Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One

by Chase, Joslyn

“Anything else?”

  “One last hazard comes to mind. The air is full of ash which will choke our engine, causing it to stall.” She twirled her finger in a fast descent, a charades version of crash and burn. “We’ll most likely fall to our deaths.”

  Rick paced, thinking about the case, imagining what might be happening in Mountain Vista and considering the consequences if he sat on the sidelines while Nate wrapped up the case without him. He had to get there, but this was crazy.

  He turned to Bobbi and cracked a grin. “So what’s stopping us?”

  “Not me,” she said. “We’re burning daylight.”

  She jumped up and grabbed the pack and an armful of supplies. Rick gripped her arms, the smile erased from his face. “I give you full points for pluck,” he said, shaking her gently, “but this is no joke. We do this, it may be the last thing we do. Are you willing to accept that?”

  Bobbi raised her chin, a flash of heat in her eyes. “It won’t be the first time I’ve had to answer that question and I’m betting it won’t be the last. Let’s get off the ground.”

  CHAPTER 66

  THE KILLER STOOD OVER MYRNA’S cot, watching her chest rise and fall, waiting for his chance with the pillow, wishing Sandy Dawson would drink his coffee and fall asleep. He’d prepared the coffee with care, dissolving a number of crushed Lunesta tablets into it before pouring it into a thermos.

  “I brought the coffee supply,” he said to Sandy as Nate ushered in the two of them to replace Riley and Frank Newcombe.

  Sandy acknowledged this with a nod. “Very kind of you.”

  The killer looked down into Myrna’s face, counting the beats of her heart by the faint throb at the hollow of her throat. She wouldn’t even struggle when he held the pillow over her face, not like Amanda had struggled.

  He thought about that last evening with Amanda. She’d been so bright and wonderful, speaking with such eloquence about the beauty and majesty of the earth and condemning with derision those who denigrated her. They spoke together of their common convictions and he thought she’d shared his dedication.

  They sat on colored cushions on Amanda’s living room floor, sharing a bottle of wine. And then another. After that, they progressed to single malt Scotch and he told her about Toby, how they’d worked and learned together in the forest behind the funeral home. He told her about the earth tremors and how he and Toby did what was necessary.

  “He was the only boyhood friend I ever had. It was hard losing him like that, but what hurt most was the doubt I saw in his eyes at the very last. Toby lost the faith, and that was the hardest thing.”

  “Good Gaia,” she said, staring into his eyes. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You poor kid.”

  He remembered her nose turning red at the tip, and she’d cried, tears tracing her wine-flushed cheeks. A part of him found that thrilling, and he told her more about the things he’d done and he saw wariness creep into her eyes, stamping out the spark of sympathy until there was only a cold reflection of the doubt he’d seen in Toby. He’d been wrong about her. She didn’t share his convictions, her dedication was lip service only.

  He remembered the stab of regret, the brief flame of anger at the earth’s hungry demand, his sorrow that alcohol had killed her. It had loosened his tongue, and it affected Amanda by slowing her reflexes so that he was able to press his arms against her neck, choking her out. She fell against him and he dragged her up the stairs, listening to the rhythmic thump of her heels against the risers.

  He filled the bathtub, pouring in a capful of bubbles, and undressed her. The water roused her as he eased her down into the tub, and she fought him to the end. He wept as he held her under. Tears for Amanda, as she had given tears for him. He thought he’d learned something from that.

  He’d never tell Riley a thing.

  He looked at Sandy Dawson. The man was wedged into a corner of the gray leather couch, reading from a tablet. He needed only to lean his head back and go to sleep. Quietly, gently, he’d apply the pillow to Myrna. With luck, there’d be no way to prove she hadn’t simply succumbed to her injuries. Then he’d pour himself a cup of coffee and join Sandy on the couch. When Nate brought the next team of watchers, he’d find two sleeping men and a dead woman. How many people had a key to this office? No one would be able to say with certainty what had happened.

  “Would you like me to pour you some coffee?” the killer asked. “You’re looking a little sleepy.”

