Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3)

by Catherine Finger

  Gino’s smile retreated a notch as I bagged our trash and tucked it down by my feet. “Shall we now speak of whatever is going on between you and the ever-delightful Saint Nicolas?”

  I let go of a noisy breath, tossing in an eye roll any teen would envy, in case he missed my message. “If you insist.”

  “Mija, you both have the iron souls only the Master himself can create.” Gino was going to speak mystic today. Great.

  “I’m not really in the mood for your puzzle talk, G.”

  “Says the woman of a thousand faces. All worn to protect her heart.” He pursed his lips, speeding up to meet the base of a new curve. “Let me put it to you like this. You have a good man on the run. For what? To punish him even more than he has already punished himself?”

  His words stunned me. I wasn’t punishing anyone. Least of all Nick. “How can you even say that?” Prickling heat crawled up the base of my neck. “And, I might have an update—”

  “You push him away from you in the hospital after he put his heart on the line for you. And that after he nearly got disciplined for over-involving you in his last case.” His voice had taken on a steely tone I didn’t like and wasn’t used to.

  I was desperate to tell him we were back together. Sort of. I think. I leaned forward to speak, and he held up a finger. “No, you can listen for a split second longer. Think of it from his point of view. Think like a proud man. He lays himself out for you, you reject him, and you turn him away.” Gino’s eyes were shiny. He gripped the wheel tighter. “And he obeys you. He leaves your room. And …” The veins in his hands bulged.

  I knew what he was thinking, why he couldn’t speak. I closed my eyes tight, pushing away the vision of Kira leaning over me with a hypodermic needle loaded for bear. Kira Stoklavich had nearly ended my life moments after Nick had left my room. I placed my hand on Gino’s.

  Gino looked at me, one tear rolling silently down his rugged cheek. My eyes started stinging, and my throat tightened. “But I’m okay, G. I’m okay.” I clasped his hand tight against my chest.

  “Yet, you cannot imagine how almost losing you, moments after he left you defenseless in a hospital room, has affected him. Nick, our Nick, is not as strong as you think, mija. He bleeds. He pines. He yearns for you.”

  “I know he does. I do. I just don’t know if I can trust it to last.” I let go of his hand and placed a hand on my chest. Hot flames flushed my face as I thought of the one word that came to mind first whenever I thought of Nick these days: trust. Would I ever be able to fully trust a man again?

  Gino accelerated into another curve, easily navigating the steep country road. I glanced into my side mirror. “Hector must’ve received an A in defensive driving school.”

  Gino’s hand shot to the rearview mirror. “Excellent. He drives like a Latino.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s fearless. Watch that one. I looked into him. He’ll go far. Heart of a lion.” Gino glanced at the rearview mirror again and smiled approvingly.

  Of course Gino had checked him out. “Yup. Big dog in a little dog’s body.” I sat up and pulled my cell phone out of my purse. I stabbed Hector’s number into my phone. “We haven’t exactly planned our next move.” How had I been so careless?

  Hector talked around a mouthful of his own lunch. “How many moves can there be? We go to Hillsboro. We find the man, and we bring him in. That is your plan.”

  Gino stretched his neck and nodded to a sign on my side of the road. Hillsboro. Eleven miles.

  My back muscles tightened. “Crap. Here’s what we do, Jaime.”

  “Jaime? The best you can do is Jaime?” Hector’s voice must’ve reached Gino.

  A wry smile spread across his face as he drove.

  “Yup. Jaime. We’re horse trainers from a track in Illinois, and you’re looking for a race buggy.” Gino’s eyebrows popped up as I spoke. “And I’m your assistant.”

  “My bossy, annoying assistant, named Brunhilda.” If Hector was nervous, I couldn’t tell from his voice.

  “Let’s stick to Brenda. Brenda Hill. We’re both from the Arlington Heights area, near the track. Gino’s pulling over, and I’ll jump into the truck so we can hit the auction barn together.” I glanced over at Gino, smiling as he slowed down and pulled the car over. “The place will be full on auction day, so we go in soft. Amelia’s got local cops and agents heading there too.”

