by Paula Graves
Chapter Fifteen
If there was a truck parked on the side of Old Lumber Mill Road, it wasn’t readily apparent. Sutton pulled his truck onto the shoulder of the road at the mile marker and tried not to panic.
Had Seth screwed up the GPS tracking? He reached for his phone and started to dial Seth’s number when he spotted the flash of white barely visible through a stand of poplar trees just off the road. A light breeze was making the leaves and limbs dance, revealing what looked like the side of a white box truck mostly hidden from view several yards off the shoulder.
Sutton checked the Glock’s ammunition and got out of the truck, trying to move as silently as possible. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet led him quickly off the shoulder and onto the grass beyond. There wasn’t much of a drop-off from the shoulder to the ground, which would have made it easy for the truck to leave the road and move into seclusion.
The ground was a little uneven, complicating his attempt to make a steady approach without risking discovery, but Sutton had spent the first eighteen years of his life exploring the woods and mountains around Bitterwood. Just a mile through these woods was the base of the ridge where he’d lived. Where Ivy had lived as well, in a shabby little two-bedroom bungalow her mother had tried to keep clean and decorated despite their limited resources.
Ivy had bitterly insisted her mother’s industry was more about attracting a man than making a good life for herself and her daughter, but Sutton thought now, with time and distance, that Arlene Hendry had been doing the best she could for her daughter, as well.
From where he now stood, he had a pretty good view of the side of the truck. The back doors stood open, and the box trailer seemed to be rocking.
He crept closer, drawing near enough to confirm that something was happening inside the trailer box. He heard a grunt of pain, faint but unmistakable. It sounded masculine, but it was followed shortly by a sharp, feminine cry.
Heart in his throat, he raced toward the truck.
* * *
UP CLOSE, THE BATTEN was proving to be a poor weapon, but it was doing a creditable job as a shield, helping her deflect Mark Bramlett’s vicious stabs with the hunting knife. Clearheaded and prepared, she was making far better use of her self-defense training, turning her smaller size into an asset as she dodged and ducked, striking sharp, swift blows with her feet and fists to the vulnerable spots on his body.
She saw an opening and struck, whipping the batten through the air and slicing a jagged tear in his left cheek, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled backward into the side of the truck box, she sprang toward the open back door. She almost made it out the doors before Bramlett hit her from behind. Pain exploded in her right shoulder, making her cry out, and they both tumbled out of the truck. Bramlett landed on top of her and bounced off, but the hard contact with the ground robbed Ivy of her chance to run. She gasped for breath, trying to push to her feet. She made it halfway before Bramlett slammed into her again, knocking her into the back wheel of the truck. He pinned her there, raising the knife in a swinging arc.
And then, with shocking suddenness, he was gone.
It took a second for Ivy’s swimming vision to clear enough to take in the violent struggle going on a few feet away from her. Sutton’s broad back flexed as he fought to pin Bramlett’s knife hand to the ground.
Bramlett’s knee came up, aimed between Sutton’s legs. Sutton was able to deflect part of the blow, but Bramlett’s knee continued upward, slamming into Sutton’s gut, eliciting an explosive grunt of pain. His left leg buckled, knocking him off balance, and he tumbled sideways onto the ground, pulling Mark Bramlett with him.
The shift in position gave Bramlett a sudden edge, and he took it, whipping the knife in a slashing arc toward Sutton’s neck.
Ivy launched herself at Bramlett, grabbing his knife hand before it could land the blow. The blade slashed into Sutton’s upper arm, blood blooming red across his torn shirtsleeve, a flesh wound instead of a mortal blow. Ivy clung to Bramlett’s arm as he tried to swing her off, only letting go when his elbow slammed into her solar plexus, making her vision dance with alternating spots of darkness and glittering stars.
She had the terrifying impression of death itself rising up, stinking of the grave, looming over her with deadly intent. The glitter of a blade, a lethal arc slicing through the air.
