Her Silent Spring

by Melinda Woodhall

  Crossing to the window, Hunter looked down into the parking lot, already suspecting the blue Nissan would be gone. The empty space confirmed his fears.

  He hurried downstairs to the lobby, calling Frankie’s phone again as he went, but this time the call went straight to voicemail.

  “Call me back, Frankie,” Hunter said, trying to decide what to do next. “I promise we’ll think of a way to get you home.”

  Ending the call, Hunter stepped off the elevator, wondering if he should take an Uber to the airport. Maybe Frankie was trying to get on an early flight.

  “Mr. Hadley, I need to speak to you.”

  Hunter turned to see Sheriff Holt standing by the front desk. The man’s hat was askew, and his face was suffused with anger.

  “It seems your friend has checked out already,” Holt fumed, as Hunter approached. “They tell me he left first thing this morning.”

  The desk clerk spoke up behind the sheriff.

  “Mr. Dawson checked out just before seven this morning,” she confirmed. “He said something about getting a flight out of Dodge.”

  The sheriff glared at the clerk, causing the young woman to recoil.

  “Did he say where he was going? Was anyone with him?”

  Assuming a disapproving frown, the clerk nodded.

  “He was with Tom Locke.” Her voice was heavy with disdain. “You know, Donovan Locke’s brother.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper as she said the name, as if she was saying a dirty word.

  “They were in a hurry and were talking about flying somewhere.”

  Holt’s eyes widened, and he swung to face Hunter.

  “So, Dawson’s skipping town, is he? Why am I not surprised? I ran a background check on him and saw he’s served time and-”

  “Then you’ll also know he was falsely convicted and subsequently exonerated,” Hunter snapped back. “And he has no obligation to stay in Sky Lake if he hasn’t been charged with a crime.”

  Hunter’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and Holt watched him with suspicious eyes as he read Frankie’s text message.

  I’m getting a charter flight home. Sorry for taking the rental.

  Avoiding Holt’s gaze, Hunter tapped in a reply.

  Call me now. We need to talk.

  But the phone remained silent as Hunter stared down at it, and when he looked up, the sheriff was striding toward the door.

  Fearing what Holt might do if he caught up with Frankie, Hunter hurried after him, catching up to the sheriff just as he was getting into his big SUV.

  The black Ford Interceptor was parked in the loading zone, and Hunter stepped in front of it and held up his hands.

  “Wait, Sheriff Holt,” he said, meeting the man’s narrowed eyes through the windshield. “Where are you going?”

  The sheriff opened his window and leaned his head out.

  “I’m going out to Sparks Air Charter,” he called. “I’m going to stop your friend before he leaves town. Now get out of my way.”

  “Frankie hasn’t done anything wrong, Sheriff Holt,” Hunter said, inching toward the driver’s window. “He got some bad news last night and he wants to get home. Just give me a minute to explain.”

  Keeping his eyes on Hunter, Holt shook his head.

  “I don’t have a minute to spare,” he said. “But if you want to ride along, you can fill me in on the way.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Holt’s stony face didn’t soften as Hunter explained why Frankie was desperate to get home. The sheriff just kept his eyes on the road ahead as Hunter waited for a response.

  “Sounds like Willow Bay has some serious criminal activity going on,” he finally said. “And I don’t need you and your friends bringing those kinds of problems up here.”

  “We didn’t bring any problems here,” Hunter responded, unable to hide his frustration. “We came here because someone in your town abducted Summer Fairfax and she ended up dead. That same person may be involved in other crimes as well.”

  Ignoring Hunter’s words, Holt continued to drive in silence.

  “You can’t just pretend that nothing ever happened,” Hunter insisted. “The FBI aren’t going to just go away.”

  “I can do what I want in my town,” Holt muttered. “The FBI doesn’t run things around here.”

  Hunter stared over at the sheriff in dismay, realizing nothing he’d said had gotten through. The man was in serious denial, and he wasn’t willing to listen to reason.

