Murder in the Smokies (15 page)

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Antoine who answered. “Mr. Calhoun.” It took only a second for Sutton to place the voice. Glen Rayburn. He had a particularly smarmy way of saying the name “Calhoun.”

“Captain Rayburn, I’m looking for Ivy Hawkins. I have reason to believe she may be in danger.”

“Oh, she’s in danger, son. Of losing her job if she keeps fraternizing with unsavory characters. I’ll be sure to mention your call to her.” Rayburn hung up on him.

Son of a bitch! Sutton pulled up the number he’d saved for Davenport Trucking and dialed the main number. “Rachel Davenport, please,” he said when the receptionist answered.

“Ms. Davenport is out this morning,” the receptionist replied.

“Then Mr. Davenport.”

“He’s with Ms. Davenport.”

Damn it. “Listen, I have reason to believe one of your trucks is being used to commit crimes. I assume you have a GPS tracker on all your trucks?”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, “but we don’t track them as a policy. We only check the GPS information if there’s a billing discrepancy or some sort of legal issue.”

“Murder
is
a legal issue!” Sutton snapped.

“Murder?” The woman stuttered the word.

“Three of your previous employees are dead, and this truck may be involved in the killings.”

The woman’s voice took on a distinctly wary tone. “Sir, if this is some sort of prank call, please stop. We will report you to the authorities.” She hung up on him.

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. The blow stung all the way up his arm, but he held on to the sensation, used the pain to center himself. There was one option left. Not a great one, but he had to take a chance. He dialed another number.

On the third ring, Seth Hammond answered. “Sutton? Is something wrong with Cleve?”

“No, he’s doing fine. Flirting with nurses when I left him.”

Seth chuckled. “That’s about right.”

“Listen, I hate asking you this, but time may be running out.” As economically as he could, he told Seth what he suspected. “Bramlett was on a list of companies renting trucks from Davenport at the time of the murders.”

“And you think someone there might be the killer?” Seth sounded skeptical. “Just because of the connection to Davenport?”

“It’s not that simple, but I can’t explain it.”

“’Cause God knows, I ain’t trustworthy, right, Sutton?”

“I’ve already trusted you with more than I probably ought to,” Sutton shot back. “I need your help, Seth. Is there any way to access real-time tracking of the GPS units in those trucks?”

“Yeah, we’ve done it before to help the police find one of our stolen units,” Seth said. “But management will require a warrant, I’m pretty sure.”

“I don’t have time for that. I think the man who killed those four women may have Ivy Hawkins.”

“Just because she lost her phone?”

It wasn’t that simple, but Sutton didn’t know how to explain his certainty without sounding like a fool. Something was wrong. Ivy was in trouble. He knew it bone deep. “If we were ever friends, Seth, help me.”

Seth was silent a moment. “There’s a way to access the GPS, but I may have to tell a few lies to get it done.”

Sutton bit back a desperate laugh. “You ought to be able to handle that. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I reckon I can. Do you know the unit number?”

“No. But it’s the truck that Bramlett Nurseries rents.”

“Okay. Let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

“Soon, Seth. It’s gotta be soon.”

“The mighty Sutton Calhoun. Knocked to his knees by a little bitty girl.” Seth’s taunting murmur lacked bite. “I’ll hurry.” He hung up.

Sutton pressed his head against the steering wheel, hoping time hadn’t already run out.

Five minutes later, his cell phone rang. “Old Lumber Mill Road, about a mile south of the turnoff to Townsend Road.” Seth Hammond’s voice greeted him without preamble. “It’s been stationary for five minutes.”

A jolt of pure adrenaline zapped Sutton’s nervous system. “Thanks.”

“You want me to call the cops?” Seth asked.

“Call Antoine Parsons—remember him from high school? Tell him Ivy may be in danger and where we think she is.”

“He’s not going to believe me.”

“Make him.” Sutton hung up and put the truck in gear.

* * *

T
HE
DIZZINESS
HAD
GONE
, along with most of the ache in Ivy’s head. She’d ended up bleeding quite a bit from the gash in her scalp, but she’d stanched the flow with her suit jacket. The wound had settled down to a slow ooze instead of a gush. But that was the end of the good news. She was still stuck in the back of the locked truck, still forced to sit in one place to keep from being pitched around by the vehicle’s motion.

She took advantage of every time the truck stopped moving to feel her way around the truck box, trying to remember the details of the interior from her brief inspection earlier that morning.

Had it been only that morning? Somehow, her first trip to Bramlett Nurseries felt as if it had happened a lifetime ago.

The truck stopped again, and she pushed to her feet, resuming her tactile search of the truck box. She came across a loose bit of metal batten covering a seam and plucked at it with her fingers. It gave as she pulled, and she jerked harder. The strip tore away from the box. “Yes!” she breathed.

