Tangled Threat ; Suspicious

by Heather Graham

  “I ate,” Angie said, smiling. “Two of Chef’s lunches would be great, but I just don’t think I could manage to eat a second. I suggest the mahi-mahi.”

  Brock looked at Nils and then Maura. “Two hamburgers?” he asked.

  Rachel cast Nils a weary gaze. “Mike and I had the hamburger plate. Chef makes a great hamburger.”

  “Yes, hamburgers sound good,” Maura said.

  “Done deal,” Nils told them.

  When he had walked away, Flannery leaned toward Angie. “I know how important your books and your videos are to you, but for the time being, please don’t go off to lonely places on your own.”

  “I would never go on my own,” Angie said.

  “Good,” Rachel murmured.

  “I wouldn’t be alone. Maura would be with me,” Angie said. She turned to watch Nils. The chef had come out of the kitchen and they were speaking.

  “Good-looking man,” she murmured.

  “So he is. Many women think so,” Rachel said, studying something on her hand. “Anyway, the point is...”

  “Don’t go off anywhere alone as just two young women,” Flannery said.

  Angie smiled at him. “Detective Flannery, did you want to come along with us? Brock? It could be fun.”

  “Actually, if you want to see the caves, sure,” Brock said.

  Maura stared at him, surprised. She quickly looked away.

  She knew that if he wanted to head out to the caves, there had to be a reason. And yes, he did have a reason.

  Remains had been found not far from the caves.

  And there were areas where more remains might be found, or where, with any piece of luck, the living just might be found, as well.

  “Nice!” Angie said. “Great—it will be a date. Well, a weird threesome date,” she added, giggling. “Unless, of course, Detective Flannery, Detective Lawrence, you two could make it?”

  “We’re working,” Rachel reminded her sharply.

  “Yes, of course,” Angie said.

  “And,” Rachel added, “we don’t want to be picking up your remains, you know.”

  Angie stared back at her, smiling sweetly. “Not to worry on my account. Brock will be with us, and when we go to the Devil’s Millhopper, we’ll be with Nils. Anyway! If you all will excuse me, I just popped in for a few minutes of the great company. We did such a good job with the video this morning that I’m dying to get into the pool.”

  She stood, motioning that Brock and Flannery didn’t need to stand to see her go. “If you take work breaks other than food, join me when you’re done.”

  Angie left them. When she was gone, Rachel stared at Maura.

  “You like working with her?” Rachel asked.

  “She’s usually just optimistic about everything,” Maura said. “And I guess she has that same feeling that most of us do, most of the time—it can’t happen to me.”

  “Until it does,” Brock murmured.

  Maura glanced at Brock uncertainly. She had things to say that she hadn’t been about to say in front of Angie.

  “What is it?” Brock asked her. “We’re working a joint investigation here—Rachel and Mike and I are on the same team.”

  “You want to go to the caves—really?” she asked.

  She hoped he would just tell her the truth. “I want to go out to the area south of the Devil’s Millhopper we talked about before. The remains today were found between the Millhopper and the caves. I think it might be a good thing to explore around there some more, though it could so easily be a futile effort,” Brock told her. “People tend to think of Florida with the lights and fantasy of the beaches—people everywhere. There are really vast wildernesses up here. Remains could be...anywhere.”

  “It’s so frustrating. Nothing makes sense, and maybe we’re just creating a theory that we want to be true because we don’t want more dead women, and we’re all a little broken by Francine’s murder. Maybe these cases are all different,” Rachel said, looking over at Flannery. “One set of remains in a laundry, another in a forest where a Scout had to trip over them trying to pee. The one suggests a killer who wants to hide his victims. The other suggests a killer who likes attention and wanted to create a display. I mean, it’s the saddest thing in the world, the way these last remains were discovered, by a kid...out on his night toilet rounds. Oh, sorry—you guys didn’t get your food yet.”

  Brock waved a hand in the air and Maura smiled, looking down. She hadn’t been offended.

  But their hamburgers had arrived. And it wasn’t how the remains had been discovered that was so disturbing—it was simply that now a second set had been found.

  Rachel was looking at Brock with curiosity. “Do you think that the killer could be hiding kidnap victims in a cave or a cavern? Wouldn’t that be too dangerous?”

  “The better-known tourist caverns?” Brock asked. “Yes. The lesser-known caverns that are just kind of randomly outside the scope of the parks? Maybe. I don’t know. He’d keeping them somewhere for days, maybe even weeks. Then there are also hundreds of thousands of warehouses, abandoned factories, paper mills...” He broke off. “I just know that there are three missing women somewhere, and I’d sure as hell like to find them while they’re still just missing.”

  “And not dead,” Flannery said grimly. He turned slightly, looking at Maura. “Do you remember anything, anything at all, from back then that might suggest anyone as being...guilty? Of killing Francine Renault.”

