The Buried (The Apostles) (12 page)

T
his is it?” Grace raised her hands and motioned to the blood-red sky above Hatch’s thirty-five-foot sailboat anchored in the Cypress Bend Marina. “This is why we left the crime scene? This is why you drove across town like a maniac?”

Hatch tossed her an icy bottle of beer before he rested his elbows on the deck rail. A pop and a soft hiss sounded as he opened his own bottle. He tossed the cap in a bait bucket and stared at the sun setting across Apalachicola Bay. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Grace slammed the beer on the railing. A pair of gulls perched on a weathered dock post screeched and took off. Hatch, on the other hand, continued to watch the sun say good-bye to the day. She ran the icy beer along the heat brewing at her temples. Why did this not surprise her? They were in the middle of a murder investigation and attempting to thwart two other murders, and Hatch wanted to watch the sun set.

She pointed her longneck at him. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

Hatch aimed his beer at the western sky. “That’s one serious piece of art.”

She opened her mouth but couldn’t argue. The sun hovered on the horizon, a giant peach against fiery streaks of red and orange. The bay shared the same color, as if someone had poured melted red and orange crayons into the waters. The last of the oyster boats had tucked in for the night, bobbing black silhouettes against the fiery palette. She’d spent her entire life in this town and had enjoyed thousands of sunsets. There was no more beautiful place on earth, no other place she ever wanted to call home. She pictured herself growing old here in her house on a hill.

Hatch, on the other hand, would never settle down. He’d initially come to town to get his son straightened out, and he was taking a detour with her to catch a killer. But through it all, he remained Hatch to the core, a man who took time to enjoy the journey.

With her bare palm, she uncapped her beer and rested her elbows on the railing. The evening was warm, the beer cold, and if she was honest with herself, the man at her side welcome. Despite Hatch’s laid-back appearance, he’d contributed significantly to the investigation today. He’d sweet-talked the phone store manager into talking to her, identified the boat the killer most likely used, and made inroads with Lou Poole. She toasted him. “You’re good.”

He smiled around his longneck. “So I’ve been told.”

She chased her groan with a frosty swig. No, Hatch would never change, and with the chaos and uncertainty of her life, she welcomed the familiar. How ironic. His laid-back attitude had frustrated her, like the times he forgot to pay the bill at the marina and they lost power and all those times she made appointments to house hunt with a real estate agent and he forgot. But tonight she found comfort in his insouciance.

Somewhere down the dock, country music played, the melody slow and soulful, speaking of loss and sorrow, and today she’d felt it to her bones. An innocent girl had died because of her, and it was possible two more would follow. The question was where and when? And of course, why? Why her? She took another swallow.

Lieutenant Lang had asked her to put together a list of people who may have a grudge against her, and in her work, the list was long. Already she’d given the lieutenant a dozen names off the top of her head of hostile, hateful individuals she’d helped convict, and tomorrow, she planned to get into her work files to search for more. But this grudge match may have nothing to do with her work. The idea that this could be someone from her personal past or present sickened her. A disgruntled lover? Someone she once beat out for a job? Heck, why not someone she beat on the tennis courts? Crazy, but as Hatch said, they were dealing with a crazy individual.

As a darker shade of red slid across the sky, Hatch tossed his empty bottle in the bait bucket. Quiet as a big golden cat, he slipped behind her, lifting his hands to her neck where his fingers performed an old, familiar magic. She’d once called him Magic Man. He had a pocket full of silly magic tricks, not to mention magic fingers. More than once in their short, fiery time together, he’d rubbed away the tension of a work headache or pains from shoulders that had seen decades of tennis.

“You’re tense,” Hatch said.

“Murder in my backyard does that to me.” Her head lolled forward, giving him access to the full curve of her neck.

His fingers dug into the coiled muscles. “Tension’s in your neck. That says a lot.”

Her skin heated and muscles softened. “What is my neck telling you?”

His fingers fanned out and up to the base of her head, where he scrubbed. “That you have a lot on your mind.”

“Hmmmmm.” She closed her eyes. Her mind was blessedly chaos-free, filled only with a good-night sky and lullaby of the bay, and Hatch’s magic fingers. She practically purred.

