You Can't Escape (30 page)

The branded victim had been older than a teenager, but could he have been at the cemetery for some reason? Some assignation? Zach said he’d told the police about the place having been used as a lover’s lane, of sorts, and that they had discounted that as having anything to do with the body. Maybe that was right. Maybe the proximity of the cemetery was completely unrelated. Just because she didn’t like Chief Markum didn’t mean he and his staff were completely incompetent.

Still . . .

It was a ways up the track, the ground having been trampled down pretty heavily, as if several cars had been down it, or at least one coming and going a few times. The sun was lowering as she turned a corner, entering a thicker grove of fir and pine, and her arms broke out in gooseflesh. The air grew cooler as she went, shadows lingering.

At a last turn, she stopped short. A whiff of something rank reached her nostrils and she recoiled. In front of her was a small plot, not much larger than a twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot plot. Wooden crosses, once painted white and now gray, marked several graves, and there were two granite gravestones, tumbled over and broken. She read some of the names and realized they were all Benchleys, as Zach had said. A cold trickle of fear slid down her spine. The earth of the plot was dark brown, the ground having been recently hoed and raked. Someone had been here tending to the graves.

Something caught at the edge of her vision, and she jerked back, heart pounding. Was someone there?

She stared through the gloom of the copse. No . . . what she’d seen was just a rake leaned up against a tree.

Expelling a deep breath, she realized her hand was at her throat. Creepy. No wonder Zach hadn’t wanted to come with her.

. . . so scared she almost peed her pants . . .

If Nate Calverson had brought her here in high school, she would have felt the same way. She would have gone, but she would have felt the same way.

She shook her head. She had a tendency to fall for unattainable men.

But Dance kissed you and wanted more.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she whispered. The mood of the place made her keep her voice low. There was something cathedral-like in this ring of towering firs.

She turned to leave, and the scent of rot reached her again. She turned back quickly and gave the whole graveyard a good, last look. At the east end of the plot, the soil was darker, moister, more recently disturbed.

Telling herself to get over her heebie-jeebies, she walked to that side of the plot. With the toe of her sneaker, she pressed into the deeper brown dirt. Was something there? Carefully, she leaned closer. Reluctantly, wishing she had gloves, she reached a hand forward and lightly scraped at the edge of the soil.
Maybe you are as crazy as they say
, she told herself.
Grave digging? What the hell are you doing?

Shoulders tense, she made a hole about six inches deep and started widening it. There was no marker here. No grave. No casket. But somebody had disturbed the earth and then raked over it, trying to make it appear like the rest. At least that’s what she thought.

When the hole was about a foot deep and the size and shape of a large book, she stopped. There was nothing here and it was someone’s property. Maybe she was disturbing seeds of some kind, flowers planted for the dead.

Sitting back on her haunches, she dusted her hands. It was then she saw the tiny, pearlescent oval. A fingernail. Horror-struck, she nevertheless reached forward and plucked at the nail. Her hand felt a finger and she jerked back on instinct.

The hand that came free was a young woman’s, the painted white fingernails, broken.

A scream bubbled up inside her, but all she did was emit a guttural cry.
Bernadette Fread
, her mind shrieked. Jordanna dropped the hand as if burned. But then she hurriedly scrabbled at the dirt to reveal the right side of a naked female body. It was turned slightly, as if someone had put it down on its side. The branding mark stood out on her hip. A cross. Upside down.

She ran, stumbling away.

Chapter Eighteen

Jordanna burst through the back door of the homestead and pounded across the wooden planks to the back door. “Dance!” she cried. “Dance!”

“What? I’m in the living room.”

She ran to him, damn near threw herself into his arms though he was standing without the aid of crutches. Her momentum nearly dropped them both to the couch, but he managed to stay upright, wrapping her in his arms as if he already understood she needed to be held.

“You’re trembling. What happened? Are you all right?” he clipped out.

“Yes, yes. It was . . . I’m fine. God . . . my God.”

“Did you find the boy?”

