Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  He was finishing his first cup of coffee when the security buzzer rang. He gave Colleen the entry code and poured a second cup into a travel mug. After a leisurely dinner and a second beer last night, he’d taken Colleen home. She hadn’t invited him in, and he hadn’t pushed, but the kiss she’d shared with him at her front door had lingered with him most of the night. He’d made a huge batch of chicken soup, worked on his Harley, and tried to distract himself with some whiskey and channel surfing before he crawled into bed. The clock had inched from three-thirty to five before he’d finally managed to reach a state of something he’d consider sleep.

  Come to think of it, he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since he’d met Colleen.

  The doorbell rang, and he screwed down the top of his mug as he walked to answer it. Colleen stood in his entryway, her red hair ponytailed through a baseball cap. Wearing jeans and a thin blue T-shirt, she had a plaid shirt slung over one arm. Instead of her usual sneakers, she wore light hiking boots. The straps of her backpack strained the fabric of her tee and he could make out her stiffening nipples. He tried to avoid thinking of what he wanted to do to them and managed to tone his grin down to a casual smile.

  “Hi. Want some coffee? Black and sweet, right? I’ve got an extra travel mug.”

  “Sure.”

  “Mind if we take my car? You can do the GPS thing and I’m more familiar with the area.”

  She took the mug he offered and her dimple peeked out at him. “I printed the maps. We need to end up somewhere north of Highway 46 and east of 95.”

  They walked around to the back parking area and Graham smiled as she waited for him to unlock the passenger door. Damn, he wanted to kiss her. He walked around to his side, and she had pulled a small stack of papers from her pack by the time he got there.

  He took the computer printouts. She’d circled an area that appeared to be in the middle of almost nowhere. “Looks like this might be birdwatcher heaven,” he said. “At least it doesn’t look developed.” He handed her the papers. “Got your magic GPS?”

  She bent down to the backpack at her feet and pulled it out. “Roger that, Deputy.” When they reached the road, Colleen reached for the radio knob. “Can we have some music?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She punched the buttons and settled on a rock station. He had hoped they could talk, but he’d wait. Especially since he wasn’t sure what he should be talking about. Last night, she’d admitted she needed help and was taking the first steps. Her breakdown still hung like a curtain between them, but rays of light were beginning to penetrate.

  He steered onto Interstate 4 and headed toward Sanford. “This might not be the most scenic route, but there aren’t any tolls,” he said. “And on Sunday, it will be quick.”

  After about half an hour, he exited onto State Road 46. Within minutes, they were passing fields, swamps and open space. Horses and cows grazed nearby.

  “I didn’t expect to see cows and horses in Florida,” she said. “Alligators maybe.”

  “The gators don’t usually come too near the sides of the road. Not here, anyway. But keep your eyes peeled. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of dead armadillos, possums, and maybe a raccoon or two.”

  “Great.” Her tone said the opposite. “I think I’ll look for birds instead. I prefer the live critters.”

  “If you want, we can hit the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge afterward. It’s a nice drive and you should see more natural habitat.” What the hell. Might as well go for broke. “You like rock shrimp?”

  “Never heard of them. Do they live in the refuge?”

  He chuckled. “No. You eat them. Little guys. Hard shells. They taste like lobster.” Her eyes lit up and he got a flash of dimple.

  “I’m game,” she said.

  “It’s a plan. The refuge, then Dixie Crossroads for dinner.”

  The weather was pleasant, but smoke hung thick in the air, so he rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioner. “How far are we from your spot?” he asked.

  She consulted her GPS and then the map. “Maybe fifteen, twenty miles? The smoke is getting heavier, though. The brush fires?”

  “Let me check the maps again.” He pulled off the road and looked at her printouts. “Smoke carries because the state is so flat,” he said. “I thought the brush fires were out, but we should keep an eye on it. These things can jump and spread like … well, like wildfire.”

  “You have such a way with words.”

  “Hey, even clichés are based on facts, or they wouldn’t have survived.”

  “I thought you Irish were full of poetic eloquence.”

  The way her head snapped back toward the window told him she’d gone farther into personal territory than she’d wanted to.

  He put his hand on her thigh. “Did the poems bother you?”

  “No. No, they were beautiful. I guess I wondered why you sent them. I can’t say I’m used to getting poems. And I didn’t peg you as the poetic type.”

  He turned off the ignition. She faced him, but leaned back against the door, a wary expression on her face.

  “My grandfather loved poetry. When we were kids, we’d visit him in Ireland. He’d read poetry after supper every night. I didn’t grasp the meaning of the poems, but I saw the way my grandmother’s eyes lit up. There was something magic there. I can’t memorize it, or recite it worth a damn, but just opening one of his books takes me back “

  Some of the wariness left her face. She chewed on her lower lip. “You don’t send them to all your women?”

  While he tried to think of the right words, she continued. “I know that look. You’re going to pull one of those Celt to Celt moments, aren’t you?”

