Hell on the Heart

by Nancy Brophy

  She arranged her evidence in the backseat of her Jeep.

  “What the hell?” Cezi turned to see Andrej, her cousin, bearing down on her like an avenging angel. “Where are you going?”

  “To the lab.” As usual her cousins believed they were in charge.

  “You’ve caused enough problems already. Go home. Stay home.” He folded his arms across his chest. If he’d been bald, he would have doubled for Mr. Clean.

  Cezi bunched her fists and placed them on her hips. “The lab’s safe. Probably safer than here.”

  “The lab’s more important than your family?” Of course, he went for guilt, the cornerstone of family discipline. For once, she wasn’t buying it.

  “Finding who is hunting us is more important than hiding.” Without waiting for a reply, she leapt into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear.

  Downtown Dillo Creek was coming to life. Artificial smoke rings rose from the neon pink ten-foot-high armadillo above the diner as he rocked back and forth while puffing on a fat cigar.

  Before she followed her usual procedure of driving past, it occurred to her that at six-thirty in the morning the diner was deserted. Safe enough for her to grab breakfast to go. She pulled into a diagonal parking spot and headed inside.

  “You oughta fire her ass,” the older waitress hollered to the empty room as Cezi opened the door.

  A voice from the kitchen yelled back, “I’ve sent Patty over to wake her up.”

  “Well, I can’t handle this crowd by myself.”

  Cezi glanced around the empty room.

  “Sit anywhere,” the waitress gestured to the numerous tables.

  “Order to go.”

  The waitress eyed her. “Know what you want?”

  “Breakfast special and a large coffee.”

  “Some coffee while you wait? You look tuckered out. Hard night?”

  “Yeah to both.” Cezi sank onto a counter stool. The waitress shoved a cup coffee and cream in her direction. The rich aroma of the coffee caused her stomach to growl. Bacon sizzled and popped on the griddle. The odor drifted through the pass-window of the kitchen, her mouth watered, imagining the taste.

  The bell above the door jangled as early customers drifted in for breakfast. Cezi concentrated on her coffee, ignoring the newcomers.

  “Order up.” A white Styrofoam box appeared in the window. Cezi chugged the last of her coffee and dug in her pocket to pay for the bill.

  The bell pealed again, but was drowned out by a woman screaming, “Oh my God! Lyndsay’s apartment is covered in blood.”

  The waitress pushed the food at Cezi and rushed to the woman’s side. “Did you call Carl or Bobby Joe?”

  “They’re both out fishing. Neither answered their cell phones.”

  Wasn’t that just like the Sheriff’s office? If John was here, he’d kick their asses into shape. Her stomach fluttered. She had it bad if the thought of him sent her into tremors.

  The waitresses hugged each other.

  Do not get involved. Do not get involved. Oh, hell. It couldn’t be coincidence. She had to see. “Can you take me there?”

  Both women stared. “You’re the PI, aren’t you?” the older one finally asked. When Cezi nodded, Patty, the one who’d been sent over to wake the missing girl, wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I’m not going back there.”

  Cezi focused her attention on the cashier.

  The woman pursed her lips as she looked around the room. “I can’t leave, but I can give you the address.”

  Cezi took the scribbled note, headed out the door and leaped into her vehicle.

  The second-floor apartment was surprisingly well ordered. Neither the living room nor the bedroom gave any indication of anything out of line. With camera in hand Cezi took several photographs from the door before entering.

  Blood pooled, coagulated but not completely dry on the farmhouse kitchen table and the surrounding floor. White cotton ropes knotted in a figure eight pattern connected to the sturdy table legs and lay soaking in the blackening spatters. Splotched red dribbles decorated the nearest wall.

  A busy circle of flies drew her attention to the two bloody shoe prints by the sink. Would they match the ones she’d found earlier? Cezi snapped on her gloves and began photographing in earnest.

  Diluted pink worm tracks in the sink indicated the attacker had washed up, but the lack of blood in the living room or outside told the story of a moved body wrapped to protect it. Neighbors might have seen or heard a detail easily dismissed that would give them a time frame.

  Angry voices erupted outside. Great! All she needed was a bunch of locals mucking up the scene. Footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors.

  “Put your hands where I can see them.” Cezi rose. Two deputies snarled, their guns drawn. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The donut brigade had decided to come in from the lake.

  Both wore jammers and printed floral shirts. Neither wore gloves and Bobby Joe had one untied sock-less sneaker in the blood.

  “This is a crime scene investigation.”

  “One that you’re contaminating.” She pointed at Bobby Joe’s shoe. With an insolent smirk, Bobby Joe lifted his foot and drug it across the floor leaving a blood smear that further destroyed the scene.

  “Get out before we arrest you.”

  Cezi bit back her words of defiance. Normally, she wouldn’t care if the deputies wanted to waste their time hauling her ass off to jail. Her father would bail her out. But not today. Not while the family focused their concern on Rolf.

  Seeing no other alternative, Cezi snatched up her tools not even bothering to repack out of fear the deputies would impound her photos.

