The Buried (The Apostles) (31 page)

H
e was a great dog,” Alex said as he settled a single white lily on the smooth square of freshly turned earth.

“The best,” Ricky and Raymond answered in unison as they tossed in four handfuls of wilted sneezeweed.

Grace cast an exasperated look over her shoulder. Where was Hatch? The funeral for Allegheny Blue had been Alex’s idea, and Hatch’s son had spent an inordinate amount of time and energy planning and executing the ceremony on a sunny strip of land between Lamar Giroux’s shack and the creek. In attendance were the twins, the boys’ grandmother, Black Jack, Gabe, and a spry Linc. Alex had even sent a memorial service announcement to old Lamar Giroux, who’d sent a blue pine sapling to be planted over the grave. Grace was proud of the young boy, who was clearly showing respect and responsibility.

“Gabe, you get the pine,” Alex said. “Linc, get the shovel. Ricky and Raymond, you can get the hoe and rake. We’re going to plant the tree here.” Hatch’s son pointed to a spot near the head of the grave and shot a glance to Black Jack who gave a solemn nod. With Alex at the helm, Linc dug.

When Alex asked where they should bury the dog’s ashes, Grace knew there was only one place: her land. Twice the old dog had walked a hundred miles to this square of earth on bloody paws. Like the bees, he had a message. This was where he wanted to die.

Grace had called off construction of her new home, at least for now. A week had passed since JoBeth had died, but the dust still needed to settle. Grace wasn’t sure if she’d ever build anything on this land, especially a dream home sketched on the back of a cocktail napkin by a man she didn’t know.

She still had a hard time coming to grips with her father’s twisted side. Hatch, of all people, had come to her father’s defense. “He wasn’t all bad, Grace. He did a lot of right things by you, and maybe someday you’ll be able to see that.”

Again she looked over her shoulder. “Where’s Hatch?”

“He said something about a surprise for you,” Trina Milanos said.

“Maybe it’ll be a car that actually runs,” Alex said. “That one you have’s a real pain.”

“I doubt it,” Grace said as she took a bottle of sunscreen from her purse. The back of Raymond’s neck was already turning pink, and after they finished planting the blue pine, they were heading out for a sail and picnic lunch. A leery Hatch had spent all morning preparing
No Regrets
for the Twin Terrors and picking up a
surprise
for Grace. “Your dad knows I just took the compact in to get the starter, battery, and entire ignition system replaced.”

“I’m placing my money on a fancy new diamond ring,” Trina Milanos said as she sat on the trunk of a downed cypress log.

“Gaaaaaag,” Ricky said as he shoved his finger down his throat.

“Does that mean you’ll be kissing even more?” Raymond asked with a groan.

“Probably.” Grace slathered sunscreen on Raymond’s ears. She and Hatch had agreed on forever, but they hadn’t talked about marriage yet. She’d be shocked if Hatch showed up with an engagement ring. But he’d been full of surprises the past few days. He’d taken personal time from work and had spent hours with Trina and all three boys.

As for Alex, not too many surprises there. He and Hatch were figuring out the father-son dance, but they were spending a good deal of time scuffling on the floor. Just yesterday, after his shift at the cemetery ended, Alex had gone kayaking with Gabe and hadn’t bothered to check in. When Alex finally came home after a four-hour romp through the swamp, Hatch took away Alex’s new kayak for a week. Alex had sulked, but the boy had also stolen looks at Hatch through dinner that night, like he was amazed he had a dad, and one who loved him enough to make a fuss.

Today Alex was smiling. Like his dad, he loved getting out on the ocean with the wind in his hair. Grace corralled Ricky, doused him with sunscreen and gave the bottle to Alex. He shook his head, but she shook hers longer. Just as Alex finished with the sunscreen, Hatch came down the path with a picnic basket.

“Looks like he brought something for the picnic,” Grace said. “I bet it’s a dessert. I hope it’s peach pie.”

