One Grave Less

by Beverly Connor

  No one had anything to say. Steven looked like he had been broadsided. He kept shaking his head.

  “Do you have any theories?” David asked him.

  Steven was quiet for several moments. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Okay,” he said, tapping the tabletop with his middle finger. “Why now? Why did all this happen now? And why these god-awful rumors? What happened to trigger all this? You’re saying Simone was investigating stuff she dug out of Oliver’s belongings—belongings that she just recently felt emotionally strong enough to face going through. What if that wasn’t the trigger? What if there are no boxes? Or what if that stuff was only souvenirs, after all? What if the real trigger was the announcement of your upcoming nuptials, Diane? I saw it in the New York Times. I imagine she did too.”

  Diane’s eyebrows shot up. New York Times? Vanessa put her engagement in the New York Times? Why? Maybe she was garnering some publicity for the museum. But still . . . However, Diane didn’t say anything to interrupt the flow of Steven’s ideas.

  “She admired Diane to the point that she idolized her,” said Steven. “But her greatest tragedy was the death of her fiancé, Oliver—the man she should now be married to. Sometimes fierce loyalty can turn into jealousy. Simone was fragile after the massacre—even before. You know that. She was good at her job, but she was vulnerable.”

  David frowned. Gregory looked impassive, but Diane knew he didn’t like where this was going. No more than she did. Frank simply looked interested. She wondered what his take on all of this was. He would be more objective—something Diane was having a hard time being at the moment.

  If Steven sensed anything from them, he didn’t show it.

  “The rumor about you, Diane, may have been generated out of anger that you were getting the life she had hoped for and should have had.”

  “What about Gregory? You? David?” said Diane. There was a sharper edge to her voice than she meant.

  “Fallout. If you were involved in drug smuggling, then chances are, we were too—close-knit group, peas in a pod sort of thing. In my case, I can see the DEA thinking they might make a high-profile arrest if it were true. What’s my career compared to theirs? Politics is a dog-eat-dog world.”

  “My slander wasn’t drugs,” said Gregory. “Apparently I was too stupid to enrich myself with drug money. I was consorting with prostitutes.”

  Steven shrugged. “Aren’t all politicians accused at one time or another of consorting with prostitutes?”

  Gregory gave him a wry smile.

  “What about the mystery coworker who called Simone’s mother?” asked David. Diane could hear the understated edge to his voice.

  “Probably was a coworker, hoping to cash in on her misfortune,” said Steven. “Developing a rapport with Simone’s parents. Next call, he’ll say he found out Simone was involved, after all, and he’ll have to tell the police. ‘No? Don’t tell? Really? You’ll give me money? How much?’ It happens all the time.”

  Diane took a big swallow of hot coffee. It burned her throat all the way down to her stomach. “You really think Simone would do this to me, to us?” Diane said. “You can believe she would do that?”

  “When the alternative is to believe that one of us orchestrated the slaughter of our friends and family? Damn straight, I can. And so can you,” he said.

  Diane pondered that for a moment. “It’s not elegant,” she said.

  “What the heck does that mean?” said Steven.

  “Too many coincidences,” said Diane. “Too many things happening to all of us from different sources. It’s simpler if one person is doing this to cover up something they did in South America. One person spreading the rumors, the same person controlling information to the Brooks family, the same person after Simone in the museum.”

  “Not everything follows the law of parsimony, Diane. Sometimes things are just complicated,” said Steven.

  They were all quiet for several moments. It was Steven who spoke first, spreading his fingers wide on the table in front of him.

  “Look, guys, you know my strong suit is playing the devil’s advocate. I’m not saying I like this explanation, or even believe it. David asked for an alternative theory. This is one—and a viable one. I believe the massacre was all Ivan Santos from beginning to end. Diane, you showed the world that he was a liar about the mass graves. He hated you for that. He hated all of us, but he particularly focused his hate on you. There may be another explanation for what’s happening to us. It may not be Simone. It may be something else we don’t even know about yet. She may have come here to ask your opinion about something related to her job. Didn’t you say she had a human bone? Who would she take that to, but you? Maybe the fallout on us is for the same reason—distraction—but maybe it’s from some completely different case she was working on. I’m just saying, it is going to take a lot to get me to believe that one of us was responsible for the slaughter in South America.”

