Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  Conner crept down one street after another as they each craned their necks. At one point, they cruised the parking lot of a ship repair business, even checking out a metal hanger-shaped building. Boat equipment, but no cars or vans.

  Noah motioned an employee leaving the building. “We’re looking for a tall man and a short, blond woman. He might have been driving a white panel van.”

  The guy took off his hardhat and wiped his forehead. “I’ve been here all day. The only woman I’ve seen is Mrs. Hicky in accounting. She’s African American and nobody ever described her as short. Sometimes vans go past. I wouldn’t remember if one was white.”

  Not much help, but the guy would have noticed a woman screaming so Bachman wasn’t hiding inside.

  The last street was a dead-end, its surface a crumbling asphalt full of potholes. Conner stopped in front of the only house, a decaying mansion guarded by an eight-foot wrought iron fence. The oversized double gate was secured by a thick chain and padlocked closed. Weeds grew abundantly through the ornate brick driveway. “No one’s been here in years,” he said, backing up the car to turn around.

  “Wait. Drive to the end of the street.”

  “We’re at the end of the street. There’s nothing more. Ten feet of dirt, then trees.”

  “Humor me. Did you see the sign over the gate?” Noah pointed to the arch above the entryway. Blending in with the curlicues of the design was a name, spelled out in cursive.

  San Saba Estate.

  The crash of a falling tree limb stopped Bachman. She was here, somewhere. The thick brush muffled the noise, making it impossible to tell which direction to look.

  He froze, waiting for another sound. Was that something, over to the right? He pivoted, trying to keep silent. The deep shade made observation difficult.

  He held his breath, waiting, until he could make out a form that didn’t belong. Was that her? A spot of green like the woman’s blouse instead of brown like the bark of a tree.

  Had she seen him? If he moved, would she run? On a street, in the open, he could outrun her any day. Here in this overgrown hell hole full of briers and spider webs and rotten leaves, she had the advantage.

  The disarray of downed limbs and tangled vines and the abject filth of every surface made him feel like tiny demons with pitchforks were digging their way into his soul. He hated dirt and disorder.

  As punishment for disobedience as a child, his stepmother refused to let him bathe instead of forcing him to as other children were.

  As soon as he had the woman secured, he would strip off and wash with the river water. Disgusting as it was, that was better than being coated with dirt.

  He switched the gun to his other hand so he could smooth back the hair that had fallen in his face and tuck in his shirt. Those small moves restored his sense of dignity. He could stand this long enough to grab her.

  Because he couldn’t kill her…yet.

  He had to discover what the police knew. If they didn’t have his name, would it be safe to stay? Carry on?

  Probably not.

  Best to start over in a new city. Maybe even a new state. He’d done it before. He could do it again. Find a good place. Get the lay of the land. Start slow and see what happens.

  If they did know his name, that would make things more difficult. He’d have to leave with nothing.

  Then, once he was settled, it might be time to pay a midnight visit to his stepmother.

  She’d been enjoying poor health for more years than he could remember. A migraine when he had a school activity. Nerves when he needed her support. Lightheaded if he had bad news. Stomach problems if he needed money.

  Yet none of these things seemed to kill her. She was strong as a bear when she wanted something. A trip to Europe? Sure, but only first class. A new car? Of course, if it was a luxury model. How about two week cruise? Only if she could have a suite.

  But she couldn’t afford to give him an extra cent of his own father’s money. She was ill, you know. She might need it.

  But after years of playing the invalid, would anyone be surprised by her death? He knew the way inside even if she had changed the locks. He also knew where she kept her medications, her emergency stash of cash, and his own mother’s jewelry.

  For now, he had one fucking job. Find that bitch!

  A smile creased the corners of his mouth. She looked like the type who wouldn’t answer right away.

  Conner crept forward until he reached the end of the road. Nothing in front of his car but a wall of trees. What did Noah want him to do now?

  “Over there.” Noah pointed past his shoulder to a barely visible dirt path.

  “That’s not a road. It hardly qualifies as an animal trail.” He made a sharp left and eased onto the trail. If he blew a tire or busted a shock, the department would never reimburse him.

  But it was the only spot on the island they hadn’t checked.

  Fifteen feet later the path curved and led to an opening behind the main house. A stand of cattails indicated the nearness of the water. A building, half garage and half equipment shed, sat behind a line of trees, completely hidden from the road or house.

  Beside it sat a white van. Both doors stood open.

  Damn the tires. Damn the shocks. Conner stomped on the accelerator, shooting down the path until he reached the van and threw on the brakes, stopping in a shower of dirt.

  Noah was out before he switched off the engine.

  Conner ran to the passenger side. A woman’s empty purse, its contents spread over both seats, lay crumpled on the floorboard.

  Noah began shouting into his phone, “Laurel. Laurel. Where are you?”

  The sound echoed in Conner’s ears from two directions. He reached under the seat and pulled out Laurel’s phone. If he’d harbored any hope they’d made a mistake and she was somewhere safe, they deflated like yesterday’s party balloon.

  In the heavy shade, the back of the van remained in shadow. Conner slid open the door and climbed inside. Against one wall was a coffin-sized wooden box with a shiny new padlock.