  “No thanks. I’m fine, but you go ahead.”

  The thermos rested, untouched, on the desk, almost buzzing with unfulfilled purpose. The killer rose from the desk chair and walked to the window. He stood looking out, not seeing a thing. His mind was turned inward, communing with the earth as nearly as he could while clothed and behind walls. She was in agony. He felt it, and it grieved him.

  Time passed and he glanced at this watch. Riley’s team had put in four hours, but there was no guarantee he’d be granted an equivalent period. This had to happen now. He screwed the cap off the thermos and poured out a cup of coffee, feeling its warmth against his hand.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing the cup to Sandy.

  Sandy waved away the offering. “I thought everyone in the neighborhood knew this about me, but perhaps you don’t. I’m a Mormon. I don’t drink coffee. Kind of you to offer, but it’s all yours, buddy.”

  The killer retreated to the desk chair to reconnoiter. He hadn’t thought much about plan B and time was running short. He could throttle the man, stage a choking incident.

  Ridiculous.

  He had a pocket knife. Could he use it on Mr. Dawson and then Myrna, jimmy the window, give himself a slash or two, then cry for help? He couldn’t imagine Nate buying this scenario. Why couldn’t the woman just die?

  He heard a key in the lock. The door opened and Nate walked in, followed by Dr. Deb and the guy who was always squaring off against Sandy Dawson.

  “Hey, Hal.” Sandy greeted him with an anticipatory grin.

  “No time for a debate just now, Sandy,” Nate said. “I’m calling a meeting in the dining room and I need everybody there. These two have already been briefed and they’ll take the watch from here.”

  The killer watched Hal Jeffries take his place behind the desk. Dr. Deb approached her patient and the killer caught a last glimpse of Myrna’s chest, rising and falling, before the door shut and locked, signaling the end of opportunity.

  CHAPTER 67

  “WE’RE LOSING THE DAYLIGHT,” Bobbi’s voice piped through the headset. She sounded on edge. Every hoop they’d had to jump through before they could get the Bell 206 JetRanger off the ground had taken longer than planned and the sun was low on the horizon when they’d finally lifted off. Rick nodded and strained his eyes, looking out through the windscreen and the chin bubble. It was his job to spot trouble and he was sure his hair had turned white from sheer tension. Ash-laden mist swirled in the air, further darkening the sky and limiting visibility. The thin-stretched wires were impossible to pick out in the gloomy atmosphere. Bobbi taught him to watch for the poles, instead, and keep her just above the tops of them, although she often had to dip below for better visibility.

  Rick knew Bobbi was running on fury. She was mad as a nest full of hornets and that was driving this mission for her. He was happy to take it however it might come, but fury was a fickle and unsustainable force. At some point, he might have to provide support of another kind.

  He peered to his right. The ashy shimmer shifted, seeming to evaporate. The utility pole materialized like a ghost. “Pull up, pull up!”

  Bobbi adjusted the controls and they skimmed up over the array of high tension wires and leveled out. Rick let out his breath in a long sigh and gave her a shaky thumbs up.

  “You’re doing good, soldier,” she told him. “Just keep your eyes peeled.”

  “I hate that expression.”

  “My apologies. Glue your face to the windscreen and goggle like your life depends on it.�
�

  The helicopter edged along through the dirty air, sucking it in and spitting it out. Below them, Rick could make out green, mounded treetops. Lots of them. They were over forest land now, so there were fewer wires to watch out for. Plenty of other hazards, though. He kept his head on a slow swivel, scrutinizing the smudgy sky on the other side of the glass. Ten minutes of smooth flying and the vibration and hum of the machine, teamed with inadequate sleep, tugged at Rick’s eyelids. Remain vigilant. Remain vigilant. It was his mantra. And then, his lullaby. His chin touched his chest, and he jerked his head up, shaking himself, scanning the sky.

  He saw Bobbi flick the plastic covering on the fuel gauge and was astonished to see that the needle rested on dead empty.

  “Cripes!” he shouted, his heart leaping. “Are we out of gas?”

  Bobbi wagged her head and he watched the indicator swing up to full and drop to the halfway mark.