  He paused. They were quiet. Diane didn’t want to admit he had a point.

  “You gave a fair theory,” said Gregory. “And it is what we asked for. Like it or not, we must consider it. None of us like the idea of a traitor among us.”

  “Where are you staying, Steven?” asked David.

  “Thought I might look up some charming B and B. Got any ideas?” he asked.

  “You can stay at my apartment,” said David. “I have a guest room.”

  “That would be good,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on it.”

  Diane started to make some joke about David’s overly fortified apartment, but she stopped when she saw Garnett coming toward her. He looked grim.

  “Diane,” said Chief Garnett, “I’m sorry to disturb your dinner.”

  Diane gestured to a chair at a nearby empty table. Garnett grabbed it and sat down between Diane and David. Diane introduced him to Steven and briefly explained that Steven was suffering from the same problems that were plaguing the rest of them.

  Then she said, “You look grim. It’s not Simone, is it?”

  “No. I’m not even sure it has anything to do with you. It’s just troubling. There was a break-in at your old apartment. The very one you lived in. Someone trashed it, pulled out all the drawers, tore up the cushions, emptied the closets, the kitchen cabinets, the refrigerator. It’s hard to say if anything is missing. Thankfully, the occupants weren’t home. The destruction looks particularly thorough. Izzy is working the scene.”

  The first thing Diane thought of was the Interpol warrant on her. It had her old address, not where she lived now with Frank, in his house, but her old apartment, the one that was now trashed.

  Diane’s heart thudded against her chest. Star, Frank’s daughter, was at his house . . . alone.

  “Would you send a police car to Frank’s?” said Diane. She rose from her seat. “They can get there before we can.”

  “You thinking it was meant for you?” said Garnett.

  “I was remembering the warrant. It had my old apartment address, not Frank’s house. But whoever is doing this may be educating themselves and may have a short learning curve.”

  Garnett’s phone beeped. He looked at the display before he answered it. He listened a moment, his frown deepening.

  “Damn it. That was dispatch,” said Garnett. “They are on nine-one-one with Star; she’s holed up in that panic room you built, Frank.”

  Chapter 41

  Maria had the accelerator all the way to the floor. The tires were skidding on the small rocks and detritus in the road, which was getting narrower by the foot. There was a long drop-off on the right and a high bank to the left. They were on a precipice over a gorge. The road was nothing more than a gravelly ledge along the precipice.

  Maria should have chosen the other road. She wasn’t thinking. It was a good road and good roads lead to places, like villages and towns. She was in the middle of nowhere and running out of road. Damn.

  Rosetta had fished out the guns from the backpa
ck. Maria put each in a pocket with her right hand as she steered with her left. The gun she had been using was lying beside her on the seat.

  “Put the map and the compass in the backpack,” she said. Rosetta obeyed.

  She rounded a blind curve going fast and couldn’t see, until it was too late, that she was out of road. She slammed on the brakes, the truck fishtailed, and a wheel dropped over the edge on the right. The vehicle came to a grinding halt, tilted toward the passenger’s side at the edge of the precipice. A wall of rocks was close up against the truck on her left. No egress. Their pursuers were closing behind them. They would be rounding the curve at any moment. Maria grabbed the club she had put under the seat, the one that was her first weapon. She started punching the windshield with all her strength, which, with all the adrenaline pumping through her body, was considerable. A spiderweb crack spread out across the windshield. She hit it again and the windshield collapsed outward. She pushed the cracked sheet of glass out and scraped the club over the bottom of the frame, trying to remove the small pieces.

  “Toss those rags from behind the seat over the window frame and climb out.”

