by LENA DIAZ,
“What are you talking about?”
“Seth Knox. I told you he died. He was murdered, and mutilated, with both his hands cut off. His body was burned beyond recognition. Only DNA proved it was him. We’re still trying to figure out who killed him. The first real clue was that picture you have from the bar. Seeing that told us his death is likely related to the drug-and gunrunning case that we’ve been working on.”
He seemed so sincere. But how could she trust him again? “How do I fit into all of this? You and Mason talked as if I was a criminal in your truck after you left my cabin.”
“That part’s complicated. The criminal enterprise that we’re trying to bring down is run by someone who’s killing off people and gloating over it, leaving their calling card at every murder. We’re desperate to figure out who he is and stop him before someone else is killed. One of the threads we’ve been trying to follow has to do with hidden website pages. Like the ones you build for your clients.”
Her gaze flew to the pictures on the wall, then back to him. “My clients. They’re connected to this killer?”
“We believe so, yes. With every member of the drug-and gunrunning network that we bring down, we try to figure out who they ultimately report to. The ones we’ve traced all had one thing in common. Every single one of them. Their websites were designed by the same person. That person is you, Hayley. That’s why Mason and the others are suspicious. Some of them believe you’re pulling the strings, that you’re deeply involved in their criminal network as a willing participant.”
She violently shook her head. “No. No, I would never do that.”
“I believe you.”
“What?”
“I believe you. But I have to be able to prove that you’re innocent so the rest of the team comes on board.”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. “This is rich. I’ve been performing surveillance on you for months, trying to prove you’re guilty. And now you’re telling me that all the Seekers think I’m guilty, and you’re trying to prove I’m not? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It is. All along, you’ve been our target as much as I’ve been yours. We’ve been trying to find out what you know and how involved you are in the criminal network.”
She drew a shaky breath. “This, the pictures on the wall, they were, what, some kind of test?”
He nodded. “Juvenile, I know. But there’s a lot at stake. Mason didn’t want to risk allowing you on our computer system until the team met you and we agreed whether or not to trust you. Come on. Follow me. All of your questions are about to be answered. And I promise, no one is going to hurt you.” He held out his hand.
She shrank back. “Mason wants to make me disappear.”
His jaw tightened. “I can explain that, too. I couldn’t before. But I’ve grown weary of all this subterfuge and we’re running out of time. We need to start working together, instead of against each other.” He strode to the other end of the room, to a solid wall.
She wasn’t even surprised when he pressed his hand on the wall and a panel slid open. But rather than follow him, she ran to the conference room door that she’d come through earlier. It was locked. No special keypad or place to put her hand that she saw. Just an old-fashioned knob, locked from the other side. And wasn’t that weird? What did they do, lock unruly clients in here?
She could kick it, maybe. If it was a hollow interior door, it wouldn’t be that strong. It should open fairly easily.
A glance over her shoulder told her that would be pointless. He’d stop her. Her shoulders slumped. For now, she gave in and followed him down what appeared to be a tunnel.
All the while, she silently berated herself for being so stupid, for coming here assuming she’d be able to protect herself. Would they find her body in a ditch tomorrow, like they’d found Bethany’s?
At the end of the hallway, another panel opened. She followed him into the next room, then froze. Apparently Dalton wasn’t the only one into castles. This massive room wasn’t like the ultra-modern glass and metal main room. It wasn’t like the log-cabin portion on the back. It was every bit a medieval castle, from the stone floors to the stone walls and flickering sconces.
But it was the middle of the room that had her stunned. It boasted a huge round table, also built of stone, with elaborate carvings all over the top. A semi-circle of computer monitors along the back wall faced the table. And there were people sitting there, all of them looking at her. The team, from the conference room, including Mason.
The carvings in the table spread out like the spokes of a wagon wheel, or slices of a pie. Each person had a triangle carved in front of them, cordoning off their section of the table, with what appeared to be a name. Their names?
Dalton left her standing there and took one of the seats, leaving only one empty. For her?
She wanted to run away, but she was too intrigued. She wanted, needed, to know what this place was. Forcing herself forward on shaky legs, she didn’t stop until she was close enough to read what was carved into the top of the table in front of the empty chair.
Seth Knox.
Underneath his name was a phrase: The Rancher.
She slowly circled the table. No one made a move to stop her. She read each name, each phrase carved beneath it.
Dalton Lynch, The Cowboy.
Brielle Walker, The Cop.
Bryson Anton, The Profiler.
Han Li, The Special Agent.
More names, more...monikers? Describing, what, their main function as a Seeker? Or their background before they joined the team?
The Tracker.
The Detective.
The Prosecutor.
The Marine.
The Lawyer.
The Bodyguard.
The Judge.
One enormous round table. Twelve slots, thirteen if she counted their leader.
She read the elaborate script carved in front of Mason. Below his name was carved The Chief. But it was the second title below the first that had her convinced that she’d truly dropped down a rabbit hole.