  The sign for Sparks Air Charter appeared just past a sprawling maple tree, and Holt slowed the big SUV to turn into the lot.

  Hunter caught a flash of blonde hair by the front door. Beau Sparks was waiting for them as they climbed out of the SUV and approached the building.

  “I got your message, Sheriff Holt,” Beau called out. “But Tom’s already gone. He took a Cessna. Didn’t tell me or Curtis where he’s going or when he’ll be back.”

  Waving the two men into the building, Beau led them back to the hangar and pointed to an empty space past two small planes.

  “The Cessna was there late last night when I left, but it was gone when I got in this morning.”

  “Did Tom file a flight plan?” Holt asked, taking off his hat and wiping his brow. “Can you check that to see where he’s headed?”

  Beau hesitated, then led them to a computer on the reception desk.

  “We aren’t required to file flight plans for domestic VFR flights in good weather,” he said. “But I am able to track the plane using GPS.”

  He tapped on the keyboard and pointed to a map on the screen.

  “He’s heading south. He’ll likely avoid controlled airspace,” Beau said. “I’d say he’s going somewhere in Florida.”

  “Where could he land around Willow Bay?” Holt asked, shooting Hunter an I-told-you-so look. “That’s where he’s likely heading.”

  After more tapping on the keyboard, Beau pointed to a small dot on the map.

  “Windy Harbor Airfield is just outside Willow Bay, Florida.”

  “Okay, we’ll let’s get going.”

  Beau raised his eyebrows in confusion.

  “What are you talking about, Archer?”

  “It’s Sheriff Holt to you, Beau,” the sheriff muttered. “And one of your employees has helped a suspect in June’s death get away.”

  He held a big finger up to Beau’s face.

  “Now you're going to fly down there and help me bring him back.”

  “You want me to fly you down to Willow Bay?”

  Banging a big fist on the reception counter, Holt sent a stack of papers fluttering to the floor.

  “Hell, yes,” Holt growled. “Either that or you can let me fly the plane myself. You know I’m a decent pilot.”

  Beau looked alarmed at the suggestion.

  “You're in no shape to be flying,” he said, looking to Hunter for help. “You’re upset about June…we all are…but you need to calm down so we can talk this through.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Holt responded. “I’m trying to catch the man who killed June and you’re going to help me.”

  The side door to the hangar swung open as Holt was speaking, and a slim man in a Kentucky Wildcats baseball hat stepped inside. His eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him.

  “Curtis, you better talk some sense into your partner,” Holt called out. “I need to get down to Willow Bay, Florida as soon as possible, and I need one of your planes to take me there.”

  Holding up his hands in surrender, Curtis turned to Beau.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here, but if Deputy Holt needs to get down to Florida, I say we take him.”

  “It’s Sheriff Holt, not Deputy,” Holt gritted out. “And now that someone here is talking sense, let’s get going.”

  Beau and Hunter wore matching frowns as Curtis readied one of the planes. Holt climbed on board and settled into a seat in the back.

  “I better go with him,” Beau said, nodding toward Cur
tis. “I don’t think he should be flying alone with Archer…I mean Sheriff Holt…when he’s this upset.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Hunter added impulsively, moving toward the plane. “We can fly back up once this is all settled.”

  Rising from his seat, Holt blocked Hunter from boarding.

  “Your free ride stops here, Mr. Hadley,” Holt said. “I don’t need you interfering in my investigation any further. And if you speak to your buddy, tell him I’m coming for him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The mild spring day was picture perfect, and Nessa would have enjoyed the short walk from the police station to the medical examiner’s office under different circumstances. But the late night at the crime scene had taken its toll. Everything from her head to her feet ached as she approached the bulky concrete building.

  “I thought you’d decided to sleep in,” Jankowski teased as she walked into the lobby. “I was about to tell Iris we’d have to start without you.”

  Jankowski seemed to be in a good mood for once, and Nessa impulsively reached out to him, suddenly glad to have him with her.