“I hope it’s chocolate cream,” Alex said.

“Apple!” Ricky.

“No, pumpkin with extra whipped cream!” Raymond.

“I got a real hankering for strawberry-rhubarb,” Trina said with a wink.

Hatch set the basket on top of the log. With a dramatic swoosh of his hand, he opened the lid.

“Uh, what is that?” Trina asked as she wrinkled her nose.

Hatch rubbed a hand along his neck. “It’s probably the biggest mistake of my life.”

The twins dropped the hoe and rake and dropped to their knees before the basket. “A puppy!” they cried in unison.

A lump of blue and white speckled fur crawled over the lip, the basket spilling. A puppy with ears to the ground and feet as big as Grace’s palm tumbled out.

“He has plenty of Allegheny Blue in him,” Hatch said. “Got the papers to prove it.”

Grace reached for the pup, which was about to leap off the log. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m telling you, the old dog’s spawn is everywhere. Do you know how many times old man Giroux sent that dog out to procreate? No wonder Blue was so doggone tired in his old age.”

Grace laughed, the chunky glass bead necklace at the V of her T-shirt swinging. The puppy batted at the necklace. She grabbed the paw and brushed the silky, warm fur against her cheek. The pup settled into her arms, yawned, and closed its eyes.

“See. Just like his great, great grandpa.” Hatch looped an arm around her shoulder. “You ready?”

She breathed in all that was Hatch: sun and summer and sweetness. But he was also steadfast, and he wanted forever. She kissed Hatch’s smiling lips, shifted the dog to one arm, and motioned to the pack of boys who’d just finished smoothing dirt around the blue pine. “Okay everyone, let’s sail.”

Shelley Coriell is a former newspaper reporter, magazine editor, and restaurant reviewer. These days Shelley writes smart, funny novels for teens and big, edgy romantic suspense. A six-time Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist, she lives and loves in Arizona with her family and the world’s neediest rescue Weimaraner. When she’s not behind the keyboard, you’ll find her baking high-calorie, high-fat desserts and haunting local farmers markets for the perfect plum.

You can learn more at:

ShelleyCoriell.com

Twitter @ShelleyCoriell

Facebook.com/ShelleyCoriellAuthor

W
ake up, sleeping beauty.” Carter Voles cradled the woman’s face in his hand. “The clock is ticking.”

Tick tock, like a clock, ready, set, go!

The woman—didn’t she say her name was Maria?—moaned but didn’t open her eyes. Even if her name wasn’t Maria, he would call her Maria. Mary. The Madonna. Beautiful. His fingers caressed the split on her lower lip. So, so beautiful.

His lips trailed along her throat. Soft. The tip of his tongue slid along her jaw. Sweet. His cheek brushed hers. Warm. Like heated cream. He nibbled her ear, then bit. Hard.

Her eyes flew open, and she tried to scream. The duct tape held, a scream-catcher of sorts.

“Excellent. You’re awake.” He settled onto the edge of the futon that reeked of body fluid stew. “How’s your head? Sorry about that nasty bump. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.” His fingers sifted through the thick fall of honey-colored hair, and his nails dug into the swollen flesh at her temple. Her eyes bulged. “Okay, that was a lie. Now get up.” He fisted a handful of hair and pulled her upright.

“So here’s the deal, Maria.” He dangled an eighteen-gauge wire in front of her face. “Tiny little thing, isn’t it? But with it you have the power to live or die.” He attached the wire to the mercury switch secured to the fanny pack he’d belted around her exquisite hips. Not beautiful. But necessary. Just the right size for five pounds of RDX. He taped the wire up her ribcage and along her neck.

His fingers lingered over the corner of the duct tape. Two schools of thought here. He could slowly ease back the tape, pulling out fine hair and the top layer of skin as he went, prolonging the pain. Or he could give it one long yank. That would hurt like hell.

Riiiiiiip
!

