by Diane Capri
The buzz’s tone rose to a squeal and stopped. He turned. It was behind him. He stared into the mottled darkness between the trees. There were only two choices. Keep his position and take out anyone who emerged, or head back into the woods and risk missing the target. He rolled his shoulders. He could miss the target even if he waited there.
He turned back to the woods. The sound had stopped. He had come straight through the trees to the road, so whoever was making the noise had to be to the left or right. He chose right, and moved fast, gun first.
The wet leaves slapped at his clothes. Faint light penetrated the foliage.
The trees thinned out. He saw a faint outline of the fence. He’d have to double back, covering a different angle and more ground. He swore to himself.
A branch broke to his right. The crack rang out through the damp air. He dropped to his knees, amid the undergrowth. He searched to his right, training his gun across the ground. Nothing moved. He saw only trees and the thick ground layer of weeds.
He moved forward, tree to tree. Swift movements from one camouflaged position to another. Ahead lay an opening, maybe twenty feet across. It was clear.
He exhaled. The sound of the breaking branch had been too loud suggesting a branch too big to have been broken by a woodland animal. He swung a full three-sixty, his gun trained, his eyes straining into the gloom.
Another branch cracked. Loud. Close. He jolted back, dropping to his knees behind the protection of a tree trunk. The sound had come from above. Far above. He pressed close to the tree, searching upwards. He saw branches moving, perhaps forty feet above him.
He stared. Someone was climbing? Had they seen him and now thought they were going to hide? He frowned. How stupid were they? As high as they had climbed, they were well within range. He hefted his gun and stopped. Even with the silencer, a gunshot would be too loud.
He watched leaves shake high above him. Perhaps they weren’t as stupid as they first seemed. They were forcing his hand. They might survive a few shots. Tree limbs had plenty of stopping power, and the noise would bring the estate’s guards running.
He cursed. He was running out of time. He had to act. He holstered his gun and pulled out a hunting knife. Its blade glinted in the pre-dawn light. He prepared to climb after them. A knife was his best weapon.
The sight of a knife was usually enough to make ordinary people freeze. Their throats closed up. Their mouths hung open. Often, they would simply hold their breath. Exactly the wrong actions if they hoped to survive.
He steeled his muscles for the task ahead. He really had only one choice. The risk of discovery was unacceptable. He would have to deal with the intruder.
Above him, wood splintered. The climber screamed. High pitched, perhaps female. A large chunk of the tree peeled off, crashing and tumbling as it fell, striking branches and limbs on the way down. Blackstake ran for the edge of the clearing. Somewhere in the blur, the screaming continued.
The tree limb hit the ground in a flurry of leaves and twigs. A sharp smack. The screaming stopped abruptly. The climber had fallen all the way down along with the limb.
On the ground was a mess of branches and leaves. The sound of falling debris stopped. Silence returned to the darkness.
Blackstake leaped forward through the undergrowth. He ran flat-out. Bounding across the opening. Closing the gap on the unsuspecting intruder. He raised his knife, his momentum carrying him forward, his arm tensed for the pounding blow that would drive the knife into the intruder’s chest.
He reached the fallen limb and froze.
The intruder lay prone on the ground. A boy. Young. The crest of some middle school on his jacket. His hair was a jumbled mat. Even in the dim light, Blackstake could see he had suffered a head injury that covered one side of his head with blood. His mouth was open, but he made no noise.
Blackstake hesitated, hunting knife held high. The boy had been standing not fifty feet from the girl’s grave. He might have seen nothing or everything. Leaving him alive was too big a risk. Unnecessary.
He adjusted his grip on his knife. He’d seen a lot of head trauma before, and the boy’s was extensive. Blood on the boy’s body glistened in the growing light.
He lowered his knife. The boy wasn’t going to make it. He’d fallen at least forty feet. He’d been climbing a tree, doing something stupid. He’d be found dead, and people would come to the same conclusion.
If he added further injuries to the boy, an autopsy would likely show them.
He slid his knife into the sheath. He would leave the brat to die. It was the least risky option.
Under the boy’s collar rested a set of cheap headphones. Tinny. He leaned closer. They were silent, probably broken in the fall. He looked up the tree. The boy couldn’t have seen anything at the gravesite, really. If he had, he would have run away. Fast. He wouldn’t have wasted time listening to music and climbing a tree.
Blackstake walked away. He climbed back over the fence and pulled his jacket after him. He picked up the wheelbarrow and set off across the field. He had almost a mile to walk.
He kept close to the fence, dragging the wheelbarrow behind him. Morning dew soaked his boots and jeans. He leaned forward, his legs pushing hard, following the same path he had taken earlier.
Light was growing all around him. He kept his head up, and his grip tight on the barrow’s handles.
Thirty minutes later he arrived at the edge of the thick woods, just as dawn broke over the horizon. He gave a great sigh. He was going to make it. He’d finish soon. No one had seen him. Or at least, no one who could possibly talk about what they’d seen.
An hour later, the girl’s body was back in the ground, and the vegetation around her new grave was carefully arranged to cover the disturbance.
