by Maris Soule
Revenge was going to be sweet, as sweet as the taste of honey.
Smiling, The Beekeeper left the kitchen and walked toward the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A caravan of emergency vehicles joined Katherine’s Tahoe as she sped up the Klondike Highway. Skagway’s search and rescue team had responded the moment the call went out. Sirens blaring, they arrived one after another at the section of damaged guardrail. Even so, Gordon’s cruiser was already parked by the side of the road. It took Katherine a moment to spot him.
“Stay here,” she told Vince and left her vehicle.
Gordon nodded as she approached. “Doesn’t look good,” he said.
She moved closer to the edge of the road and glanced at the valley below. She could see a man working his way down the steep and rugged mountainside toward an outcropping of rocks and brush. Barely visible was the rear end of an SUV. “Who reported it?”
“One of the passengers on the train,” Gordon said. “She told the conductor. At first, he thought she was talking about that truck that went off the road last April.”
“That was pulled out in May.”
“I know. Thank goodness he decided to give us a call. When I heard the woman saw what she thought was a green truck, I—”
“Is it a green truck or a green and silver Blazer?”
Katherine turned at the sound of Vince Nanini’s voice. He hadn’t stayed in the Tahoe as she’d requested, but with the rescue workers talking and moving around, she hadn’t heard him come up behind her.
Nanini looked directly at Gordon and repeated his question. “The woman on the train . . . Did she see a green and silver Blazer?”
Gordon hesitated, a slight frown crossing his brow as he looked at Nanini, then he shrugged. “She said she saw what looked like the rear end of a vehicle. She had no idea what make or model it might be. As I was telling Officer Ward, the conductor thought it was a truck that went through here last April. Driver was killed in that accident, and we didn’t remove the truck until a few weeks ago.”
“And you mean to tell me the guardrail still hasn’t been fixed?”
Katherine could tell from the look Gordon gave her that he didn’t like the tone of Nanini’s voice. Repairs to the Klondike Highway weren’t the police department’s responsibility. The highway didn’t even fall under the jurisdiction of Skagway’s road commission.
She answered for Gordon. “I believe it’s on the schedule for next month. As for the color . . .” Again she looked over the edge. “It looks green to me. We’ll know the make and model in a minute. Who’s down there, Gordon?”
“Sam Sutherland. He started down just before you arrived.” Gordon moved closer to the edge of the roadway, but not as close as Katherine stood.
It was well known that Sergeant Gordon Landros was afraid of heights. Even flying was an ordeal for him, especially in a small, single-engine plane or a helicopter.
“Is Sam down there yet?”
Katherine recognized Terry Biscaro’s voice even before she turned and saw him coming up beside her. He’d been a volunteer search and rescue worker for years and had helped Katherine in the past with a couple of accident calls. Middle-aged and his hair turning gray, he’d competed in more than a dozen Iditarod Sled Dog Races, retracing the eleven-hundred-mile route from Anchorage to Nome in March of each year.
“I think he’s getting close,” she said, afraid to move any nearer to the edge. One more step would take her into thin air.
From his position behind her, Gordon spoke into his radio. “Sam, can you tell what it is?”
A helicopter came up the valley from Skagway, the thump of its blades drowning out Sam’s answer. Terry held his radio up close to his ear, then yelled to Gordon, “It’s a Blazer.”
Katherine glanced back at Vince. The taut line of his mouth indicated his tension, and he came closer to Terry and Katherine. “Have them check the license plate number,” he said and pulled the slip of paper with the license number out of his wallet and handed it to Terry.
The three of them waited, saying nothing as Terry relayed the letters and numbers through the radio. Katherine saw Vince close his eyes when the answer came back.
“That’s it.” He moved closer to Terry, practically yelling in the man’s ear. “Can he see anyone in it? A girl? A teenaged girl?”
The helicopter was directly above them now, the pilot talking to Gordon. Katherine had a choice: stay where she was and hear what Sam said to Terry, or step back and find out what the helicopter pilot was telling Gordon. She stayed near Terry.
“No girl,” Sam answered over the radio. “Only one occupant. Male. Early twenties. Window’s open. I’m feeling for a pulse.”
A moment of silence. Two. Three. Behind them cars passed or parked along the shoulder wherever possible. Passersby gawked while members of the fire and rescue departments congregated in small groups, waiting for orders. Gordon continued talking to the helicopter pilot, his words only occasionally distinguishable over the other noises. Katherine knew she was holding her breath. Finally Sam’s voice came through Terry’s handheld radio.
“No pulse. In fact, the guy’s in full rigor.”
Since the entire muscle contracting process of rigor mortis took from eight to twelve hours, and could last another eighteen hours, the condition of the body meant if Misty Morgan did meet her on-line boyfriend at seven, as planned, they couldn’t have had much time together.
“Uh oh,” Sam Sutherland said from his location below.
“What?” Terry asked.
“This guy didn’t die from a car accident.”
Terry glanced at Katherine as he spoke into his radio. “How can you tell?”
“Because I’m looking at a bullet wound,” Sam answered. “Terry, this guy’s been shot. Tell Gordon he’s got a murder to investigate.”