“You son of a bitch. You sadistic, fu—”

Smack!

“Such ugly words from such a beautiful mouth,” he said with a soft cluck as he taped the wire to the corner of her mouth. “Now let’s talk about that beautiful mouth. From this moment on, if you open your mouth, the wire will trip the anti-movement switch.” He ran his finger along the wire. “After a thirty-second delay, enough time for me to get away, an electric loop will close, setting off the initiator and starting the firing train. The train—
choo-choo
—chugs over to the primary explosive, which will detonate the main charge. And boom!” His fisted fingers fanned out in front of her face. Visuals were so useful to get across one’s point. “Bottom line, Maria. You open your mouth, you die. Understand?”

She sat before him, a still life.

“Blink once for yes. Twice for no.”

One blink. One terrified, beautiful blink.

“Excellent. Now it’s time to go.” He pulled her to her feet and hid all that was beautiful with a white satin robe.

Tick tock, like a clock, ready, set,
blow
!

Evie Jimenez planted one red leather cowboy boot on the edge of the pool. She could do this. Her other boot followed. She
had
to do this.

Curls of steam rose from the lap pool perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, and Parker Lord, head of the FBI’s Special Criminal Investigative Unit, touched up for the last of his daily laps. One hundred. Evie had counted every one.

His head broke the water, his chest heaving as he sucked in a series of deep breaths. She snagged one of her own. Contrary to legend, Parker Lord wasn’t a god. He was just a man. Her boss.

Despite the frosty morning air, sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She unbuttoned her denim jacket. “Got a call from a buddy at Bar Harbor PD. One of the local high schools received a bomb threat.”

“Bar Harbor?” Parker pushed himself out of the water and took a seat on the lip of the pool. “Not too far from here.”

“Explosive detection canine spotted up on a backpack inside the gymnasium. Surrounding area has been evacuated and perimeter set.”

“Good. Preservation of life is key.” He swiped a towel along the ripped muscle of his chest.

“Bar Harbor PD doesn’t have a bomb squad, and the Maine State Police Hazardous Devices Unit is tied up with that threat at the airport.”

“That’s rather unfortunate.” He cupped his fingers around a curved railing at the edge of the pool.

She ground the heel of her boot into the deck. A spider-web of cracks splintered the ice. “It’s a simple grab and blow. I do this type of stuff in my sleep.”

“I’m sure you do.” Hand over hand, he swung along the rail, his arms and chest tightening into rock-hard curves. Parker Lord was one of the strongest men she knew, in body and in spirit, which is why she was in her version of hell.

“Dammit, Parker, I want in on this one. I’m ready.”

Reaching behind him, he grabbed two handles, swung into his wheelchair, and rolled across the patio, shooting her a glance over his shoulder.

Her gut twisted. She’d seen that look before, on the faces of her dad and brothers the day she walked away from the Albuquerque Police Academy. But she’d come a long way since Albuquerque.

She raced after Parker, her boots sliding on the ice. “I’ve been sitting on my ass for two months. Internal Affairs wrapped up their investigation last week. Officer Gilley took full responsibility for his actions in Houston, and IA cleared me of any wrongdoing or negligence.”

Parker pushed a button, and a wall of glass slid open. She hurdled herself in front of him, backpedaling into the giant room of polished concrete, glass, and leather. “Do you want me to say it again? Fine.” She drilled her fingertips into her chest. “I screwed up. I was the command of the Houston bomb disrupt, and under my command a two-year-old almost died.”

“And?”

What more did he want? She lifted her hands in the air, her fingers flicking wide. “And boom! An IED went off destroying property and
whittling away at the American public’s confidence in law enforcement to protect against bomb threats, both foreign and domestic
.”

