Deadly Holiday

by Margaret Daley

  “It was nearly dark, and you just got a glimpse, right? He might have been driving close behind you, but there were two windshields between you.”

  “True. And with the light that time of day, there was quite a glare. I’m sure he had light blond hair, but in all the photos of Peter I’ve seen, his is dark brown. That might be what’s bothering me. I’m beginning to question everything.”

  “People can change hair color.”

  “What if someone stole his car, and we’re looking at the wrong person?”

  “That could be. There are a lot of people out looking for the sports car. Finding it could answer that question.” Jordan closed the space between them.

  “I’m going to ask Alana to stop by here on the way to pick up Josh at school. Maybe she can do a decent drawing of the guy I saw behind the wheel.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’m leaving Dutch with you. Just don’t leave the house. My alarm system is top notch. If the person in your house on Wednesday was there to frame you, he’s accomplished what he wanted to do, so you should be fine. He probably came after you because you surprised him, and he needed to get away.” He clasped her hand and tugged her closer. “I’d rather not leave you, but we aren’t going to find the answers just by working from here.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  A look crossed his features—frustration maybe.

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t stop thinking of Bart Nelson’s overreaction to our visit. What is he hiding? What if he comes here while I’m gone?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not defenseless. After my husband died, I took defense classes and did quite well. Besides, Dutch will be here. I won’t be surprised this time.”

  “So I need to be wary of you and your expertise.”

  She laughed. “Hardly. It was nothing like what you went through to be a Navy Seal.”

  The second she said the last two words a frown descended over his features. “Training doesn’t prepare you for some things.”

  “Did something happen to you while serving our country?”

  He stepped back, dropping her hand. “Not important.”

  Hardly, if his expression and tone of voice were any indication. “What happened?” She wanted to know the good and the bad about Jordan.

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “That isn’t going to happen, not when you evade my question. My mind probably will spend all night conjuring up all kinds of scenarios. Do you want to be responsible for that?” Her attempt at humor fell flat as the pain in his eyes twisted her heart. “On second thought, forget the question. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the den. After she sat on the couch, he moved away and paced. “You might as well get comfortable while I tell you. I haven’t told anyone in the States except this counselor I saw the first year I was back here.”

  Dutch came into the den and sat down in Jordan’s path. He squatted and scratched his dog behind the ear. “First off, Dutch isn’t an ordinary dog. He’s a service dog for people with PTSD. He has an uncanny ability to sense when I get stressed, even if he’s in the other room.”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  He nodded. “My unit in Afghanistan was ambushed and forced to retreat to a building. It was a set up. The place was wired with bombs that all went off at the same time. Four of us survived and were found hours later under the rubble. Most died instantly, but some didn’t, and their cries of suffering will haunt me forever. I was injured and sent back to the States. My tour was almost over. I didn’t reenlist.”

  Tory approached Jordan and knelt next to him. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you have PTSD.”

  “Before the ambush, I’d seen many horrific acts, but that last one got me. I was near a friend and couldn’t get to him to help him. I was pinned down, unable to move. He was suffering and begging me to kill him. His wife had just had their first baby. Her name was the last thing he said after hours of agony. No matter how much I try, I can’t shake that off. I couldn’t put it in a box and lock it away like I had everything else that happened over there. It broke me.”

  His pain inundated her as though it were her own. She wanted to draw him into her embrace and help him forget the horrors of war, but before she could, he shot to his feet.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s the past, and I’m learning to deal with it.”

  When she rose, she cupped his face. “Thank you for telling me. I’ve always found the more I talk about a painful situation, the less it hurts. No matter how much we want to forget, we can’t until we deal with it. In my case, the grief over my husband’s death. There was a time I was so angry with him for dying and leaving me alone. Maybe some of your feelings are wrapped up in survivor’s guilt.”

  “The first six months after I got back, I denied anything was wrong. Then one day I lost it and nearly destroyed my house in my rage. So many lives destroyed that day. It scared me enough to seek out counseling. Before that, I’d refused all offers to talk about what happened.”

  “But you did finally get help. That’s what is important. Some people don’t. They don’t want to accept that something is wrong. When a traumatic event happens in a person’s life, that will leave a mark.” Tory hugged Jordan, hoping to convey her support as he had supported her.

  He wound his arms around her and held her against him. “I’ve learned life is precious. I’ve learned to depend on the Lord. He’ll walk with you even through the dark.”

  She leaned back slightly and stared up into Jordan’s face. “I know. He was with me in jail last night.”

  Jordan’s tender look underscored her growing feelings toward him. His fingers delved into her hair, and he angled his head and lowered it toward her. She welcomed the touch of his lips against hers. The gentle possession drove all thoughts of the past from Tory. Nothing else mattered but this moment.

  Until the phone rang, breaking them apart.

  Jordan hurried to the end table next to couch to answer it. “Hello.”

  As he listened to the person on the other end, Jordan’s brow creased, and his eyes became solemn.

