Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3)

by Catherine Finger

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The sound of Hector crashing through the dead leaves behind me reminded me of my last visit to the park, with a different olive-skinned man in hot pursuit. But we had been alone, in love, and about to take two very different life paths. I shook my head, lengthening my stride until we made it to the base of a steep embankment.

  I stopped abruptly, staring at the ground and the surrounding trees and shrubs, looking for the telltale signs of human prey.

  Hector’s heavy breathing announced his arrival. “I thought you said there were dogs?”

  I shrugged my shoulders without turning around. “I asked Gino if they’d ordered dogs. I’m guessing they did, thought I heard some, but we don’t really know. And the longer we …” A flash of silver-sided leaves in an ocean of chartreuse caught my eye. I pointed at a small opening in the face of the bluff and broke into a jog.

  A sapling stood to the right of an old trailhead. My eyes followed the slender trunk to the earth. White rings of pressure where it had been forced aside feathered the base. “Here.” I pushed into the forest and was relieved to find myself on a narrow game trail.

  Who wouldn’t take the quickest path out? Which, in this case, just happened to lead up. I turned my head toward Hector. “Call it in. He’s on this trail.”

  I left him there with his radio crackling and plunged ahead into the lush shadows. The bluff was overrun with officers calling to one another and checking in on their radios. The sound of choppers drawing near overhead cushioned the din of the hunt. Still no dogs barking, no sounds of officers coming up behind me. Where were they?

  The path cut sharply to the right, carving a trail that seemed nearly vertical. It rose above the pathways to a ridge that ran the length of the park. You wanted to get above the fray, didn’t you? Got a lookout point mapped out already? A hidey-hole maybe?

  I moved into a run as I drove myself up the path, grabbing trees and boulders along the way to propel myself along, concentrating on Burdock’s mindset as I ran. Yes. This is exactly where I’d go to hide.

  The earth was damp this deep inside the forest. The dank smell mixed with a sharper, acrid scent I couldn’t identify. Gasoline? No. Diesel fuel? Maybe. I let the thought go and kept myself moving forward. Footprints rewarded my darting eyes every few strides. Sweat trickled down my back, and I pushed myself harder, faster, up the steep path, heading toward a landing about thirty feet from the top. I stopped at the landing, desperation flooding me, panting and sucking in deep breaths, unsure of my next move. Where was Hector? Gino? Where were the other officers?

  Stones scuttled down the path in front of me. My eyes widened, and I fought the urge to turn and run screaming down the hill. Instead, I willed myself to freeze and look up, reaching for my Glock.

  Guttural laughter trickled down from the ridge above me. The hairs on my arms rose. A large figure in a faded black duster stood directly in my line of sight.

  The sound of tin ornaments clinking in the wind confused me as pressure filled my ears, leaving me dizzy and breathless, staring into the now empty incline. Where had he gone? Had I even heard that noise? Had I really seen him? Or was this another trick of the mind, like tinnitus in overdrive?

  I clenched my fists, ground my teeth and gave a growl before I realized it had escaped my lips. Glad to be alone, I holstered my Glock and reached for my radio. The mic wasn’t on my vest anymore. My eyes dropped to the ground to check for it, and before I drew them back up to the trail, the eerie laughter floated down again. I wanted to stop and text the boys to let them know where we were, but the laughter was moving away from me.

  I ran on ahead, with one hand tugging my cell phone from my back pocket, the other grabbing trees to steady my way. I stumbled on a root and fell to my knees, phone slamming to the ground as I instinctively broke my fall with both hands. I turned in time to watch as it bounced off a rock and slid down into a mound of leaves, thirty feet back down the trail I’d just climbed.

  Crap. No time for this. I wheeled back around and resumed my ascent. A long, black coat traipsed on ahead, just out of reach, dancing between the shadows cast by low branches and boulders strewn along the trail. I pulled my Glock back out, steadied myself into a two-handed grip. “Stop! Police officer! Hands in the air—now!” Silence rippled down the path. I holstered the Glock and scuttled after him. Grabbing branches with both hands, I hoisted myself over a set of rock steps until I reached a small clearing.