  “I’m a little tired today,” she admitted, resting her hand on his thick arm. “And not in the best frame of mind to view an autopsy.”

  “Is there such a thing as being in a good frame of mind to watch someone cutting up a dead body?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

  The door to the back opened to reveal Iris Nguyen’s petite figure.

  “I thought I heard someone talking out here,” the medical examiner said, standing back so they could walk through. “Maddie Simpson called in sick today, so Wesley and I are on our own at the moment.”

  Following Iris back to the autopsy suite, Nessa hoped her stomach would hold up to whatever the medical examiner had planned. She pulled on the protective wear Iris handed her, glad that the voluminous coveralls camouflaged her growing bump.

  As she was adjusting her face mask, Nessa felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She wiggled an arm out of the coveralls and slipped her phone out of her pocket.

  “Hunter Hadley’s calling,” she murmured to Jankowski.

  “He can wait,” the big detective said, his voice clipped and his good mood dimming at the mention of Hunter.

  Nessa shot Jankowski a sympathetic look. He was still grieving Gabby’s death. And knowing that his ex-wife had been dating Hunter Hadley before she’d been killed hadn’t made it any easier for him.

  Can’t really blame Jankowski for holding a grudge, can I?

  Sticking the phone back in her pocket, Nessa forced her eyes and her mind back to the metal table in front of her.

  Wesley Knox stood beside Iris, his brawny frame twice her size as he helped her fold the sheet back. Wincing at the sight of Amber Sloan’s frizzy brown bangs above her discolored face and bruised, swollen neck, Nessa found it hard to believe she was looking at the same woman she’d interviewed only a week before.

  Amber hadn’t been easy to like. But she’d been sharp, and cunning, and alive.

  Now whatever force had animated her was gone. All the anger, and the energy, and the life inside her had drained away, leaving behind only the small, cold figure on the table.

  “You can see the bruising around her neck,” Iris pointed out. “But the damage wasn’t life threatening.”

  Using a gloved hand, Wesley lifted Amber’s arm.

  “Although we observed no external indicators of chronic drug abuse, we did find a needle puncture mark in her upper, left bicep.”

  Iris gestured toward a small, red wound.

  “A hypodermic needle was used to inject drugs into her muscle.”

  “Do you know what kind of drugs?” Nessa asked, still staring at the puncture mark. “Or do you need to wait for toxicology?”

  The medical examiner shook her head.

  “I’ve requested a full blood panel so that we’ll know the exact mix of drugs and toxins in her system, but the initial tests reveal a fatally high concentration of fentanyl, along with traces of other opiates.”

  “So, cause and manner of death is what?” Jankowski asked.

  Iris considered the question before responding.

  “I’d say manner of death is homicide, based on the neck wounds, location of the body, and absence of the syringe at the scene.”

  She looked down at Amber and sighed.

  “Cause of death will be listed as toxic effects of fentanyl and whatever other drugs or toxins come back on the screening.”

  Glancing up at Nessa, Iris seemed to hesitate.

  “I hate to share bad news, but I have a friend over at Willow Bay General.” Iris chose her words carefully. “She told me the WBPD detective they’re treating also had fentanyl in her system.”

  The look of sympathy in the medical examiner’s kind brown eyes scared Nessa. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the rest of whatever Iris was trying to tell her.

  “What else did your friend say?” Jankowski asked in a grim voice.

  “She said I’d likely have another body on my table very soon,” Iris answered reluctantly. “I’m sorry…I just thought you’d want to be prepared.”

  Nessa dropped her eyes back to the table. This time, instead of seeing Amber’s frizzy bangs, she pictured Peyton’s dark pixie cut and pale, lifeless face laid out before her.

  The disturbing image vanished in a wave of dizziness, and Nessa reached out to grip Jankowski’s forearm for support.

  “Nessa, you okay?”