The media had loved that last bit. And in Houston, the media had been out in full force because the job had sexy written all over it: a fanatic anti-abortionist, a bomb made with directions downloaded from the Internet, and her, a female bomb and weapons specialist who clearly didn’t have the respect and command of her men. The bubbleheads on the network news had lambasted her and questioned the ability and effectiveness of Parker’s team, which years ago the media had nicknamed the Apostles. That had been the biggest blow, putting a black mark on a team known for its damn-near miraculous execution.

Parker rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “And would you do the same thing again?”

Save the baby!
Two months ago the words ricocheted through her head and heart. Still did. “In a heartbeat.”

Parker spun toward the window where the early morning sun shot lances into the churning water, setting the Atlantic on fire.

“Do you want me to lie?” Evie paced, determined to stay one step ahead of the tremor in her voice. “I knew the force of that IED, the distance, and my rate of speed. I could have grabbed that child without incident. I had it all under control.”

“But you didn’t have your men under control.”

“I gave the order. I told everyone to stay put.” Even now, frustration bubbled in her veins.

“But one man didn’t. One officer didn’t obey your command.”

“Gilley was a chauvinistic pig.”

“But he was
your
pig, Evie. You should have stuck him in a pen or locked him in a barn. You should have prevented him from going after that child.” A vein thickened at Parker’s temple where a splash of silver feathered into jet black waves. “Therefore you did not have the situation under control. You were not doing your job.”

“My job was to preserve life. That little boy was heading straight for the IED, and I was in the best position to avert and rescue.” Her shoulders sunk with a sigh, and she dropped to her knees before her boss. “Park, I can’t change who I am. Do you want me to beg? To lie and promise I’ll never, ever run after a human being whose life is at risk?” A cold, hard knot gathered in her throat. “To hand in my shield?”

Parker shifted his gaze from the fiery ocean to her. Three years ago this man had put his neck and reputation on the line for her. Did he regret it? The knot dropped to her stomach.

Parker cupped the side of her head, his thumb running along the scar dissecting her eyebrow. “I hand-chose you, Evie, because you are
you
, and I want you to keep doing what you do so well, and do it so
everyone
is safe.”

“Then let me go to Bar Harbor. It’s not like I’m asking to join the First Friday Bomber investigation in Los Angeles.” Not yet. She desperately wanted to be in on the hunt for the serial bomber who strapped bombs to live victims and had already killed seven people, but first she needed to prove to Parker that she was ready to get back in the field.

Parker let loose a long sigh, so long she was surprised it didn’t fog the glass. At last he waved the back of his hand at her. “Get out of here, Evie. Go. Go to Bar Harbor.”

She jammed the heavy waves of hair on either side of her head behind her ears. During her Army days she’d been an ordnance disposal specialist, and she’d suffered a hearing loss in her left ear. “You’re allowing me back in the field? Now?”

A wry smile curved his lips. “With a bomb ticking, now would be a good time.”

She threw both arms around his neck, landing a noisy kiss on his cheek before running to her office.

“And Evie,” Parker called out.

Her cowboy boots skidded to a halt. “Yeah?”

“Your job is to preserve life, all life, including yours.”

Evie hauled her emergency response duffel from the back of her truck and rushed past the hazardous devices unit parked in front of the gym.

“Hold up there, young lady.” A uniformed officer grabbed her arm. “You can’t go back there. We have a bomb on the premises.”

Evie reached for her creds, but the officer snagged her other arm. Having long ago resolved to life at five-foot-two, she craned her neck so he could see every inch of her face. “I’m not young, and I’m not feeling very ladylike, so get your fucking hands off me so I can disrupt that bomb.”

The officer dropped her arms as if she were on fire. At the inner perimeter she found the lieutenant in charge of the scene, a silver-haired man who scrubbed a thumb across his chin after she introduced herself.

“You’re Parker Lord’s guy?” the lieutenant asked.

“Yes, sir. Has the bomb robot been unloaded?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Excellent.” Evie pulled her hair into a knot on top of her head, securing it with a rubber band, and dug into the duffel for her bomb suit.