by Peg Brantley
The police chief in Aspen, Colorado, Richard Pryor (yes, that’s his real name!) helped me with some tricky problems with the plot—including my need to have a civilian involved in the investigation. Elizabeth would not have been as much fun to write if she had to be pathetic and mourn on the sidelines.
Carol Myers is my cousin, and I asked her to read the scene with Birdie to make sure I nailed the Eastern European language challenge. I remember my Great-Grandmother, but Carol spent much more time with her and came back to me with a thumbs-up.
My first readers were wonderful. Bestselling author L.J. Sellers, author Lala Corriere, Kel Darnell, Kathleen Hickey, Joni Williams and Gail Swift helped me get it ready for an editor. Each one of these women lead busy lives and I appreciate them tackling an unedited manuscript just because I asked them to, and each one of these women contributed to the final result. My gift to them is a brand new ending to the story they read all those weeks and months ago.
This was my first time working with Jodie Renner. She is a terrific editor and made me feel like I had a collaborator extraordinaire. She found things that needed fixing and areas that needed expansion, and then she sat back patiently while I applied her advice or convinced her to let me have my way. She made the editing process thoroughly enjoyable. With Jodie, it was very much a collaborative effort that spoiled me, taught me and stretched me. And she did it all without changing my voice. She was also one of my biggest encouragers. Because of Jodie, The Missings is a better story.
Patty G. Henderson worked her magic once again for my cover design. Patty tweaked and emailed and tweaked and emailed and tweaked some more. Maybe it’s because she’s in Florida and I’m in Colorado, but I didn’t get the sense she rolled her eyes or sighed even one time. She just wanted me to be happy. That’s what I call a partner!
And finally, in order to attempt to provide readers with an error free reading experience, Krysta Corinn Copeland applied her keen eye to my manuscript looking for strange little problems. If any exist in this version, it is not due to her oversight but my negligence. Special thanks also to early readers Marilynne Smith, and Allen MacDiarmid, who caught errors everyone else missed.
For more information regarding organ donation, begin with United Network for Organ Sharing, or UNOS. You can find them at http://www.unos.org. If you are not currently an organ donor, please carefully consider the final gift you might have to help greatly improve, or even save, the life of another person.
Finally, I want to acknowledge those of you who read Red Tide and told me how much you enjoyed it. You gave me the heart to do everything again. Thank you. Without you I would simply be spewing words into a vacuum, and how much fun could that be?
**Turn the page to read the beginning of RED TIDE, and find out why it got all of those great reviews.**
About the Author
A Colorado Native, Peg Brantley is a member of Sisters in Crime and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. She and her husband make their home southeast of Denver, and have shared it over the years with a pair of mallard ducks named Ray and Deborah, a deer named Cedric and a beloved bichon named McKenzie.
Peg loves hearing from readers. If you’d like to learn more about Peg, or get in touch with her, you can go to her Facebook Author page at https://www.facebook.com/PegBrantleyAuthorPage
or her website at http://www.pegbrantley.com
or her Amazon Author page at http://www.amazon.com/PegBrantley/e/B007P35GWW/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
RED TIDE
by
Peg Brantley
RED TIDE
Copyright © 2012 by Peg Brantley
All rights reserved. Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9853638-1-9 (Paperback)
978-0-9853638-0-2 (Electronic book text)
Published in the United States of America by Bark Publishing, LLC
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.
Cover Design by Patty G. Henderson at Boulevard Photografica, www.boulevardphotografica.yolasite.com
To my mom, who loved and believed in me even when she wasn’t here.
Happy birthday, Mom.
To my dad and my sister who showed me it could happen.
And to my husband, the Love of My Life, who has waited patiently
for the done-done version.
“And all the waters that were in the river were turned to blood. The fish that were in the river died, the river stank and the Egyptians could not drink of the water of the river…”
Exodus 7:20-21 New King James Version
Chapter One
Sometimes the dead shouldn’t stay buried.
Jamie Taylor ducked under an aspen branch. Sometimes the dead needed to be unearthed, exposed, examined, and prayed over.
And sometimes, mulchy, worm-filled graves were not meant to be their final resting places. Places where secrets remained hidden, held fast to rotted flesh and dry bones.
“Never,” Jamie said. “People are not meant to be buried in unmarked, unremembered tombs. Not as long as I have anything to say about it.” She and Gretchen had begun their search in earnest when the golden retriever alerted next to a mountain laurel. There, Jamie found a small, fragile piece of stained cloth. She marked it with a utility flag so the crime lab tech could photograph and bag the bit of evidence, and then she moved on with her dog, spirits high with the promise they’d find what they were looking for soon.
Hours later, physical exhaustion gave way to punchiness, and her certainty flagged to a dull depression. Jamie signaled to Gretchen with a light tug on the lead. “Time for a break.” The golden gave her a look that said, “Not yet,” but Jamie knew Gretchen would go until she could go no further.
“I need some water, my sweet. And you’re getting some even if you don’t consider it a priority.”