The piece of batten wasn’t long, as it seemed to have covered only a short seam, and she could have hoped for something a little more substantial than a ruler-thin strip of flexible metal to use as a weapon. But it was better than nothing, and a moment later, when the engine died away and she realized they had parked, she was glad to have it.

It was short enough to conceal behind her back, she realized, tucking it into the waistband of her trousers. It lay flat against her spine, the top of the batten resting against her neck. As long as she didn’t turn around to give Bramlett a look at her back, she could use it as a weapon if she needed it.

She heard the rattle of the lock on the back door and braced herself for a fight. The door opened, letting in a blinding amount of light. She slid into the corner at the back, praying for her eyesight to adjust quickly.

Bramlett’s silhouette filled the doorway, bigger than she remembered. She wondered if that’s how he’d appeared to his previous victims, faceless death, too powerful and relentless to defeat.

To hell with that. She might go down, but not without giving the bastard a damned good fight.

“You killed the other women.” As her eyes adjusted to the flow of light, she began to make out his features. Her words made him smile, and he clapped slowly.

“Brava, Detective. You figured it out.”

“Clearly, you knew I would. Since you took the stupid chance of kidnapping me from your very own nursery.”

He shrugged. “I’m done here, once I take care of you and one more little bit of unfinished business.”

“Business? I’m not buying that.” The strip of batten felt ridiculously insubstantial where it lay against her spine, but she refused to let any hint of defeat creep in. “You enjoy killing. It shows in your handiwork.”

“I do. I really do.” Bramlett’s smile widened. “But it
is
business. I’ve been paid well to do what I did.”

“By whom?”

He shook his head. “No big confessions from the killer, Detective. This isn’t a movie, and you’re not going to live to tell the tale anyway.”

In a flash, so fast she barely had time to react, he threw himself at her. And it was only in that last second, as she whipped the strip of batten from behind her back, that she caught the glimmer of light on the blade of a deadly-looking hunting knife in his right hand.

Chapter Fifteen

If there was a truck parked on the side of Old Lumber Mill Road, it wasn’t readily apparent. Sutton pulled his truck onto the shoulder of the road at the mile marker and tried not to panic.

Had Seth screwed up the GPS tracking? He reached for his phone and started to dial Seth’s number when he spotted the flash of white barely visible through a stand of poplar trees just off the road. A light breeze was making the leaves and limbs dance, revealing what looked like the side of a white box truck mostly hidden from view several yards off the shoulder.

Sutton checked the Glock’s ammunition and got out of the truck, trying to move as silently as possible. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet led him quickly off the shoulder and onto the grass beyond. There wasn’t much of a drop-off from the shoulder to the ground, which would have made it easy for the truck to leave the road and move into seclusion.

The ground was a little uneven, complicating his attempt to make a steady approach without risking discovery, but Sutton had spent the first eighteen years of his life exploring the woods and mountains around Bitterwood. Just a mile through these woods was the base of the ridge where he’d lived. Where Ivy had lived as well, in a shabby little two-bedroom bungalow her mother had tried to keep clean and decorated despite their limited resources.

Ivy had bitterly insisted her mother’s industry was more about attracting a man than making a good life for herself and her daughter, but Sutton thought now, with time and distance, that Arlene Hendry had been doing the best she could for her daughter, as well.

From where he now stood, he had a pretty good view of the side of the truck. The back doors stood open, and the box trailer seemed to be rocking.

He crept closer, drawing near enough to confirm that something was happening inside the trailer box. He heard a grunt of pain, faint but unmistakable. It sounded masculine, but it was followed shortly by a sharp, feminine cry.

Heart in his throat, he raced toward the truck.

* * *

U
P
CLOSE
,
THE
BATTEN
was proving to be a poor weapon, but it was doing a creditable job as a shield, helping her deflect Mark Bramlett’s vicious stabs with the hunting knife. Clearheaded and prepared, she was making far better use of her self-defense training, turning her smaller size into an asset as she dodged and ducked, striking sharp, swift blows with her feet and fists to the vulnerable spots on his body.

She saw an opening and struck, whipping the batten through the air and slicing a jagged tear in his left cheek, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled backward into the side of the truck box, she sprang toward the open back door. She almost made it out the doors before Bramlett hit her from behind. Pain exploded in her right shoulder, making her cry out, and they both tumbled out of the truck. Bramlett landed on top of her and bounced off, but the hard contact with the ground robbed Ivy of her chance to run. She gasped for breath, trying to push to her feet. She made it halfway before Bramlett slammed into her again, knocking her into the back wheel of the truck. He pinned her there, raising the knife in a swinging arc.

And then, with shocking suddenness, he was gone.

It took a second for Ivy’s swimming vision to clear enough to take in the violent struggle going on a few feet away from her. Sutton’s broad back flexed as he fought to pin Bramlett’s knife hand to the ground.