  “Wish me luck, amigo.” I kissed Gino on the cheek and slid out of the car.

  “My prayers and my heart are always with you, mija. Though this time, I’ll be there too. In the shadows.” He winked as I closed the door and nodded at him.

  “What are you waiting for?” I buckled my seatbelt and stared at Hector impatiently. “He’s waiting for us to pull out.” Adrenaline coursed through me. “This ain’t my first rodeo, Jaime. So, jump out in front and don’t spare the horses.”

  Hector shook his head and drove the last few miles while hopefully soaking in all the useful cover details I spouted about horses, hicks, and life at the track. Hillsboro sprang up before us. A row of buildings that had seen better days ushered us to a stop sign.

  “Main Street. Man, I love small town America. Which way, Chief?” The edge in Hector’s voice generated waves of energy.

  I took a deep breath, driving my thoughts back to high school and summer days full of horses and flirting with cute cowboys. “Turn left, go on down the road a good six or seven blocks and pull up into an angled parking spot on the right hand side of the road. The auction house will be on the other side of the street.” Sudden assurance floated over me, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were in the right place, at the right time. Burdock was here. I could feel it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hector eased the pickup into the last empty parking spot, turned the engine off and looked at me.

  I didn’t want to make it more complicated than it needed to be. “Leave the keys under the visor, up top.”

  His staring took on an alarmed quality.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “It’ll be fine. Hick Code of Honor. Trust me.” I opened my door and got out with as much country cool as I could muster, channeling my inner cowgirl. My hips loosened up, and a long-forgotten swagger reasserted itself. I still got it.

  I waited for Hector to catch up to me, and we crossed the street in unison, heads down, sporting the grim expressions of working race trainers. Hector looked genuinely nervous. I was pretty sure he wasn’t acting.

  The auction was housed in a round barn. It was rumored to be over a hundred fifty years old and had allegedly been “renovated” a few years back. From the looks of it, I was betting it had been an inside job, and that no Amish influence had been sought.

  Hector’s energy seemed to dissipate as we neared the barn door. “Just remember your ABCs, baby, and you’ll be fine.” I patted his elbow, turned the latch and pushed open the old wooden door.

  We stepped into a darkness filled with layered noise. The ever-present drone of the auctioneer’s voice fell around us as we walked toward the sale pen. By the time I’d planted myself across the board fence, one foot cocked behind me, the insistent mechanical voice had faded into background noise.

  Hector stood to my left, watching the horses parading past us in the tiny arena. His arms were folded across his chest, and he’d found a long piece of hay to chew on. He looked for all the world like the real deal. If they could see you now from their office suites in Manhattan. I felt like a proud teacher sitting next to her eighth-grade spelling bee champ.

  The staccato voice of the auctioneer ratcheted up several notches, and the crowd took on an electric air. In the sales pen, a dainty sorrel filly captured my attention. She had a teacup nose, a star and a blaze, and a set of hindquarters on her that could stop a freight train. She stood at only 14.2 hands, but she was flashy, and she could tur
n on a dime.

  The number on her rump was fifty-two, and I paged through the catalog to learn more about her. Hector elbowed me, and I turned to him, nerves fraying. He tilted his hat to the right of the pen. The flashy young mare was turning and cantering off, spurred by a large man who looked like he might outweigh her. I shook my head and pulled my eyes off the beautiful little filly.

  Movement on the outside of the pen caught my eye. A tall Amish man, hat pulled low over fair hair, was walking briskly away from the pen. My breath snagged in my throat, and my scalp tingled. He was the man I’d seen outside The Pleased Pig. Everything fell into place. Burdock. I hadn’t been looking for him in costume.

  “Stay here and act natural. Maybe throw in a bid on that mare. And text Amelia. Tell her I think we’ve found our man.” I whispered orders out of the side of my mouth and left Hector standing by the pen.

  Then, I took off at a fast walk in the direction of dusty, black, coat tails.