King Arthur.
She swung back toward Dalton, asking the question, even though she feared that she already knew the answer. “What is this place?”
The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Hayley Nash, welcome to Camelot.”
She bolted toward the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Dalton blew out a deep sigh as Hayley disappeared down the tunnel.
“We’ve got a runner.” Brielle’s wide grin flashed his way.
“You don’t have to sound so dang cheerful about it,” he grumbled as he pressed the table in front of him and his computer tablet flipped up. He typed some commands and the cameras on the inside of the building filled his computer screen.
“Where is she?” Bryson asked, scooting his chair close to Dalton’s.
“Trying to bust down the conference room door.”
Mason tapped the tablet in front of him. “Is Sampson ready with the video?”
“She is.”
“Let Miss Nash go, for now. We have work to do.”
Bryson exchanged a look of disappointment with Dalton, then slid his chair back in place.
Dalton typed some commands, then watched the screen as Hayley ran out of the conference room to the front door. She tried it several times before he was able to get it unlocked.
Her surprise was palpable, as was her suspicion as she glanced behind her, then up at the ceiling as if looking for the cameras. But she didn’t wait around. She took off running again, leaping off the porch and scrabbling across the grass to the parking lot. Soon, she was in her Blazer, tires screeching as she wheeled around then sped down the road.
All in all, Mason’s plan in bringing her here had gone like clockwork. Except for the part where she’d been terrified and to
ok off. In hindsight, he should have given her more time in the conference room, explained things before taking her to the great hall. After her earlier comments about the castle, he’d thought her excitement over seeing the round table and stonework would have been enough to keep her there long enough for him to bring up information on the computer monitors to explain everything else. Instead, he’d scared her half to death. He glanced at the door to the tunnel and debated going after her.
“Dalton? Sitrep,” Mason called out.
He sighed and turned back to his screen. “As we theorized would happen if things didn’t go well, Hayley just passed her house and is heading toward town.” He brought up the street map that showed a blip from the tracker that Bryson had placed on Hayley’s Blazer after she’d entered their building. “She’s heading toward Gatlinburg PD now. I’ve texted Sampson. She’s ready.”
“Check back later. Jaxon, you’re up first. Give us an update.”
* * *
IT WAS LATE afternoon before Dalton was able to wrap up his business with the others, get an update from Detective Sampson at Gatlinburg PD and go to Hayley’s place. As he pulled his truck to a stop out front, he studied the sad, run-down facade of the small rental cabin. The location was remote, isolated. He didn’t like that she was out here all by herself, vulnerable.
He hopped out of the truck and headed toward the front door, unsurprised when it opened before he reached it. His truck’s engine wasn’t exactly quiet, which was why he never drove it when he worked undercover. What did surprise him was that she wasn’t holding a knife, or even a fireplace poker to bash him over the head since he’d taken her gun. Instead, she leaned a hip against the doorframe, a bottle of whiskey dangling in one hand, a shot glass full of the amber liquid in the other. Her bloodshot eyes told him this wasn’t her first glass.
She gestured toward him. “Which one are you? Lancelot? Sir Galahad? That was the whole point, right? The knights of the round table. Camelot. Wait, I bet you’re the infamous black knight, with no true allegiances, wicked, the bad boy. A rebel knight, with a Stetson.” She snickered and tossed back the entire shot in one gulp, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
“How did you do it, Sir Knight?” she slurred. “How did you erase my recordings of the inside of your office building?”
He braced a hand above the doorway, wondering if he’d have to catch her before she crashed to the floor. She looked about ready to pass out.
“Well?” she demanded. “Go on, Dalton. You can tell me.” She held up her whiskey bottle. “And good old Jack Daniels here.” She chuckled. “How’d you do it?”
Without giving him a chance to respond, she said, “Imagine my surprise when I caused a ruckus at the police station and pulled out my recorder to prove my claims, and all it showed was snow. You know, electronic snow, like when your recorder records absolutely nothin’. Enlighten me, Sir Knight. What trick did you pull to make that happen?”
He winced as she poured and then tossed another shot of whiskey back. “The office portion of our building, basically the front part, not the living quarters in back and below, is a Faraday cage, taken up several notches.”
She wobbled on her feet. “A fair a what?”
“Faraday cage. The concept is to build a cage, a box, or in our case, most of the top floor of the cabin, so that no electronic signals can get in or out. But we took it to a new level. We built it so that any electronics inside are useless, at least, in the traditional sense. They don’t work unless they’re hardwired to underground lines with special shielding. Cell phones, little spy cameras, don’t work in Camelot. Even the computer tablets that we use in the great hall don’t run wirelessly. You may not have noticed the tiny filaments that attach to the back of each tablet and thread through pin-sized holes in the round table. That connects them to the main computer system.” He gestured toward the interior. “Wouldn’t you rather sit down to continue our conversation?”