On his return to the manor, he saw that the fence post had collapsed and pulled another post along with it. Despite his care, his digging had undermined its footings. He shrugged. The fence was slated to be moved anyway.
He kicked off his muddy boots and ignored the housekeeper’s stares as he walked through the mansion’s basement in his filthy clothes. He entered his private apartment and dumped his clothes in the trash. Later he would incinerate them.
He showered, and fell, exhausted, onto his bed.
His day’s work was done.
CHAPTER TWO
Denver, Colorado
Monday, September 26
10:00 a.m. Mountain Time
Jess Kimball pushed her curtains back as far as they would go, letting the Denver sunshine sweep away the deserted apartment feeling. The air was stale. Dust motes swayed in the sun’s rays.
She spent very little time here. No wonder the place never felt like a home. She’d create a real home someday. After she found her son. Until then, this almost abandoned apartment was as good as anywhere else for stashing what few belongings she possessed between the trips required by her Taboo Magazine assignments.
She rinsed out her coffee machine and washed a mug. She hadn’t been here for weeks. Everything had acquired a thin layer of dust that made her sneeze. The machine gurgled and hissed, and filled the single mug. Coffee for one. She wondered if Peter drank coffee now. His fourteenth birthday was three months ago. Maybe he was still too young, but Jess had been drinking coffee at age eleven.
Her fridge was barren, and she’d eaten her last protein bar last night. She sat in the room’s only armchair and looked out of the window. Small white clouds dotted the deep blue sky. She could see the mountains in the distance.
She blew off the steam and sipped her coffee, savoring the burning sensation in her throat. She felt a bit uneasy. The apartment seemed too quiet. Her life now was chasing exciting stories for Taboo, not enjoying morning solitude. She was still too young for peace and quiet. Maybe she’d become addicted to adrenaline along with the caffeine.
She blew out a long breath and shook her head. No. Not adrenaline. It wasn’t a quest for excitement that drove her.
It was ju
stice for the victims that pushed her beyond her limits. She couldn’t right all wrongs, and sometimes families were beyond anything justice could offer. But crime victims deserved justice. Justice shouldn’t always serve the rights of criminals at the expense of victims. Victims needed an advocate like Jess. Especially when the system failed. Which, in Jess’s view, happened all too often.
Like her son, Peter. The system had failed him. Failed her. She and Peter deserved justice, too. And they’d have it. One day. Until then, she’d do what she could for other victims.
She looked around the empty apartment. She rarely socialized. Work came first. But did she really need to put her own life on hold forever? As her assistant, Mandy, warned her all the time, Jess wasn’t getting any younger. She grinned. Maybe Mandy was right. Maybe she should think about finding the right guy one of these days.
Her phone buzzed. Not the normal ring, but short, sharp buzzes. She put down her mug and hurried across the room.
She didn’t need to look at the name on the display before stabbing the talk button. “This is Jess Kimball.”
“Good morning, ma’am.” Brentwood Stephenson’s warm drawl was unmistakable. Her chief investigator. The man she’d hired to lead the effort to find her son, missing twelve years now. Definitely not her prince charming, but that wasn’t why she needed him.
Stephenson sounded like the sort of person for whom the words “southern gentleman” were invented, but she’d hired him because of his years in the Dallas PD. It was his record, not his manners that made him her number one choice for the job. His gallantry and unflappable calm were simply a welcome bonus.
Jess perched on the arm of the cheap sofa. Her heartbeat quickened. Stephenson wasn’t due to call today. “I’m here. What’s up?”
“Still alive? Haven’t heard from you in a few days. You know I always worry about my clients.” He laughed, teasing her as he often did. “Mainly because the dead ones don’t pay up.”
She put a smile into her voice because she felt emotional all of a sudden. She was tired. Exhausted, really. That must be it. She’d cried all of her tears for Peter long ago. “Well, I’m still alive, and I believe you’re still getting your monthly retainer straight from my bank account?”
“I do believe I am. Every month. On the dot. Which is why I’m calling.” He paused and his voice dropped an octave. “I heard from a contact. Washington State Police.”
Jess leaned forward, crushing the phone to her ear.
“They have a boy in the hospital.” Stephenson’s teasing had stopped. His tone was deadly serious.
She swallowed. “And?”
“I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
She brushed his concern aside. “Tell me everything.”
“Jess, I barely know anything. In fact, I wasn’t even going to call you. But the boy might not make it. I thought you had a right to know and make up your own mind.”
“I’m okay.” Her voice squeaked. She took a deep breath and sighed deliberately into the mouthpiece. “Just tell me what you do know, and we’ll take it from there.”
“A boy, seems about the right age. Admitted to a hospital in a small town southeast of Seattle this morning. Randolph, Washington.” He paused and she could hear him inhale. “Head trauma. Bad. They’ve got him in a medically induced coma.”
“Isn’t that dangerous for a head injury? To sedate him?” She’d meant to wait for his full report before asking questions, but her worry had popped out of her mouth of its own accord.
“Sometimes. It can be. These docs seem to know what they’re doing. It’s a good hospital. State-of-the-art, I’m told.”
She hoped he was right. “What else?”
