much farther to go before she could crawl beneath her covers for a few hours of humiliated sleep.

  Around a tight curve, a side road finally came into view. Ivy flashed her right-turn indicator and eased the Jeep onto the side road. The surface of the smaller road was pocked and pitted, the ride immediately rougher. Ivy tightened her grip on the steering wheel as she slowed to pull a U-turn.

  Suddenly, a pair of bright lights filled her windshield, blinding her for a moment. Startled, she jammed on her brakes, even though the lights were still some distance away. Her tires squealed in protest, the back end of the Jeep fishtailing just long enough to set her heart racing.

  The lights went out again, leaving her blinded for a moment, even with the Jeep’s headlights cutting through the deepening darkness. She saw a brief flash of movement, shadowy and quick. It was gone before she blinked. Swallowing hard, she turned the steering wheel hard to finish the U-turn.

  And there in her headlights, impossibly close, stood Sutton Calhoun, aiming the barrel of a large black Glock right at her.

  He moved toward the Jeep carefully, the barrel of the pistol staying fixed on her. She cautiously lowered the driver’s side window. “Sutton, it’s me. Ivy Hawkins.”

  He didn’t lower the pistol. “Why are you following me?”

  She decided the truth was the least humiliating answer. “To see where you were going.”

  He stopped beside her car door, gazing at her through the open window. Though his expression was stern, the corner of his mouth twitched. Her own lips curved in response. He lowered the Glock and slid it into a holster beneath his black leather jacket.

  “So,” she prodded when he remained silent, “where are you going? And why did you just pull your weapon on me?”

  He released a long, slow breath and reached into the front pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a crumpled slip of paper. He handed it to her through the window and took a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

  A chilling wind, damp with the promise of rain, swirled through the open window, fluttering the piece of notepaper as she clicked on the dome light to see what was written there.

  “Clingmans Dome observation tower, 7 p.m. Come alone.”

&nb
sp; She read it twice, then flipped it over for any sign of a signature. There was nothing.

  She turned off the dome light and looked up at Sutton. He was little more than a silhouette against a stormy, darkening sky. “Who sent this?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice rumbled like thunder in the dark.

  “You don’t know?” A shiver skated down her spine. “Are you crazy, coming out here alone to meet someone who sent you an anonymous note? Haven’t you ever heard of an ambush?”

  She could see just enough of his face to make out a wry grin curving Sutton’s lips. “You’re one to talk, Ivy Hawkins, following a heavily armed man deep into the heart of the Smoky Mountains.”

  A flush spread over the back of her neck. “Fair enough. And you’re not the only one heavily armed, by the way.”

  Silence fell between them, brief but tense. Sutton was the one to break it. “How’d you come to follow me, anyway?”

  “I dropped by the Stay and Save to talk to you, but you weren’t there. Then I saw you drive past and—”

  “You decided to traipse along behind me?”

  She shot him a glare. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never traipsed in my life.”

  His lips twitched again. “Didn’t your boss tell you to keep clear of me?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I sent him my itinerary.”

  He lifted his hand to his face. She heard the soft rasp of his palm against his beard stubble as he fell silent for a long beat. Then, just as she was searching for something else to say to break the taut silence, he dropped his hand to his side. His shoulders squared and he bent toward her, his face filling her window. He was so close, she felt his soft exhalation on her cheek, and her heart rate skittered a notch higher.

  “I’m going to Clingmans Dome tonight,” he said quietly. “I need to know who sent me that note and why. And I won’t think any less of you if you turn around right now and head back home.”

  “But?”

  “But I’d rather have backup as not. And since you’re already here and, as you were quick to tell me, heavily armed—”

  “I’ll do it,” she blurted, before her weariness and her native caution had time to make her think better of the idea.

  He nodded, as if he had expected nothing else. “You always did have my back, didn’t you?”

  His words, so soft and intimate, made her shiver with a combination of pleasure and pain. Most of her memories of Sutton Calhoun seemed to be wrapped up in those two emotions.

  “So, what’s the plan?” she asked.

  He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dark. “How long has it been since you did a little hiking in the woods?”

  * * *

  BY THE TIME THEY PARKED both vehicles in the visitor lot where Clingmans Dome Road ended and the paved hiking trail to the observation deck began, a steady light rain had begun falling. Bypassing the road, they crossed into the gloomy woods, Sutton taking the lead. He slowed his pace slightly to accommodate Ivy’s shorter legs, but to her credit, she kept pace without complaining, even though he could tell from the purple shadows lingering like bruises beneath her eyes that she was running on fumes.

  At least she was dressed for the weather, in a weatherproof jacket and sturdy water-resistant boots. She’d lived in the mountains her whole life, too.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured when they took a brief water break halfway to the observation deck. “You look dead on your feet.”

  She swallowed a swig of water. “Thanks.”

  “Did you get any sleep at all last night before you were called to the crime scene?”

  “Some.”

  “What, an hour?”

  She handed the water bottle back to him. “What do you expect to find at the observation deck?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” he admitted. “An ambush, maybe.”

  “And yet you came alone?”

  “Not my brightest idea,” he conceded.