  Neither asked. What a bunch of yokels. She knew more than either of them and they’d had professional training.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fort Worth

  Stillwater turned the pages of the Fort Worth Star Telegram as he lounged on the hotel lobby sofa. He’d already skimmed the newspaper twice. Uniformed as an employee, D’Sean dusted the lobby for at least the fifth time and was now reduced to polishing each green apple pyramided in a bowl.

  While John’s team remained on alert outside, FBI agents patrolled every landing site in the Fort Worth-Dallas area checking for private aircraft.

  Behind closed floor-to-ceiling doors sat fifty-seven men and woman looking for the adventure of a lifetime, according to the Craig’s list ad. Among them were two federal agents, one male, one female. Both had been carefully chosen for their youthful appearance.

  Where were these guys? The group interview was scheduled to begin thirty minutes ago. Mentally he retraced the preparations. If the unsubs weren’t coming, what had tipped them off?

  The mic in his ear clicked. “Anything?” Ciggy’s voice asked from the FBI surveillance van.

  Stillwater rattled the pages. “No.” D’Sean, followed by each of the agents inside, all joined with the same response.

  The door to the conference room opened and a couple of young women exited. Three more followed. Another voice added, “The group’s breaking up.”

  “What’s our next step?”

  All John knew for sure was that this was the second day Czigany hadn’t responded to his texts or calls. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach bubbled like an overheated caldron.

  How was Cain always one step ahead? Who or what alerted them?

  Annoyed John punched the phone number one more time and listened as the call went straight to voice mail. Where was she? Before he could hang up, his mic beeped.

  “We’ve located the landing strip. Plane took off early this morning.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Nope, but there’s fresh blood at the scene.”

  He was halfway out of his chair, before the last words were uttered. “Let’s roll.”

  # # #

  John followed the SUV, grateful for the FBI’s help. The unmanned landing strip would have been impossible to find without
some local knowledge. The private airstrip had been designed for homeowners of million-dollar-plus homes situated around a small lake and golf course.

  Cain’s setup wouldn’t be regarded as out of place. A few lines of BS about engine problems and they’d be welcomed with open arms.

  Roll that Limo on out here.

  His luck continued to run true to form. No one had seen a thing. Witnesses were non-existent. Sooner or later Cain’s karma would fail him. Maybe it already had. Was that his blood? Or one of the women? What made them leave without following through on the group interview?

  While the other agents took blood samples and hunted for witnesses, John expanded the search into the surrounding fields, looking for any hint of his next move or a clue as to a new direction.

  The deep green grass testified to meticulous landscapers, intensive watering and numerous chemicals. No doubt poisoning the water supply. His ancestors would have seen it as a crime against the environment.

  At the top of a crest, he surveyed the scene, closed his eyes and captured the image in his mind. He rotated ninety degrees and repeated his action. He continued in that manner until he made three complete rotations.

  The wind brushed his face. He closed his eyes and drew the earth through the soles of his feet until he was one with his surroundings. Smoky darkness swirled. Shapes formed, like a screen of pixels aligned themselves until Czigany’s face dominated by deep dimples, came into sharp focus.

  He inhaled sharply, caught off guard by her appearance. The twist in his gut told him she and Cain were inexplicably linked. The situation was an itch under John’s skin - one that scratching wouldn’t abate.

  But Cezi wasn’t the only visitor in his vision. Another woman held her hand. He shifted his focus to the second woman. His sister, Dyami’s features were blurred but recognizable. Frozen in time, she remained as she’d looked before her death.

  Sorrow washed over him. He’d been too late to save his sister. Her presence now, did not bode well for Cezi. Was Dyami her guide to the after world?

  He opened his eyes and watched as an eagle feather floated to the earth in front of him. The feather was tinged with blood.

  Czigany Romney needed him.

  # # #

  Mexico

  “Fix this.” Despite the heavy accent, the words thundering through the phone lines were clearly enough stated.

  Adam listened carefully. “Fix what?” A gush of Farsi followed until the Sheikh finally took a breath.

  “In English.” Adam clenched his jaw and yanked his eyebrow hair. The pain reminded him to control his anger.

  The Shiekh did not control his. “American agents with their questions, questions, questions. Outside my house. Outside my business. Talking, talking, talking.”

  “About?”

  “The girls. American girls. Were they here? How did they arrive? Did they have papers?”

  Adam’s temper reared, but he wrestled with his tone, eager not to antagonize one of his best buyers. His teeth and jaw ached from wanting to bellow. He wasn’t talking to a local peasant without power. How had this situation become his problem? “Make the local officials move them along.”

  Another long torrent of words followed and Adam finally understood the real crux of the problem. It wasn’t the verbal harassment that had his client worried.

  Oil field sabotage had shut down production, banking glitches threatened his cash supply and whispers of secret American dealings made him suspect in the local community.

  If this continued, Adam’s foreign contacts would roll over on him. Some how he had to figure out a way to call off the ‘American jackals.’

  Adam’s cell rang. Why would this call be any different from the two he’d already received? While warning bells sounded in his head, he spoke what he hoped were soothing words. What had happened to tip off the Feds? Chicago? Grant’s Pass? Armadillo Creek?