  “Thanks, Gage. I’ll let Tory know.” Jordan replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned to her. “They found the black sports car. It crashed and burned outside Denver. Gage just came back from the scene. If there had been any forensic evidence, it’s gone now.”

  Her heart sank. The stolen vehicle wouldn’t back up her story. “Other than the human blood on the foliage, there isn’t anything to collaborate what I witnessed.”

  “There is Charles Nelson’s body. It’s somewhere, and I intend to find it.”

  * * *

  Jordan parked his SUV off the mountain road and hiked toward the Nelson property. He hoped to search the area and see if he could find any signs of a fresh grave. Although Bart Nelson didn’t seem too smart, Jordan doubted he would have stashed his dad’s body near his house, especially because of the smell. He would have to have found a way to mask the odor. It can be done but not easily. But outside in the surrounding woods on his land, if he was buried in the ground, the smell wouldn’t be as evident.

  Then if he had time, Jordan still wanted to check out that road coming from the back of the London’s estate. He might be able to persuade the police to investigate, since the car had been reported stolen. He could use its discovery to press the point that Tory had seen a hit-and-run and was being framed on the drug charge by the driver of the sports car. In his gut, he still thought it had been Peter London driving that day. Would Sergeant Bennett listen to logic and reason? He didn’t know if the man was on the London payroll or not, but he didn’t like how this all had been handled by the police. Someone wanted to discredit Tory. Harold London? The police chief and Harold’s friend? Another police officer?

  Or somehow, Bart Nelson?

  With his backpack on, Jordan made his way through the evergreen forest between the road and the Nelsons’ h
ouse, slowly combing the area for any sign of a grave. Occasionally, he used his binoculars to scan the ground around him. As he grew closer to the dilapidated house where Bart had confronted them with a rifle, Jordan ran through several scenarios of what might have happened that day.

  If he were Bart and had carried Charles Nelson from the site of the hit-and-run, intending to bury him, the woods would be a good place to dig a grave. It would be easy to scatter debris over the spot of freshly dug ground and hide it. With his binoculars, Jordan inspected the forest floor. Why would the son cover up the death of his own father? Why wouldn’t he just leave his father to be found by the police? The sight of a slight bump in the flat ground with pine needles and dead leaves strewn over it made Jordan pause. Could that be the grave or an answer his imagination had conjured up?

  He started to move toward the place in question, but the hairs on the back of his neck tingled. Jordan stopped and rotated in a circle. He froze when he spied Bart standing a few yards away.

  Bart’s rifle was aimed at Jordan’s chest.

  * * *

  Tory’s head pulsated with tension, the pain mounting. Her eyes stung from staring at the computer screen for hours, but she finally thought she had a complete list of all the people who lived on the north side of the mountain. She wasn’t sure how helpful it would be. When Alana came in a couple of hours, she could start questioning her about her neighbors. Alana might be able to give her insight into them that a computer couldn’t tell her.

  But could she really trust Alana? How well did she know Josh’s mother? Only through her son and the occasional conversation they’d had, usually involving their children. What if Alana or her husband had a tie to Harold London somehow? Her name was on the short list of homeowners who lived on the mountain’s north face.

  Tory bowed her head, closing her eyes, and tried to copy the massage that Jordan had given her the other day. But her kneading wasn’t deep enough to work the stress from her neck.

  “Mom, there’s a cop car in our driveway,” Morgan shouted from the front bedroom.

  She closed the laptop and jumped to her feet. Hurrying toward Morgan, she said, “Shh. Quiet.”

  Not that she was hiding from the police, but she had no reason to trust them. There were only two people who could have planted that heroin in her bathroom—Officer Wade and the intruder.

  “Get back from the window,” Tory snapped as she entered the bedroom she and her son were using.

  “He went to our front door. Now he’s looking in the garage window.”

  “Get back. Now.”

  Morgan let go of the blind slat and swung around. “Maybe he has some good news. You said the car was found last night. What if there was evidence to prove what you saw?”

  Those were possibilities. It was also possible the officer knew Jordan was gone and decided to take care of her. Okay, maybe she was becoming paranoid, but could anyone blame her after the past week?

  “Then we’ll find out when Jordan gets back.”

  Sounds of barking and growling came from the foyer.

  “Stay here.” She shoved her cell phone into her son’s hands. “Call 911 if someone breaks in. Wait no. That might not be good.” As Dutch continued to yelp, she found Morgan’s backpack, tore a piece of paper out of his notebook, and wrote down a number. “Call Jordan’s police friend, Gage, in Denver. Let him know what’s going on.”

  Her heartbeat pounding against her chest, she crept toward the living room, hoping whoever was out there would go away. As she passed the front door, the doorbell rang. She gasped. Her pulse raced as she waited. It rang again.

  Dutch stood in front of the door and barked as though he would tear anyone to pieces who came inside.

  There was no way the officer could know she was inside. If she were quiet, the cop would go away—at least that’s what she prayed.