Then a loud crack and death disintegrated into a crumpled body that landed at her feet, mortally human.
Mark Bramlett’s gray eyes locked with hers. His mouth moved as if he was trying to form words. He had taken a bullet in the lower chest and blood was spreading fast, already drenching the front of his golf shirt.
A few feet away, Sutton still held his Glock in a firing stance, his gaze locked on Bramlett’s body, ready to move if the man made one more move toward Ivy.
But Bramlett wasn’t going anywhere. He was bleeding out, fast. There would be no way to get medical help here in time to save him.
“Who hired you?” Ivy found her breath and crawled toward him on her hands and knees. With the side of her hand, she swept away the knife he’d dropped, knocking it out of reach.
The sound of running footsteps behind them drew her attention away from Bramlett for a moment. She saw Seth Hammond jog to a halt a few feet away from where Bramlett lay. His green eyes were wide with dismay at the sight of Bramlett’s bleeding body.
He pushed past Sutton, who put out a hand to stop him, and crouched next to Ivy, his attention focused solely on Mark Bramlett. “Why her?”
Ivy grabbed Seth’s arm, tugging him away. “Get out of my crime scene.”
“He targeted Rachel Davenport,” Seth snapped. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. I want to know why.”
“I want to know who,” Ivy shot back, turning to look at the dying man. “Who hired you, Bramlett?”
Bramlett’s mouth stretched into a horrible grin. Blood bubbled on his lips as he gasped for breath. “He’s right. It’s all about the girl.”
His voice faded into a guttural rattle, and blood filled his mouth, spilling down his chin and onto the ground. His eyes twitched for a second, then went dead, his eyelids sliding half-shut.
“Son of a bitch!” Seth growled, lurching forward as if to grab the body by the shoulders. Sutton wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug and pulled him away.
Ivy felt for a carotid pulse. It was silent.
She looked up at Sutton, who still held Seth away from the body, and shook her head.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She hurt all over, especially on the back of her right shoulder, where a wet spot was forming, suggesting that at least one of Bramlett’s knife blows had hit its mark. “I think he got me in the back, but I’m okay.”
“Stay put,” Sutton warned Seth and let the other man go, hurrying over to Ivy’s side. He examined her shoulder, plucking at the wet fabric. “Are all the muscles and tendons moving okay?”
She tried rolling her shoulder. It hurt, but everything seemed to work the way it was supposed to. “How about your arm?”
“Flesh wound,” he answered shortly. “Your head is bloody.”
“He banged my head into the underside of the truck to subdue me at first,” she said flatly. “I didn’t lose consciousness.” Not fully, anyway. “It’s stopped bleeding, hasn’t it?”
“You shouldn’t have killed him,” Seth muttered.
Sutton’s head whipped around to look at the other man. “If I hadn’t, he’d have killed Ivy.”
“You heard him. It’s all about Rachel Davenport.” Seth sounded oddly desperate. “He knew who’s targeting her.”
Ivy couldn’t argue with Seth. She was pretty sure Rachel Davenport had been the target all along. Someone had hired Bramlett to kill people around her rather than kill her outright. But what had been the po
int? What were they trying to do, rip away her friends and support system? To what end? Even though she now knew the identity of the killer, knew that someone had hired him to commit the murders, and even knew that it was all about Rachel Davenport, she was as frustrated as ever.
“What’s it to you?” Sutton asked suspiciously.
Seth’s expression shifted into neutral. “I work for Davenport Trucking. What happens to the people there affects me.”
Not even Seth looked as if he could sell that load of bull, but Ivy didn’t see the point of pushing him. There was too much else to take care of. “We’ve got to call in backup.”
“I got hold of Antoine Parsons on my way here.” Seth rose and walked a few feet away. “He should be here any minute.”