Jamie hiked a few feet up and behind the ground they’d already covered and settled onto a flat rock, her supply pack at her feet. She dug out water for the two of them and surveyed the field they’d been searching since early that morning.
Field... more like prairie. She and one other handler were searching a hundred acres of high country meadow. Beautiful. Until you were forced to navigate the rough and rocky terrain hidden beneath the grasses.
They were looking for the body of a forty-two year old woman, missing for over a year. Her husband, finally drunk enough to tell his dirty little secret to a woman he’d met in a bar, said no one would ever find the body. The woman, after thinking about it for a while, became sufficiently terrorized to go to the authorities.
Analeise Reardon deserves a proper burial. She deserves to be prayed over by people who love her. Her parents, and her three children, deserve to have some closure. “And her damned husband deserves to have his arms cut off at his elbows and stuffed up his ass for starters,” she mumbled.
Painful memories of Jamie’s mother’s murder flooded her thoughts and her breaths grew shallow and quick. Her ribs compressed until they felt like strong, bony fingers squeezing inside her chest. Her vision blurred, and instinct—born of deliberate practice—forced her to shake her head to shatter the tension. She pulled a breath deep into her lungs, then forced air out. Inhale. Calm.
This wasn’t the first time Jamie and her dogs had participated in a search for a body as a result of someone who had decided divorce cost too much time, money and trouble. It also wouldn’t be the last. People never failed to disappoint her.
Jamie’s gaze travelled the edge of the field and she found a visual she might never have seen as part of the original search plan. Even Gretchen, working the established scent cone pattern, might not have picked up something that far out of the search area.
“C’mon girl. We’ve got a grave to find.” She stowed the water a
nd tucked her supply pack out of the way on her back. Her soil probe slipped easily from its holder, a sort of magic wand to use on her quest. Gretchen gave her a look that in a teenager would have involved rolled eyes and stood, ready to get back to work.
Jamie keyed a number into her cell. “It’s me. I’ve got an anomaly. Grasses.” She recorded her present coordinates on the handheld GPS she’d splurged on last summer and began the hike over to the area she’d spotted where the grass grew lush in comparison to nearby vegetation.
The path she took brought her back to the primary search area, then up again, almost fifty yards. Sure enough, a small area of prairie grass was growing thicker and darker and higher than anything else around it. Before she could sink her probe all the way into the earth to create the first breathing hole, Gretchen dropped to the ground. Full alert.
Nearby the song of a meadowlark filled the mountain air.
Sometimes, with a little help, the dead don’t stay buried.
Chapter Two
Gray walls, gray ceiling and floor, poured concrete table and chairs—all blended together to eliminate any visual stimulation. Colorado’s Supermax prison facility didn’t waste any funds on interior design. The lack of color made the stink of sweat and urine seem touchable. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Nicholas Grant hated it here.
He dry-swallowed two oxycontin tablets, his sixth and seventh of the day, no longer certain his back condition bore any relevance to his need for what he euphemistically referred to as “pain management.” Now however, wasn’t the time to consider his motivation for popping the pills. It hadn’t been the time for close to two years but he didn’t want to think about that either. He tapped the amber plastic bottle in his pocket, assured by its presence and the control it represented.
The semi-public area was eerily quiet compared to other parts of the penitentiary. But rather than tranquility, the air spiked with anger, resentment and distrust. No one left here the same as when they came in. No one. Not even him.
Prior to his arrival, the prison authorities had checked out and cleared the wall-mounted camera and recording equipment. No extra feeds to an unauthorized receiver were in place and everything tested in working order. So far technology had chronicled his failures on this case. Maybe today it would record a success.
Before beginning the interview, Nick was glad to have somewhere to go to complete his mental preparation and give his subject time to stew. Inmates measure their freedom, such as it is, in inches. When the guards brought Leopold Bonzer into the interview room and secured him to the cuff rings, his incarcerated ass would be about as mobile as a sick snail on a slow day.
Nick wandered back up to the security screening area in between two of the guard towers and settled on the corner of an unoccupied but cluttered desk that was already piled with stacks of forms, folders that looked like they had been pulled from a filing cabinet and dumped, unopened sleeves of Styrofoam cups, two canisters of powder for hot chocolate and a few old People magazines.
Nick worked to stay on good terms with all of the guards in this part of the prison. Over the years he’d popped in and out enough times to know about births and deaths, marriages and divorces. He knew which guards were die-hard Bronco fans, which ones followed the Rockies and even one who secretly pulled for the Redwings.
“Thanks for getting me the contact request list for Bonzer so fast.” Nick fist-bumped the guard. “You’d think after all this time even the tabloid reporters would know they can’t have access to inmates here.” Sensational stories sold papers. And a serial killer who admitted to murdering fourteen people was pretty sensational. A serial killer who wouldn’t give up the location of thirteen of those bodies and to whom no other members of the media had access was especially prime.