Katherine heard Nanini catch his breath. The news had surprised her, too. An SUV going off the side of the road was bad enough, but a shooting?
“There should be a girl with that guy,” Nanini said, his voice tight. “The driver of that Blazer was meeting a girl in Skagway this morning.”
“Sam, are you sure there’s no girl in the vehicle?” Terry Biscaro asked. “Maybe outside of the vehicle?”
“I don’t see one.”
“Have him look around,” Nanini said. “Maybe she crawled away.”
Maybe she’s still alive, Katherine heard in Nanini’s plea, but she knew there could be another answer. The girl’s body could have been thrown out of the Blazer as it tumbled down the side of the mountain.
“I’m looking,” came Sam’s response. “Doesn’t really look like it. Passenger door’s jammed against a tree. Windows up. No way anyone got out that way and no sign anyone climbed across the body. Wait. Here’s something . . .”
Sam paused, the silence coming from the two-way radio nerve-wracking. Finally Terry asked the question going through Katherine’s head. “What is it, Sam?”
“It’s a note . . . pinned to the guy’s shirt.”
“Can you read it without disturbing the crime scene?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe. Give me a sec.”
For Katherine, it seemed more like an eternity before Sam spoke again. “I read it, and it doesn’t look good.”
“What’s it say?” Katherine and Vince asked almost in unison.
“It says,” Sam answered, “ ‘Honey is sweet, money is sweeter. One hundred million, if you want to see her.’ And then, below that, it says ‘Hi Kit Kat’ and there’s a bloody fingerprint with two small smudges coming off of it. Don’t know what that’s supposed to be.”
“A bee,” whispered Katherine, the fear gripping her chest nearly taking her breath away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Vince felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. One hundred million if you want to see her. It was a kidnapping. Both Bob and he had warned Tom that all the media attention he’d been receiving was putting him and his
family in danger. He’d told Tom he needed to beef up his security, had urged both Crystal and Misty to take a bodyguard along on this cruise. He would have gone himself, if necessary. He could have put off his work in D.C. for a week or so.
But, no, Crystal had turned them down; had pooh-poohed the idea that either Misty or she might be in danger. And, for once, Misty had agreed with her stepmother.
He turned toward Katherine. Her face had lost its color, and she kept glancing around, as if looking for someone . . . or something.
“Kit Kat?” Vince said, watching how she reacted.
She visibly tensed.
“Is that note referring to you? Do you know who did this? Who has Misty?”
“I . . .” She looked down at the ground and shook her head. “No. It’s just the . . .”
“You all right, Katherine?” Gordon asked, coming closer.
She faced him and nodded. “Yeah. Just a flashback to an old case.”
“A case you were involved in?” Vince asked. “Kat is a nickname for Katherine.”
Gordon answered for her. “Maybe so, but Officer Ward doesn’t use a nickname.”
“Still—”
Gordon cut him off. “The note was meant for the girl’s father. Is there someone he knows, maybe someone who works for him, who’s called Kat?”
“No one I can think of,” Vince said. No one, at least, that Tom had ever mentioned to him.
The sergeant glanced up at the sky. “Even though we have this note, I’m having the helicopter look for the girl. She may have gotten away.”
Vince didn’t hold much hope. Nor did he believe the note had nothing to do with Officer Katherine Ward. Not after seeing her reaction.
As Gordon keyed in to talk to the helicopter pilot, Vince took the opportunity to question Katherine. “You said something when that note was read. What did you say?”
“Nothing important. I’m probably wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
For a moment, he didn’t think she would answer. When she did, she led Vince a short distance away from Gordon and the others. “There’s a man,” she said in a hushed tone. “His name is Charles Bell. He used to keep bees in his backyard, so the media called him The Beekeeper.”
“The Beekeeper?” Vince repeated, something familiar about the name.
Katherine nodded. “After he was arrested, he started making little drawings using a fingerprint with smudges to represent a bee. There were photos of them in the papers. Anyone could have seen them . . . anyone could be imitating him.”
“Why was he arrested?”
Katherine looked at him, then away. “He murdered people. Kidnapped a teenager.”
Vince didn’t like hearing that. “So you think he’s here?”
“He can’t be.” Her attitude became more positive, and she faced him again. “He’s in a mental hospital in Michigan. A hospital for the criminally insane.”
“Which makes this person a copycat.” It happened, especially if the papers ran enough information about a criminal.
“It’s got to be. This is probably some creep who remembered that kidnapping, heard your boss’s daughter would be here, and . . .” She looked back toward Skagway.
“And what?” Vince asked.
“There’s an Explorer in Dyea . . . I saw it this morning.” She turned away from Vince and raised her voice. “Terry, have Sam check the Blazer. See if there are any signs of red paint on it. Maybe on the back bumper or the side of the vehicle.”
They waited as the SAR volunteer relayed the message. Vince didn’t understand the significance of the paint, but when the answer came back that there was red paint on the bumper, Gordon seemed to know what that meant. “I’ll contact Jim,” he told Katherine. “Have him bring the guy and the Explorer in.”