  I followed the dark shape of the tall man away from the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder, but I didn’t see his face—too busy being spooked by his eyes. It was Burdock, no doubt about it. Spotting me, he threw his head up and broke into a smooth jog, running down a row of pens full of restless animals. Only the guilty flee for no reason, right?

  I pushed into a run and followed him around the pens, keeping one eye open for White—co-conspirator or victim, no one could say at this point. The round structure opened up into a large pole barn. Dust filled the air. Metal gears sprang to life fifty feet ahead of me. Someone was releasing feed from the corn crib down through the chute into a trough.

  There was no sign of my Amish prey. I slowed to a walk. The round barn continued to my left, and the feed bin clanked on ahead of me somewhere beyond the yawning darkness of the pole barn. Animals shifted and banged the boards in their stalls, and horses nickered as I strode past them. The pole barn was filled with small pens on all four sides. A practice arena was set up in the middle, sandwiched by long wooden water troughs.

  I walked through the sand of the arena, uncertain of my next move. Lord, I need you now. Be with me. Guide me. Protect me … Stop him.

  A deep sense of peace poured through me, invoking feelings of sitting in front of a warm hearth. Ammonia from soiled bedding wafted into the arena. I dug my feet into the sand, surrounded by stillness. A boot heel scraped against concrete near the back door.

  I snapped my head in the direction of the noise and started running. The footsteps on concrete broke into a run. I hit the edge of the arena and lost my footing, nearly tumbling onto the cement floor. Light seeped under the bottom of the pole barn, drawing shadows across the darkened aisle. I stopped, breathing hard, realizing I hadn’t heard his footsteps for the past several seconds.

  An overwhelming, coppery odor filled my nostrils.

  A sudden whoosh of air. Blinding pain. Darkness.

  “Woman down!” A slender shadow knelt over me. Electronic static brought unintelligible sounds.

  “Chief Oliver! Are you alright?” Hector’s voice cut away the cobwebs wrapped around my brain.

  I sat up. Mistake. Nausea rolled over me. I turned away from him and vomited. Fiery explosions rocketed through my head. “I’m fine.”

  I turned over onto my hands and knees, breathing deeply for several long seconds. The coppery smell of blood was thick. Hector’s hand was on my shoulder. I pitched back onto my heels, grabbed his arm, and pulled myself shakily to my feet. “I’m fine.”

  I closed my eyes, straightening my clothes. When I opened them again, Gino stood before me, appraising me shrewdly. A circle of uniformed cops knelt over a figure in the sand.

  “He’s gone. We’ve got another vic. I called Amelia with an update, and we’re in pursuit.” He offered me an arm, and I took it.

  Hot tears welled up as we passed the jeans-clad body of a dark-haired man in his forties. An auction house sticker with the letter I had been slapped onto the dead man’s cheek. Waves of nausea flooded my stomach, and I let myself be carried away by my colleagues.

  “I’m so sorry.” I was shaking, my body trying to reset my mind.

  We race-walked out of the barn into the blinding sunlight. Sandwiched between Hector and Gino, I stopped abruptly. Gino’s Z28 was parked in an angled spot across the street from the spot where I was certain we’d left our truck less than thirty minutes earlier. I turned to Gino, confused. “The perp stole our truck?”

  Hector scrambled into the back seat of Gino’s car. It roared to life, and I buckled myself into the passenger seat. Gino maneuvered with measured speed around country corners, talking over his Bluetooth to an omnipresent crew of highly trained security personnel. He was barking coordinates and predictions of where the killer was headed like the former operative he was.

  He mentioned Wildcat Mountain several times. My eyebrows shot up. How had he known? The rumble of a chopper overhead answered my question.

  I shook my head, shooting Gino an appreciative glance. “Really, G?”

  “Any man who puts my Josie on the ground has earned an all-star chase.” Gino’s features hardened into an unreadable mask as he reached out and squeezed my knee. The cell phone pinged again, and he pulled his hand away, gesticulating wildly as if winding himself up to respond.