  Noah already had out a hammer, swinging uselessly at the latch. Conner pushed him aside and fitted a crowbar under the loosened hinges. He pressed back once and wood splintered but didn’t part.

  He readjusted his grip and tried again. This time the hinge popped free. Noah was so anxious he was dancing from foot to foot. The instant the lock was loose he jumped forward, throwing open the lid. Inside lay a neatly organized tray with nails, screws, washers, bolts, molly bolts, and drill bits.

  Noah lifted out the tray and flung it to one side, its contents flying through the van, bouncing off the metal floor and walls like an indoor hail storm.

  Under the tray was nothing but an empty box lined with thick padding. The tray had come to rest upside down and the bottom was also covered with padding, but its material was ripped in long gashes.

  Fingernail tears?

  Conner shuddered. “SWAT won’t be here for twenty minutes, earliest.”

  “We can’t wait that long.”

  “I agree. I’ll take the cabin. You take the woods. We’ll keep our phones on in case one of us finds something.”

  Noah was gone before he had time to climb out of the van.

  The garage portion of the cabin held a late model, dark Suburban. Almost as good as a panel van for transporting unwilling occupants.

  Conner shot a prayer of thanks to Jeannie for nagging him about wearing his vest as he pushed open the door connecting the garage to the tool shed. Heavy curtains covered the windows, leaving the cabin midnight dark.

  He fumbled his way to one wall and yanked them open. Pale afternoon light filtered inside. He opened another window covering and could see rudimentary furnishings: an antique clawfoot tub with a drainpipe that disappeared into the floor, a narrow bed, its mattress covered with a plastic sheet, and two chairs, one of which was bolted to the floor. A set of chains was neatly coiled on a table next to a hurricane lantern.

  Two
industrial sized hooks hung from the ceiling. In one corner, a square of the floor had been removed and a bucket on a pulley system could be lowered into the ship channel for water.

  Conner hovered over the opening and vomited into the slow moving current.

  Noah ran full speed toward the line of trees. Halfway there, he began measuring the area with his eyes. Where would Laurel have entered?

  The nearest point from the van was close to the water and the tree cover was thin. If she headed for the thickest part of the woods, she’d have to cross too much open ground.

  There. Between those two trees. Still on the outer edge, but leading into a more forested area. If she’d had time to plan ahead. Hard to do when running for your life.

  He crashed through the tree line into another world not twenty yards from one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. The sinking sun turned the area into a shadowy maze where trees looked like giants reaching out with wooden claws.

  Spider webs coated his face and thorny vines grabbed at his ankles. Every nerve in his body yelled hurry, while his brain cautioned slow down.

  Where was she? Did Bachman have her? Should he yell out? No. Not yet. Stealth was a better ally, if that was possible where sounds telegraphed every move.

  As he adjusted to the darkness, shapes became clearer and the forest sounds settled into a recognizable rhythm. A breeze off the water swayed branches overhead. Squirrels or birds scurried away. Footsteps sent out a crack of broken twigs or sent up a shower of rustling leaves.

  Noah stepped as softly as possible for a two-hundred pound man. Something moved to his left and it wasn’t a squirrel. Could a deer live in this small patch of trees?

  He bent low under a branch and eased that direction. The trees parted and he could see Bachman. Three feet past the killer, Laurel huddled behind a bush that only covered her from the front. And Bachman was approaching from the side, a gun pointed at her head.

  Neither saw Noah as he worked to find a clear shot at Bachman.

  “Get up, bitch.” Disgust coated Bachman’s voice. “I told you not to hide from me.”

  He yanked her up and she stumbled against him as she fell forward. He took several steps backwards as he struggled to maintain his balance while holding her arm.

  He let out a surprised scream and jumped from one foot to another, pointing his gun toward the ground and firing off several rapid shots. He screamed again and held up a bloody foot. The gun in his hand swung toward Laurel. “You fucking bitch. This is your fault. First a snake bit me, then I shot my own foot. You’re gonna pay for this. I’ll—”

  Noah’s bullet cut off the man’s words before he could say what he planned to do.

  Bachman’s eyes widened in surprise as he gasped for air, a thin trickle of blood running from between his lips. He sagged slowly to the ground like a feather floating to earth.

  Noah lifted the gun from his lifeless hand and stuck it in his belt. Laurel stumbled toward him, her hair wild with leaves and brambles, the sleeve of her blouse torn, scrapes and scratches on her arms and legs.

  He pulled her close and whispered in her ear as she shuddered. “You may be the smartest, cleverest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, but you’re the world’s worst singer.”

  Laurel turned the cup of pumpkin spice latte in her hands. Since the moment she entered the coffee shop, Noah had fussed around like a cat near a campfire. He took her coat, pulled out her chair, returned to the counter to place her order, then jumped up to retrieve it.

  He was nervous. Anyone could see that. Well, she was too.

  They’d texted since the shooting, but hadn’t talked on the phone or seen each other for a week.

  Sure, he’d been busy—filling out reports, working with other agencies—but if he’d wanted to see her, he would have. Right?