Bramlett’s knee came up, aimed between Sutton’s legs. Sutton was able to deflect part of the blow, but Bramlett’s knee continued upward, slamming into Sutton’s gut, eliciting an explosive grunt of pain. His left leg buckled, knocking him off balance, and he tumbled sideways onto the ground, pulling Mark Bramlett with him.

The shift in position gave Bramlett a sudden edge, and he took it, whipping the knife in a slashing arc toward Sutton’s neck.

Ivy launched herself at Bramlett, grabbing his knife hand before it could land the blow. The blade slashed into Sutton’s upper arm, blood blooming red across his torn shirtsleeve, a flesh wound instead of a mortal blow. Ivy clung to Bramlett’s arm as he tried to swing her off, only letting go when his elbow slammed into her solar plexus, making her vision dance with alternating spots of darkness and glittering stars.

She had the terrifying impression of death itself rising up, stinking of the grave, looming over her with deadly intent. The glitter of a blade, a lethal arc slicing through the air.

Then a loud crack and death disintegrated into a crumpled body that landed at her feet, mortally human.

Mark Bramlett’s gray eyes locked with hers. His mouth moved as if he was trying to form words. He had taken a bullet in the lower chest and blood was spreading fast, already drenching the front of his golf shirt.

A few feet away, Sutton still held his Glock in a firing stance, his gaze locked on Bramlett’s body, ready to move if the man made one more move toward Ivy.

But Bramlett wasn’t going anywhere. He was bleeding out, fast. There would be no way to get medical help here in time to save him.

“Who hired you?” Ivy found her breath and crawled toward him on her hands and knees. With the side of her hand, she swept away the knife he’d dropped, knocking it out of reach.

The sound of running footsteps behind them drew her attention away from Bramlett for a moment. She saw Seth Hammond jog to a halt a few feet away from where Bramlett lay. His green eyes were wide with dismay at the sight of Bramlett’s bleeding body.

He pushed past Sutton, who put out a hand to stop him, and crouched next to Ivy, his attention focused solely on Mark Bramlett. “Why her?”

Ivy grabbed Seth’s arm, tugging him away. “Get out of my crime scene.”

“He targeted Rachel Davenport,” Seth snapped. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. I want to know why.”

“I want to know who,” Ivy shot back, turning to look at the dying man. “Who hired you, Bramlett?”

Bramlett’s mouth stretched into a horrible grin. Blood bubbled on his lips as he gasped for breath. “He’s right. It’s all about the girl.”

His voice faded into a guttural rattle, and blood filled his mouth, spilling down his chin and onto the ground. His eyes twitched for a second, then went dead, his eyelids sliding half-shut.

“Son of a bitch!” Seth growled, lurching forward as if to grab the body by the shoulders. Sutton wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug and pulled him away.

Ivy felt for a carotid pulse. It was silent.

She looked up at Sutton, who still held Seth away from the body, and shook her head.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She hurt all over, especially on the back of her right shoulder, where a wet spot was forming, suggesting that at least one of Bramlett’s knife blows had hit its mark. “I think he got me in the back, but I’m okay.”

“Stay put,” Sutton warned Seth and let the other man go, hurrying over to Ivy’s side. He examined her shoulder, plucking at the wet fabric. “Are all the muscles and tendons moving okay?”

She tried rolling her shoulder. It hurt, but everything seemed to work the way it was supposed to. “How about your arm?”

“Flesh wound,” he answered shortly. “Your head is bloody.”

“He banged my head into the underside of the truck to subdue me at first,” she said flatly. “I didn’t lose consciousness.” Not fully, anyway. “It’s stopped bleeding, hasn’t it?”

“You shouldn’t have killed him,” Seth muttered.

Sutton’s head whipped around to look at the other man. “If I hadn’t, he’d have killed Ivy.”

“You heard him. It’s all about Rachel Davenport.” Seth sounded oddly desperate. “He knew who’s targeting her.”

Ivy couldn’t argue with Seth. She was pretty sure Rachel Davenport had been the target all along. Someone had hired Bramlett to kill people around her rather than kill her outright. But what had been the point? What were they trying to do, rip away her friends and support system? To what end? Even though she now knew the identity of the killer, knew that someone had hired him to commit the murders, and even knew that it was all about Rachel Davenport, she was as frustrated as ever.

“What’s it to you?” Sutton asked suspiciously.

Seth’s expression shifted into neutral. “I work for Davenport Trucking. What happens to the people there affects me.”

Not even Seth looked as if he could sell that load of bull, but Ivy didn’t see the point of pushing him. There was too much else to take care of. “We’ve got to call in backup.”

“I got hold of Antoine Parsons on my way here.” Seth rose and walked a few feet away. “He should be here any minute.”

