Red Tide

by Peg Brantley

  As Jamie approached the table, the man stood. Manners, too... well, well.

  “Jamie, meet Arnold Abner. Arnold, this is my good friend, Jamie Taylor.”

  He did a double take at Jamie’s name.

  She nodded before he could comment. “I know. I know. I get it all the time. My blessing and my curse.” She reached to shake his hand, then nodded at the waiter who appeared at her side. She ordered a wasabi Caesar salad with grilled chicken, water and a zin. Ciara had barely touched her plate but so what else was new? Ellen and Arnold had wine glasses in front of them that were almost empty.

  Ellen smiled, suddenly shy again. “Arnold and I can’t stay, Jamie, but I wanted the two of you to meet.” The couple pushed back their chairs and stood.

  “I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.”

  Arnold looked at her and smiled. “It’s okay. We have dinner reservations at The Roaring Fork but I think they’ll probably hold our table for a few minutes.”

  Everyone said goodbye and Jamie watched the couple leave, Arnold’s hand protectively at Ellen’s back. Jamie turned to Ciara. “Who, what, when and how?”

  “They met at the drugstore yesterday morning, can you believe it? They totally hit it off. If I wasn’t so happy for her I’d be jealous. I love it when a guy is head over heels with me, and Agent Abner doesn’t know which end is up.” Ciara winked.

  “Agent?” Oh please don’t let there be a connection.

  “Yeah. He’s with the FBI. He didn’t tell us much more than that. Probably have to shoot us. Isn’t that sexy?” Ciara picked a piece of lettuce out of her plate and bit off an end. “The FBI part, not the shooting part.” She giggled.

  “How did she meet someone with the FBI at the drugstore?” Things were getting ugly.

  “I think he’s up here on that same deal you and Jax are working on. The Bonzer thingie?”

  Oh crud. One of her best friends had hooked up with someone who was obviously hooked up with the king of the FBI. I’ll have to watch my mouth.

  Ciara nudged her in the ribs.

  “Look at what just walked in. Honey, I love you, but this girl has got to see what he might have behind that brilliant smile. And those six-pack abs.” Ciara stood, adjusted her clinging top and made her way through the crowd.

  “Fine. Get me here and then abandon me. What are friends for?”

  Jamie finished her salad—superb as always—and debated what to do next. She wasn’t ready to go home, but the idea of sitting by herself at a four-top didn’t feel right either. People were lined up three deep at the bar waiting for a table, and she knew what it was like to work for tips. She grabbed her purse and headed for the bar, spotting an empty seat at the far end.

  Drink ordered, she noodled with the bar food and glanced toward Ciara. The girl glowed in her element. Toothsome and Muscled, the specimen who had drawn her attention, stood at her side, and two other adoring men were paying their respects as well. They looked like expectant puppies waiting for a treat.

  “May I?” A man wearing an obviously expensive suit and designer casual shirt pointed to the empty stool next to her.

  She did a quick scan at the rest of the full bar and nodded. “Of course.”

  The bartender brought Jamie her drink and the stranger laid a bill on the counter. “Please. Allow me.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” Jamie pushed the cash away and replaced it with her own.

  Rather than put up the expected fuss, he surprised her when he smile and nodded, then pocketed his money.

  Well that’s a nice surprise... a little respect for my position. She gave him a closer look. He was maybe ten years older than she, no more. Medium build, in good shape. Great shape, actually. He was her height or a little taller with sandy hair and gray-blue eyes. Smells pretty good... altogether not a bad option, especially since both of my friends are gone for the evening. The fact that she also needed to erase the memory of Andrew Stanton’s phone call, at least temporarily, played no small role in her appraisal.

  Only his hands made her stumble. They were manicured. She would try not to hold that against him.

  He looked at her and smiled. Good teeth, too.

  He extended his hand. “I’m sorry. My name is Teague Blanton.”

  Firm grip. That works. She smiled back at him. “Jamie Taylor.”

  “A pleasure, Ms. Taylor.”

  Ten minutes of small talk turned into two hours of more personal give and take. Teague made her laugh and feel important. She gave him her number. He said he had some business at the bank next Wednesday and asked whether he could buy her lunch.

  Ciara joined them and a warmth spread over Jamie when Teague didn’t seem to fall under the model’s spell. Polite and charming, his gaze was riveted to Jamie’s. It made her want to giggle.

  When he left, citing paperwork, Ciara fell onto his vacated barstool, grabbed Jamie’s hand and demanded to know every detail.

  This time Jamie gave in. She giggled.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nick sat alone in his study while one of his favorite CDs played. The peaceful native flute of David Maracle sweetened the air, but it didn’t quite reach his soul as it usually managed to do. He needed to make phone calls to all of the families, but before he could face the pain and relief, and the inevitable pain of relief that this kind of finality would kick into place, a few minutes of quiet would enable him to build up his own internal reserves.

  People always think closure is the goal, that it’s a good thing—and in the end, when it’s been accomplished, it often is—but completing one more agenda item when it concerns the death of a loved one just separates them from the family that much more. The process leading up to closure is usually much more traumatic than people realize.