  “What’s that about?”

  “The guy who manned the pump told me one of their seals failed and there might be water in the fuel. Looks like he was right. We’ll have to drain it when we land.”

  Rick returned his gaze to the dismal sky and the monotonous drone of the engine settled into his bones. They were in a dream world. Drifting clouds of mist and ash danced before him. Surreal. Sleep inducing. He fought it, but at length his head dipped again, and he drifted.

  The sputtering of the engine snapped him into awareness. He opened his eyes and swung them at Bobbi. She tapped the instrument panel, pointing out a lit indicator.

  “Our EBF, that’s Engine Barrier Filter, is impending a clog. Engine’s cutting out. Add that to the bad fuel and we’re done for today.”

  He detected no trace of panic in her voice, but his own heart began to race. He stared out of their little, defenseless bubble, eyes wide.

  “Nothing like a hard-core adrenalin rush to wake you up. Am I right?” she chided.

  A wave of heat washed over his face, lighting a spark of anger. At himself, at the situation, at the volcano still spewing ash.

  “Better find us a clearing where we can land.”

  He responded to the clear command in her voice and marshaled his resolve. But below, he saw only treetops. An endless carpet of them.

  “I got nothing over here,” he reported.

  “And a whole lot of the same on this side,” Bobbi said. “Hang on.”

  She worked the controls and the helicopter rose with a shudder. “What are you doing?” Rick asked.

  “Trimming the rotors up to get all the power I can before we lose the engine. Buy us a little time and maybe something will open up down there.”

  They continued to climb and the ash layer grew thicker. Rick’s stomach churned. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” he said.

  “Au contraire. The higher we get, the more room I have to maneuver. As long as the rotor turns, I can fly this baby, engine or no.”

  Every vestige of sleep had fled. Rick focused his attention down and ahead, determined to find a break in the trees. Pockets of ash appeared and dispersed, raising and dashing his hopes. His stress meter peaked when the engine coughed and breathed its last. They fell through the sky.

  “Brace up, we’re not dead yet.”

  The noise level dropped dramatically and Rick heard confidence in her voice. He watched her thrust the collective to the full down position. The muffled stutter of the rotors whirred through the silence and their rate of descent slowed.

  “Feel that? The air through the rotor system has changed direction.” She spoke as if giving instruction, demonstrating for a class. He studied her face. It was creased in concentration.

  “Eyes front, soldier,” she reprimanded. He returned his attention to the treetops but stole one glance back at her. She was smiling.

  And then he spotted it.

  “I got something,” he said, pointing.

  “Roger that.” She seemed to attack the sky with relish, tweaking pedals and levers, directing the helicopter to the tiny clearing.

  “We’re going to do an autorotation landing with zero ground run,” she told him. “Powered by the engine, the rotor pulls the air down and out. Without power, we have to use the air under us to turn the rotor. Like a pinwheel.”

  They seemed to float above the trees, drifting into place, and then suddenly everything shifted into high speed and the ground zoomed up to meet them. Bobbi flared the aircraft, lifting its nose, and they dropped into the opening in the tall trees and landed with a bump.

  “Oh damn,” she said. “I think we squat the skids.”

  Rick gulped air, realized he’d been holding his breath. He wiped his sweaty palms over his jeans and sent a prayer heavenward.

  Bobbi inspected him. “If you get out and kiss the ground, I’m gonna sock you in the face,” she said.

  CHAPTER 68

  “IT’S MORE IMPORTANT THAN EVER that we band together. We are dealing with a well-organized and clever killer.”

  Nate let his eyes rove across the faces in the room. They’d eaten dinner and several of the residents had pitched in to clean up the dining room and the kitchen. Nate had pulled the kitchen crew, telling them to finish later and as a result, Skillet was eyeing him with distinct disfavor. Teren had reverted to the stony glare he so often affected with Nate, and Sandy sat at a table, across from his wife, their hands clasped, drawing strength from one another. Wynn sat beside them, feeding her doll with a plastic spoon.