Ivy’s legs had begun to tremble. She sat down with her back pressed against the truck tire, looking away from Bramlett’s body to lock gazes with Sutton. He stared back at her, his eyes burning like coals. The intensity of his gaze scorched through her until she had to look away to catch her breath.

Distant sirens wafted in on the soft midday breeze. The cavalry was on the way, Ivy thought, closing her eyes and resting her head against the tire. Pain throbbed in her scalp, reminding her of her head wound, as well.

“Ivy?” Sutton’s voice was sharp with alarm.

“Just resting my eyes,” she said, forcing her heavy lids open.

He was crouched closer than she expected, filling her view. He blocked out everything else, and she realized with weary bemusement that he’d been doing so ever since he walked back into her life a few days ago. She’d been consumed by him, even when she was working her case. She’d let him get under her skin again, against all good sense, and she had a feeling she’d be paying for that mistake for the rest of her life.

Because he still had one foot out of town, especially now that the case he’d come to investigate had more or less been solved.

It wouldn’t be long before the rest of him followed.

* * *

“A
LL
DONE
.”
T
HE
E.R.
doctor stitching the cut on Sutton’s upper arm was young, female and impossibly cheery. Antoine had convinced Ivy to let an ambulance take her to River Bend Medical Center in Knoxville. Sutton had followed in his truck, but since nobody in the emergency department would let him see Ivy until they’d finished examining her, he had given in and let them patch up his wound while he waited.

Seth had disappeared at some point before the police arrived. Sutton supposed he hadn’t wanted any unnecessary encounters with the law. He was curious about the other man’s reaction to Mark Bramlett’s death—Seth had looked downright distraught when he realized Bramlett wouldn’t be able to answer any of his questions about Rachel Davenport.

What the hell was going on there? Sutton doubted Rachel Davenport even knew who Seth Hammond was. He was just some guy who worked in the fleet garage. If she ran into him more than once or twice a week, it would probably be a fluke. So why did he care who had hired Bramlett to kill the people around her? Was it simply because someone had tried to hire Seth to do it himself?

Another mystery, he thought, his lips curving slightly as the doctor finished applying a bandage over his stitches. Another excuse to stick around Bitterwood a little bit longer.

Maybe even for good.

His cell phone rang, drawing a furrowed brow from the doctor. “We really don’t want people using their cells in the examining area.”

He looked at the display. Jesse Cooper. He’d already missed three calls from his boss. What was one more? He pocketed the phone and smiled at the doctor, who smiled back with approval. “I can go now?”

“Follow up with your own doctor in a few days.”

He left the small emergency bay and went looking for Ivy. A nurse shooed him back out to the waiting area, where he ran into Antoine.

“Have you seen her yet?” he asked as Sutton sat down in the chair beside him and pulled out his phone.

“Not yet. Should we worry that it’s taking so long?”

“I don’t know.” Antoine’s brow furrowed deeply. “She said she didn’t lose consciousness, but no way in hell Bramlett hustles her into the truck without a fight unless she was at least a little woozy.”

That was Sutton’s worry, as well. Head wounds were unpredictable. Little bumps on the head could lead to lethal brain bleeds. To distract himself from his worry, he asked, “Anything new on Bramlett’s motives?”

While Sutton had been undergoing questions from the police before he’d been released to seek treatment for his arm, nobody in the Bitterwood Police Department had seemed willing to speculate about why a friendly, seemingly good-natured businessman had decided to take a contract killing job and pursue it with such apparent zest. In fact, based on some of the early hostility he’d faced until all the facts settled into place, it seemed the police were more inclined to see him as the suspect and Bramlett as the victim.

“I got an interesting report from the Nashville police right before I got the call about Ivy’s abduction,” Antoine told him, lowering his voice. Sutton supposed that, technically, Antoine shouldn’t be sharing information with a civilian. But Sutton didn’t feel like just any old civilian. He’d come close to losing Ivy at the point of Mark Bramlett’s knife. He wanted to know how he’d hidden his murderous side so long.

“Interesting how?” he asked.

“Until last year, the Nashville P.D. was looking for a serial killer who’d been killing women in their own homes. They think the killer stalked his victims, figured out when they’d be alone at night and attacked when they had been asleep in bed for a few hours.”

“Let me guess. Bramlett spent some time in Nashville.”

“Lived there until his uncle died and left him the nursery here in Bitterwood. He moved here a year ago—”

“And the Nashville murders stopped?”

“Looks that way. Nashville thinks they may be able to match his DNA if Bramlett’s their killer. I’ve already arranged for TBI to handle the evidence transfer.”

“These murders here in Bitterwood weren’t random serial killings,” Sutton said firmly. “Whoever paid Bramlett to kill those women may have lucked into a bona fide serial killer as a hired gun, but those women are dead for a specific reason, and Ivy and I both think it has something to do with Rachel Davenport.”