Breaking Creed (15 page)

She leaned her shoulder against the frame just to the left of the windowless door and nodded for him to do the same on the other side. He squeezed his bulk awkwardly against the porch rail, giving himself plenty of distance away from the door now that he understood what threat might be waiting for them.

O’Dell listened, cocking her head. Still, there were no sounds coming from inside. She held her weapon in her right hand, and with her left, reached across the door and tried the knob. It turned with no resistance, and that’s when her heart started to race. She glanced up at the sheriff, met his eyes, giving him a chance to tell her “no.” After all, they had no warrant. No reason to enter. Nothing except O’Dell’s gut instinct.

Slow and easy didn’t play well if someone was waiting on the other side. It only gave them more time to aim. She took a deep breath and shoved the door open as she rolled back against the outside of the house and out of the line of fire. The door hit the inside wall, sounding like a gunshot and making Sheriff Holt jump. But nothing followed. They were greeted by more silence.

O’Dell eased around the doorjamb, letting her Glock lead the way inside.

More silence.

The large entrance included plenty of hiding places: an open staircase, a long, narrow hallway beside it, and too many archways leading to other rooms. Sheriff Holt raised his chin toward the staircase, then squeezed past her to start his slow climb. O’Dell noticed a set of keys on the desk in the entryway. Sunglasses, a wallet, and what looked like a grocery or errand list were also on the desk.

She moved slowly. Peeked into rooms, carefully opening doors and trying to keep her back to the wall as much as possible. The old house creaked with almost every step, and she could easily hear the sheriff above her. If someone was inside hiding, they should be able to hear any movement.

Even before she entered the kitchen she could smell bacon and burnt toast, but both were a bit stale in the air, not fresh. It looked as if breakfast had been interrupted and abandoned. On the stovetop a skillet was filled with bacon now congealed in grease. A plate with two slices of burnt toast was left on the countertop, alongside a container of melted butter. The table had two place settings: plates, silverware, water glasses filled to the brim. Coffee mugs waited by the coffeemaker, coffee made but not poured. A carton of cream left open beside it.

The coffeemaker was the closest. O’Dell took several steps and leaned over, but before she put her nose to the cream she could smell that it was spoiled. She took another look around the kitchen. How long ago?

She pulled a paper towel from the roll and used it to pick up the carton of cream. She swirled the contents from side to side and could feel the chunks swish inside. She had no idea how long it took for cream to curdle, but she guessed it might be days, not hours.

“What the hell?” Sheriff Holt came into the kitchen and stared at the macabre scene.

“Looks like they left in a hurry. I take it you didn’t find anyone upstairs?”

“Nope, didn’t find anybody, but I sure as hell found something stranger than this. You’re gonna want to take a look for yourself.”

32

T
HE
STATUE
IN
THE
MIDDLE
of the makeshift altar stood almost two feet tall. The female skeleton dressed in a black robe held a scythe and looked very much like the Grim Reaper. Had O’Dell not seen the same image on the bloated corpse of Trevor Bagley, she might have been as taken aback as Sheriff Holt was.

“It’s an altar,” she said.

“Damn straight. But what the hell for?”

“Santa Muerte. The saint of death.”

She ignored his dumbfounded stare and walked across the bedroom to get a closer look. The sheriff seemed surprised at her reaction. Maybe he was expecting her to be as alarmed as he apparently was. She calmly slipped her weapon into her waistband at the small of her back and pulled her shirt over it.

“You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

“Only on the Internet.”

This one was quite elaborate, by the standards she had viewed. A bloodred cloth covered the entire length of the dresser top. A shorter white lace cloth lay on top. About a dozen small red and white votive candles, melted down from use, created a border around the edges. Other items were carefully placed around the statue: incense, a bowl of apples, rosary beads, small containers of oil, prayer cards, several plastic toy skulls and one rubber spider, a full pack of cigarettes, a bottle of Espolòn tequila and another of Patrón, with an empty glass in front. There were other items she didn’t recognize, but she knew each had its own significance and purpose.

