Danger in Numbers

by Heather Graham

  Hunter headed into his room, and dug into his overnight bag.

  A clean T-shirt and boxer shorts would do for decent sleep attire.

  He showered quickly; it was late, and he knew they both needed sleep. Cops and agents went home sometimes; they split shifts. They slept.

  They didn’t have to be on this the way that they were, going 24/7.

  Well, he thought, maybe he did have to be on it the way that he was.

  Amy didn’t. But she wasn’t a complainer, and she didn’t want off the case.

  Despite his hurry, he scrubbed his hair. There had been a feeling the blood and tragedy of the cabin had lingered on them, as if it had been in the air and settled into them.

  So he scrubbed, and scrubbed hard—but quickly.

  Amy was in front of the television and she looked up as he entered the room.

  “Nice boxers,” she noted.

  “Hey, I’m a fan of the Marvel empire,” he told her.

  His good boxers featured the Hulk. No wonder she was grinning.

  She turned serious. “The murders are still on the news. It seems they’ve been attributed to cult activity, whether details have been kept back from the press or not.”

  “We’ll go to Maclamara tomorrow. There’s one bar there—we should stop in, see who is hanging around and if there’s a chill wind in the town,” he said.

  “And from there? How will we go about trying to find Billie?”

  “There are a few nearby college students we’ll need to see. But I’d also like to explore. There’s one main road. The bar is between here and their Main Street. Outside of that, you have a lot of ranches. They raise horses here, almost like an extension of Ocala. Cows and other farm animals, too. It’s Alachua County and the county folk are fine, but if we determine we need a search warrant, we’ll still go the federal way. But if we need instant help, well, they’re good.”

  “Okay.”

  Amy stood and grabbed her bag. “Should I set an alarm?”

  “One of us will wake up without one,” he said dryly. “And if we don’t, well, we’ll get a late start. Nothing seems to happen by day. It’s the nights we need to worry about.”

  She nodded and headed into the bedroom and the shower.

  Hunter took her seat on the couch, staring at the television.

  The news paused for a weather break. They were looking at a full moon tomorrow night.

  A full moon.

  He closed his eyes for a minute, trying to sort out the cabinets in his mind. His eyes sprang open as a young anchorman started speaking again with his partner, a well-dressed, slim, middle-aged woman.

  “What happened when you requested an interview with Ethan Morrison? He surely must have some comment on what is happening down there,” the anchor said.

  The anchorwoman laughed softly. “I’m afraid his comment was ‘no comment.’ While Mr. Morrison does have vast holdings in the state of Florida, a representative from Morrison Enterprises informed us Mr. Morrison hasn’t been to the south of the state in months. He’s no longer involved in the sugarcane business and he only holds on to his property for sentimental reasons. It was one of his father’s first purchases as a poor young man starting out. I can’t say I’m surprised the man doesn’t want to speak with the media—he was cleared in court, but suspicions follow him endlessly.”

  “Well, it’s a pity he won’t speak. With his resources, he could certainly help out.”

  “The FBI and local authorities are not giving out many specifics, but one of my sources tells me that a young man’s suicide—after a botched kidnapping attempt—gives credence to the fact we’re looking at something pretty bad happening, and we can only hope law enforcement gets it together to get this solved before there are more deaths. And excuse us, folks, we have to take a commercial break here.”

  Hunter closed his eyes again.

  Pictures ran in his mind.

  He saw the brands again, both on the bodies and imagining Amy’s sketches.

  Then he knew; he knew as if someone had smacked him in the head with the truth.

  The curves, the lines and the curves...

  They formed a double P. PP.

  People’s Paradise.

  He flew off the sofa, heading to the bedroom, flinging the door open.

  “Amy!”

  He froze. He should have knocked.

  She was just out of the shower. The door to the bathroom was open, and she was just tying a towel around her body. Her hair was free and flowing softly in waves around her shoulders.

  She was still damp from the shower and the steam.

  “I—Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she assured him, knotting the towel. “It’s something important, I take it.”

  He nodded.

  “Are you...going to share?”

  “What? Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. I—”

  “It’s okay. Really,” she said. “What is it? Please tell me.”

  “Your sketches...the brands. I know what they are.”

  “You know—from my sketches? What?”

  “The brands are double Ps,” he said. “They stand for People’s Paradise.”

  She looked at him, frowning. “People’s Paradise?”

  He nodded. Of course she wouldn’t know about it. More than a quarter of a century had passed since the day when he had stood, a terrified little kid in the woods.

  “They were active almost thirty years ago,” he said. “They created a commune in California. It was run by a man known as Brother William, who turned out to be a William Bayer, a stockbroker who liked to play with other people’s money. He preyed on those who were horrified by the costs of medicine and the war vets who were left homeless in the streets. He found people who were looking for greater equality among everyone, and he found those who were...disenchanted by modern society and anxious to find a different way of life by working the earth. He preached community and giving...and everyone gave their incomes to him, any property to him. He kept preaching poverty—and making himself richer and richer. The FBI and the ATF and others shut him down.”

