The Buried (The Apostles) (15 page)

Alex jammed a hand under his thigh, wincing as a blister snagged against the rough fabric of the seat. The last time they’d “hit” something, he’d been the one who landed in jail. Alex untucked his hand and stared at the ooze running along his palm.

“You want in?” Gabe asked, waving a Coke at the back seat.

Linc, sitting in the front seat and sucking on a Coke of his own, smirked.
Wuss
, his look screamed.

Gabe and Linc had bailed on him, but only at first. When that asshole Hatch made him come clean with the sheriff’s office, his buddies hadn’t abandoned him. He wiped his hand on his shorts and took the Coke. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Gabe continued down the alley. “Here’s the plan…”

Grace ducked deeper into the corner as a figure, backlit by the setting sun, slipped into the doorway of the small houseboat.

“Whoa there, big guy, what are you doing here?” Hatch bent and rubbed Blue’s floppy ears.

Grace forced her heart back into her chest and stepped out of the shadows. “He’s with me.”

“No.” Hatch pressed his fingers into his eyes. “No, tell me I’m not seeing this.”

“Hatch—”

“Tell me you did not come out here on your own after I told you expressly to stay put.”

“I had a gun and Blue.”

“Of course. Who the hell needs anything else if you have a hound dog at your side? Dammit, Grace, there’s a killer out there. Do you hear me?” He grabbed her wrists. “Do you!”

Fascination rooted her in place. A vein at Hatch’s temple bulged. His knuckles grew white. He was usually so easygoing, rolling with the punches. “Yes, Hatch, I’m fully aware of what we’re dealing with.”

“Then why are you putting yourself in danger? You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“I’m not in danger.”

He released her wrists and stepped back as if affronted. “I thought you were a smart woman.”

“It’s true, Hatch,” she insisted with a steely calm. “Lia’s killer isn’t going to hurt me. He’s having too much fun toying with me. Think about it. I’m not a victim, not a pawn. I’m a player. The
only
other player in the game. He’s not going to kill me, at least not at this point in the game.”

Hatch stared out the window.

“Get your team’s profiler on the line, and if Hayden says I’m in danger, that the killer’s after me, I’ll lock myself in my shack. I swear I will; just tell me I’m wrong.”

Hatch’s look said it all. He knew she was right. “You’re safe,” he said. “That’s the important thing. Now let’s get out of here.”

He cupped her elbow and walked her toward the door where she grabbed the doorframe. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Why are you here? How did you find me?”

“Lou Poole,” Hatch said. “She said the bees at the hives in this area told her something was going on up here. I drove over here to see what was bothering the bees.”

Grace knew from years spent in the courtroom that people communicated without saying a word, so why not bees? “Did you find anything?”

“Some tire tracks off the road. Big cross-hatch pattern. They led me here. I was poking around when I heard him growl.” Hatch pointed to Blue, who’d clawed the tarp to the ground and now was curled in a ball and snoring.

Grace opened her mouth, but words wouldn’t trickle out. Behind Blue was a crude wooden box, with jagged cuts and uneven seams, a perfect match for the one that had held Lia Grant.

She grabbed Hatch’s arm. “We found the killer’s hiding place.” Grace’s excitement was short-lived. “But there’s only one coffin.”

Next to her, Hatch crouched and pointed to a wide scrape gouging the wooden floor. He brushed away a whorl of dust. “But it had some recent company.”

They followed the drag marks to the door and outside. Here the gouge marks dug deeper, tearing bits of splintered board.

“Something was definitely dragged
away
from the storage area,” Grace noted.

The marks ended at the far side of the houseboat. “And most likely loaded onto a watercraft here.”

“The next move in the game has started,” Grace said, a tremor rattling her voice.

A
lex grabbed the edge of the garbage Dumpster behind the Clip & Curl, his fingers sliding over a clump of fuzzy hair and slimy gel.

“This shit is gross,” he said to Gabe and Linc, who stood next to him in the dark alley. “Why am I the one who has to climb up there?” He pointed to a small window above the Dumpster.

