The Ultimate Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Bestsellers)

by Perkins, Cathy

  He left the highway at the outskirts of town and wound through back roads. At the cemetery, a light where it shouldn’t be caught his eye.

  “Goddam taggers.”

  He grabbed his cell and called it in. “We got lights at the cemetery.”

  Dispatch notified the sector car.

  Slowly, Robbins drove the length of the graveyard. His conscience battled his fatigue. He could keep going, be home and in bed in less than fifteen minutes. The taggers were Jordan’s problem.

  Jordan’s and the patrol officer’s.

  Jordan’s, the patrol officer’s and the whole damn community’s.

  If the sector car was clear—not already working an incident—it would still take the officer five or ten minutes to arrive. The kids would see the blue lights and scatter like a bunch of cockroaches.

  He jerked his car to the side of the road. “I can step on at least one of them,” he muttered.

  The car door closed with a quiet click, but Robbins knew how sound carried out in the country. He grabbed his flashlight, scrambled over the fence, not as agile as when he was Rocket Robbins, and headed across the lawn.

  A quarter moon rode low on the horizon, offering more illumination than the security lanterns near the admin building. Eyes adjusted to the darkness, he moved toward the spot of light. The headstones cast irregular shadows. He dodged in and out of the dark spaces, sticking to the grass to muffle his steps. He wished there were a few more trees to cover his approach, but trees would give the kids cover when they ran.

  Thwunk.

  Thwunk.

  Robbins stopped and cocked his head. Hearing sharpened along with his night vision, he listened to the rhythmic sound.

  Clouds scudded across the moon. Damn, it’s dark out here, he thought as he waited. Ghosts and zombies weren’t on his suspect list as the noise-producers. He’d pulled too many drunks and horny teenagers out of the cemetery to be spooked, but he couldn’t place the noise.

  The sound stopped.

  Robbins crept closer and maneuvered around a large headstone for a clearer view. The lantern glow revealed a back-lit figure—a man standing in a hole.

  What the hell?

  The man bent low, working a shovel.

  Thwunk. The shovel hit something hard and then scraped with a grating sound.

  Goddammit. Punks were digging up a grave. From the pile of dirt, the guy had been working at it for a while. Robbins unsnapped the cover of his service weapon and stepped forward.

  The man thrust the shovel into the pile of dirt. He placed his hands on the lip of the grave and effortlessly vaulted from the hole. Dusting his hands, he turned toward the light. “Where are they?”

  Robbins froze. Holy shit. It’s Hayes. He’d found Hayes.

  With the next heartbeat, he eased back into the shadow of the headstone. He probed the darkness around the desecrated grave site. He suspected—make that hoped—Beason was nearby and still among the living.

  “I told you. They’re buried with Akeem,” another voice said from the shadows.

  An old man’s voice. Beason?

  Robbins moved away from the opened grave and hit a speed dial on his cell.

  “Detective Jordan.”

  He cupped his hand around his mouth and the cellphone speaker. “Hayes and Beason are at Akeem Beason’s grave at the cemetery. Get everybody.”

  He glanced at the men beside the gaping hole, hoping their continued argument covered his quiet words. “Now.”

  He closed the cell and eased toward the men. Backup—either Jordan or the sector car—would arrive soon. He watched Hayes pace between the grave and a spot in the shadows behind the stone.

  Was Beason part of this theft after all? A pang of disappoint arrowed through Robbins’ thick layer of cynicism. He’d hoped the old guy was different.

  “I’m down to the box,” Hayes said. “There ain’t no bag in that pile of dirt. Where are they?”

  “In the casket.”

  Hayes strode into the shadows, jerked Beason to his feet and dragged him to the open grave. Beason’s arms canted at an awkward angle, his bound wrists lifted high. Hayes clutched the old man’s upper arm and shook him the way a dog shook a rabbit. “What did you do with them?”

  “They’re in the casket, I told you.”

  “You told me lots of shit. Most of it’s been bullshit.”

  The first blow crumpled the old man. Hayes reached for the shovel. Before it reached the top of its arc, Robbins lunged forward, weapon drawn. “Drop it, Hayes.”

  Hayes jerked like he’d been shot. He pivoted, his face a mask of anger. “Who’s that?”

  “Police. Put the shovel down.”

  Hayes’ hands flexed on the handle. The lantern cast shadows that twisted over his arms as he tightened the muscles.

  Robbins stayed still, letting Hayes wrestle with the decision. If he moved any closer, Hayes would react defensively. The downward stroke of his shovel would crush whichever of Beason’s bones it landed on.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, coming fast. Hayes flicked a glance toward the admin building. In his peripheral vision, Robbins saw one set of spinning lights at the entrance to the parking lot. From the noise, at least two more units were in-bound.

  When he said everybody, Jordan apparently took it literally.

  “Stay over there.”

  Hayes words narrowed Robbins’ focus. Watch his eyes. Watch his hands. If Hayes planned to make a run—or a stand—this was the moment. “Put the shovel down.”