  Bracing myself against a pine trunk, I looked up and down the trail. Trees swayed in the wind, but nothing else moved. A black squirrel jumped noisily from one branch to another. I took a deep breath, steadying my shaky nerves. The fuel smell closed in around me. Is it safe to fire my weapon?

  A twig snapped to my left, and I whirled around in time to see the hint of a black coat dart behind a tree about twenty feet beneath the clearing. I unholstered my Glock, raised it to shooting position and started down the embankment, training the gun on the base of the tree. “Come out with your hands on your head.”

  A whisper of black material flounced in the wind on the right side of the tree. Gotcha, dirtbag. “Come out from behind the tree. Hands on your head.” At the sound of my voice, he moved farther behind the tree.

  Was he going to make a run for it? Either way, he didn’t seem too worried about my approach. Never a good sign.

  I stood less than ten feet from the tree. Time to up the ante. “I’m giving you one last opportunity to come out with your hands on your head.”

  “I … I can’t,” he answered in a string-tight baritone voice—the kind I would remember. But this voice was shaky as if laced with fear, nothing like the kind I would expect from the brazen man who’d eyed me on the other side of the window of The Pleased Pig.

  A man peered from behind the tree, hands invisible from where I stood. He seemed to be kneeling, and his head was shaking uncontrollably. A black fedora toppled off his head, revealing thick, dark hair. Not the same man we’d been chasing in my stolen pickup all the way from Hillsboro. Not the same man at all. Not Alex Burdock but his friend Melvin White.

  My mind struggled to comprehend what it meant that Melvin White crouched behind the tree, stuttering with fear. Where was Burdock? And what was up with White’s odd movements? Was he stoned? Whatever he was on, I had to get him cuffed. I stepped toward him. The diesel smell was strongest near him, near the tree. Did the gas leak when Burdock rolled the truck?

  I raised my Glock and focused on his eyes. “Here’s how this goes. You put your hands behind your back, and you roll slowly back on your knees. You so much as twitch a muscle besides that, and I shoot you.”

  He looked up with soulful brown eyes. “I c-c-can’t.” His neck was taut. I followed the turn of his head, the awkward way it skimmed his shoulder.

  “Perfect. Which leg would you like me to shoot?” I shifted my Glock, watching the words crawl through his mind. Something was wrong. Barks and the shouts of myriad officers drifted up from below.

  Several long seconds later, he spoke again. “I c-c-can’t.” White-rimmed eyes glanced from me to the ground.

  I studied him and the jerky movement of his neck. I drew my gaze down, seeing for the first time that what I’d taken for a part of the tree wasn’t bark at all—it was the dusty black sleeve of his left arm, and it was laced with plastic ties to a logger chain. A quick scan of the other side confirmed it: someone had chained this man to the tree.

  “What the … ?”

  A whoosh of movement tickled my right ear. Followed by another. Heat kissed my neck. An arrow landed solidly in the middle of the tree, five feet from the ground. Red and yellow flames sputtered and went out. I watched in horror as the second arrow found its mark next to the man’s left hand. The flames jumped from the arrow to the tree and raced upward. The man gasped. “T-too late.”

  I holstered my Glock, pulled out Nick’s Leatherman and
dropped to my knees in front of the bound man. I sawed against the thick plastic that held him to the chain, smoke billowing out as the tree started to burn. The man’s hand clenched mine, stopping my sawing motion. A third flaming arrow hit him in the back. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped over. I rocked back on my heels, jumped to my feet and tried to cut away the burning shaft, but the fire pushed me back. I took off my Packers vest and wrapped the fiery arrow in it, extinguishing the flames.

  Flames whooshed up, surrounding the tree. The man’s body stiffened. I looked down right before a nest of dry leaves at the base of the tree burst into flames. I couldn’t catch my breath. Thick black smoke gushed against me. My shins were burning, and I could smell burned hair.

  Screaming in frustration, I stepped back, impotent. The entire tree was in flames. Smoke gathered over the bound man’s clothing. Tears blinded me, and I closed my eyes tight against the heat, still sawing away at the thick, unyielding plastic.