“Because you’re the best lock picker,” Gabe said with a huff of exasperation.

“And because you screwed up the last job,” Linc added.

Linc was right. Alex had panicked during the shrimp shack break-in. He’d picked the lock in record time, but inside he’d knocked over a table with bottles of hot sauce and a million packages of crackers, which woke the manager who lived next door. He’d let down his guys, and he made things worse when he ratted them out. This was his chance to prove he wasn’t a rat. Alex pulled himself to the window.

“Can you see the cash register?” Gabe asked.

Alex rubbed the dirt from the window with the hem of his shirt—he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints—and squinted. “Nah. Too dark. I can’t even see the window lock.”

“Here,” Gabe said.

A beam of light swept across the window until Alex raised his hand. “There! Keep it there.”

“Shut up!” Linc said with a hiss.

Alex took a small culling iron, screwdriver, and a paperclip from his back pocket and worked the lock. He’d first learned to pick locks three years ago because the twins thought it was funny to lock themselves in the bathroom. Within two minutes, the lock popped open. Alex shoved. A screech tore through the air.

“Hell, Alex, are you trying to wake the fucking dead?” Linc asked.

“It’s not like I carry WD-40 in my pocket,” Alex said on a huff.

“Well, move your ass so I can squeeze through the window,” Linc said.

“Would you two shut the fuck up?” Gabe warned. “Let’s get moving, just like we planned.”

The plan was for Alex to pick the lock and Linc, the smallest, to crawl through the window and open the door so all three of them could hit the cash register. Gabe, on a recon trip when his mom got her hair cut last weekend, had already determined the Clip & Curl didn’t have a security system and the owner who drove a brand-new Lexus wouldn’t miss a few hundred bucks.

Alex could use the money, maybe for a new pair of shoes when school started. Maybe he’d even take the twins to the movies and get his granny some of those chocolate-covered cherries she liked so much. He pushed on the window again. It squealed, moving another six inches, and then lodged. Alex tapped at the bottom with the culling iron. The pane moved an inch. He tapped harder.

“Why don’t you get out a jackhammer?” Linc said in a pissed-off whisper.

“I’m doing my best.”

“Well, do it quieter. And faster,” Gabe said. “Linc should be inside by now.”

Alex rested both hands on the bottom of the window and tugged. The window shot up and shattered. Glass rained down on him and the Dumpster. He reeled back, his foot slipping on the slick goo. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground. Linc and Gabe bolted down the alley. Two buildings down, a door opened.

A woman in a dirty apron poked her head out the door and asked, “What the hell’s going on back here?”

“Johnson, you and Marquez take Arrowhead Creek,” Lieutenant Lang said. “And Dominguez, I want you and Hubert to circle Brittlebush Island.”

Moonlight sliced the water as more deputies cut a path down the river in search of a fourteen-foot aluminum skiff hauling one six-foot-by-two-foot wooden coffin. That made eighteen boats on the water, thirty-six searchers hunting for a killer who might be on the move.

The lieutenant stopped in front of Grace. “Got your phone?”

“On and fully charged.” Because the second coffin was most likely in play. And this time Grace was going to pick up on the first ring.

With the lieutenant leading the charge, Grace went in search of Hatch. She found him pacing along and glaring at a set of tire tracks marked off by a set of flags.

“You’re good, Hatch, but not that good,” Grace said. “You’ll never get those tire tracks to talk.”

He ran his hands through both sides of his hair, his forearms ropy with tension. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” And Hatch was trying. He’d been moving like a giant golden cat all evening, crawling on his hands and knees in the houseboat and trekking through the forest, desperately searching for bits and pieces a killer might have left behind. She still wasn’t used to this tense and intense version of Theodore Hatcher. Tonight she appreciated the sweat at his neck, the mud on his shoes, and the intensity in his eyes as he sought to keep a second victim from being buried alive.

“So far this is the only impression evidence,” he added. “No handy footprints to match those at Lia Grant’s grave, no fingerprints. I’d give anything to see what these tire tracks saw.”