  A soft, steady glow from lamps balanced the light dancing from the fireplace. His sandwich remained uneaten, but the drink he’d been working on was down to ice. Again. An oxy bottle lay empty on its side, three pills having spilled onto the table. He had one more bottle in his bedroom. He made a mental note to get the prescription refilled on Monday.

  Nick organized the calls, beginning with families who lived on the east coast. No sense waking people up, even though they were unlikely to sleep at all tonight after he spoke with them. His promise to each of them had been to let them know what was happening as soon as anything did happen. Today’s results required him to keep that promise. He’d pass on his update and advise them that he expected to have word very soon with respect to positive identifications. The victims’ dental records were on their way to the local ME’s office by courier. He wouldn’t mention anything about the newer gravesites. It wouldn’t mean anything, and it could add to their pain. He picked up the phone and made his first call.

  He kept the conversations short and on task even through the tears and meltdowns that burned through the connection. Several times he held the phone away from his ear to lessen the intensity and preserve his eardrums. During each conversation he worked hard to remain professionally connected but emotionally detached.

  He tried to keep his previous performance evaluations in mind. As an FBI agent he should never engage in emotional exercise related in any way to an investigation. To do so could compromise his effectiveness.

  His gut twisted more with each phone call. After he finished talking with the last relative, the hidden, uncontrolled part of him clamored for release. Only moments ago he’d been tight, restrained, in charge, but now he came fully to once again imagine the horrifying last moments of the lives of each victim. His heart fell open, and the unbelievable torment of the people they left behind, people who only wanted to bring their loved ones home, ripped into it. For the last decade he had connected with the victims and those who mourned them. He had processed information, evidence and pain. And today, finally, he’d gotten the job done.

  Two-dimensional faces, hundreds of them, floated around him. Some were smiling and happy, with no idea what horror their future held. Others were
bloody, with matted hair and vacant stares. They’d already met their fate. The images gathered and spun into tornados of incredible strength, the torque magnificent in its fury. In seconds, faces began to fly out, spinning through space, slicing through Nick’s soul.

  Finally thirteen faces were circling his head, thirteen people murdered and thrown into dirt, not to respect them but to protect their murderer. He knew each of them personally, though he hadn’t known them at all.

  He fell onto his back, exhausted, waiting for his heart to slow down, for regular breaths, for the curtain to open that would clarify his thoughts and set them in order. He had to slip emotion back into the bottle.

  His cell phone rang. He took a deep breath and tried to sit up. Pain arced through his back, digging low and deep. Nick rolled onto his stomach and reached for the phone. “Grant.”

  “Good work, ASAC.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “I received a call from Sheriff Jerry Coble in Aspen Falls this afternoon. It’s a good thing they want our help on this one. Since you handled Bonzer and were there when they found the new bodies, I told him you’d be our man on site. Plus, he likes you. You’re in charge of whatever else is being dug up out there.” Don Adams, the SAC for the Denver office, never wasted time.

  Nick didn’t respond. More faces. More families. More.

  “Is that an affirmative, Agent?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He stood motionless in the deep shadows. The dense trees around him scented the air with the smell of pine and sap. People moved over his meadow with seeming impunity, tossing soil and making discoveries he wasn’t ready for them to make. One uniformed cop, bored with his duty, paced and stopped, paced and stopped. He’d made the trek to the patrol car twice already to get more coffee or something to snack on. An official—a medical examiner, he assumed, presumably attached to the FBI’s Denver office—was working each of the sites, a groveling technician or assistant at his beck and call.

  White-hot Klieg lights drenched the work area. Meanwhile, the far end of the meadow—his end of the meadow—flowed with dark shadows, lit solely by the waning moon. Demolition and threat there. Peace here. He pulled in a lungful of air. Clean. Fresh. Invigorating. A sure sign that his plans for the evening would hold and he could leave them with a couple of new discoveries. Keep them busy for a while longer.

  He grabbed a shovel from the back of the SUV, pushing aside the bottom portion of one of the two rolled up tarps to get to it. He noticed the rigor had left and the limbs were once again pliable. Sweet.

  The soil of the high mountain meadow lifted heavy, its dense, dark loam fragrant with decay, death giving way to new life.

  He pierced the soil and turned it up, piece by piece, the dirt, the rocks, the worms. All of it turned with his will. The ease of the progress validated his plan. The lack of pain in his body left him assured he possessed the strength to carry it out.

  Three hours later, when he’d dug enough, he laid the shovel down with the gentleness of a lover. His quest would give him what he craved and the Hungry Ghost in him would finally be appeased. The sudden rapid beating of his heart told him affirmation was near.

  Soon.

  On the ground, he pulled up a handful of the moist earth and held it to his nose. The loam held the intimate aroma of confidentiality, the pervading scent of timelessness. He spread his fingers to allow it to break free and fall in clumps around his knees. He felt in its cool texture the beginnings of emotion, the quest for meaning that drove him.

  These two were the last. If his secret burial ground had remained secret, he probably would have made a couple more tests. But they would have confirmed what he already knew.