  When she headed for the front window, she heard the screen door opening, and she stopped and glanced back into the foyer. Suddenly a pounding against the wood sent fear to every part of her. What would the police do next? Break in? She frantically looked around for a place to hide. Maybe she’d fit behind the couch.

  “Mom?” her son’s whispered voice penetrated the haze of panic trying to take hold of her.

  She hastened into the foyer and motioned for Morgan to join her. She put her forefinger over her lips, grabbed him, and pulled him to the couch. “Hide behind here.”

  “Mrs. Caldwell?” A voice called through the door. “Your neighbor said you were in here. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

  She couldn’t forget Sergeant Bennett’s husky voice. He was here. Wanting her to open the door. Her body quaked as she strode to the blinds covering the living room window. Was more than one police officer with him? What was so urgent? Did something happen to Jordan? She remembered the rifle Bart Nelson had fired when they’d left his house.

  Please, God, don’t let anything happen to Jordan. He was only trying to help me.

  “Mrs. Caldwell, please open. You could be in danger.” A plea rang through the sergeant’s words.

  He hadn’t believed her story from the beginning. He’d suspected her of using drugs and lying. Because of him, she had been handcuffed, led from her house, and locked in a jail cell overnight. The memory sent a quaver through her.

  “Please. There might not be much time.”

  Whom did she trust?

  The Lord.

  What do I do?

  Open the door.

  She took one step toward the foyer and stopped. She tried to lift her foot to move forward, but it felt rooted to the floor.

  “The Nelsons are dead.”

  Chapter Six

  Arms spread-eagled in the Nelsons’ shed, feet bound and mouth gagged, Jordan hung from the rafters like a side of beef. Through the slits between the two-by-fours that comprised the walls, he’d seen Bart and his wife loading their possessions into a brand new Ford Explorer. Then the doors slammed, and they drove away.

  How long would they be gone? A few hours? Days? Would they leave him here to die?

  The wife had been furious with Bart about what he’d done. Jordan still hadn’t quite figured out what it was that Bart had done. Did he bury his father? Did he somehow plan his dad’s death? He couldn’t imagine Bart orchestrating the theft of the sports car from the London compound, and from what Tory described of the driver, it certainly hadn’t been Bart who hit his father. According to Jordan’s research, only Bart, his wife, and his father had lived here.

  Jordan couldn’t help wondering where the money to buy a new car had come from. Based on the condition of his homestead, Bart didn’t have a lot of cash. Had Harold London paid him off? Or maybe Bart’s dad had stashed away some money?

  Jordan’s arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. His head throbbed with pain. Bart, a man of few words, had forced Jordan with a gun aimed at him to enter the shed and kneel. The man kept his distance so Jordan didn’t have an opportunity to overpower him without being shot. After he got down on his knees, Jordan waited, trying to figure out what he could do. Suddenly he was struck from behind with something like a shovel. He tumbled to the dirt floor, blackness swallowing him.

  The hammering inside his skull and Bart’s wife yelling had aroused him from unconsciousness.

  He had to figure out a way to get loose. He didn’t want Tory coming after him. What if the Nelsons came back and captured her, too?

  Jordan surveyed the small shed. Piles of tools he couldn’t reach sat beside boxes stacked along two walls. He peered at the rope cutting into his wrists. His hands were numb. It was hard to swing his body with his legs tied together. The only way out of this that he could see, short of being rescued, would be to pull the rafter down and pray it didn’t hit him on its way to the floor. He studied the thick beam and, sure enough, there were plenty of signs of rotting wood. Maybe he could get it to split.

  With all his might, he swayed from one side to the other, using hi
s momentum to pull on his arm. Pain knifed through him each time he jerked on the rope.

  The wood creaked in protest. With two more swings of his body, the rafter beam snapped and came crashing down on top of him.

  * * *

  It’s a trap. Those words screamed through Tory’s thoughts as she crept toward the front door at Jordan’s house. She’d just commanded Dutch to stay by her son, so she was on her own.

  Her hand shook so much she could hardly grip the doorknob. What if the sergeant was here to help? If the Nelsons were dead, was Jordan dead, too? He’d been heading to their property.

  With her hand on the knob, she glanced toward the couch and whispered, “Morgan, I need to talk with the officer. You stay hidden until I tell you to come out.”

  She turned the doorknob and pulled the door open, but only enough for her to wedge her body into the gap, blocking the sergeant from coming inside. Not that she was kidding herself. If the man wanted in, he could overpower her.

  Every cell of her body was on heightened alert as she looked up into the sergeant’s solemn expression. “What happened to the Nelson’s?”

  “They went off the road not far from where you reported the hit-and-run. Not sure about what caused it, but they landed in the ravine. When I got there, Bart Nelson was still alive. He kept mumbling, ‘London did it’.”

  “Did what? The hit-and-run?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “I’m not sure. He didn’t say anything else. Officer Ward got to the scene before I did and…” He scowled and averted his gaze.