And it looked like he’d spend the night trying, but he’d be doing it alone. She held out her hand. “I need your SUV keys. One of the searchers borrowed my boat.” She needed to get her car fixed for good. She didn’t like relying on Hatch for rides. “I’m going home for the night.”

For the first time since they’d found the coffin, the dogged sharpness left Hatch’s face. He tugged at his ear. “What? I must have misunderstood you. Surely you didn’t say you’re ready to knock off for the night?”

“I’m not.” Grace frowned at Blue, who’d spent the past three hours limping at her side, nosing around vehicles and crime scene equipment from the sheriff’s department. “But he is. He broke open his foot again, and he won’t rest with all these people around. Too much to see and smell.”

Hatch scrubbed the dog’s head. “I’m telling you, old man, she likes you.”

“Hardly. I just don’t want him bleeding all over a crime scene.”

Hatch took out his keys but didn’t hand them to her. “Okay, let’s sail.”

“You’re coming with us?”

“Yep.”

“There’s work to be done here. You yourself said the goal is to catch the killer before he abducts the second victim.”

“True, but I specialize in talking, and since the tire tracks aren’t saying much tonight, I’ll best serve the investigation by sticking at your side. Chances are you’re going to get another call, and that’s a conversation I plan on being in on.”

Grace’s phone sat heavy and silent in her purse. She’d probably checked it a hundred times tonight, waiting and dreading that call. But Hatch was right; she wanted him at her side if another terrified victim reached out to her from the grave.

On the way to her shack, Hatch stopped at the marina for a clean set of clothes as once again he planned to spend the night on her settee.

“I’ll wait in the SUV,” Grace said. “I don’t want Blue to do any more walking than necessary.”

“No, Grace. You and ol’ Blue, if he so chooses, will come with me to the boat.”

“You’re being silly.”

“And you’re being stubborn.”

She aimed a finger at the watch on her wrist. “It’ll take you how long to get a fresh set of clothes? Five minutes?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, Grace, you are a fine, fine woman.” He held open the door and winked.

She crossed her arms over her chest, the seat belt biting into her arm. This wasn’t about five minutes. It was about the past forty-eight hours. Two days ago Hatch had slipped into her life like the sun slid into the day, warm and effortless, just as nature intended. At times being with Hatch was infuriating. His teasing and taunting and silly nicknames drove her nuts, but increasingly, she was finding comfort in his presence. It would be so easy to fall into his arms. Her fingers clawed around the seat belt. But ten years ago she had learned in the end there was nothing effortless about falling apart. She needed time and space away from this man.

Blue hobbled from the back seat, clomped across her lap, and loped to the ground, plopping his butt next to Hatch.

“See? Even your dog agrees,” Hatch said.

But she had to look beyond her own needs. She needed Hatch at her side for when the next call came through. “I dislike you both.” She snapped off her seat belt and slid out the door. “And he’s
not
my dog.”

Hatch grinned, cupped his hand under her elbow, and escorted her across the parking lot, Blue at their heels. The boards creaked and groaned as they walked along the dock, Hatch’s deck shoes shuffling alongside the tap of her sandals. A sliver of moon sliced the night sky, but she could see Hatch’s face, the lines somewhat softened. Hatch needed the salty sea air moving through his hair like most people needed oxygen.

In front of her, Hatch stopped so abruptly she ran into him. “What…” she started to ask but stopped when he squatted to the ground, pulled a pen out of his pocket, and clicked it. A sharp beam of light swept across the dock, highlighting a series of shiny dots. She bent next to him as his finger slid over one of the dots, and he brought it to his nose.

“Blood?” Grace asked.

Hatch nodded and pointed the penlight along an uneven trail of red. “From the direction of the splatter marks, I’d say something heading toward the boats.”

They followed the trail, the drops getting bigger and closer together until they ended at the slip holding
No Regrets
. Hatch reached behind him and pulled his gun from the back of his waistband.

The door leading to the galley was open, and light spilled out. Leading with his service revolver, he slipped onto the boat, motioning her to get behind him. They crouched next to the door and Grace grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him to her side.