  He was ready.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nick observed the pretty, but tired, medical examiner as she sat behind her messy desk. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever seen, but it wasn’t the precise, managed desk he presumed a woman of science would maintain. He leaned forward, then consciously pulled his body back to settle into the chair. “Can you be more specific?” No good would come of trying to intimidate someone on his own team.

  Jacqueline Taylor exhaled and shifted forward in her own seat behind the desk. “Agent, it is what it is until I tell you different. You’re the one who’s pushing for answers. If you have to push, you also have to accept that the answers might change down the road.”

  At nine o’clock in the morning the clouds were already building outside the offices of the medical examiner, threatening to obscure even Cobalt Mountain from view. Nick worried about what the changing weather might mean to the progress being made at the burial site. “My apologies, Dr. Taylor. I understand we’re discussing preliminary findings here, but can you be a little more specific as to what we’re dealing with?” Nick considered the ME and the dog handler and their relationship to one another. He could definitely see the connection. Smart, dynamic and stubborn—a dangerous combination.

  “It’s my opinion—preliminarily—that we have two separate entities responsible for the deaths of the individuals we’ve examined—preliminarily—from the Rocky Point Meadow site.”

  “Why do you believe that’s the case?” Nick pulled out his notebook.

  “Aside from the gap between the groupings of the killings, which is a good ten years, there is the obvious differentiation in the method of the killings.” Dr. Taylor pulled two files open and offered them to Nick.

  “That difference being?”

  “The older victims all sustained visible trauma of some kind. For example, they were struck over the head or their feet were mangled as if they’d been caught in a trap. Two of them experienced blows to the ribs sufficient to cause major breaks before they died.”

  “And the more recent victims?”

  “We’re still waiting to hear but there are no clear indications of physical assault. I suspect—again, preliminarily—we’re looking at something they ingested.”

  “Like poison?”

  Jacqueline nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe some kind of toxin they absorbed cutaneously, or maybe something incorporated through their lungs or even injected.”

  “Did you see any signs of injection?”

  “Not on the bodies we’ve seen. The degradation has precluded us from doing visuals that would be of much value, but we haven’t yet prepared all of the tissues for toxicology. They’ll tell us a lot.”

  Nick hated when uncertainty obscured his direction.

  “So what you’re saying—preliminarily—is that we have a killer out there right now who is killing people by some means that doesn’t leave noticeable trauma.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “That’s your job, Agent.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After Agent Grant left, Jax remained at her desk. Exhaustion pulled her deep into the chair. While her on-call, part-time assistant cleaned up the autopsy room in preparation for any new cases—and there would be new cases—Jax tried to complete her reports. She hoped to get some sleep before the next round.

  Suddenly Alicia, one of the admin clerks on Sunday duty, was standing in her doorway, coffee pot raised high. “Coffee, Doc?” She was new, energetic, and annoying.

  Jax smiled and shook her head. “Not now, thanks. Maybe not again in this lifetime.”

  Alicia walked in, her tight leather skirt working its way up her thighs.

  “You used to be married to Phil Sussman, right? The guy who was the All-Star quarterback for the Wildcats?” She seemed a little eager, a little loud.

  Jax looked closer. Well hell... new and energetic with a leather mini-skirt does not automatically equate to youth. The woman has crow’s feet. She wanted to gather facts. This was not the time to entertain the “used to be married to” portion of the woman’s question. “Did you attend Aspen Falls?”

  Beneath the thick makeup a blush worked its way up Alicia’s neck and cheeks to her hairl
ine.

  “For about a semester.” Her confident bluster receded almost to a whisper. The woman had figured out that this conversation would not include a girlfriend chat.

  “Move away?” Jax forced the words out. Best to appear pleasant.

  “You could say that. I moved into the maternity ward at Memorial.”

  Ah. Jax remembered the girls in high school everyone expected to get pregnant. Leather mini-skirts fit right into that image. She quickly went from wondering how this woman could possibly have passed the background check to work here to considering how many kids by different fathers she had birthed to the baby Jax wanted but didn’t have.

  “Don’t think I was a slut or nothin’. It just took that one time. And I just had the one kid.” Alicia tugged down her skirt and tugged up her chin. “Who I raised.”

  Forced to examine her own judgmental thoughts, Jax swallowed and her scrutiny turned inward. “Being a single parent is one of the toughest jobs on the planet. I admire you.”

  “Yeah, well... my folks helped.” The woman fiddled with a thread sticking out of the hem of her tight sweater. “He’s the guy who goes to the casinos, right? Parties big? Phil? Your ex? In Central City and Blackhawk?”

  A brick, ice-cold on the outside and newly forged with intense heat on the inside, dropped into Jax’s stomach. She could taste the clay. Raw and gritty, it coated her mouth and threatened to choke off the air to her lungs. Damn him. Pride, a temporary savior, poured in and wrapped itself around the sharp cornered chunk of dirt in her gut. Her husband’s actions made her add this sin to her repertoire of cover-ups. It became one more item on a growing list.