  “But could this be him...now?”

  “Not him,” Hunter said. “He went to prison, where he was eventually killed by a fellow prisoner in a fight.”

  “Then—”

  “People who were part of the cult—part of the upper echelon of the cult—got away.”

  “And you think one of them is the head of whatever is going on here?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She came toward him, pausing just a few feet away.

  “Do you—do you want to study the sketches again?” she asked.

  “It can wait until morning. I’ll get hold of the main offices, too, and see if they can trace anything for me and...”

  “And?”

  “I still think Ethan Morrison is involved somehow. I think there must be a connection. The man’s father bought the property in South Florida. I want everything that can be found on him.”

  “Okay.”

  She took a step closer to him. He realized he’d been speaking in full sentences, even making sense.

  But he’d been watching Amy, studying her—her eyes, her face. Her form beneath the towel.

  He wasn’t sure what made him do it. He took a step closer to her.

  And then she took a step closer to him.

  She smiled. He felt a flush of heat at her look. They had come to a place where it seemed they could read one another’s mind. He took her into his arms.

  She seemed to flow into them.

  He met her eyes. Beautiful eyes he’d come to know so well, changing with laughter, passion, determination, empathy, like prisms in their beauty.

  He hoped he had come to read them well.

  He lowered his head and foun
d her lips; she returned the kiss with a sweet fever, lips soft and sure, parting, welcoming, moist and warm.

  The towel fell from her body.

  He could feel her naked breasts against his chest, pressing against the soft fabric of his T-shirt, and the vibrant heat and curve of her body against his boxers.

  He should have been telling himself that this was entirely wrong.

  Instead, he was telling himself it was right, that it had been coming. They were deeply involved in so much together, in a case they’d both see through, work tirelessly at, and they were, in a strange sense, connected.

  Logic didn’t matter. Wanting her had been growing in him explosively. It wasn’t that he didn’t have control; he did.

  This was a fully conscious decision.

  Her fingers slipped up under his shirt and trailed down his back, nails a soft but erotic brush against his flesh. He cupped her head and let the kiss intensify, his free hand running the length of her back.

  They moved backward, a motion oddly synced, and fell upon the bed. He shrugged off his clothing, then rose above her, cradling her into his arms and drawing them side by side, holding fast to the kiss at first, then easing his lips from hers, letting them fall over her throat and shoulders and breasts. And below.

  There was nothing like her touch in return—the sweeping caress of her fingers, the lightest whisper of her breath against his flesh. Every little movement seemed to heighten the raw hunger and desire between them; they played and touched, kissed, tasted, dove into the sweetest intimacy, until the agony of being separate overrode the soaring ecstasy of each of those touches, and he thrust deep within her, finding a new explosion of sensation so rich it seemed to rock the room.

  She was a fluid wave beneath him, and he felt her every surge and writhe.

  Their lips met again as they savored the wild sweep of the storm that had come between them, long awaited, and yet so sudden.

  Wild as the ride was, the climax was ever-more combustible, not just an explosion, he thought whimsically when thought returned to him, but the demolition of a city block.

  Finally, he lay at her side, bringing her to curl against him, amazed at the time it was taking him just to breathe normally again.

  “Um. I swear, I didn’t plan that,” he said after a while.

  She raised on an elbow to look at him, amused. “Really? I have to admit, I have been trying to figure out how to plan something just like what happened.”

  He arched his head back, studying her face.

  “I kind of thought you didn’t like me.”

  “I guess I wasn’t really a team player at first. I didn’t know...that the case would get worse and worse.”

  “You’re an incredible team player,” he assured her.

  “And you mean that how?”

  He laughed softly. “In several ways. Right now, I’m damned glad that you’re my partner.”

  She smiled.

  He stretched, and then started to get out of the bed.

  “You’re not seriously going to go sleep on the sofa now, are you?” she asked him.

  He smiled. “No. I did something against the grain. I left my gun out there.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Maybe that’s why we shouldn’t—”

  “Nope. I told you—this wasn’t a plan, it was just a moment of...wow,” he finished softly. “When I figured out what the brand was...all that went through my mind was telling you. I’ll be right back.”

  He secured his gun, double-checked the doors and the windows and returned.

  She was waiting, and swept her arms around him. He met her eyes, her beautiful, crystal, ever-changing eyes.

  “Should we sleep?” she asked.

  “Soon. Not quite yet,” he told her.

  They made love again. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  And then they slept.

  When morning came, with coffee on, with them both dressed and ready for the day, he knew soon it would be time to explain to her just exactly why he knew so much about the People’s Paradise.

  * * *

  Amy met Pete Perkins, owner and operator of the Dixie Inn, when they were leaving. Hunter introduced her as Special Agent Amy Larson of the FDLE, and she realized the man knew Hunter was here on a case.