“Yes.” She nodded over and over again, searching for her voice.

“Sit down,” he ordered, letting go of her just enough so she could take a seat.

“There’s a body in a cemetery at the back of the Fowler property. It’s a few farms over. It’s not in a casket. No headstone. It’s just buried naked under the surface,” she gasped out.

“You found a body in a shallow grave?”

“It’s not even a grave, hardly.” She heard the half-hysterical note in her voice and drew a deep breath. She was clinging to him, feeling the heat of his body. She wanted to wrap herself up with him, run her hands down the hard muscles of his back, have him drag her to him like she was everything. She curled up against him, knowing her senses were inflamed, not caring.

“Jordanna,” he said, his voice a rumble as her ear was to his chest. She could hear the strong beat of his heart.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

With that his arms tightened and she squeezed her eyes closed. She wanted to kiss him. Almost of its own volition, her mouth lifted to his. He shifted and met the kiss, his lips hard and wanting.

And then they were kissing madly and she was pulling at his shirt, drawing it up his chest and dragging it over his head. She shifted positions, straddling him, and he pulled her to him, his hands on her thighs.

“Your leg,” she murmured, pressing herself to him through her jeans and his sweats.

“Don’t care,” he gritted out.

He fumbled between them for the zipper of her jeans. She squirmed away and stumbled to her feet, yanking off her jeans, stepping out of them, pulling off her sweater at the same time. In her bra and panties, she helped pull off his sweatpants and boxers, half-amused that she recognized them from her trip to his house. Then she sat on the couch beside him, and he pulled her atop him.

His hands went around her waist, his mouth at her neck. His fingers found the clasp of her bra and he pulled it off her. A thrill of desire shot through her. She’d never been reckless, but she was now.

The wetness on her skin from his mouth was like an aphrodisiac. Her hands clutched at him, dragging him forward till he pushed inside her. She was shocked at the sensation, how fast things were moving, the mewling sounds that escaped her own lips.

His deep groan speared desire through her and she clenched her hands in her hair, her body arching. They strained together and she cried out, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her body convulsing inside. The release of emotion brought tears to the back of her eyes. No . . . oh, no . . . he couldn’t see her crying. That would kill everything!

She held him tightly, refusing to release him even when she collapsed against him, blinking back the evidence of her tears. Good Lord, she needed to pull herself together.

“Good God,” he said, dragging in a breath, silently laughing, his mouth nuzzling her ear.

“I should be embarrassed,” she said, her eyes still closed, her mouth near his ear.

“Why?”

“It was just so . . . good.” She managed a short laugh.

“It was,” he agreed.

“I just wanted to close everything out and feel.”

“Works for me,” he drawled, and by the time he drew back to stare down at her, his blue eyes lazy with satisfaction, the extra moisture in her own eyes had been blinked away.

“You probably won’t believe me since you know I was practically stalking you, but I don’t do this kind of thing.”

“I think I’m happy you were stalking me for a job.”

“Me, too,” she said, smiling. Then she came back to the present and shivered again.

“Tell me about this body in the cemetery,” he said, as they pulled away from each other and found their clothes.

Dressed, she hugged herself and half laughed. “Maybe I am crazy. I feel crazy right now.”

“You’re not crazy,” he assured her, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her hard.

She wanted to lose herself in him again, but she settled for sitting close beside him. “How’d the leg fare through that?”

“I’ll live,” he said, waiting.

She shook her head and drew a breath. “It was a woman’s body, and it had been branded on the right hip with an upside-down cross.”

“You’re kidding,” he said in surprise.

“It was just like what Dr. Ferguson described. I don’t know what she looks like, but maybe this is the missing girl, Bernadette Fread. Maybe she didn’t run off with her boyfriend.”

“How did you find this cemetery?” All of the sudden, he was all business.

“Zach Benchley showed me. I’d found his house. He showed me where he nearly ran over the body on his ATV. It wasn’t that far from the track to the cemetery, which is why I went there. Two brandings, in proximity . . . it can’t be coincidence.”