“The drywall,” she said, ignoring his suggestion. “That’s why the top floor is so industrial-looking. You’ve covered up all the layers that jam signals. That’s why your boss covered those gorgeous logs. Son of a gun.”
“Not nearly as attractive. But effective.”
“And my little camera? Did you know I had it?”
“Yes. There are electronic scanners at the front door. Brielle signaled me when you weren’t looking.”
She shook her head. “Dang. She sure seemed like a nice person. Can’t judge a book, or a knight of the round table, by their smile, can you?” She shook her head again, then started to tip over.
He grabbed her waist to steady her. She slapped at his hand and he pulled it back only after he was reasonably certain she wasn’t going to fall.
“Brielle would probably be insulted if she heard you call her nice. That might damage the mean reputation she works so hard to project.” He smiled. “But she does care about people or she wouldn’t work there. She was just doing her job, protecting all of us.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. With that cage thingy you’ve got up on the mountain, I can see why you didn’t chase after me to stop me from leaving. You knew if I went to the police, I’d have nothing to show for it. They’d listen to my wild story and think I was crazy. That was your plan, wasn’t it? You wanted to discredit me.”
He waved toward the living room behind her. “Shouldn’t we go—”
“Detective Sampson,” she said, gesturing with her whiskey bottle. “Now she was the icing on the cake, the final straw that tipped it all in your favor. Remember her? You and your boss sent her to my house to lie to me about the so-called task force and your alibi. She heard the commotion in the lobby when I was trying to get the desk sergeant to go up the mountain and arrest you for kidnapping and whatever other charges we could come up with. First, she denied that she’d met me before today, treating me like I was a total lunatic when I said she’d come to my house. Then she insisted there was no way I could have been up on the mountain with you since you’d left her office five minutes ago. She even had a video to prove it. Your doing?”
He stepped back to avoid the whiskey she sloshed onto the porch. “My idea, yes. But Jaxon’s the one who set it up. He’s the ex-Marine, worked in security and has a knack for anything video related.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Well, of course you have a video expert, and a cop on the take.”
“Sampson isn’t on the take. She’s one of our allies at the police department and helps us out when red tape and lifetime politicians get in the way of doing what’s right. And we don’t compensate her for it. She refuses to take any money, even to cover her expenses when she incurs them helping us. She doesn’t want it to seem like we’re buying favors.”
“Sounds like splitting hairs to me.”
He shrugged.
“You keep saying us. You mean the knights of the round table? Right?”
He cocked his head, noting how green her complexion was turning. “You do know that whole Camelot thing is for fun, right? We don’t take it seriously, other than using castle tricks to secure the place.”
“You don’t take it seriously? Your house has turrets! Two of them.”
He didn’t bother to explain that he’d bought the house from Mason because he loved the land it was sitting on. His boss was the one with the castle fascination. He was the one who’d built the turrets and covered the outside in stone.
“Looked serious to me,” she continued. “A real expensive stone table, for sure. And only twelve chairs, not counting Arthur of course.”
“That’s our own joke on him, carving the name Arthur in the table. He doesn’t like that, prefers to be called Mason. Can we go inside now and get out of the cold? Your lips are turning blue and I’m pretty sure you’re about to lose all that whiskey you’ve been drinking.”
“Who was in on it?” she pressed. “All of Camelot?”
He braced both arms on the door frame, hoping he wasn’t about to get thrown up on. But he was more worried that she was going to pitch forward onto the floor and he wanted to be ready to catch her. “Mason, Detective Sampson, a few others. Look, I’m sorry about all of this, Hayley. I truly am. But since so many clues point to your involvement in our case, we’ve had to cover ourselves, be prepared to discredit you if you ended up going to the authorities—which you did.”
She sloshed more whiskey into her shot glass, but most of it dribbled down her blouse and jeans. She wiped at her shirt, then drew several deep breaths. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Can’t see how you would.”
She gestured with the whiskey bottle again. “You know what, Dalton? You’re the handsomest serial killer I think I’ve ever met.”
“Not exactly a compliment. Here, let me take that bottle for you.” He reached for it but she jerked it away. Her momentum carried her backward, but she somehow kept her balance.
“Don’t touch Jack. He and I aren’t finished yet. Come on inside, pretty boy. It’s cold out there.” She giggled. “Not that it’s ever warm in here.”
Dalton stood undecided in the doorway as she weaved her way toward what he assumed was the hall that led to bedrooms and bathrooms. If he left her alone, would she be okay? As drunk as she was, coming inside didn’t seem like a good idea.
“Hurry up and close the door behind you,” she called out without turning around. She disappeared through the opening.
Dalton straightened, but instead of going in, he reached for the doorknob to pull it shut. He’d come back when she was sober and try to talk to her again.
“Well, dang,” he heard her slurring from whatever room she was in. “Why is the floor moving?”
A loud thump sounded, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering and pinging across the floor.
“Jack! Oh, no. Jack. Wait, where did all that blood come from?”
Dalton swore and ran inside.