  Right before Gino’s next cell phone tirade, the choked sound of repressed laughter caught my attention. I turned around slowly, wary of nausea and my wrenched neck and glared at my new partner. Hector froze, mid-shoulder-shaking laugh.

  “Don’t,” I said, as menacingly as I could muster.

  But he ignored my warning. “Hick Code of Honor, my—”

  “Shut up.” I turned around, gripping the passenger door handle as another tight curve rose before us.

  Hector leaned forward from the back, gripping my seat. “So, we zoom after Burdock, but does he know all roads in Hickdom belong to you? That Wildcat Mountain was named after you?”

  Gino was still barking orders to his men as he navigated hairpin turns at dizzying speeds, switching from English to Spanish as easily as switching hands on the wheel.

  I turned my head back to Hector. “Guy like that, he’d have spent plenty of time casing the roads, maybe the whole state.”

  My napkin-map of Wisconsin, with its crudely marked kill spots, came to mind. Burdock knew where he was going. Had to. But had he planned it like this? Or had we spooked him into running? I pictured the stream of letters in my mind. J-E-ME-H-A-I … Nothing spelled any destination I could conceive of. Nothing made sense. But still, there was something familiar about this combination of letters.

  The car phone erupted into a frenzied roar. Field agents reported into Amelia from a dozen different locations, shouting into phones and radios. Gino’s system somehow relayed them all.

  “He’s fishtailing!”

  “He’s flipped!”

  “Look at that!”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Whoa! He’s running!”

  “We’ve got a runner!”

  Beads of sweat popped out above Gino’s brow. “Where’s he going? Is he injured?” His gravelly voice filled the interior. He punched the accelerator, and we rocketed around another curve, nearly at the top of the steep road.

  I’d pulled a truck and trailer loaded with horses up this hill many times. Jackrabbited up it on my old Harley too. The mouth of Wildcat Mountain State Park and its complex series of heavily wooded trails was the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. Was that where Burdock was headed?

  “What have we here?” Gino’s calm voice jarred me from my thoughts.

  Several police cars were parked in the middle and on the side of the road. The cream-and-rust-colored Ford pickup lay upended in the ditch on the right. The driver’s door was open—the cab empty. A clear set of fresh prints in the mud told the story. Burdock had gone to ground.

  The en
tire jagged map of Wildcat Mountain drew itself in velvety colors in my mind’s eye. Miles of trails crisscrossed under an endless canopy of pine, birch, walnut, and linden trees. The park was bordered on three sides by county roads, and on the top by a shelf of rock, a gift of the glacial age. How many miles wide was the park? I couldn’t remember. A lot of miles.

  The faintest echo of dogs barking and sirens screeching reached my ears. I shot a glance at Gino, waiting for him to finish his last set of instructions as cops, special agents, and private security firms banded together to create the world’s largest perimeter lockdown. Wisconsin’s largest, at any rate.

  I stepped out of the car and pushed the seat up for Hector. Gino walked over to the most agitated-looking male in the center of the cop cluster. Establishing the order of the hunt. I shook my head and turned away from the uniformed cadre, scanning the hilly terrain around me. Gino could do the political thing. I’d left my last shred of patience on the auction barn floor, next to a few drops of my own blood. And an innocent dead man.

  Nick and Gino’s work was second to none. I knew any perimeter organized by them would be airtight—killer-tight even. But would this wildly diverse group of lawmen sharing their thoughts between country cell towers manage to get the park locked down fast enough to stop him?

  There was only one way to find out. I rested my hand on the grip of my Glock, nestled in my shoulder holster. I patted my cell phone in my left pocket and clicked the radio transmitter clipped to the inside of my Packers’ vest to make sure it was still live.

  Hector stood behind me, breathing rapidly. I had no intention of waiting for the boys to decide who’s who in the zoo. We didn’t have that kind of time. I glanced back at Hector, cocking my head toward the edge of the forest. Then I turned and strode down into the ditch, long legs working hard to suck my feet up and out of the mud as I passed the abandoned truck. The breadcrumb trail of Burdock’s prints beckoned me on.