He nodded, serious. “The bottle of wine’s open. I’m getting us both a drink.”

“Okay.”

Dance headed to the kitchen and in a distant part of her mind she saw that he was walking without crutches, albeit limping stiffly and carefully, but without any other aid. He returned a few moments later, balancing the bottle and two empty glasses. She stood up to help, but he shook his head. “I got this,” he said, handing her an empty glass, then seating himself down beside her again and filling both their glasses. “Start at the beginning.”

She took a gulp of wine, then went back through the events, laying out how she’d met Zach, gone to the site where the body had been found, then become intrigued by the cemetery, thereby subsequently discovering the body.

“You think it’s a homicide,” he said.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then it’s time to go to the police.”

“I know. I just needed to tell you first. I wish there were someone besides Markum. Maybe . . . maybe this Pete Drummond. I’ll call the station, ask for him.”

She started to get up and head back to the kitchen, where she’d dropped her purse and cell phone, but he stopped her with “Before you do, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “What?”

“Your father came by, looking for Kara. He wanted to talk to you. I told him you were investigating the unidentified body that was found a few years ago and that I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“Okay,” she said carefully. Then: “He doesn’t know where Kara is, either?”

“No.”

She drew a breath and shook her head. “She should’ve been here by now.”

“Could you tell how long the body had been there?” he asked cautiously.

It took her a moment to read his mind. “Oh, no. No . . . no . . . it wasn’t Kara!” She jumped to her feet.

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

“I’ve got to call Drummond.” She practically ran for her cell phone. No. It wasn’t Kara. It wasn’t!

“Let’s go to the station,” Dance said, coming into the kitchen. “Tell whoever’s on duty rather than leave a message.

“Yes.”

It took forty minutes to make it to the police station and by the time they arrived it was full dark. Jordanna walked in and asked for Officer Drummond or Chief Markum and learned, to no surprise, that neither was on duty. She then said she wanted to report finding a body in a shallow grave, and that finally got the receptionist paging Drummond, who apparently said he’d be right there.

“Right there” turned out to be another twenty minutes, and when Officer Peter Drummond strode into the station, Jordanna fleetingly thought she knew why Rusty called him Mr. Shitface. It had nothing to do with his looks. He was about Jordanna’s age, tall, muscular, and in good shape. But there wasn’t a bit of humor in his face, and he walked with military precision. His uniform was pressed within an inch of its life. His hair was clipped short, and his eyes were a cold gray.

“Ms. Winters?” he greeted her.

“Yes.” When he thrust out his hand, she shook it. Then he turned to Dance, taking his measure as he shook his hand. Dance introduced himself, looking him right in the eye, both men being about six foot two. Jordanna wanted to find a place for Dance to sit down, but he gave her a look, telling her silently that he was okay.

Drummond, however, asked them to come back to an empty room. When they were settled, he took down her cell number and said, “Okay, tell me about this body you found.”

Jordanna heard the note of tolerance in his voice but chose to ignore it. She didn’t go into her whole meeting with Zach, just how she’d gone to the cemetery and stumbled upon the shallow grave. “It’s a private cemetery on what I believe is the Fowler property. There was no casket. Just a body in the ground with barely enough soil to cover it.”

Drummond asked, “You didn’t contact Mrs. Fowler.”

“I came straight here,” she said, studiously avoiding Dance’s gaze at the lie, her cheeks heating at the memory.

“You understand you were trespassing,” he pointed out.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jordanna expelled. “I was looking into the branding victim. The homeless man? I didn’t expect to run across another body.”

“Who told you about the branding victim?” he asked, his brows raised.

“What does it matter? We talked to the ME,” she snapped back. “It shouldn’t be a secret any longer. The public should know. Maybe you’d learn something about the victim, then.”

“Now, calm down,” he said, which pissed Jordanna off all the more.

Dance stepped in, with “Don’t you have a missing girl around here?”

Drummond gave him a sharp look. “What’s your stake in this?”

“I’m a journalist,” he said. “Like Jordanna.”