His fingers stilled.

She bit on her lower lip. Had she purred? She’d done that plenty of times as his hands—fast and slow and every speed in between—ran along her body. And she’d moaned and laughed and screamed in a pleasure so strong it was painful. She stood. No need to think about that brand of chaos. “I need to go. I have work to do.”

Hatch dropped his hands, tore himself from the railing, and turned his back on the fiery sky. “Me too.”

A twinge of disappointment shot through her. The old Hatch would have slid a lingering finger along her neck while he smiled and cajoled, asking for five more minutes, five more strokes, five more kisses. He took her empty beer and dropped the bottle in the bucket. As she hunted around the deck for her purse, he slipped a phone from his pocket and leaped to the slip housing
No Regrets
, but she could hear his voice. He was checking on his son, Alex.

She wondered about the boy’s mom. Hatch collected women like other people collected baseball cards or coins. And like most avid collectors, he took great delight in his hobby. Did he rub her neck? Show her silly magic tricks? Make her purr? And was that a lance of jealousy stabbing at Grace’s chest? She found her purse and flung it onto her shoulder with a half laugh.

How could she be jealous of something that was never hers? Hatch had sworn his love to her on a rocking boat under a melon moon. In the presence of bees and a justice of the peace, he’d signed a paper that made him her husband. But Hatch was and always would be his own man.

When he finished his phone call, she joined him on the dock. “Everything okay with Alex?” She was curious about Hatch’s son. Cypress Bend was a small town, and she’d heard about the shrimp shack B&E. She knew of the Milanos family, had seen the grandmother chasing the hell-raising twins around town.

“After a day of shoveling shells, Alex showered, ate, and is in bed and snoring loud enough to wake the dead in Black Jack’s backyard.”

“Sounds like he’s headed in the right direction.”

“You think?” An uncustomary line of worry divided Hatch’s forehead. He could bring comfort to parents who had just lost their daughter and get crazy old women to talk about murder suspects, but when it came to this thirteen-year-old boy, Hatch was out of his element. Her ex claimed he wasn’t a family man and never would be. True.

Twenty minutes later, Hatch parked in front of Grace’s shack. Much to her chagrin, he hopped out and escorted her up the steps. As she dug into her bag for her keys, she waved him off. “I don’t need you to walk me to the door.”

Hatch slid a hand along her spine, the column tightening and tingling. His fingers stopped at the base of her neck where he pressed softly.

“What are you doing?” Grace asked.

“Looking for the off switch,” Hatch said. “I’m tired of hearing that same old song.”

She probably did sound like a broken record. Even as a kid she’d been fiercely independent. Much to her mother’s horror, she began taking the family skiff out on her own at age nine. She’d tried doubles tennis, but excelled in singles, winning the state championship her senior year of high school. And after her divorce from Hatch, she’d thrown herself into her work, handling most of the casework on her own because at that time in her life, she wanted to be so busy she wouldn’t have time to think about how much her heart ached.

Hatch rubbed his knuckles across the top of Blue’s head. The old dog had been waiting on the top step for her. “Since your watchdog has a weakness for bacon, I want to poke around, make sure no bogeymen are hiding under your bed.”

Arguing with him would only prolong the moment, so she opened the door. A wave of hot air that reeked of musty wood and wet dog rolled over them. Wrinkling her nose, she threw open the windows and cracked the back door, hoping not too many bugs would sneak in. Or bad guys with pre-paid phones and blood red markers. She peered into the darkness stretching beyond her back porch but saw nothing.

In full FBI mode, Hatch searched the living room and kitchen area, and she could hear him checking her bedroom and bathroom. “No bogeymen,” he announced as he sauntered into the kitchen.

“Thank you, I was worried.” She dug through a drawer and took out a vanilla-scented candle, lit it, and placed it in the middle of her kitchen table.

“Planning a candlelit dinner with yours truly?”

“Planning to get rid of the Eau de Blue.”

Hatch sniffed and grimaced. “You might be better off getting a hotel room for a few days. I’m sure you can find a place that’ll take both you and your dog.”