  Had he chosen this almost deserted coffee shop to break up with her? Her actions directly led to him killing a man. If she’d minded her own business instead of trying to play detective, maybe they’d have caught Bachman without any violence.

  Or maybe he didn’t care for the new Laurel. When they first met, she’d been lost. Unable to function because her louse of a husband had dumped her. Left her broke and alone.

  Since that time, eight months ago, she’d found a new job, a townhouse, and her backbone.

  She wasn’t the person he’d been attracted to then.

  Well, too damn bad. She liked him—a lot—but she liked herself better. She wasn’t turning back into Lost Laurel for anyone.

  As if reading her thoughts, he reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry you had to go through such an ordeal. I’d give anything if I could have taken him any other way. Are you okay? Having any aftereffects?”

  “I’m doing all right. If there were a pill to make me forget those few hours, I’d take it in a flash, but lying on the sofa with Harvey the invisible cat in my lap, purring, works fine.”

  “I’m glad Harvey decided to accept you. Sweet Pea does the same for me.”

  “Have you talked to anyone about what happened?”

  Noah twisted his coffee cup. “The department is trying to make me, but so far I’ve resisted.”

  “I had a couple of sessions and they helped me. You might want to give it a try.”

  “I’m not sure anyone else can understand what killing a person does to you. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Here it came. Her foolishness had led to him taking a life and he couldn’t forgive her.

  He’d dropped her hand while they were talking and he took it again. “I have secrets no one in this world knows. My sister thinks she does, but she’s only guessed half of it. I told Betsy when we first started dating because I wanted her to know what kind of man she was involved with. We haven’t gone out that many times, but keeping this a secret wouldn’t be fair to you. I trust you or I wouldn’t share this with you, but if you ever tell anyone, I could go to jail.”

  Oh God. She really didn’t want to hear this.

  “I told you my father was murdered. A guy tried to steal his violin and he refused to let go. The son-of-a-bitch shot him. Right there beside the concert hall. He was heading home after rehearsal. The police were sure they knew who did it—a part-time mugger and full-time drug dealer that worked the downtown area—but they couldn’t prove anything. It almost killed my mother. Well, I guess it did kill her. She’d been free of cancer for seven years, but it came back with a vengeance. Within three months, she was bedridden.”

  “Oh, Noah. I’m so sorry. Losing both your parents so close together. I can’t imagine.” Her parents’ divorce had devastated her and they were both still alive.

  “We could control her pain during the day, but the nights were awful. I begged the doctors to give her something stronger but they refused. When I doubled up the dosage on my own, they wouldn’t refill her prescription. They thought I was taking the pills. That left her with nothing but aspirin.”

  This was tearing her up. His father. His mother. His wife. She knew he had a dark corner he tried to hide, but she had no idea.

  “She kept begging me to find Dad’s violin. Said she could sleep if I’d play. I took all the money I had, sold my guitar and amps and went to the guy’s house. I offered him a little over a thousand dollars for a violin worth more than twenty grand. He laughed at me. I don’t know if it was anger, frustration, exhaustion, but I slapped the money on the table, shoved him over a chair, grabbed the violin, a couple of bottles of oxy, and ran.”

  “That’s it? You knocked a guy down and took something that belonged to you? Okay, and a few drugs. But what the heck?”

  “That’s not it. The guy died from hitting his head. A subdural hematoma, bleeding of the brain. They found him two weeks later and thought it was a drug deal gone bad. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. I’ve stayed away this week because I didn’t feel I could start a relationship with you until I came clean about the type of man you’d be getting.”

&n
bsp; “Are you kidding me? You were how old?”

  “Nineteen when my father died. Barely twenty when I lost my mother. A legal adult.”

  “And you’ve been carrying the guilt around all these years? You shoved a guy, Noah. It was an accident. A bad guy, perfectly capable of hurting you the way he hurt your father and probably others. I’m not worried this makes you an evil person. You were protecting yourself and your mother. But I am worried you might be a fool. How do you know you’re the one who killed him?”

  They were leaning their heads together, whispering, although no one else was in the shop.

  “He died, honey. From a knock on the head. The kind that takes several days to kill you.”

  “Several days. Not several weeks. He was a drug dealer. Bad things happen to them. Have you ever checked to see if they arrested anyone?”

  “I never saw anything about it in the paper, but my mom died the next day and with the funeral and all…”

  “You’re not a kid anymore. You have access to records. Look it up. No matter what you learn, it doesn’t change my opinion of you. I had a lousy husband and recently spent some quality time with a serial killer. Trust me when I say the man I’m looking at now is the best man I know. If you’re interested in me, think we might have a chance at a relationship, I’m willing to try. If you’re not, I’ll understand. Let me know when you’ve made a decision.”

  She grabbed her purse and walked out. Not looking back was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but too damn bad. She liked him—a lot—but she liked herself better.

  She wasn’t turning back into Lost Laurel for anyone.

  Noah rounded the corner to his office with every intention of asking Jansen for time off. Too many thoughts were swirling around in his mind. He needed a chance to sort them out.

  Instead, he found a county sheriff waiting with one hip parked on his desk.