  “Glad to have you here. There’s nothing down in Micanopy. I mean, we are a small town here, but a normal small town. Old South, yes, and some people have old-fashioned ideas, but we’re mostly law-abiding and straight arrows. We have a nice ability to agree to disagree when we have different notions about stuff. Now down in Maclamara...”

  “Isn’t the town a bit of a rural extension of this one?” Amy asked.

  “Lord, no,” the man assured her. He was a pleasant-looking man, about six-feet-even, gray-haired and lean. “No, I...we’re mostly conservative, sometimes liberal, but...normal. Those guys down there...well, it doesn’t surprise me a poor young woman was murdered. Have they got any more on that, Mr. Forrest?”

  “We’re working it. That’s why we’re back here.”

  “You think those murders down south are connected.”

  “We do.”

  “You be careful. There are a lot of guns down there. Why, there’s a preacher down there, says his folks need to bring their guns to church. Guns—in church. Godly men need to protect themselves, their children and their faith, and if that means guns, then each man should have his and know how to use it. And there’s no law against it. So...anyway, I’ll just stay here. We may not be the best people in the world, but we’re surely not the worst—and we’re normal. You two take care, you hear me?”

  “We will, and thanks,” Hunter told him.

  Hunter’s hand came to rest on the small of Amy’s back. She didn’t mind the touch. She wouldn’t have minded it before last night; it was nothing more than a hint they needed to politely disengage and get moving.

  Except now, this morning, it was a reminder of their touches the night before.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so good, so complete.

  She cared for Hunter. Liked him, respected him, more.

  Maybe it was natural with all they’d been through? Maybe it was just about circumstance, and when this was all over...

  No. She would still like him and have tremendous respect for him.

  And possibly want him every time he walked into a room.

  Maybe that part would be dealt with easily; maybe she’d never see him again.

  For now, they had their work. And from now on, she determined, they could have their nights together.

  Even if that night for them was short.

  “Amy?” Hunter murmured.

  “Thank you, nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins. I love the inn—you’ve made it absolutely charming,” Amy told him.

  Perkins seemed to glow along with his smile. “Thank you!”

  They headed out.

  “We’re going to the bar you’ve talked about?” Amy asked.

  “Yep.” Hunter cast a glance her way as he turned the key in the ignition. “And let’s see that forewarned is forearmed—there are indeed a lot of guns down there. Let’s be way above wary, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Amy promised.

  “The place is called Bikes and Brews,” Hunter said. “They do get bikers. They get clients from Maclamara, of course, sometimes people from Ocala, Micanopy and even Gainesville.”

  “You’ve been in there already?”

  “Yes, but just as a customer. I didn’t announce myself. I wanted to take a look at the place and the clientele.”

  “Of course. That’s why we’re dressed as we are?”

  He’d asked that morning that she wear something casual. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers; she had opted to do the same, but her shirt had a slight V at the neck i
nstead of being flush to her throat. She hated clothing that came right to her throat, but her T-shirt was still quite a respectable one, the design of it being that of a popular cartoon character.

  “That’s the reason,” he said.

  “You think someone might approach us?”

  “Maybe not, but it’s possible. Oh, by the way, you don’t believe in any kind of gun control. And you think we need major reform on most of our policies as a nation.”

  “I do?”

  “Today you do.” He glanced her way. “What Pete was saying is this—Micanopy residents may manage to get along and respect one another, despite differing beliefs. But when you get down to Maclamara, you’re entering a den of white supremacists.”

  “Ah,” Amy muttered. “Understood.”

  “Let’s get all our calls made. You get in touch with John, I’ll work my end.”

  She pulled her phone out and called John. He was home. His son, Johnny Jr., was with him for a few days. Then Brenda would be back.

  He was behaving, being an excellent patient, he promised her.

  Amy told him about the shack—though he knew about it because he’d already read Aidan Cypress’s reports. She told him about their meeting with Casey and explained why they feared Billie had been taken north somewhere—possibly to Maclamara—and they were on their way there now. She also shared what he didn’t know—Hunter was convinced he recognized the brands on the dead women, that were double Ps, and the situation might relate back to someone who had been involved with a cult a quarter of a century ago.

  John thanked her for the call, and she hung up.

  “John’s doing okay?” Hunter asked.

  “He sounds as if he’s being a good patient and not even driving those around him crazy.”

  “That’s a relief. John is a good agent for Florida—and a good man.”

  “He is. And a good partner. Oh, and you’re a great partner.”

  He grinned.

  “Hey,” she said. “You didn’t like me at first.”

  “No, I didn’t know you. I just thought you were...young.”

  “Young doesn’t mean bad,” she said.

  He was smiling as he looked ahead at the winding road. The country they traveled now was rich with tall oaks, and all those oaks dripped moss. It was a beautiful drive, though the road hadn’t been repaved in years.