Ivy’s legs had begun to tremble. She sat down with her back pressed against the truck tire, looking away from Bramlett’s body to lock gazes with Sutton. He stared back at her, his eyes burning like coals. The intensity of his gaze scorched through her until she had to look away to catch her breath.
Distant sirens wafted in on the soft midday breeze. The cavalry was on the way, Ivy thought, closing her eyes and resting her head against the tire. Pain throbbed in her scalp, reminding her of her head wound, as well.
“Ivy?” Sutton’s voice was sharp with alarm.
“Just resting my eyes,” she said, forcing her heavy lids open.
He was crouched closer than she expected, filling her view. He blocked out everything else, and she realized with weary bemusement that he’d been doing so ever since he walked back into her life a few days ago. She’d been consumed by him, even when she was working her case. She’d let him get under her skin again, against all good sense, and she had a feeling she’d be paying for that mistake for the rest of her life.
Because he still had one foot out of town, especially now that the case he’d come to investigate had more or less been solved.
It wouldn’t be long before the rest of him followed.
* * *
“ALL DONE.” THE E.R. doctor stitching the cut on Sutton’s upper arm was young, female and impossibly cheery. Antoine had convinced Ivy to let an ambulance take her to River Bend Medical Center in Knoxville. Sutton had followed in his truck, but since nobody in the emergency department would let him see Ivy until they’d finished examining her, he had given in and let them patch up his wound while he waited.
Seth had disappeared at some point before the police arrived. Sutton supposed he hadn’t wanted any unnecessary encounters with the law. He was curious about the other man’s reaction to Mark Bramlett’s death—Seth had looked downright distraught when he realized Bramlett wouldn’t be able to answer any of his questions about Rachel Davenport.
What the hell was going on there? Sutton doubted Rachel Davenport even knew who Seth Hammond was. He was just some guy who worked in the fleet garage. If she ran into him more than once or twice a week, it would probably be a fluke. So why did he care who had hired Bramlett to kill the people around her? Was it simply because someone had tried to hire Seth to do it himself?
Another mystery, he thought, his lips curving slightly as the doctor finished applying a bandage over his stitches. Another excuse to stick around Bitterwood a little bit longer.
Maybe even for good.
His cell phone rang, drawing a furrowed brow from the doctor. “We really don’t want people using their cells in the examining area.”
He looked at the display. Jesse Cooper. He’d already missed three calls from his boss. What was one more? He pocketed the phone and smiled at the doctor, who smiled back with approval. “I can go now?”
“Follow up with your own doctor in a few days.”
He left the small emergency bay and went looking for Ivy. A nurse shooed him back out to the waiting area, where he ran into Antoine.
“Have you seen her yet?” he asked as Sutton sat down in the chair beside him and pulled out his phone.
“Not yet. Should we worry that it’s taking so long?”
“I don’t know.” Antoine’s brow furrowed deeply. “She said she didn’t lose consciousness, but no way in hell Bramlett hustles her into the truck without a fight unless she was at least a little woozy.”
That was Sutton’s worry, as well. Head wounds were unpredictable. Little bumps on the head could lead to lethal brain bleeds. To distract himself from his worry, he asked, “Anything new on Bramlett’s motives?”
While Sutton had been undergoing questions from the police before he’d been released to seek treatment for his arm, nobody in the Bitterwood Police Department had seemed willing to speculate about why a friendly, seemingly good-natured businessman had decided to take a contract killing job and pursue it with such apparent zest. In fact, based on some of the early hostility he’d faced until all the facts settled into place, it seemed the police were more inclined to see him as the suspect and Bramlett as the victim.
“I got an interesting report from the Nashville police right before I got the call about Ivy’s abduction,” Antoine told him, lowering his voice. Sutton supposed that, technically, Antoine shouldn’t be sharing information with a civilian. But Sutton didn’t feel like just any old civilian. He’d come close to losing Ivy at the point of Mark Bramlett’s knife. He wanted to know how he’d hidden his murderous side so long.