  His hands were sweating and he wiped them on his jeans. He was balancing on a narrow fence again. “I don’t know how to talk to you, Colleen. I don’t know what to say, which scares the hell out of me. Talking to women has never been a problem for me. But I think deep down inside, I never cared what the women thought about my words. With you, I do. And I didn’t have the words myself, so I borrowed them from Yeats. He was my grandfather’s favorite.”

  “You mean you don’t send those poems after all your dates?”

  “Colleen, on my honor. You are bringing out firsts in me. I would never have dreamed I’d take a woman sparring, or send her poetry.” He didn’t think he should mention spending a platonic night next to a woman he desired more than any he’d ever met. He sensed her struggling to decide if she should speak.

  “Go on,” he said. “Celt to Celt means honesty. What are you thinking?”

  She blushed and ducked her head. “I’m too new at this. My dating experience has been more … casual, I guess you’d say. And you’re seeing inside places I’m not sure I’m ready to let anyone see. Me included.”

  “If I told you it was the same for me, would you believe it?”

  “That’s what’s so hard. I know what I feel, but I can’t imagine someone like you wanting—caring about—someone like me. I’m afraid if I let you get close, you’ll end up realizing you prefer your usual women and I’ll be alone.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d ever again be able to enjoy the company of one of his “usual” women, as she put it. Sitting in the car with her satisfied him more than any of his other encounters. “I can’t imagine going back to that kind of relationship.” He leaned across the seat and stroked her cheek, let his fingers move down her neck. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, but before he could do more, she jerked upright.

  “Please. Not yet. I’m sorry,” she said.

  He drew away. She felt something, even if she wasn’t sure how to deal with her feelings. Give her time and she’d let him in. Wouldn’t she?

  “You’re right. My fault. Let’s go.” He started the car and eased back onto the near empty highway.

  Twenty minutes later, Colleen said, “Slow down. I think we’ll need to turn off the road about a mile up ahead.”

  “Whic
h way?” he asked. “It’s starting to look pretty smoky.”

  “I thought you said the fires weren’t around here.”

  “That’s what I got from the news, but who knows? This one might be new, or they might not have reported every place affected, especially since there aren’t any homes around here.”

  When she told him to stop, he parked the Jeep on the shoulder of the road. “We’re in the vicinity of the first set of coordinates,” she said. “There’s some sort of a sign back there. I’m going to check it out.” She had opened the car door, grabbed her pack and was walking down a dirt road away from the highway before he had a chance to stop her.

  “Wait up,” he called. The billowing smoke made him decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Look!” she shouted. He jogged to where she was standing, about fifty yards from the highway. A large sign, charred and obscured by soot, proclaimed the area to be the future site of Crystal Shores, a Gravely Enterprises development.

  His pulse quickened. Could this be the Jeffrey-Gravely connection he’d been looking for? Take it slow.

  “Looks like Gravely’s having some fire troubles,” Colleen said.

  “Might save him some money with land clearing.” He evaluated the terrain. A lot of swampland, with scrub oaks, palmettos and cypress trees. He wondered how much of the property belonged to Gravely, if any. And how he planned to use it. Or was it some scam? Selling swampland in Florida was nothing new, but you’d think people would have learned by now.

  “I’m going to check out the coordinates.” She started walking across the terrain, leaving the dirt road and watching her GPS.

  He stayed at her side, looking at smoldering scrubland. “I don’t think we need to see exactly where Jeffrey found whatever he found.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure, Harrigan? For all we know, there’s buried treasure out here.” She flashed him one of those dimple-revealing grins, and he let her lead the way. “This is it,” she announced.

  “I don’t see any treasure.” About five yards away, a burned out tree and pile of branches lay smoldering. She darted off.

  “Shit, Colleen. Take it easy. These things can spark up.”

  “I’ve dealt with fires, Harrigan. Oregon has forests, you know. Real ones.”

  “Poisonous snakes too? There could be rattlers or cottonmouths around here.”

  “I’m no greenhorn in the woods. But thanks for the warning.” She dropped her pack from her shoulders and dug inside.

  “What are you doing?” He started after her again.

  “Getting my camera. Look. This tree has been cut. The fire didn’t burn it down.”

  He gazed around. “It looks like lots of trees have been cut down. Probably part of the land clearing.” Her single-mindedness captivated him. She crouched, snapped pictures, and picked up some of the charred branches.

  “There seem to be an awful lot of branches, and they don’t look like they all came from these trees.” She straightened and turned around slowly before looking at him.

  “So maybe this place was used as a dumping site for other construction,” he said. “Who knows?”

  “I don’t know much about burn patterns, but it seems like there are too many holes. You know, it’s not like the fire started in one place and moved through. More like lots of pockets of fire.” She looked at her GPS again and started walking.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Humor me for a minute, okay? This spot seems to have a lot of serious fire damage. I want to see what it looks like at the other two coordinates.”

  “Let me get the Jeep. We can get there faster.” And have a faster way out if something flares up, or worse. His senses went on full alert, as if he were approaching a stopped vehicle on a dark stretch of road. Nonsense. He was in the middle of nowhere, and what cover there might have been had burned to the ground. Nobody could sneak up on them. Maybe a gator, but hardly likely. He headed for the Jeep at a quick jog.