  Accelerant. Not diesel fuel. We’d been Burdock’s diversion. The cops would focus on us, easing up on the perimeter, thinking he was with me.

  Burdock was getting away.

  Voices drew near, and sharp canine whines drifted up from below. I gave another sawing push against the plastic bonds with the Leatherman, but the fire had accomplished what I couldn’t. The bonds gave way, and my head banged against the tree. Pain flashed up my back. Is my shirt on fire? No time. White was slumped over. Dead? Passed out? No time.

  Instinct took over, and I pulled him away from the tree, frantically searching for safety, a way out of the inferno. I could find none. I stopped, readjusting, facing White, grabbing his arms to pull again. My lungs burned as I sucked in the fiery air. Still, I dragged him, scrabbling backward through the flames, grateful for what I couldn’t see. In the midst of my agony, God’s voice rose above the roaring flames. Forget what lies behind you. Reach forward to what lies ahead.

  Pull.

  I shut my eyes against the heat and pulled. The skin on my arms quivered as flames jumped from the forest floor to my jacket. Stop. Drop. And roll. The din of cops and dogs and what might’ve been four-wheelers rose up to match the sound of the fire. For one quick second, I thought I was done. I thought I was home. I opened my eyes, heat slapped against them, melting me. My hair was smoking.

  This can’t be how it ends.

  White’s body dug into the earth. I buried my head into the crook of my elbow, gasping, dragging in several large breaths of hot air through the fabric. Where were the guys? No time. Pull.

  I channeled my freshman softball coach. I spread my legs shoulder-width apart, lowered my body, and leaned back, taut arms gripping under his arms. The only prayer I could think of rolled like a mantra through my mind. Thy will be done. Thy will … be done … on earth … as it is in heaven. The image of a beautiful pair of hands reaching down from heaven, holding mine, as I pulled against White’s weight was the last thing I remembered before sinking into darkness.

  Antiseptic smells filled the air. A white noise backdrop heightened the beeping sounds of machines. My eyes were shut tight. It took all the strength I had to raise my lids to half-mast.

  “And she’s back.” A male voice, thin with anxiety, carrying the hint of an accent.

  “Ek … tor?” Talking was a mistake. And judging from the confusion on the man’s face standing over me, I might not, in reality, have been talking. A big man, sporting a do-rag.

  “Mija?” Not Hector. Gino.

  “Ino?” I wanted to ask him so much. But my brain and my lips weren’t connecting. I stared up at him, willing all my words into my eyes, hoping he could read them.

  “You are safe. That is the main thing.” Gino’s eyes were misty. The big softie. “And you somehow dragged Melvin White to safety. He lives. Though he is not free. He is in this hospital and under guard.”

  And Burdock? I wanted to ask. Where’s Burdock? I looked up at Gino, concentrating on hardening my eyes.

  “And Burdock—he hitchhiked off the mountain. Dressed in his Amish garb, what local wouldn’t trust him? While every officer was racing up to the scene of the fire, he rushed away in a carjacked Buick, leaving the driver dazed, but alive, in his wake.”

  Why? Why kill the auction house man but not the driver?

  “Who?” I did my best to croak my question, leaving it for Gino to decipher. Who’d he kill? Who were his latest victims?

  “Hush, mija. Rest now. We’ll talk when you awake.” Gino stroked my forehead, brown eyes streaked with red, until I could no longer keep my own open and sleep took me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Where was Nick? I woke again. Gino’s face and every line spoke to me of kindness and of love. But where was Nick?

  How could it be that I found myself once again in a hospital bed while he was out, only Nick-knew-where? This cannot be happening again. Where was he now? Was he safe?

  Gino shook his head. His lips moved. Silence.

  I squinted up at him, and the effort netted a flash of pain through both temples. I closed my eyes, trying to take a bodily inventory. All I knew was I still had one. And that it hurt. All over.

  Scrunching my nose felt funny. I opened my eyes, aimed them down at my nose, and saw white. Bandages? Is that why I could barely hear Gino? I moved my head from side to side, pushing through the pain. One side didn’t reach the pillow. Bandages.