“Is it some kind of cult thing?”

O’Dell shook her head and looked around the room, examining the other contents.

“People set up altars and pray to Santa Muerte for a variety of reasons—good health, a new job, a faithful husband or wife, for protection, or for vengeance. Not really much different from Catholics setting up a shrine to the Virgin Mary.”

“Hey, I’m Catholic, and this isn’t like anything I’ve seen. Tequila? Cigarettes?”

She didn’t remind him about the practice of lighting candles, using incense, taking in food for an Easter blessing. Almost every religion had something that outsiders could view as strange. But she did have to admit, praying to the saint of death gave her pause, and she glanced back at the altar.

Something wasn’t right.

The empty glass. The photos she had seen of other altars always included tequila poured and waiting in a glass or in several small shot glasses. She also didn’t remember any spiders. Skulls, yes, but spiders?

“Don’t touch anything.”

“Of course, I’m not gonna touch any of this freak show.”

“No, seriously. This house might be part of a crime scene.”

“Already thought of that.”

He shot her a look that verged on impatience. She had to admit that, outside of his initial panicked fumble to get his weapon out of its holster, Sheriff Holt had been careful and methodical.

“Sorry,” she said. “Is this the master bedroom?”

“Far as I can tell. The other has a twin bed with boxes stacked on it. And a treadmill.”

On the opposite wall were framed family photos, and O’Dell stopped at one that showed the Bagleys. Regina Bagley was small and pretty, with long black hair. In the photo Trevor wore his red hair military short. His pale, freckled skin looked even lighter next to his wife’s mocha-colored skin. The fact that Regina might be of Hispanic descent should not have tripped off any alarms, but O’Dell suddenly found herself wondering if Trevor’s beautiful wife had shared his same fate, or if she had played a hand in his. Why wasn’t she here?

From the upstairs bedroom window O’Dell had a better view of the grounds behind the house. It looked like acres of forest. Was it possible Mrs. Bagley had gotten away? Or was she still out there?

O’Dell turned back to look at Sheriff Holt, waited for him to meet her eyes.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

He put his hands on his waist, thumbs in his gun belt, and raised an eyebrow. Had it not been for the adrenaline rush, O’Dell thought he might be angry.

“Trevor Bagley was tortured before he was killed. I think it might have happened somewhere close to here. Maybe on his own property.”

“Damn! That’s a helluva way to go.”

“Do you have a dog handler you could call?”

He nodded. “I’ll see if I can get him over here tomorrow.”

Then he looked over her shoulder, out the window, and asked, “So where the hell do you suppose Mrs. Bagley is?”

O’Dell shrugged. “Hopefully she’s somewhere far away from here, hiding.”

Wednesday

33

T
HE
GRAY
SKY
made the Bagley property look more ominous. Even O’Dell’s rental car flicked on its headlights automatically as she drove under the long stretch of canopy created by the massive live oak trees.

Sheriff Holt was already there, waiting with one of his deputies. Both were sipping from stainless steel travel mugs. It looked like they had a map spread out on the hood of the SUV. A paper bag anchored down one corner. Both men wore their uniforms—white shirts pressed, badges glistening, gun belts cinched tight. She wondered how they intended to search the property in such high-polished shoes.

Holt had told her earlier on the phone that he’d managed to get a search warrant. She didn’t ask for details. O’Dell didn’t get too concerned about formalities, but she’d pegged him as a by-the-rules kind of guy. This was his county and she could hear the relief in his voice. She knew he’d want to cover his tracks. Now she wondered if
he simply intended to sit back and direct the search while he and his deputy sipped coffee and ate doughnuts.

Holt was on his cell phone, and his deputy hurried over to meet her car.

“Agent O’Dell, I’m Deputy Jimmy Franklin,” he told her as soon as she opened her car door.

“Deputy Franklin.”

He seemed too anxious. He came at her with his hand outstretched, but not as a gesture to shake hands. Instead, it was almost as if he thought he should help her get out of the car.

Awkward.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she told him as she ignored his aid.