The tenth anniversary of the sentencing for Leopold Bonzer loomed a little over three months away. It had been Bonzer’s bad luck to get caught red-handed. He’d killed a postal worker vacationing at Maroon Bells, and then got stopped on his way to dispose of the body. The murder of a federal employee on public land received the attention of the FBI, and Nick had smelled more blood from his very first meeting with the suspect. He hadn’t quit in ten years. Be damned if I’ll quit now.
Slow to give up, the supermarket rags had continued to cook the Bonzer story at a slow spin, like a pig on a spit. They fanned the flames just enough to get a little sizzle, especially on the anniversary of his sentencing, but never so much that the story had dropped into the flames and smoldered away to an ashy memory.
The guard nodded and looked at Nick. “Some guys, their families try to get in to see ‘em even when they know they can’t. Bonzer’s family, if he’s got one, is smart enough to have cut him loose. Your guy is almost as big a media draw as our resident terrorists in H-Unit.” The prison guard leaned back in his chair and used a toothpick to dig out what Nick assumed were remnants from his lunch. The man sucked some spit, then motioned to one of the camera images with the tiny wooden pointer. “They’re loading him in now, Agent. What’s your plan this time?”
Nick tensed his jaw. Is that a smirk? A dig at my lack of success over the last ten years? Professional, not personal, right? Don’t let this guy get to you. He’s a friggin’ security guard for crying out loud. Besides, he has a point. He shrugged. “Wish I had a plan. Nothing’s worked so far. He’s looking for some kind of deal in exchange for details on the bodies but I’ve got nothing to offer. He doesn’t even want to try to negotiate his way to a different facility. Claims he’s happy here.”
“I’d help you if I could. You’re different from the other feds we’re expected to work with, and if I could think of something to get you what you need, I’d do it. So would most of the staff here. You want to help those families, not just move your own career a rung up the ladder. And it’s pretty clear the Bonzer case is more of a career killer.”
A sudden wave of doubt poured over Nick. His success rate at the bureau put him near the top, but the one criticism he’d endured review after review was that he might be too soft. His superiors claimed he got too involved in his cases and failed to maintain enough professional detachment. But if you don’t care, why put your life in jeopardy in the first place? The day he developed “professional detachment” would be the day he would know he needed to get out.
Nicholas Grant thought about the parents and other family members who had lost loved ones at the hands of Leopold Bonzer. Even with his confession to their brutal murders, there would always be one huge loose end for thirteen families. The lack of a body always fosters impossible images and irrational ideas in the minds of a mom or dad, a lover or friend. Until he could give them irrefutable proof, unquestionable evidence that a life had ended, hope would push to the surface.
Chapter Three
“Well, if it isn’t Agent Grant.” The clean-shaven man wore his wrinkled prison uniform as if it were a thousand- dollar suit.
“Hard to believe I surprised you, Bonzer, seeing as how I’m the only visitor you get other than your legal team. And how long has it been since they were here?” Nick set two frosty cans of soda pop on the table in front of him. He opened the top on one, then purposefully sat so he could cross his legs while Bonzer’s ankles remained shackled.
The inmate swung his head to the side, arched his neck and rolled his shoulders, flexing as much as his confinement with his wrists in the table restraints allowed.
A stretching snail. “Feeling confined, Bonzer?”
Bonzer fixed Nick with a glare. He took a breath. Released it. Another breath. Release. “You know I like my privacy.” His right eye twitched and the fingers on his right hand fiddled.
“How big is the window in your private cell?” Nick took a long swig from his can, his gaze not leaving Bonzer’s face.
“A perfect four feet.”
“That’s four feet wide. How high is it?”
“I told you. I like my privacy.”
“Four friggin’ inches, that’s how high. See much of
the world from your room at this hotel?” Nick popped the top on the other can and shoved it across the table, then called the guard in to release Bonzer’s hands from the restraints.
“Go to hell!” Bonzer took the can. Held it in front of him, temptation warring with pride. His eye continued to twitch.
When Nick went through his training he heard stories about Supermax prison, but he’d seen some pretty tough correctional institutions in his time and figured the stories for so much hype. His first visit here to meet with Leopold Bonzer almost ten years ago had opened his eyes.
Supermax, officially known as the United States Penitentiary Administrative Maximum Facility—or ADX— housed some of the worst criminals the Bureau of Prisons offered. The Alcatraz of the Rockies remained the most restrictive and punitive federal prison in the United States. Mafia family members, terrorists—homegrown and otherwise—drug kingpins, white supremacists and gang leaders all resided within its walls. Even a few serial killers, including a physician who got off on poisoning people, made Fremont County, Colorado their home.
Most of the cells were furnished with a desk, a stool and a bed, all poured concrete. If a prisoner attempted to plug his toilet for whatever reason it would automatically shut off. Showers were available in each cell, but they ran on a timer to prevent flooding. If a prisoner earned a few privileges he might have a polished steel mirror bolted to the wall, an electric light, a radio, and a black-and-white television that broadcast recreational, educational and religious programming. Other than the mirror, each privileged item was remotely controlled so the inmate never actually came into contact with them.