  Maura shook her head, then hesitated, glancing at Brock. He nodded slightly, and she said, “I was stunned—completely shocked—when we came upon Francine’s body. When the news came out that Peter Moore had killed himself, I was already far away, and we were young and... I didn’t know what else to believe. I—I was exploring on the internet today, though, and came across something that might—or might not—have bearing on this. It’s a bit strange, so stick with me. There was a society in this area, decades ago, called the Sons of Supreme Being. They were suspected of the disappearance and possible death of a woman in the 1950s. That’s why it struck me as maybe relevant. One of their members was supposed to testify in court—he died before he could. Now, I got this information from a random site—I haven’t verified it in any way, but...”

  Brock looked over at Flannery. “Have you ever heard anything about this group—this Sons of Supreme Being society or club or whatever?”

  Flannery shook his head and then frowned. “Maybe, yes, years ago. I’m not sure I remember the name... When I joined the force, some of the old-timers were wondering during a murder investigation if the group might have raised its head again—a girl had been found in a creek off the Saint Johns River. She was in sad shape, as if she’d been used and tossed about like trash. But her murderer was caught—and eventually executed. Talk of rich kids picking up the throwaways died down. But as far as I know, nothing like that has been going on.”

  Maura was still looking at Brock.

  “You have something else,” he said.

  She nodded and lowered her voice. “I don’t think that Marie Glass realized that she was standing by me or that she was speaking aloud, but...she was watching her husband with Angie. And she said something to the effect that she shouldn’t...cover for him. And she acted as if she hadn’t said anything at all when she caught me looking at her. But in all fairness... Glass has always been decent to the people who worked for him, even if...”

  “He’s paid off a number of women through the years,” Rachel said. “He was always decent to me. But there were rumors about him and Francine.”

  Glancing over at Maura, Brock said, “I want to find out if a young lady named Heidi Juniper is all right.”

  “Heidi Juniper?” Flannery asked him.

  “She was working here. She didn’t show up and Bentley left her a message that she was fired. He’s supposed to be getting me co
ntact information for her. Under the circumstances, I think it’s important to know why Heidi didn’t show up for work.”

  They had all finished eating. Flannery stood first. “Rachel and I will get to work finding out about Heidi Juniper. I was thinking you might want to talk to your old friends Donald and Marie Glass.”

  “Hardly my old friends,” Brock said.

  “I’m going to go to the library,” Maura said. She paused, looking at them all. “It really wouldn’t make sense. Donald Glass may be a philandering jerk, since he is a married man. But he is so complete with his libraries, with his campfire stories...he included Francine’s murder in the collection. Would he be so open if he was hiding something?”

  “Being so open may be the best way of hiding things,” Flannery said. He hesitated, glancing from Brock to Maura.

  “Young lady, you are a civilian. You be careful.”

  “Not many people think that reading in a library is living on the edge,” she said, smiling. “Brock will be near, and reading is what a civilian might do to help.”

  “We thank you,” Flannery said. “Rachel...”

  She rose and the two of them headed out.

  “I’m going to the library with you,” Brock told Maura.

  “But I thought you wanted to speak with Marie and Donald,” she said.

  “What do you want to bet that they both show up while we’re there—separately, but...”

  “You’re on,” she said softly, standing.

  * * *

  MAURA KNEW WHAT she was looking for—anything that mentioned the Sons of Supreme Being. She delved into the scrapbooks that held newspaper clippings through the decades, aiming for the 1950s. Brock was across the room, seated in one of the big easy chairs, reading a book on the different Native American tribes who had inhabited the area. It was oddly comfortable to be there with him, even though she did find her mind wandering now and then, wishing that they could forget it all—and go far from here, someplace with warm ocean breezes and hours upon hours to lie together, doing nothing but breathing in salt air and each other.

  Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on her research.

  After going through two of the scrapbooks that went through the 1950s, she came upon what she was seeking.

  The first article was on the disappearance.

  In 1953, Chrissie Barnhart, a college freshman, had disappeared. She had last been seen leaving the school library. Friends had expected her to meet up with them at the college coffee shop to attend a musical event.

  She had not returned to her room.

  There was a picture of Chrissie; she had been light haired and bright eyed with soft bangs and feathery tresses that surrounded her face.

  The next article picked up ten days later.

  In a college dorm, a young man had awakened to hear his roommate tossing and turning and mumbling aloud, apparently in the grips of a nightmare. Before he had wakened his friend, he had heard him saying, “I didn’t know we were going to kill her. I didn’t know we were going to kill her.”

  The event was reported to the police and an officer brought the student who had the nightmare in for questioning; his name had been Alfred Mansfield. At first, Mansfield had denied doing anything wrong. He’d had a nightmare, nothing more. But the police had put the fear of God into him, and in exchange for immunity, he had told them about a society called the Sons of Supreme Being. Their fathers had been supportive of Hitler’s rise to power in Germany. After the war, they had made their existence a very dark secret. Only the truly elite were asked to join—elite, apparently, being the very rich.