“He’s not my dog.” Grace yanked the lid off an airtight container and dug out a giant scoop of dog chow. Hatch didn’t need to know she’d almost zeroed out her checking account to pay the next installment to her general contractor. “A breeze is picking up. It’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

She added warm water to the chow and sprinkled cooked bacon on top. The dog padded across the room to the bowl but raised his head and looked at her with big, droopy eyes.

“You are
not
getting two slices of bacon.”

With a chuckle, Hatch opened the refrigerator and poked around a half dozen cartons of takeout. “You do realize you talk to that dog all the time,” he said.

“I do not.”

He lifted his eyebrows, and she ducked under his arm, grabbing a carton of grilled grouper and hushpuppies. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Hatch, really I do, but you can go now.”

Hatch handed her a bottle of her favorite hot sauce and grabbed a takeout box for himself. “Now, Counselor Courtemanche, you’re a lot smarter than that.” He set the carton on the table and dug into the drawer near her sink, which irritated her, that he knew where she kept her silverware. “I’m not going to leave you in this house alone with all the doors and windows open.”

Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. “I don’t have an extra bed.”

“We can share.”

She shoved her takeout box in the microwave and jabbed the reheat button.

“Fine, Grace, I’ll crash there.” He aimed a bottle of tartar sauce at the small settee in the front room.

She pictured those long, golden limbs spilled across the tiny sofa. Hatch had a way of taking up space, in any room, and in her head. Today he’d been everywhere as they worked the case. Impressive. And effective. But that didn’t mean she needed him on her settee. “You’re too big for that thing. You’ll wake up with a backache.”

“Nice to know you still care.”

“I don’t c…” But she couldn’t finish. Less than an hour ago, they’d sat under a good-bye sun, and he’d run his magic fingers along her neck, chasing away hell. Hatch was one of the good guys. He was on her side, Lia’s side, and at one point in her life, he’d been her world. At some level, she’d always care about him.

“If I have to, I’ll stretch out on Blue’s rug on the porch.” The veins along his forearm thickened, and he set the sauce on the table so hard, the candle flame flickered and jumped. A similar fire flickered in his eyes, one that had warmed her after Lia Grant’s chilling phone calls and horrific death. The man was dead serious.

Ten years ago Hatch hadn’t believed in serious. He’d sworn he’d never own a watch, have children, or be tied down by anyone or anything. But something had changed. He was here to help straighten out his son and determined to make sure she was safe. He committed himself and his team’s vast resources to a small-county sheriff’s department in need of big-time help. Somewhere along the way Hatch had grown up.

“I’m not leaving you alone with this place wide open.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a golden guardian angel with a halo of blond hair. He filled her tiny kitchen, the smell that was uniquely Hatch conjuring memories of sunny days and sensuous nights.

And somehow he’d grown even more irresistible.

The microwave dinged and she pulled out the steamy carton of grouper. She’d spent years repairing the damage to her heart after that summer. Scar tissue appeared rougher, thicker, but was in actuality much weaker. She grabbed a fork and napkin and headed down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Extra sheets and a pillow are in the cupboard in the bathroom. Sweet dreams.”

Hatch plopped onto Grace’s little blue sofa with his carton of takeout and took out his phone. He wouldn’t be dreaming anytime soon. He checked his messages and frowned. No word yet from his teammate Hayden.

As Hatch had stood at the edge of Lia Grant’s grave, the severity and sickness of what they were dealing with almost brought him to his knees. The individual behind Lia Grant’s murder and this game had a twisted mind, one that he wanted his teammate to get into ASAP. Hatch dialed Hayden’s number.

“G-man’s phone,” a scratchy old voice said.

“Hey there, Smokey Joe,” Hatch said. Joseph “Smokey Joe” Bernard was a friend of Hayden’s fiancée, Kate Johnson. Hatch had met the blind Vietnam vet last month when Hatch joined Hayden’s hunt in northern Nevada for the Broadcaster Butcher, another twisted mind. “Parker got you on payroll these days?”

“Nope. G-man and Katy-lady are coming to blows outside. G-man got himself so rattled, he forgot his phone, so I decided to take care of FBI business for him.”

Hatch swallowed a laugh. And woe to anyone who told old Smokey Joe he couldn’t take on whatever he damned well pleased. “Coming to blows?” Hatch asked.