Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade Book 1)

by Christina Dodd

  Cecilia crumpled, dropped to her knees, stuffed her fists over her mouth…and unwillingly revisited the explosion.

  Kellen waiting for Gregory in the living room.

  Gregory messing with the gas connection.

  Cecilia watching from the edge of the hill, fearing, hesitating.

  Gregory lifting the pickax over Kellen’s head…

  Cecilia covered her head with her arms, trying to hide from her memories. The explosion of blood. The explosion of fire. The explosion of life and hope. And that moment when Gregory looked up and saw her.

  Cecilia was a coward. She was running from a terrible murder, performed by the husband she had allowed to abuse her—because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Gregory had undermined her confidence and her abilities. But seeing Kellen standing tall and strong, Cecilia was all too aware of her frailty and knew she should have fled. At the very least she could have stood at the top of the cliff and flung herself onto the rocks.

  Not on my watch. Kellen had been afraid Cecilia would do just that.

  * * *

  A key rattled in the lock.

  Cecilia’s eyes popped open. She rested on the couch, curled up on the cushions with the throw over her. Sunshine rolled through the windows.

  The door opened, hit the end of the chains and bars.

  A woman’s voice said, “Kellen, you’re back. It’s Brenda. Thank God. Let me in.”

  Terrified, Cecilia stared at the door, open at two inches.

  “Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Why haven’t you called me? Darling, I know what happened.”

  Darling? This was Kellen’s lover.

  “I know you. You loved your little cousin. You always protected her. I’m sorry she died.”

  Cecilia pushed the throw aside.

  The person at the door must have heard, for her voice grew more urgent. “Kellen, please! I know we fought, but I love you. You said you loved me. Darling? Talk to me.”

  Moving as quietly as she could, Cecilia sat up. She didn’t know what to do. She hated for this woman to think Kellen was ending the relationship. But what would happen if she knew the truth? Brenda would be grief-stricken. She would tell someone and give away Cecilia’s hiding place. Cecilia would be drawn into the investigation. She would have to confess her own weakness.

  Brenda shoved at the door. The chains rattled. The bars held. “Kellen, are you hurt? Do you need help? Please! I’m afraid for you. I’m going to call the cops!”

  “No!”

  “Kellen?”

  Cecilia had to speak. “No. I’m fine. Go away. Go…away.”

  The awful silence from outside the door stretched out for long seconds.

  Cecilia held her breath. Had Brenda recognized the differences in their voices? Was Brenda going to call the police?

  “All right, then!” Brenda’s voice was both tearful and furious. “I’m leaving. I supported you through your coming out. You used me—now you don’t want me. I won’t be back. Damn you, you bitch. You’ll never find anyone else who will love you as much as I do. I hope you die alone.” She slammed the door as hard as she could, a muffled thud accompanied by clanking chains.

  Cecilia ran over to the window and looked out, watching the sidewalk, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kellen’s lover.

  A beautiful black woman came out of the building and walked away, wiping her eyes on her shirttail.

  My God. Kellen had gone home, admitted she was gay and in love with an African American. She was not just gay; she loved across racial bounds. Cecilia’s aunt and uncle were prejudiced against any person of color, and Cecilia’s admiration for her cousin’s courage rose—and her own cowardice broke her. Cecilia sank back onto the couch, pulled the throw over her head and wallowed in guilt and darkness.

  The darkness was growing…

  * * *

  Kellen woke.

  She was still in her clothes in the chair beside the bed, tense, sweaty, cold and cramped beneath the patterned throw.

  The darkness was not growing. In fact, the room’s automatic night-light provided enough illumination to see the outlines of the furniture and walls. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, checked for internet, and when she saw it pop up, she sighed in relief. She stretched her stiff muscles. In the daytime, the window looked away from the resort and the cottages and toward the dock and the Pacific Ocean. Now, on this rainy, moonless night, she saw nothing. Nothing.

  Then one single bright light shone in the dark. A flashlight? A lantern?

  It blinked off.

  She blinked, too. Was that the remnant of a nightmare?

  No, someone was out there. Lost? Alone? Looking for the body they had lost? She flipped off the night-light and moved through utter darkness toward the window.

  The light outside came on again and swung in a circle on the ground, then up in the air.

  Kellen stepped back to avoid being spotted.

  Ridiculous, but automatic.

  She glanced at the time. Two forty-five a.m. Whoever it was either wasn’t afraid of being seen or wanted to be seen. Or their meeting hadn’t occurred as they expected and they were desperate. Or…or she didn’t know.

  She did know the night was pitch-dark, rain rattled against the window like sleet and today they’d found a decomposing body out on the flats. Had someone found another one?

  The light flashed around again.

  Damn it. Annie left and less than twenty-four hours later, Kellen was up to her ass in alligators and it was hard to remember that her directive was to drain the swamp. She watched that light, willing it to go out permanently, and when that didn’t happen, she cursed as only an Army officer could curse, got her Glock and strapped it into her shoulder holster, pulled her rain gear on over her clothes and headed out.