  Alfred Mansfield hadn’t known who he had been with, but he was certain he could help bring those who had killed Chrissie to justice. He had simply accepted a flattering invitation, donned the garments sent to him late one night and joined with a small group, also clad in Klan-like masks, in the clearing.

  All were anonymous—but he thought that their leader might have been Martin Smith, the son of a wealthy industrialist.

  They hadn’t killed Chrissie on the day she had been taken; Alfred didn’t know where she had been kept. He only knew that he was in the clearing with the double tree when she had been dragged out, naked and screaming, and that the leader had spoken to the group about their need to make America great with the honor of those who rose above the others; to that end, they sacrificed.

  Alfred had tried not to weep as he watched what was done to her and how she died. He didn’t want to be supreme in any way. He wanted to forget what had happened.

  He wanted the nightmares to stop.

  He would serve as an informant for the police.

  He was released, both he and the police believing that they had taken him in for questioning quietly and that he was safe out in the world. He’d done the right thing by letting the police know, and they would take it from there.

  Alfred’s body had been dragged out of the Saint Johns River twenty-four hours after his release. He had been repeatedly stabbed before being thrown into the water to drown.

  The body of Chrissie Barnhart had never been found.

  Maura turned a page to see an artist’s rendering of Alfred’s description of the murder of the young woman.

  She gasped aloud.

  It was a sketch created by a police artist. But it might have been the clearing by the History Tree, looking almost exactly as it did today.

  Minus the masked men.

  And the naked, screaming woman, appropriately hidden behind the sweeping cloaks of the men.

  “Brock... Brock...”

  Maura said his name, beckoning to him, only to hear him clear his throat.

  She spun around. As they had both expected to happen, a Glass had come into the room.

  Marie. Brock had risen and was blocking the path between Maura and Marie.

  “Mrs. Glass,” Maura said, rising. She felt guilty for some reason—and she must have looked guilty. Of something. She quickly smiled and made her voice anxious as she asked, “Did we miss something? I know that Angie will be more than happy to start up again with anything else you’d like.”

  “Oh, no, dear, I think we did a great job today. I just heard that someone was in the library—I should have known that it was you two! My bookworms. Still, in my memory, the best young people we ever hired for our summer program,” Marie said.

  “Thank you,” Maura said.

  Marie was looking at Brock. “Such a shame,” she said. “And I’m so sorry. What happened... Well, the mistake cost all of us, I’m afraid.”

  She did appear as if the memory caused her a great deal of pain.

  “Marie, it’s long over, in the past—and as far as things went, my life hardly had a ripple,” Brock told her. Maura looked at him; he was so much taller than Marie that she could clearly see his face. His look might as well have been words.

  She’d been much more than a ripple; losing her had been everything.

  She lowered her head quickly, not wanting Marie to see her smile.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Maura assured her.

  Marie was silent for a minute, and then said, “Maybe, maybe I could have... Um, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Get back to it—I have to...have to...do something. Excuse me.”

  She fled from the library.

  “See?” Maura whispered to Brock. “See? There’s something bothering her. She has, I think, been telling law enforcement that Donald was with her—when he wasn’t. Brock, you have to come read this. Donald Glass didn’t go to school here, but...if there was ever a candidate for the Sons of Supreme Being, he is one! Do you think that he could be resurrecting some old ideal? And look—look at the police sketch. Well, you have to read!”

  Brock sat down where she had been. She set a hand on his shoulder, waiting while he went quickly through the clippings.

 
He was silent as he studied the pictures.

  He turned back to her, rising, and as he did so, his phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the ID and answered. “Flannery. What did you find?”

  His face seemed to grow dark as he listened. Then he hung up and looked at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I think we have another missing woman. Which frightens me. I just don’t know how many this killer of ours keeps alive at one time.”

  * * *

  “I’LL BE FINE. I’ll stay right next to Angie—and the group. We saw Mark Hartford in the hallway—he said that he had twenty people signed up for tonight. Oh, yeah—and Detectives Flannery and Lawrence are staying behind,” Maura told Brock.

  “I wish you’d just lock yourself in this room until I got back,” he said, smoothing his fingers through her hair.

  They hadn’t slept; they weren’t waking up. But they were in bed, and he was still in love with her face on the pillow next to his.

  They’d left the library, making plans. But while talking, they’d headed across the lobby, to the elevator, up to her room.

  And then talking had stopped, and they were kissing madly, tearing at each other’s clothing, falling onto the bed, kissing each other’s bodies frantically—very much like a pair of teenagers again, exploring their searing infatuation.

  “Reminds me of staff bunk, Wing Room 11,” she had told him breathlessly, her eyes on his as they came together at last, as he thrust into her, feeling again as he had then, as if he had found the greatest high in the world, as if nothing would ever again be as it was being with her, in her, feeling her touch and looking into her eyes.

  And it never had been.

  “I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Glass ever knew how much the staff appreciated the staff room?” he’d asked later when, damp, cooling and breathing normally again, they had lain together, just touching.