  Jankowski was instantly alert. He put out a strong hand to steady her and studied her suddenly pallid complexion.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in a low, worried voice. “If you’re not well you need to tell someone. You can’t just try to hide it.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, willing her dizziness to pass. “I just need some fresh air and a drink of water. It was a late night.”

  Looking to Iris and Wesley, Jankowski reverted to his usual brusque tone.

  “I think we’re done here. We’ve got what we need for now.”

  He kept a hand under Nessa’s arm as they walked to the outer room and removed their protective gear. He was quiet until they’d made their way back into the lobby.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, stopping to meet her eyes. “But whatever it is, you need to put your health, and the baby’s health first.”

  Nessa shook his hand off and turned away.

  “The department will survive without you for a little while,” Jankowski said, not ready to let the matter go. “Don’t make the mistake I made. Don’t put the job over the people you love.”

  Hearing the pain in his voice, Nessa turned to stare into his tortured eyes, then nodded slowly.

  He was right. She needed to put her family first.

  But the Syndicate was still operating in her community, and they’d most likely sent the man calling himself Mack to kill Amber Sloan and attack Peyton.

  The man might have gotten to Misty Bradshaw as well. If he wasn’t stopped, he might strike again.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The fresh air on the walk back to the station seemed to clear Nessa’s head, and she decided to give Hunter Hadley a call back before going inside.

  She watched Jankowski’s broad back disappear into the building as she settled onto a bench and pulled out her phone.

  “We’ve got a major problem,” Hunter said, after answering on the first ring. “There’s been a homicide in Sky Lake, and-”

  “Yes, Agent Day already told me,” Nessa interrupted. “She thinks someone connected to Locke might be involved.”

  “Well, the local sheriff disagrees.”

  Hunter’s usually calm voice was strained.

  “Sheriff Holt has decided Frankie Dawson makes a good suspect.”

  Frowning in surprise, Nessa listened with growing concern as Hunter described the situation up in Sky Lake.

  “Once Frankie heard about Peyton being in the hospital, he was determined to leave no matter what Sheriff
Holt wanted,” Hunter explained. “He talked a local charter company into flying him back to Willow Bay. Now Sheriff Holt is flying down after him in pursuit.”

  Nessa tried to calm Hunter’s concerns.

  “Sheriff Holt has no authority here, so there’s not really anything he can do to Frankie if he does find him.”

  Hunter hesitated.

  “I’m not so sure Holt will agree with you on that. He seems set on dragging Frankie back to Sky Lake to face further questioning.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to tell Sheriff Holt that’s not the way it works,” Nessa replied, already preparing herself for the potential confrontation. “He’ll need to work through the proper channels.”

  Checking her watch, Nessa saw she was already late for her next meeting. She stood and headed toward the station.

  “I’ve gotta go, Hunter. If you hear from Frankie, let me know.”

  “I’m pretty sure Frankie will go straight to the hospital.”

  Hunter’s words sent a sudden bolt of panic through Nessa, and she stopped and looked down at the phone, remembering what Iris had told her.

  What if Peyton dies? What if she’s gone before Frankie gets there?

  She shuddered at the possibility of having to tell Peyton’s family and friends that the detective hadn’t made it.

  But she couldn’t let herself think that way. Not yet. There was still hope, and she still had a job to do.

  “Detective Vanzinger is guarding Peyton’s hospital room,” Nessa said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’ll let him know Frankie might be coming. And I’ll make sure he knows Sheriff Holt might show up and try to cause problems.”

  Her worries about Peyton had darkened Nessa’s mood as she stepped into the building, but she didn’t have time to sulk as Detective Ramirez called her into the briefing room.

  The older man’s round face was animated with excitement.

  “The state prosecutor says Ivan Sokolov is ready to talk,” Ramirez said. “Sokolov says he’s got serious dirt to share on Marc Ingram.”

  “Let me guess, Riley Odell wants to cut time off his sentence to convince him to cooperate?”

  The idea of another deal going south after the fiasco with Amber Sloan wasn’t appealing, but Ramirez was enthusiastic.