  Maria shoved the backpack onto the hood.

  “Go, go, go. Now!” she said.

  Rosetta didn’t hesitate; she scrambled out of the truck onto the hood.

  “Take the backpack and get as far from the truck as you can get. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Maria climbed out, half sliding on the curved hood of the truck. Rosetta was in front of her.

  Ambush was one of the best of plans. Maria, for the first time, wasn’t afraid. Either the adrenaline knocked it completely out of her, or her brain understood that fear was of no use anymore. She got her gun and scrambled over the rocks blocking the road, moving to higher ground so she could see over her truck at the road behind them.

  “Get farther away, Ariel,” she said, using the little girl’s real name. “If this doesn’t work out, hide until they leave and make your way to Benjamin Constant like we planned. Use the compass and the map, the way I showed you. Find someone with a phone and call your mother at the RiverTrail Museum in . . .” Shit, where was that damn museum? Damn it. “Rose, no, Rosewood, Georgia. If you can’t find her there, call John West in Cherokee, North Carolina. Tell him what happened. Tell him you were with Lindsay, and to come and get you.”

  “No! You’re coming with me!”

  Maria heard the panic in Rosetta’s voice and saw the tears in her eyes.

  “I’m going to do my best. What I’m telling you is just plan B. Now, go. You can do this. You are the strongest little girl I know.”

  She could hear the truck now, hear them gunning the engine. If she was lucky, they would come around the curve too fast and slam into her truck before they could stop. But she wasn’t going to count on luck. She had the advantage. She supported her arm on a rock and aimed. As soon as she saw the truck, she fired at the windshield on the driver’s side. She didn’t stop to see if she hit anything, she continued to fire as the truck careened down the narrow ledge. She saw the automatic weapon outside the passenger side window trying to aim at her, firing over her head up the mountain, unable to aim accurately. She saw the truck swerve and skid; she saw that it was not stopping. She fired again at the passenger side of the windshield, hoping she struck the gunman. Then their vehicle hit her truck with a terrible noise. She ducked as she heard more gunfire and crawled over rocks until she found Rosetta huddled under an overhang, wide-eyed with fear, her lower lip trembling and tears running down her face. They listened at the crunch and deep squeal of metal against metal, then they heard the thunder of something big tumbling over the side into the gorge.

  More bodies for someone to follow.

  Don’t lose it now, she told herself.

  “Don’t move. I don’t want to shoot you by mistake, okay? I need to see if anyone survived. I don’t want anyone following us.”

  Rosetta nodded.

  “You’re doing fine,” said Maria.

  She crawled back to look, to see if there was anyone left, if someone had jumped out at the last minute.

  Her truck was hanging over the edge, caught on a tree, or something—teetering, ready to fall. She didn’t see the other vehicle. She waited, watched, listened for groaning, someone walking over gravel, anything.

  “Do you need help?” she called out just to see if anyone would answer.

  Nothing.

  “Você precisa de ajuda?” called Rosetta.

  Maria wanted to laugh. What a kid.

  She listened again. Something? Soft noise. Scraping?

  “Rosetta,” she called.

  “Yes,” she answered from the rock shelter.

  Maria aimed her gun to the right and up and fired. A woman—dark hair, dark eyes, camouflage pants, and peasant top—tumbled off the top of the ledge above her and lay on her back on the talus, staring at nothing, blood spreading over her chest. Her gun clattered on the rocks at Maria’s feet. She picked it up. Maria didn’t recognize the woman. Another of the many strangers bent on capturing her and Rosetta. What the hell?

  “Anybody else?” she said out loud.

  No more sounds. Still she listened.

  Maria finally walked back to Rosetta and hugged her.

  “I’m sorry I broke down,” said Rosetta.

  “Are you kidding? You’re a rock, kiddo. The best kid ever. I could never have gotten this far without you.” Maria hugged Rosetta to her and squeezed hard. “Just the best.”