  “But you couldn’t let the mystery lie unsolved?” She sounded as if she understood. Hell, she probably did. She’d become a cop for some reason, after all, and it sure as hell couldn’t be for the good pay, easy hours or accommodating bosses.

  “These murders are connected,” he said flatly.

  “I know.” Her serious expression was oddly endearing. She was so small, so young, so earnest. Had he ever been that earnest in his life?

  “All the signs point to a serial murderer. Do you agree?”

  She wiped the rain out of her eyes, not answering immediately.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s like there’s something important I’m missing, but I don’t yet know what it is.” She looked a little sheepish. “I know that sounds stupid.”

  He shook his head. “No. I get it.”

  “I do think they’re connected, though.”

  He nodded toward the dark mountain rising above them. “Let’s get back on the trail.”

  * * *

  GUNS WEREN’T HIS TOOL of choice. They were too impersonal. Too easy to distance oneself from a target behind the scope of a gun. And almost any person with decent eye-hand coordination could do considerable damage with a gun. Where was the fun in that? But sometimes, a high-powered rifle with a nightscope could be just the tool a man needed.

  The Clingmans Dome observation deck had started clearing out around sunset as darkness and gathering storm clouds swallowed the stunning 360-degree view of the Smoky Mountains and damp night air drove out the mild warmth of the September day. He’d set the meeting deliberately after sunset, not wanting collateral damage to muddy his plan. He hadn’t planned for rain, though he should have. No matter. He’d still have the advantage.

  Of course, the real problem was killing Sutton Calhoun wasn’t actually his plan. Given his own preference, he’d have chosen to let the man live. He liked a challenge, and the company Calhoun worked for was supposedly legendary, from what he’d been told.

  He suspected he would have enjoyed the battle of wits with Calhoun. From what he understood about the man’s past, he came from a shrewd, wily father whose native charm had parted many a man from his hard-earned money. Even if the son had taken a path more straight and narrow, he still had those instincts inside. Instincts that might make him an interesting opponent.

  Seemed a shame to waste such an opportunity for sport, especially as he had an idea how he could use Calhoun’s skills for his own purposes.

  The observation deck remained empty, though according to his watch, seven o’clock had passed several minutes ago. So Calhoun was already living up to his reputation. He hadn’t fallen for the obvious trick.

  Which meant Calhoun was somewhere out there in the woods, sneaking up on the target rather than approaching it head-on. The thought that the investigator had ignored the note he’d left wasn’t even an option. No man in search of answers could have resisted the opportunity presented.

  He put down the binoculars and picked up the night-vision scope he’d brought along for just such a turn of events. Slowly, methodically, he started to scan the stands of spruce, hemlock and fir trees that carpeted Clingmans Dome. Water splashed the scope’s lens, but not enough to eclipse the dead Fraser firs, victims of European aphids, that stood like stark white skeletons, drawing his attention momentarily away from his task. No life in them, their towering majesty reduced to brittle bones by an insect so tiny it could barely be seen at a glance.

  Of course, no aphid had killed a tree alone. It took thousands to accomplish the task. That was the difference between insects and humans.

  One human was capable of many wonderful, horrible things.

  Movement beyond the tree husks caught his attention. Through the night-vision scope, the man moving up the mountain glowed green, an incandes
cent bug waiting to be squashed. But he wasn’t alone. A second figure brought up the rear. Though a jacket hid the contours of her body and a baseball cap hid her features, he was sure the second person was a female.

  He had built-in radar for women.

  So. Two for one, then.

  * * *

  THE TREE BESIDE Ivy splintered, shooting shards of dead fir bark prickling against her cheek. “Ow!” she growled, lifting her hand to her face. She drew back her hand and saw the dark imprint of blood on her fingers, diluted by the rain beading on her cheeks.

  “Get down!” Sutton grabbed her arm and dragged her to the ground, rolling both their bodies sideways until they were hunkered behind a small outcropping of time-worn stone. The ground was wet and loamy beneath her jeans, cold water soaking through the denim with uncomfortable speed.

  “Was that—?”

  “A rifle shot?” he finished for her, his voice as grim as the grave. “Yeah, it definitely was.”

  Great. Just great. Sutton Calhoun had led her smack-dab in the middle of trouble again, just like old times.

  “Well,” she said in a flat drawl, “I reckon we can officially call this an ambush.”

  Chapter Four

  Sutton could see nothing in the gloom up the mountain, but he knew the shooter must be up there somewhere, better prepared for the conditions than he was. As he hunkered behind a large rock outcropping, he looked himself and Ivy over with the quick, practiced eye of a man used to lying low. Both of them had dressed for stealth, whether consciously or by chance. His black jeans, T-shirt and jacket blended in with the darkness so well that he could barely see his own legs.

  Ivy’s dark green uniform jacket nearly disappeared into the trees and underbrush around them, and her jeans were inky with rain, rendering them nearly as hard to see as his own black jeans.

  “How the hell can he see us well enough to get that close with his shot?” Ivy growled, speaking aloud his own silent question.

  “I think he may have a night-vision scope or something,” Sutton whispered. “The darker it gets, the better he’ll be able to see us.”