“Theodore Hatcher, FBI,” he said. “ID yourself.” His voice and gun were rock steady.

Silent light continued to pour from the door. Hatch waited, looking like he had all the time in the world. At last a shadow split the pale light.

“Ah, shit,” Hatch said as he jammed his gun in the holster at the back of his waist.

“What the hell happened to your arm?” Hatch asked with a roar echoing in his head.

Alex’s upper lip curled. “Ain’t none of your business.”

“You’re bleeding all over my teakwood deck, and that sure as hell makes it my business.”

“I needed to get some stupid towels.” Alex held up his left arm, which was wrapped in a wad of paper towels. “But now that I got ’em, I’ll get off your damned
teakwood deck
.” The boy took a step toward the door but swayed. Hatch grabbed his arm. Clammy skin. Trembling flesh. He pointed to the bench seat at the galley table. “Sit. I want to take a look at that arm.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna.” Alex lifted his hand, smacking Hatch’s arm.

Hatch froze at the sound of skin against skin.

Sit down, boy! And you’ll stay there until I say you can drag your sorry ass off.

I don’t need to take any more of this shit.

Shit? You think I’m giving you shit.
Hot breath and the stink of sweat and automotive grease swelled and gagged him.
Well, boy, let me give you some real shit.

Smack. Smack. Smack!

Hatch slid a finger under his nose, half expecting to feel warm blood.

“You’re bleeding, Alex,” Grace said, “and not a small amount. Let me take a look at it.”

“I don’t think so. I’m outta here.” On unsteady feet, Alex walked to the door.

Grace centered her body in the doorway, her arms over her chest. “Sit down, Alex, and take off those paper towels. I need to see your arm.”

The boy didn’t move. Grace put one manicured fingertip on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him onto the bench seat. A few times over the past two days, most recently during their standoff in the SUV just moments ago, an unexpected vulnerability had softened Grace. But she was in charge and invincible. Hatch dropped his hand to his side. Thank God one of them was.

Grace, her eyebrows raised, bent over Alex’s arm and carefully unwrapped the paper towels. “He needs stitches.”

Alex snatched his arm away. “You got a fucking medical degree on your wall?”

Hatch grabbed the kid by the collar and dragged him from the bench. His other hand knotted in a fist at his side. “You mouthy little punk.”

A soft gasp sounded behind him, followed by fingers brushing his arm. Hatch stared at that hand, Grace’s hand, calm and steady. Then he stared in horror at the fisted curl of his hand. His gut churned. Hatch took a step back, but only one.

“Apologize to the lady,” Hatch said. Alex may not respect himself or even Hatch, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to Grace that way.

Alex dropped his gaze to his sneakers. “Sorry.”

Grace nodded and tapped her toe until Alex finally took a seat on the bench. “I don’t have a medical degree, Alex. I have a BA in political science and a Juris Doctorate from Harvard. However, throughout high school and college I worked summers as a tennis camp instructor and am Red Cross certified in both CPR and first aid. I have bandaged more than a hundred skinned knees and split lips, but nothing like this. This is the type of stuff people with medical degrees need to stitch up.” She turned from the boy. “Hatch, please bring the SUV to the end of the dock, and we’ll get him to the emergency room.”

Alex sunk into the cushions. “No. No hospital.” His teeth dug into his lower lip as he looked at Grace. “Please.”

Hatch slipped his hands behind his neck, intertwining his fingers and staring at the ceiling, hoping someone far wiser than him had scrawled a note or two there on how the hell to parent this kid.

What had the kid been up to tonight? Hatch pressed his fingertips into the base of his neck. Something bad enough that Alex would rather bleed to death than go to the ER. Hatch unlatched his fingers. That wasn’t going to happen, because that was the one thing in this messy situation he could handle.

Hatch reached into a cupboard in the galley and took out a large first-aid kit. He poured a dollop of antiseptic on his hands and opened the suture kit.

“What the hell are you doing?” Alex asked, his eyes growing wide.

“Playing doctor.”

“Not on me.”

“Would you prefer to go to the emergency room?”