  Change was in order. New faces, new plan. Time to clean house.

  Adam paced the floor. In two days seven or eight fresh-faced American girls would arrive. Should he abort the mission? He stared through the window to the garden three stories below.

  Finally, he picked up the phone and pressed a number. Manuel, his major domo answered with his usual efficiency. “Round up the staff. We have a job to do.”

  “Si, Senor.”

  # # #

  Armadillo Creek

  Summer was a busy time on the lake. Motorboats, jet skies and the like roared up and down the water from early morning until dusk. It was such a familiar sound, that most of the gypsies tuned it out.

  When the whop, whop, whop of helicopter blades cracked the air overhead, the hair on the back of Nicholae’s neck rose. He ran to the nearest door, skirting clusters of people packed into the crowded room. The military Blackhawk crossed the lake headed toward the compound at an alarming speed.

  Rolf was going to pull through, but the family was a long way from out of danger. Nicholae’s eyes sought Luca’s over the crowded, silent room and gave the sign. Shallowtail Hollow was under siege.

  Luca summoned his sons with a flick of his wrist. “Arm yourselves.” To his wife, he said, “Keep our women and children inside.”

  Nicholae hunted the room for Cezi. A large cluster of women sat near the kitchen. “Where’s my daughter?”

  Several pairs of eyes looked at Nadya, causing him to raise an eyebrow. Nadya’s black hair was coiled into a severe braid that circled the top of her head. Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she sent him a sultry smile. To deflect him? This wasn’t a coy game.

  “I sent her away.” An edge of defiance crept into her tone as she waved her hand wildly to demonstrate Cezi’s back and forth actions. “She was making everybody crazy with her pacing.”

  Nicholae refused her a smile of redemption, well aware of Nadya’s failure to mask her disdain of his daughter. “You take too much on yourself. Cezi is a grown woman and does not need you to parent her.”

  Nadya tossed her head. “She is unmarried and as such is considered a child.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a grim smirk on Lyuba’s face. Any comment made now would result in infighting among the women and he didn’t have time to argue, mediate or cajole. Cezi would maneuver to be in the midst of the action and he cared only about ensuring her safety.

  Grabbing an Uzi from the previous night’s action, he headed toward the door. Before he darted outside, he tossed a warning over his shoulder at the group of women. “Remain inside.” Unlike his daughter others were prepared to follow his direction.

  The Blackhawk circled ominously overhead, dipping precariously low at times, then turned toward the flat pasture. Nicholae broke into a run, cutting across lawns to reach the fenced area before the chopper descended. This was not public land. Outsiders were not welcome.

  The armed men spread out, guns raised, sites focused as the bird slowly descended onto the prairie.

  The side door slid open.

  “Shit. This is an armed camp.” While John hadn’t been expecting a warm reception, he hadn’t considered he might be entering a war zone.

  Raising his hand in a friendly greeting, he’d expected at least a few to return his wave, but none did.

  “Maybe you need to remind them you’re the chosen Indian.” D’Sean yelled over the noise.

  “Great, idea. I can just raise my hand and say ‘How, Paleface’ like a western gone-bad.”

  “I don’t like this. Maybe we ought to regroup someplace else.” Skeet said.

  “You, two, head back to Ft. Worth. Come in tomorrow with the rest of the team. I’m going in now.” The situation might be better handled alone.

  “If they shoot you, we’re revising this plan.” Lassiter yelled. John hoped he meant it as a joke. He scanned the crowd half-expecting to see Cezi. Her father and Uncle were there. Neither lowered their guns.

  He leapt from the door, hit the ground hard, bent his body in half and rolled over the choppy earth, letting his transportati
on depart, too late to debate the wisdom of an unannounced visit.

  Why the hell wasn’t Czigany answering her damn phone?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Armadillo Creek’s residents were not Cezi’s friends. Most hated her. Not exactly news. She’d known the facts since elementary school.

  At ten she’d been sued for hexing Carl Brimmerton’s older brother and making him a bed-wetter. At the time she’d been mortified, now it struck her as funny. If she had that kind of power, no way would she have limited it to the Brimmerton family.

  Her mother had insisted on public school, although gypsies were educated at home. The few that did attend were considered troublemakers. After her death, Nicholae withdrew. Often forgetting about her for several days at a time. No one had stepped up to help. Consequently, her wardrobe was neither fashionable nor well fitting. And if that hadn’t drawn attention, her asthmatic wheezing singled her out.

  With her family’s blessing, she’d quit high school in the beginning of her junior year. Ten years had passed, but she avoided most public places and contact with the locals. To be truthful, they probably avoided her as well. Particularly if they thought she could turn them into bed-wetters.

  So it was with jaundice eye that she opened the front door and read the posted notice. The townspeople wanted answers for the two murders. The mayor and the Sheriff’s office promised to provide them at four pm at the high school gym.

  In her heart she knew Cain was responsible for both Lyndsay and Rolf. She thanked her lucky stars that she’d escaped with her life the first time. She also knew the Sheriff’s office would never believe her.