  As soon as she stepped foot on the porch, the wind caught her breath and whipped it away. Sleet blew beneath the overhang and stung her face. This was going to be one fast trip out to check on…whatever. Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t seen anything… But no. She owed it to Annie to find out if they’d been dealt another tragedy. Holding the handrail, she groped her way down the stairs. She took small steps toward her ATV.

  A man’s voice behind her said, “Don’t do this.”

  Not a moment of hesitation. She whipped around in the turning kick Mara had been teaching her. She should have struck his throat. But she slipped and landed a strike on his hip. She kicked again, aiming high.

  He blocked.

  She landed a solid strike against his arm.

  She attacked.

  He parried.

  She landed good hits, but somehow she never did enough damage to hurt him. She felt as if she was being toyed with by an expert. Or led through a training session.

  No. No one was going to lead her anywhere she didn’t want to go. She leaped back, out of his reach. She hoped. She pulled her Glock, released the safety, pointed and asked, “Who are you?”

  “Nils Brooks.” His calm voice continued, “Your drill instructor said your hand-to-hand attacks were organized, focused and deadly in a way he had seldom seen in a woman.”

  That knocked the breath out of her like nothing else had in this battle. This guy, whoever he was, had tapped into her military records as far back as Army basic training. He had investigated her. Not a cheap, simple, superficial investigation; one thorough and seemingly impossible. “It’s late. It’s been a long day. I don’t have time for games. Who are you?”

  16

  “I’m Nils Brooks of the MFAA.” He waited a beat, then asked, “Ever heard of the MFAA?”

  Kellen searched her memory, came up with the correct title. “Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives?”

  “That’s it. How did you know?”

  “I saw the movie. I read the book. I…found some treasure. T
he MFAA is the Monuments Men.” He wasn’t going to fool her. “But don’t tell me you’re from the MFAA. The group was disbanded after World War II.”

  “Can you say secret government agency?” His voice held a trace of humor.

  “No, I can’t.” She didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe him.

  “Don’t blame you. I came here from Washington, DC. The whole place is rife with liars, thieves and politicians. But I’m none of those things.”

  “You’re saying you’re part of a secret government agency?”

  “Who else would care about a smuggling ring using Yearning Sands Resort as a delivery depot?”

  “Smuggling?” She didn’t stutter and she didn’t shriek. Points to her.

  “Those lights you saw aren’t UFOs.” He was nothing more than a voice in the darkness, but he wasn’t trying to circle her or play her. “You’ve got your sidearm. Come on and we’ll talk.” He turned his back and headed for his cottage.

  She sorted through his options, and hers.

  He had been waiting in the dark. When she stepped out of her cottage, he could have attacked her, raped her, killed her. He hadn’t. Obviously, that made him a gem of a man.

  Her own cynicism let her know she hadn’t lost herself to all sense. So she would listen, pistol in hand, and wait to see what Nils Brooks said about mysterious lights on an empty plain where today a body had been found.

  She followed him to his cottage. His porch light was on; he ran up the steps, unlocked the door—no fumbling this time—opened it and walked in.

  The light streamed out, an inviting square of brightness on the porch boards.

  She glanced toward the dock.

  That light had blinked out.

  She slowly followed, keeping the Glock pointed at him.

  He shed his raincoat, hung it on the rack, moved into the kitchen, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. He faced her, leaned against the counter and crossed his arms and his ankles.

  She stood in the open doorway and studied him.

  His act of aimless buffoonery had vanished. Nils Brooks actually was smart enough to wear rain gear and keep track of his pass card. His brown eyes were sharp, yet his glasses were nowhere in sight. The well-toned body she noted earlier now seemed less of a surprise and more of a weapon. “You’ve committed yourself. You might as well come in,” he said.

  She stepped across the threshold but hesitated about shutting the door. When he sighed, she snapped, “Pardon me if I don’t want to be one of those women in the movies who hear a noise downstairs, light a candle because the power is mysteriously out and go to investigate.”

  He laughed.

  Whoa. Those dimples.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

  Kellen didn’t smile back. “I had never considered the possibility of smuggling here. Washington is so…”

  “Wild? Free? Pure? Organic?” He did sarcasm well.

  Which made her feel enough at ease to gently push the door almost shut. “Off the beaten track.”

  “It’s Washington. Crazy weather, close to Canada, isolated and insular. There’s a Coast Guard station south of here and one north, good guys, but they’re spread thin and they’ve got a lot of jobs—water rescues, port security, defense readiness and that concern of ours, catching smugglers.”

  “Smuggling…what? Drugs?” Kellen’s new security job got more and more onerous by the second.

  “That. Immigrants. Anything the bad guys can carry, really. That’s what interests the Coast Guard.” His dimples disappeared. “But not the MFAA. Not me.”

  “No, I suppose not. Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives… We’re talking about antiques, cultural treasures.”

  “Exactly. There’s a lot of money involved in moving stolen art and looted treasure. Enough to kill for.”

  “Kill who?”

  “That girl you found today. And Jessica Diaz. The MFAA director.” The kettle started whistling. He lifted two mugs off their hooks. “What do you want? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Don’t even bother with herbal. You’ll need some kind of caffeine. You’re not going to get any more sleep tonight.”

  “What’s going to happen tonight?”