“What about the note?” Vince asked. “Can they bring up the note?” He wanted to see it for himself.
Gordon hesitated, and then nodded. “I’ll get someone down there to photograph the scene. As soon as we have that, I’ll have them bring up the note.”
A wrecker arrived, and Gordon went over to talk to the driver. Vince glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. With the time changes he’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours, his internal clock was off kilter, and Alaska’s long hours of daylight this time of the year weren’t helping.
Yesterday, if he’d been in Seattle, not Washington, D.C., when Tom called, he could have gone straight to Tom’s house, would have discovered Misty’s plans last night, and would have been here before the cruise ship docked and Misty disembarked. Then none of this would have happened.
Had someone known both Bob and he would be out of town when something could have been done to stop this tragedy? Or, was it all a coincidence? A terrible coincidence.
The thrum of helicopter blades made Vince look up. This was the second time the copter had passed over the area since they’d arrived. Looking for the other body that was supposed to be in the Blazer. Looking for Misty.
A waste of time, if that note was for real.
“Where are you, Misty?” he whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The bed stopped creaking. No more moaning, grunts, or heavy breathing. Misty lay very still, kept her eyes closed, and forced her breathing to remain slow and regular. Please think I’m asleep, she prayed. Please don’t do that to me.
She had no idea if it was day or night or how many hours a drug-induced sleep had held her captive. Like a cork bobbing along in a stream, her thoughts continually disappeared, then resurfaced. Each time she became aware of her surroundings, she fought to hold on to that clarity, afraid if she didn’t, she might succumb and never awake.
Maybe that would have been better, she realized. Total oblivion.
At first Misty hadn’t understood what was happening on the other bed. She’d thought she was dreaming when she heard a man’s voice, so soft and seductive. She’d thought she was with Brian, that everything had been a terrible dream.
And then she shifted position.
Just slightly.
Just enough to feel the strips of cloth wrapped around her wrists and ankles tighten.
It was then that the girl on the next bed started pleading. Her “No, please no,” had a panicky sound, and Misty had opened her eyes and looked in that direction, but only for a moment.
Only long enough to see that the bedroom door was open, allowing a diffused amount of light into the room. Long enough to see the ornately shaped metal bedposts above her head and below her feet, the nightstand in the space between her bed and the other bed, and the lamp on the stand. Long enough to see a girl lying naked on the other bed, her arms tied to the bedposts above her head, and a man crouched over the girl.
He didn’t heed the girl’s pleas, and in spite of his assertion that a flower needed pollination to survive, Misty wasn’t sure if the girl would survive. Not the way she screamed when he drove his hips into hers.
Misty closed her eyes at that point, blocking out the sight, but she couldn’t block out the sounds: the girl’s moans and gasps, the sucking sound . . . his heavy breathing.
It seemed as if he would never stop.
Misty shivered with fear. Here she’d been afraid that Vince would stop her, that he would be the one who ruined her plans. She did everything she could think of to keep him away. Now she’d give anything for his protection.
Who was this monster who killed and raped?
Hot tears gathered under her lids, a tightening in her chest choking off her breath. This was not what she’d planned.
The other girl was crying now, soft, gulping sobs. Misty heard the creak of bed springs and realized he was climbing off the other bed. Her senses on alert, she held her breath and listened.
Even with her eyes closed, she knew he was standing beside her, staring at her. Could he tell she was awake? Did he know she’d heard him? Heard them?
Misty had no idea who the other girl was, where they were, or why. The
girl’s voice had sounded young. Scared.
Sex was supposed to be fun, something to be enjoyed. At least that’s what Misty’s friends had told her . . . what she was supposed to discover with Brian. The way the girl had begged this man to stop, Misty knew she wasn’t having fun.
A virgin. The girl had to have been a virgin. Misty’s friends had said it hurt the first time, but only for a while and then it got better. It hadn’t sounded like it got better, not to Misty.
Well, when her turn came, she wouldn’t cry or scream. She wouldn’t give the asshole that pleasure.
How long did it take before a man wanted to do it again? she wondered. How long before he climbed onto her bed.
Misty knew he’d come. The heavy breathing had turned rough and ragged, and then there was the smell.
She knew that smell. Crystal sometimes carried it on her nightgown when she came out of the bedroom early in the morning. At least, she used to. For some time now Misty hadn’t noticed the smell, hadn’t seen her father look at Crystal with that stupid, hungry look he’d had the first few months after the wedding.
A hand touched her arm, and Misty gave an involuntary gasp and opened her eyes.
“It’s okay,” the man said, his voice once again as seductive as it had been earlier. “I’m not going to touch you.”
“You’re already touching me,” she said, and jerked her arm as far back as the binding on her wrist allowed. “Do you know who my father is?”
“Of course I know who your father is.” He chuckled. “Why else do you think you’re here? Your father is a man who’d better be willing to pay a hundred million dollars for your safe return.”
A hundred million dollars? Misty groaned. Would her dad pay that much for her? Did he have that much money?
How many times had Vince told her she had to be careful, that someone might see her as a way to get to her father’s money? How many times had she laughed at him and told him to stop being so paranoid?