  “I believe the killer acts to serve a cause. He is committed to an ideal and will go to any length to sustain and protect that ideal. I’m not entirely certain what that ideal is, but I believe it runs somewhere along the lines of Earth worship.”

  He caught Riley’s eye, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the dark shadows in the hollows of her face.

  “Harper Mayhew dared to challenge those ideals and that may be why the killer singled him out. I believe Myrna witnessed his death and knows the identity of his killer and when she awakes, we will too.” He looked out over the group. “That puts every one of us in a dangerous position.”

  Nate saw several heads dip in acknowledgment. He began a slow walk between the tables, hoping to impress the import of his message on each person present.

  “Besides being clever and possibly very lucky, our killer’s got guts. He’s brazen enough to operate right under our noses, so I will emphasize, again, how vital it is that you stick together in groups so that he cannot isolate anyone. Groups of at least three.”

  Nate finished his walk among the tables and as he turned to retrace his steps, his eye fell upon Brenda. She had her Bible open on her lap, her finger running slowly down the columns of scripture as she read.

  “The frequency of these murders seems to correspond with the violence of the volcano, so folks, we are on red alert.”

  Skillet spoke up from his corner near the kitchen.

  “Ho, there, boss. Are you gonna speak to the elephant in the room?”

  Nate stopped, scanning the group, taking in each face, the expressions and body language, hoping for an indicator, a clue that would mark one of them out. He saw nothing outside of what he’d already established as each person’s baseline behavior.

  “I believe Skillet is referring to the fact that the killer is right here, a member of your community.”

  “No he isn’t,” Frank said, standing as the heat poured out of him. “A killer can never be a part of any community. He cuts himself off from humanity. He may walk among us, but he is not one of us.” He looked around the room, eyes smoldering, jaw clenched into rock-hard angles under his cheek.

  Annette Dawson spoke up and there was grief in her voice. “Excepting you, Detective, I’ve known everyone in this room for a good long while. I can’t believe any one of my neighbors is a murderer.”

  Nate acknowledged her with a grave nod. “I understand your sentiment, but I do believe it and we’ll soon know who it is and that man will go to prison.”

  “That man i
s already in prison.” Frank spoke again. “When a man commits murder, he cuts himself off from the rest of us, creates a distance, becomes a different creature in a prison of his own making. He is not one of us.”

  “That may be, but that self-made prison doesn’t stop him from killing again and again. What he needs is concrete and bars and I intend to see that he gets it.”

  There followed a period of subdued murmuring and Wynn Dawson started to cry with a hoarse, forlorn sobbing that squeezed at Nate’s heart. He felt a new layer of gloom settling over the company, a sinking into dejection, and he cast about for some way to raise the morale. He made his way toward Riley, noting the droop of her head. Even her hair looked tired, its vibrant color muted, the bounce gone out of it. He didn’t know if he was about to lift her or thrust her down to that level of hell that she put herself through in connection with her art. He sat beside her, smoothing back a curtain of hair so that he could see her face.

  “Will you play for us?” he asked, seeing the quick stab of dread that darted across her eyes. “Please, Riley. We need you.”

  CHAPTER 69

  OTHER THAN THE HICCUPING SOBS from Wynn Dawson, the room was silent. Riley sensed the many faces looking her way, but saw only Nate’s. His eyes echoed the appeal he’d voiced. Could he know the impossible burden he’d placed on her? The despair in the room was palpable, drawing her down with the rest of them, and she was broken, her wings gummed with the gluey weight of undefined guilt, rendering her powerless to lift the heavy pall.

  He took her hands in his and began gently kneading them, willing them to life. She felt strength emanating from him like a low hum from a live wire and the face of her intrepid student, Rebecca, swam into view in her mind. The student’s determination to press forward under the attack of daunting forces had impressed and fortified her, going a long way toward restoring her equilibrium. The power of music was real and potent, and it was in her hands.

  Music was her story, the way she portrayed the big pictures of life to the world. It was how she communicated who she was and what she was about, how she shared her visions and hope for the future. Music was her sentinel and her herald. Her gift. She could do this.