  “We’re going to talk. I’m going to fill you in on the situation.”

  She latched the door with her heel. Maybe she was that woman in the movie, but she didn’t think so. She might not trust him, not yet, but for some reason she didn’t yet know, he needed her. She placed her Glock on the end table, peeled off her rain gear and hung them beside his and seated herself in a chair facing him. She picked up her pistol and let it rest on the seat beside her hip, pointed it toward the floor.

  He watched from the kitchen. “Your trust in me is touching.”

  “And easily revoked. I’ll have broth. My body needs at least the pretense of nutrition.”

  “Smart.” He used hot water and two dry packets to make two cups of broth. He picked them both up, so his hands were full, and gingerly placed one at her elbow. He backed away and seated himself across the room. “There. Far enough away for you to relax a little, close enough for you to shoot me if you need to.”

  That smile, those dimples, that charm irritated her. “I hope I don’t need to. Now—tell me why the government would revive an agency dead for so many years.”

  “Look it up. You’re not going to believe anything I tell you, so look it up.”

  Fair enough. She pulled out her phone, went online and typed in MFAA. Lots of World War II history, a brief note of its dissolution in 1946 and an even briefer note on its recent revival.

  So it wasn’t a secret agency. It was an underreported agency. Suspiciously underreported.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. “Are you aware of what’s happening with the world’s treasured historical sites?”

  “They’re being looted.” Kellen searched for Jessica Diaz, head of the MFAA.

  “More than that. The way it used to work was—local people would search out tombs, archaeological sites, strip them of artifacts and sell them at the market for whatever they could get. The practice supplemented what was usually a poverty-stricken existence, and the pieces of art moved through a chain of resalers to end up on the shelves of wealthy collectors.” He made that all sound like a good thing. “The whole operation was inefficient.” He paused. “How’s the research going?”

  “I found Jessica Diaz, first head of the MFAA, but information gives only her date of death in the line of duty.” A pretty Hispanic woman, thirty years old, soft-looking and smiling.

  He nodded. “Keep researching.”

  Kellen typed in Who is Jessica Diaz’s MFAA successor?

  He continued, “Terrorist groups realized what a gold mine—sometimes literally—the antiquities trade could be. They could fund their armies with the money they made stripping every historical site of every ancient piece of art, literature and relic. The previously random looting became organized. The locals were either pushed out or conscripted and forced to find valuable artifacts and hand them over to the terrorists.”

  Google showed no answer to her question, nothing but the usual hodgepodge of internet weirdness. “You, um, don’t seem to be a member of the MFAA.”

  “I didn’t choose to post my unfortunate promotion. That would be stupid, wouldn’t it?”

  It would. But she didn’t have to admit it out loud.

  “Search for the Brooks family of Charleston, South Carolina,” he said. “I’ll come up.”

  She did as he suggested and found an old and formidable dynasty—and there he was, part of a family shot that included an elderly matriarch, a nervous-looking mother, six languid uncles, no father and enough cousins to populate a small island. Which apparently they did and had for generations among varying amounts of scandal.

&nbs
p; Kellen flicked a glance at Nils’s photo and then at his face.

  NILS BROOKS:

  MALE, 30S, 6’, 180 LBS., BROWN HAIR (BLOND ROOTS?), BROWN EYES (COMPELLING), LONG LASHES, MILITARY HAIRCUT. NARROW JAW. DARK-RIMMED GLASSES (USED AS DISGUISE). CUTE. HANDSOME. NERDY. CONFIDENT. CLOTHING: EXPENSIVE, WELL-WORN. MEMBER OF SOUTH CAROLINA’S DISTINGUISHED BROOKS DYNASTY. GRADUATE OF DUKE UNIVERSITY. LEADER OF NEWLY RE-FORMED MFAA (AS REPORTED BY HIM).

  Perhaps her background made her too suspicious.

  Maybe she was smart to be suspicious. Her first impression of Nils Brooks had proved to be massively inaccurate. He had set out to deceive, and he had succeeded. In so many ways, he reminded her of Gregory… “You’re saying the terrorists don’t care how they achieve their goals or who or what is hurt in the process.”

  “Terrorists are terrorists. They want the world to go up in flames, and they don’t care how it comes about.”

  “As long as their cause is the winner.”

  “Of course.”

  “What you’re telling me is interesting. Fishy, but interesting. But the job of the MFAA in World War II was to—” she looked at her screen and read “‘—to safeguard historic and cultural monuments from war damage, and as the conflict came to a close, to find and return works of art and other items of cultural importance that had been stolen by the Nazis or hidden for safekeeping.’ I can’t believe the MFAA in its current inception will be terrorist fighters.”

  “Reopening the MFAA was our idea, Jessica’s and mine. The declared intention of the agency is to interrupt the flow of cash. That’s the only reason we were able to convince the Feds to green-light the restoration of the agency.”

  Good, succinct, sensible answer. She wanted good, succinct, sensible answers, because everything she’d looked up so far checked out. But was it possible to manipulate the internet, to make everything conveniently fit? Of course it was. Lies were made truth all the time. The MFAA website was a dot-gov website, so maybe that made it supervised?