  I looked up at Gino, eyes moistening. “Nick?” Where is he? Why isn’t he here with me? Now, when I need him most?

  Gino bent down, closer to me. “Your Nick is out chasing the man who did this to you. And he will find him. But that is not your real question perhaps.”

  A thin smile broke across my face, stopping at the corner of the bandages around my nose. Fire, smoke, and the sensation of being dragged downward wisped through my mind.

  “Nick.” I breathed in deeply, held it in for several seconds, and slowly exhaled.

  “Nick.” The sound of his name rolled through me, fresh springs bubbling up from pristine tropical gardens.

  “Nick.” A profound sense of want, of desire, welled up inside me, vanquishing my long-held fears and doubts. Perfect love casts out fear.

  “Your Nick has loved you for his whole life. He is a good man, Josephine—a great one. He would be a very good choice for you if you’re asking for my opinion.” He stroked my forehead. “This man is good for you, and he will make you very happy. If you’re asking for my permission, this you have had since before you even needed it. I will tell you again: yes, Josephine. Mija. Marry him. Marry him, and do not look back.”

  I looked up at him. “Really?” Pain seared my throat.

  “Really. Do not be afraid. Perfect love casts out all fear. And I would be so honored to be the one to give you away. If that is what you wish to ask next.” He winked at me and gave a little tug on a lock of my hair.

  I sighed, tears streaming silently down my face. Gino. My Gino. But how had he known to quote that same scripture? I smiled. God was in the house.

  Sunbursts full of flowers danced across my mind. “Samantha.” The action of the last twenty-four hours had left me little room to worry about my darling soon-to-be daughter.

  “All is well with your leading ladies. I have checked on each of them for you.” Gino tucked his hand into a jacket pocket and pulled out a picture. “And your mother is also fine. I called her myself to let her know that you are fine and could benefit from the prayers of a wise woman.” He placed the picture on the tray in front of me.

  Tears streamed down my face as I feasted my eyes on the picture of my mother and my Samantha and me. “Thanks, Gino.”

  “Nick has told me what Kira has done.” He shook his head. “She will not succeed in keeping you and your girl apart. We will not let it happen. Rest, mija. You have done enough work for this day.” Gino stood above me and sighed, gently wiping away my tear
s with a washcloth. A radiant smile transformed him from the black-ops tough guy to the soft-hearted saint he so often was in my life. My Cuban guardian angel stood over me like a sentinel.

  God was in the house.

  I closed my eyes, marveling at the stillness of my heart.

  Nick.

  I want Nick. Completely. The simplest revolutionary thought ever.

  My eyes flew open, and I searched the hospital tray ahead of me for the framed picture Gino had left for me. It was my favorite picture of us, as Gino knew well. Me, holding Sam on my lap. My mother, nestled into me, chin resting on my head, arms around both me and Sam. I traced the beaded edges of the frame with my finger.

  God, please bring Nick home to me, safe. Thank You for Your protection, for Your peace and Your guidance. Amen. Oh, and God? About that Nick-and-me business? All I can say is yes. Assuming it’s Your will and all. Amen.

  I held the picture to my heart, waves of pleasure surging through me. Just need to Photoshop Nick in to complete my family. Funny how much that little bit of talking and the power of my secret new truth drained what little energy I’d had upon awakening. Darkness reached toward me, and I closed my eyes once more.

  Images of a barefoot Nick, clad in a black tux, shimmered in my mind. Samantha held his hand, laughing. She wore a flowy white dress, looking up at me, happier than I’d ever seen her. I said something simple to them both, with my mother standing by, all smiles, as the waves crashed in and pulled me under.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” Nick’s silky tones drifted next to me as I lay in bed.

  In bed with me? My eyes snapped open. Sharp stabs of pain hit from every direction. Oh. “Still here.” I smiled up at him. How long was I out?

  He leaned down, kissing me chastely on the cheek. “I can see that.”

  Purple half-moons were etched under his eyes. Dark stubble dotted his handsome face. “Oh, honey, you need rest. You should go.” Where had he been? Burdock! “Did you catch him?”