“No ID on the boy yet. Police are doing everything to find out who he is. They’ll be on TV, Internet, everywhere.” He took another deep breath and held it a moment before he spoke again. “When they admitted him, the only thing they got out of him was a name.”
She gritted her teeth. She knew what was coming. She’d been down similar roads before.
“It’s why I called you.” Stephenson paused as if to soften the blow. “He said his name was Peter.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. Her jaw trembled, tapping her teeth against each other. She clamped her mouth shut and breathed deeply for control. Was this her Peter? After all these years? Could it be true? She grabbed a tissue from a box and dabbed the moisture from her eyes.
“Jess? Are you still there?” Stephenson’s voice came from the speaker, tiny and distant.
Her heart beat in pounding thumps, and she snatched short breaths, avoiding tears, but barely. She’d been through this so many times. But this time felt different, and she wasn’t sure why.
“Jess, you’re worrying me. Do I need to send Denver PD over there?”
She knew he’d make good on the promise, so she brought the phone back to her ear and cleared her throat. “I’m here. Just a little under the weather today. Sorry.”
Stephenson kept talking, giving her time to collect herself. He was an intuitive man, which was one of the things that made him a good investigator. “It could be him. It’s possible. Not likely, but possible.”
“Right.” She choked the word out between snatched breaths.
“Look, Jess.” His tone was gently stern as if he was talking her off a ledge or something. “Keep calm. There are millions of Peters in the world. This isn’t the first one we’ve run across who is the right age and lacking ID, right?”
“But you think this one could be him.” She wiped her nose. “That’s why you called, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. He was found in a small town, but his picture wasn’t recognized at the schools there, which is strange. No one seems to know who he is or where he came from.” Stephenson paused a beat. “His parents haven’t been located. He might have run away or been dropped off. We just don’t know yet.”
“Where?” Jess breathed hard, sucking air deep into her lungs, pushing back the emotions rolling over her composure. Stephenson wouldn’t call without good reason. She cleared her throat again. “What hospital is he in?”
“Only one in that town, but it’s a pretty good one. Randolph Memorial Hospital. ICU.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“Not yet.”
She felt the decision make itself. “I’m going.”
“That’s not a good idea, Jess. Not yet. This kid’s suffered a head trauma. It’s bad.” His warnings fell into the silence and disappeared.
“If it’s not him, maybe I can help.” She paused to steady her breathing. “If it is him, I need to be there when he wakes up.”
“Docs are not upbeat about his chances,” Stephenson said warily.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Then I need to go now.”
“They might find the parents any minute.” He wasn’t the type to give up easily on his best judgment.
“Look, Brent. I appreciate you looking out for me. I do. But if he’s my Peter, no matter what happens, I have to be there.” Her voice broke, and she coughed to conceal her uncharacteristic emotion. Maybe she was losing her mind. Other mothers she’d met over the years had slipped over the edge into madness, eventually. She’d never thought the same might happen to her.
“It’s only been a couple of hours since they found him,” Stephenson said. “We’ll have more info later. Why not wait until we know more?”
“Send me any information you get as soon as you have it. Thanks, Brent. I’ll keep in touch.” Jess hung up and booked the next flight out of Denver to Seattle. She’d send a note to her assistant and deal with a car rental and everything else from the airport.
She felt better, stronger, for making the decision. It was the right move.
If the boy wasn’t her son, she’d catch a flight back in the morning.
CHAPTER THREE
Randolph, Washington
Monday, September 26
9:30 a.m. Pacific Time
The phone in Blackstake�
��s basement kitchen buzzed. The mansion had its own internal telephone system. Extravagant when it was installed. Unnecessary in the age of cell phones. But the system had advantages. No records were created. No log of calls or recorded conversations. When his phone rang, he answered immediately.
The boss spoke before Blackstake had a chance. “Security tells me three local police officers are milling around the area where you were busy last night.”
Blackstake’s blood ran cold. He punched buttons on a TV monitor to bring up the closed-circuit cameras pointed toward where he had been working. The distance and the thick forest challenged the camera range. He could make out three figures moving in the woods, but little else.
“I’ll deal with them.”
“Why are they here?”
“I’ll find out.”
“I was told an ambulance arrived and departed.”
Blackstake took a deep breath. The ambulance must have been for the dead boy. He should have reported the boy’s death earlier, but he’d assumed the body would lie there for a long time. Days, perhaps.
He sighed. “There was a boy down by the fence. An idiot. Climbed a tree and fell out of it.”
“Did he see you?”
“Definitely not. Any boy with an ounce of sense who sees me digging up a body is going to run a mile. He isn’t going to play Tarzan up a tree.”
Another long silence. “Then why are the police here?”
Blackstake pursed his lips. “Like I said, I’ll find out.”
“You do that. Report back immediately.”
The phone went dead.
Blackstake donned hiking boots and a thick jacket and left the mansion.
A police presence after someone had found the dead boy wasn’t surprising, but it raised his adrenaline.
He remembered every single tool and weapon he had carried with him the night before. He counted them off. He ran through the list twice. He’d brought everything back with him. No question.