  She’d covered a good hundred yards by the time he caught up to her. At least the open terrain made her easy to spot, especially with her red hair bouncing as she walked.

  “Get in,” he said. She seemed fearless, or unaware of any danger. Well, this was about as far away from a domestic as you could get, so he figured he was seeing the normal Colleen. He liked it. She climbed in and pointed off to the left.

  “Look. See over there? More fire damage and I’ll bet that’s where X marks the spot.”

  “I’m not touching that bet. But what does it mean?”

  “How the hell should I know? You’re the detective. Temporary-but-official, but it’s still your case.”

  “My case? All I was doing was making sure Jeffrey Walters wasn’t lying dead in his bathroom. How can we know this has anything to do with my little case?”

  “We can’t. But let’s lay everything out.” She was animated, eyes sparkling, and he was aroused as hell.

  “Can we do this back on the road? Go somewhere and think it through logically?”

  Colleen paged through the maps. “The last site isn’t far. We’ve come this far—let’s check out all three.”

  He couldn’t come up with a reason to deny her. Besides, he wondered what another fire spot would mean. The third set of coordinates was about ten minutes away and fire had done extensive damage there as well.

  “Okay, Harrigan,” she said. “What do we have?”

  “Three locations in a bird book. Easiest answer is Jeffrey spotted some birds at these locations and marked them.”

  “But why didn’t he write down the species? Or hook up the longitudes and latitudes? The other sets of numbers were near the front of the book.”

  “He was trying to keep his findings a secret?”

  “But there’s no need. Birders aren’t like that.”

  “You think Jeffrey started the fires?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing makes sense. Why start pockets of fire?”

  “Maybe those are the places where they needed to do the most clearing, or that would have been the most expensive. I think we’re stretching things here.” He thought for a minute. “But you did make one good point.” He reached for his phone, scrolling through his programmed numbers.

  “Who are you calling?” she asked.

  “The Fire Marshals. If someone did start these fires, they should be able to tell.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  On Wednesday, Graham ignored the detectives passing his desk as they headed home. Colleen had taken a part-time job, and working late kept his mind off her—a little.

  Schaeffer leaned over the edge of the cubicle. “My office.”

  Butterflies flapped around Graham’s stomach. Reminding himself these meetings were routine, he followed Schaeffer.

  Schaeffer crossed the room and sat behind his desk. “Close the door.” His tone drained all moisture from Graham’s mouth and sent it to his palms. Schaeffer picked up a file folder. “Your last report.”

  Graham waited, puzzled. He’d sweated over every single word—every single letter.

  Schaeffer frowned. “Not what I’d expected.”

  “Sir? I’ve been meaning to take a typing class, but I’ve been busy with this case.”

  “It’s not the typing.” Schaeffer handed him the folder. “Calling one’s fellow officers—one’s superior officers, I might add—inept and inefficient is not exactly appropriate for a report which will be read by those same officers. Nor is including a rather off-color joke about law enforcement officials. This ninety-day cross training assignment can be terminated any time I say so.”

  Graham perused the page. His jaw gaped, and he blinked. Hard. “Sir, I never wrote this. I swear. I don’t know if this is some kind of a joke.” He looked at Schaeffer, hoping to see a glint in his eye that meant he’d been set up. Nothing. Deep brown, almost black, Schaeffer’s eyes were dead serious. “I’m sure I have the correct version in my computer. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Ten minutes, Har
rigan.”

  He rushed back to his computer and entered his log on information. “Access Denied,” proclaimed the screen. “Damn it, I have access,” he shouted to the empty room. Eight minutes. He called IT. When a tech picked up the line, Graham kept his tone pleasant. Pissing off the people who could help you was never a wise move, no matter how irritated you were.

  “I’ve got a computer that’s denying access,” Graham said. “It’s done it before.”

  He answered her questions, searching his folders for hard copies of the reports. Damn, they had to be in here. Or had he taken them home to study, hoping answers would appear if he stared at them hard enough?

  “I show you logged on, Detective.”

  “Well, I’m sitting here in CID staring at a screen that clearly says I’m not. Can you check again?”

  “CID? No, you’re downstairs in workroom three at terminal TC-2374. You need to log out of that one before you can access from another unit.”

  He bit off his reply. “Thanks.” He slammed down the receiver and took the stairs two at a time. In the workroom, four uniforms sat at terminals. Others were plugged into docking stations, working from their laptops.

  “Harrigan. Come slumming, have you? How’s CID?”

  Graham followed the voice to a uniform he’d worked with on Patrol. “Not bad, Fisher. Thought I’d do a little detecting down here.” He wandered down the row of tables, checking terminal ID numbers until he found the one he was looking for. The screen was dark, but the computer hummed. He pressed a key and the Sheriff’s Office logo popped up. Along with his name.

  “You know who was using this machine?” he asked.

  Fisher shook his head. “People have been in and out.”

  “Uniforms? Detectives? Anyone unusual?”

  “Shit, Harrigan, you’re the detective. I’m trying to get my work done. Yeah, maybe some plainclothes stopped in. I wasn’t paying attention.”