  Maria looked at the way before them. A long expanse of treetops in all directions. They were at the top of a butte that had a steep rocky slope down to the forest below. She could see the river, the one that went through the gorge, winding its way through the forest. Maria guessed that at some point it would flow into the Amazon.

  It was a beautiful world. She wished she could be enjoying its interests and not its dangers.

  “We have to climb down. It won’t be too bad,” said Maria. “There is enough of a slope that we can do it. We just have to be careful.”

  She took the backpack from Rosetta and started down the slope, watching the kid pick her way through the rocks and vegetation that was getting thicker. She looked over at the river again and saw a sight that made her heart flutter. A boat. A two-decker. Possibly a tourist boat.

  They couldn’t make it down in time, but if there was one boat, there could be another one. They could follow the river. Then she thought of crocodiles and decided perhaps that wasn’t a good idea.

  She was tempted to pick up the pace. But she didn’t. Don’t be reckless after all this. She got the map and compass out of the backpack and calculated how much farther they had to go. A little more than forty miles. Not far. Not far at all. She felt lighthearted all of a sudden. Maria quickened her pace when they reached flatter ground.

  “It’s not far,” she told Rosetta.

  Rosetta grabbed her hand and the two of them followed the compass toward Benjamin Constant.

  Chapter 42

  “I’m thankful you built the safe room,” said Diane as they raced through traffic to Frank’s house. She heard sirens and hoped they were heading for Star. She had her arms crossed around her middle, holding herself together.

  “Me too,” said Frank. His face was a tight mask. “She’s in the room. She’s safe. It’s a good room. Strong.”

  The safe room was built after a violent intruder beat down the back door and broke in the house with Diane alone at home. It was on the first floor. Frank had taken a small spare bedroom with a tiny on-site bathroom and converted it to a safe room outfitted with steel doorjambs; Kevlar, steel-reinforced, fire-resistant, soundproof walls; controlled ventilation; and separate communication to the outside world. It was small, but comfortable. Frank made a few other renovations, the kind that might be made to make a home handicap accessible, to allow quick access to the room from all areas of the house. It was still a work in progress, but he had finished the main safety features first.


  Diane hoped Star wasn’t terrified, and was relieved she had made it to the room, scared at the reason she had to. Frank was pushing past the speed limit. Gregory was with them in the backseat. He said nothing. Diane sensed he was worried. He leaned forward, as if willing the car to go faster. He hadn’t met Star, but Marguerite had when they visited Paris and London on their trip to buy Star’s wardrobe—her reward for meeting Diane’s challenge of sticking out her first year in college and maintaining at least a 2.7 GPA. Gregory had been out of the country at the time. Marguerite was a great help shopping in Paris. It had been fun. Star had a great time. The trip broadened her horizons, made Star see herself in a different light.

  Diane had told Gregory about Star and the death of her adoptive parents, Frank’s best friends, and how Frank became her guardian and formally adopted her. She still called him Uncle Frank, which brought no end of confusion to people meeting them for the first time—especially since Star tended to introduce him as “This is my dad, Uncle Frank.”

  Diane’s mind was racing, hopping from one trivial thing to the next. Her heart thudded against her chest. She wanted to call Star in the safe room but Star was keeping the line open to the police.

  They turned onto Frank’s street. Not much farther to go. Diane could see the police cars in the driveway. Frank pulled in and parked in the grass, out of their way. He jumped out of the car and raced in, Diane and Gregory close behind him.

  The police were in the front door. It had been smashed open with, it appeared, a battering ram. Probably took only a couple of hard hits to collapse the door. That door and all the outside doors would be next on the list to reinforce.

  A policeman held a hand out before he recognized Frank.

  “Duncan,” he said. “We just got here. We’re searching the grounds. It looks like they only made it through the front door.”

  Diane knew the policeman, but not well. He had been hired to replace Izzy when Izzy came over to the crime lab. He was a young man, several years younger than Izzy. He pointed to the shattered door askew on its hinges—as if it weren’t noticeable.