When he realized his mistake his face went crimson. O’Dell pretended not to notice, shut the door on her own, and went to the trunk. She popped it open and started to get her gear. Poor kid didn’t look old enough to drink alcohol legally. Even his uniform seemed a size too large. The shoulder seams sagged and the gun belt was cinched at its tightest notch. His patrol hat came down too far on his head, making his ears stick out. Still, he was all spit and polish, looking official and shiny, just like his boss, while O’Dell had come dressed for mud and mosquitoes.

“I can help you with that, ma’am.” Evidently he hadn’t been embarrassed enough because here he was by her side, reinforcing O’Dell’s image of a Boy Scout.

“I’ve got it,” she told him without a glance, and trying not to wince at the “ma’am.”

That’s when she noticed that Holt had finished his phone call and was crossing the yard to meet a Jeep Grand Cherokee coming up the driveway. Deputy Jimmy followed.

O’Dell continued to stuff her daypack with a few necessities, including Deet, a black-light torch, some evidence bags, and finally a couple of protein bars—although she wouldn’t mind snagging
one of those doughnuts. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find.

Stan Wenhoff had insisted that the insect bites on Trevor Bagley’s corpse were caused by his body—his live body—lying on a mound of fire ants. She had no idea what the crime scene would look like. Would there still be stakes in the ground where his wrists and ankles were tied down? Would the grass be trampled? Would there be blood mixed in the mound of ants?

It was one of the reasons she had brought a portable black light. It resembled a flashlight, only with UV ultraviolet light. If they found an area in question, the black light might be able to indicate if there were any bodily fluids left behind. Almost an impossibility, considering the downpour of just the previous day. But she had been stunned in previous cases when a forensic team discovered pieces of flesh mixed in the soil of outdoor crime scenes. Some remnants were difficult to destroy. She was counting on that, especially if the dog and its handler were going to lead them to where Bagley may have died.

O’Dell slid the daypack over her shoulders to wear as a small backpack. When she slammed the car trunk shut, she saw that two men had arrived with the Jeep. The search dog was waiting patiently, just inside the open liftgate. The dog’s handler had his back to her while he gathered up his gear. And then the dog noticed her and began wagging and wiggling impatiently. No, the dog hadn’t just noticed her,
it recognized her.

It was Grace! And O’Dell’s stomach took a sudden slide, because not only did she recognize the dog, she also recognized her owner. He was tall—over six feet—with broad shoulders and a slender waist, and he filled his jeans quite nicely. He turned at that moment to see what had gotten his dog excited. It took only a few seconds, and Ryder Creed smiled.

For O’Dell, the flush came as a surprise. An annoying surprise that accompanied a flutter in her stomach.

34

C
REED
WAS
GLAD
TO
HAVE
Jason along, no matter if the kid had a chip on his shoulder and insisted on being incredibly antisocial. It gave him an excuse
not
to talk to Maggie O’Dell about anything other than this assignment.

He had already explained the process to Sheriff Holt. He and his deputy appeared relieved that they’d have to stay behind. Creed preferred as few people as possible. They only provided more distractions for his dogs. In this case there was no urgency. It wasn’t like they were searching for a missing child or an injured victim. As best as Hannah had explained, they weren’t even looking for a body. Only the crime scene.

Before he noticed her daypack, Creed knew O’Dell would insist on going along. He knew he’d never convince her to stay put with Holt and his deputy. But he also knew she would respect his
guidelines. She wouldn’t be a distraction for Grace. She would be a distraction for him. And he hated that that was true.

There was one rule he never broke, and he took pride in the fact that he did not mix business with pleasure. Many of the women he knew intimately didn’t even know what he did for a living. Maggie O’Dell was the only woman who had made him come close to breaking that rule. That she didn’t even bother to notice only made him a bit crazier.

They had worked a case together four months ago. Both their lives had been jeopardized. Things got a little heated—some sparks, electricity, not unlike right now. But it was only one kiss. No big deal. He hadn’t heard from her since, but then she hadn’t heard from him either. So why did it bother him?