  Another tense pause, while Hayes debated.

  “You haven’t hurt anyone. Don’t start now.”

  His choice made, Hayes stepped across Beason’s sprawled form. Bending down, he laid the shovel on the dirt hill.

  Robbins drew a deep breath. “Step away from Beason.”

  When Hayes straightened, instead of retreating, he held Beason by the arm. The old man scrambled to his feet. He stumbled and would’ve fallen if Hayes hadn’t wrapped an arm across his chest.

  “Let him go.”

  Hayes jerked Beason in front of him, using his hostage as a shield. His other hand reached behind him and pulled a pistol from his waistband. The barrel ground into Beason’s temple. The old man winced, but held steady.

  In seconds Robbins had his weapon trained on Hayes. “You don’t want to do this. Guns don’t solve anything.”

  “You ain’t giving me any choice. Back off and the old guy lives.”

  Robbins eyed down the barrel, but he had no shot. Beason may be old and frail but he was tall enough to cover Hayes’ vital spots. “You haven’t done anything yet except drag an old man all over the state. Don’t make it worse.”

  “I ain’t going back to prison.”

  Stall. Give the officers time to get into position. “Let him go, Tyrell. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

  “He ruined my life. What’s left of it.”

  Hayes ruined his own life as far as Robbins was concerned. He heard rustling and footsteps behind him, officers moving into support positions. “You’re young. You have plenty of time to get past this.”

  “How? How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I got no family. No friends left. Nobody’s gonna hire me with my felony record. Those seals are my way out.”

  “That isn’t the way to do it.” He inched forward. Still no shot. If he fired, he might miss—or hit Beason.

  And if he fired, so would Hayes. Hayes wouldn’t miss.

  “Get back.” Hayes’ tight voice betrayed him. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill you, too.”

  Robbins could’ve sworn he saw tears on the guy’s cheeks. “Put the gun down, Tyrell.”

  How could he appeal to the guy? No friends, no family – none that claimed him anyway.

  “You put your gun down.” Hayes jerked his chin toward the darkness behind Robbins. “Tell those guys back there to leave.”

  “That isn’t going to happen, Tyrell.” If he could edge forward, a little more to the side… that shot
might be makeable. He couldn’t count on the officers around him having a better angle.

  “Come on, Tyrell. Put the gun down.”

  Hayes had to know after tonight he would go to prison for a long, long time. Either prison or he’d die. Right here.

  Hayes lifted the gun from Beason’s temple. Inches, but a start.

  Beason raised his hands, tucked them under his chin. Robbins wasn’t sure if the old guy was praying, but he kept his focus on Hayes. “Take your finger off the trigger and move your hand to the side.”

  Hayes hesitated and in that moment Robbins knew.

  Don’t let it be suicide by cop. “Don’t do it.”

  Hayes jerked the gun away from Beason’s head.

  Chapter 13

  Robbins dove forward, pistol trained on Hayes’ forehead. He caught a flash of movement, Beason’s hands reaching upward. Hayes’ pistol rose, turned.

  A rifle fired behind Robbins. In the same moment, Hayes’ pistol went off, the explosion ripping through the SWAT sniper’s sharp report.

  Hayes slumped to the ground. Beason fell with him, landed spread-eagled across his body.

  Robbins sprinted forward. He lifted the old man and pulled him aside. Beason was breathing heavily. Fear. Adrenaline.

  Officers swarmed the grave. One checked Hayes for a pulse as another moved the pistol away from his hand. Robbins glanced at the body. One bullet hole entered Hayes’ forehead. Another wound shattered his jaw. There would be a larger wound at the back of his skull and blood and gray matter sprayed over the dirt and graves beyond them.

  “Damn,” Beason said.

  Robbins looked over at him. Blowback dampened Beason’s face and shirt. Robbins had halfway expected him to start shaking, but Beason was a tough old guy.

  Beason was studying Hayes’ body, an expression of regret on his face. “What a waste.”

  He wondered if the guy meant a waste to kill him or that Hayes was a waste of space.

  “This is my fault. I killed him,” Beason said.

  “This is Hayes’ doing. He brought all of this on himself.” Robbins shook his head. “He wanted to shoot himself, or for us to shoot him. When the rifle bullet hit him, his hand clenched. That’s what made the gun go off.”

  “No.”

  Robbins wasn’t sure whether he heard regret or dark satisfaction in Beason’s word. There’d be time to talk about it later. Time to sort out what happened.

  Time for a social worker—or Miz Rose—to help Beason move past it.

  Beason stood silent for another long moment, then cocked his head and said, “Could you untie me now?”

  Robbins holstered his weapon, only then aware he still held it, and worked the rope.

  “I was starting to wonder when y’all were going to get here,” Beason said when his hands were free. With gnarled fingers, he chafed his bony wrists. “I kept running around the countryside, waiting for y’all to catch up.”