“Interesting how?” he asked.
“Until last year, the Nashville P.D. was looking for a serial killer who’d been killing women in their own homes. They think the killer stalked his victims, figured out when they’d be alone at night and attacked when they had been asleep in bed for a few hours.”
“Let me guess. Bramlett spent some time in Nashville.”
“Lived there until his uncle died and left him the nursery here in Bitterwood. He moved here a year ago—”
“And the Nashville murders stopped?”
“Looks that way. Nashville thinks they may be able to match his DNA if Bramlett’s their killer. I’ve already arranged for TBI to handle the evidence transfer.”
“These murders here in Bitterwood weren’t random serial killings,” Sutton said firmly. “Whoever paid Bramlett to kill those women may have lucked into a bona fide serial killer as a hired gun, but those women are dead for a specific reason, and Ivy and I both think it has something to do with Rachel Davenport.”
Antoine looked thoughtful but didn’t respond, and a moment later, Sutton’s cell phone rang, dragging his attention away. It was Jesse Cooper, calling back. With a frown, he got up and went to an empty corner of the waiting room to answer. “Calhoun.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Jesse asked, dispensing with polite greetings. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”
“I was closing a case,” Sutton answered drily. “Something up?”
“Emergency case in northern Iraq. Four employees of Campelli Construction working on projects in the Kurdish region have been taken hostage in a standoff between the Turkish military and the Kongra-Gel rebels. You’re one of our only operatives who speak both Turkish and Kurdish. We need you on the ground helping out with negotiations so we can end this without losing any Campelli employees.”
“How soon?” Sutton’s heart sank.
“We’re sending the chopper up to Bitterwood to get you. Should be there within an hour. Delilah’s aboard—she’ll take over your case.”
“I’m in Knoxville,” he said bleakly, “and our part of the case is closed. We know who killed April Billings.” He caught Jesse up as tersely as possible, his stomach aching with dismay.
How could he leave here in a matter of hours? He had so much he hadn’t had a chance to say to Ivy, so much he wanted to ask her. To offer her. Hell, he couldn’t even be sure she’d be through in the E.R. before he had to go.
“You’ll have to go back to Bitterwood to get your things
, I guess. Can you get there and get packed up within an hour?” Jesse asked. “J.D.’s going to set the chopper down at some place called Hardy’s Field. Said it’s in the valley near the lumberyard?”
“I know it,” Sutton said, wanting off the phone now. He needed to talk to Ivy before he left. He had to make her see that this time, he wasn’t abandoning her again. He would be back. Nothing short of death itself would keep him from coming back to her.
“Delilah can do the follow-up with Billings and close out the case,” Jesse said. “You better get a move on. You’ve got to make a flight out of Atlanta to JFK in four hours.”
“I need more than an hour,” he told Jesse. “My father’s in the hospital—I can’t leave without seeing him. And I need to check on the cop who got injured—”
“Okay, two hours. That’s the best I can do. You’ve got a limited amount of time to get on that plane to JFK.”
“Fine. Two hours. I’ll make it work.”
“Problems?” Antoine was walking back to his chair as Sutton returned. He had two cups of coffee and handed one to Sutton.
“I have to leave for Atlanta by chopper in two hours. I’ve got to see both my father and Ivy before I go. Any word on her?”
“I checked while you were on the phone. Last word is that she’s been sent for a CAT scan.”
Sutton’s heart dropped. “They think her head injury is that bad?”
“I get the feeling it’s mainly a precaution. But she could be here at least another hour, best-case scenario.” Antoine looked apologetic. “You really have to go so quickly?”
“The job requires my skill set,” he answered vaguely. “Any way to get me in to see her before I have to leave?”
“Captain Rayburn himself is waiting to see her, swinging his shield around like a great big—” Antoine flashed a brief but wicked grin. “Anyway, if nobody’s letting him in, they’re not going to let you in, either.”