  Robbins stifled a laugh at the old man’s audacity. “Yeah, well. We do the best we can. Your daughter’s okay by the way. Pissed, but not hurt.”

  “That girl stays pissed off.” Beason shook his head. “Glad you found her.”

  “Me, too. Didn’t know what to make of her story.”

  “I imagine she had a doozy for you. When Tyrell told me he knew where to find Gloria if I didn’t cooperate, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. Could of knocked me over with a feather when he dragged her into that motel room.” Beason glanced over, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “He might of gotten more than he asked for. Girl has a mouth on her. Not sure where she got that from.”

  “A couple of times, I thought about stuffing the gag back in, but we hoped she knew where y’all went.”

  “Well, you found us.” A smile played around the old man’s face. “Please tell me you found my Caddy.”

  “About a mile from her house. It’s still in one piece.”

  “That’s two things that worked out just fine.” Sadness and regret invaded Beason’s voice.

  Two things.

  But not three.

  They both looked back at the sprawled body. For a minute they watched the organized chaos of officers controlling the crime scene. Finally, Robbins took Beason’s arm and guided him toward one of the patrol cars. “So where are these seals Hayes wanted so badly?”

  Beason patted a gravestone as they pass it, then turned his head and looked Robbins in the eye. “I haven’t got a clue.”

  Epilogue

  I didn’t kill my wife.

  My daughter still thinks I did.

  And I can’t look Gloria in the face and say I never considered it.

  But not for the reasons she believes.

  More than once, I thought about taking Delores’ life, late at night when she finally fell asleep. An exhausted, fitful sleep that gave her no rest.

  I rose and stood in front of Delores’ grave. The cemetery people had done a fine job, replacing the soil and laying fresh sod. My flowers, the daisies she loved, stood out, a bright white against the new green grass.

  Now she could rest. Rest without suffering.

  I repositioned the flowers, propped them against the headstone.

  Suffering is supposed to make us stronger. More aware of life. More appreciative of it.

  I couldn’t see any of that in Delores’ life. Not there at the end.

  I asked God for direction. Read the Bible. Prayed about it.

  Job’s suffering seemed pointless, but the Lord asked Job who he was to question the mind and plan of God.

  Who was I to question it?

  So while I thought and read my Bible and did the best I knew how, my wife suffered.

  I might have been wrong.

  I stepped in front of my grandson’s grave.

  I found a way to make things right, I told him. The detective told me a marine colonel—a jarhead—takes back things stolen from the museum. Does it anonymously. I can send the seals to him, without having to drag you into it. Don’t have to explain you weren’t part of the theft.

  You did what you thought was right. Hayes shouldn’t have stolen the seals. Taking them from him, sending them to me, would’ve worked if you’d come home the way you should’ve. You could’ve worked with people here. Kept your name clear.

  But saying ‘should’ve’ means I’m questioning God again.

  If only. If only…

  If only Hayes hadn’t stolen the seals.

  If only your squad sergeant could’ve been trusted.

  If only I knew for sure who pulled the trigger when ‘friendly fire’ took your life.

  I moved again and stopped at the spot where Hayes died.

  The detective was wrong, too.

  Wrong about Hayes.

  He tried to tell me the police killed that boy, but I know something he doesn’t.

  When the detective made his move, called out that last time, I was ready. My hands were right there, beside Hayes’ hand. I used that moment, when Hayes dropped his guard. I shoved the gun away from my head, back toward his face.

  I pulled that trigger as much as Hayes and the police officer did.

  I killed the man who would’ve killed my grandson all over again.

  I killed the man who would’ve killed me.

  I might’ve been wrong.

  The End

  About the author

  Cathy Perkins draws inspiration for her character-driven mysteries from her experiences in the financial industry, where the people-watching can be far more fascinating than the numbers. Her heroes and heroines untangle family and romantic relationships while caught up in plots with enough twists to keep you on the edge of your seat. Born and raised in South Carolina, she can now be found in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, children and a 75-pound lab who thinks she’s a lap dog.

  Cathy is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers and Romance Writers of America’s Kiss of Death mystery/suspense chapter. Working with KOD, she s
erved as a coordinator of the prestigious Daphne du Maurier contest and she handles publicity for ITW’s Debut Authors, including The Thrill Begins blog. Her debut novel, The Professor, a Golden Heart finalist, released in January 2012 from Carina Press. She welcomes notes from her fans.

  You can reach her at the following places:

  Twitter Facebook Website Blame It On The Muse Blog

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Catherine Perkins

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover art: Gwen Phifer Campbell

  Excerpt – The Professor

  Meet Agent Mick O'Shaughnessy:

  Frank dropped the Greenville News onto the kitchen counter in Mick’s condo. “I got your paper.”

  “Thanks.” Mick didn’t lift his eyes from the laptop on his dining room table. Normally he worked in the small bedroom he’d converted to an office, but the case files had outgrown the space. He typed in his password and waited for the computer to finish loading.

  “Man, does your neighbor always dress like that to get her paper?”