The Buried (The Apostles)

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

To Bea Coriell

M
omma was wrong.

Good things didn’t happen to good girls.

Tears seeped from Lia Grant’s eyes, and she inched a bloodied hand to her cheek and brushed away the dampness. She couldn’t see the tears. Or the blood.

Too dark.

But she felt the slickness running down her palms and wrists, the slivers of wood biting into the fleshy nubs of what was left of her fingers, and the heaviness pressing down on her chest, flattening her lungs.

Yes, Momma was wrong. Bad things happened to good girls.

A thick, heavy fog crept across her body, pushing her deeper into the earth.

She always tried to be a good girl, just like Momma wanted. Church every Sunday. Straight As in her first year of nursing studies. A job as a volunteer greeter at the Cypress Bend Medical Center. But that was far away from the dark, cold place where she now lay.

In a box.

Underground.

Somewhere on the bayou.

Chunks of earth thudded onto the wooden box that encased her body. She pressed her face to an ill-fitting corner and breathed in the sweet decay of the swamp above, a place where kites and warblers cried, gators splashed, and people walked and talked.

And breathed.

She pushed back the fog. Fought for another ragged breath. “Let me out. Please let me out.”

The thudding stopped, and a voice from above said, “I’m afraid that would be against the rules.”

Rules?
There were
rules
that governed bad people doing bad things?

A scream coiled in the pit of her stomach and rushed up her throat. She beat her fists against the rough-hewn lid of her tomb.

Thud.

She kicked her sneakered feet.

Thud.

She bucked her hips and shoulders, her body a battering ram. Soupy earth oozed through one of the uneven seams, blotting out a ribbon of blue. She clawed at the sky. “No! Come back!”

Thud. Thud!

The whispers of air seeping through the gaps thinned. The fog pressed harder. She inched her arms above her head, easing the ache in her lungs. Something clattered, like bones rattling in a coffin. Was it a hand? A foot? An elbow? Dear God, she was falling apart.

She spread her fingers and found something cold and hard, small and square. Not a bone. More like a deck of playing cards. Did the devil who’d buried her alive want her to amuse herself as she suffocated?

Her sticky fingers slid over the small box, and a half breath caught in her throat. A phone. Had her captor dropped a phone? Would a phone work underground? She fumbled with the power button.

Light, glorious light, glowed on the face.

“Momma, oh, Momma! I’m here. Your good girl’s here.” Lia Grant reached up from her cold, dark grave and with bloodied fingertips punched in Momma’s phone number.

Grace: 345. Bad guys: 0.

Grace Courtemanche always kept score, a relatively easy task at this point in her career.

“Hey, counselor, one more picture.” A photographer from the Associated Press motioned to her as she stepped away from the microphone centered on the steps of the county courthouse.

Grace turned to the photographer and smiled. Lips together. Chin forward. Left eyebrow arched. Her colleagues called it her news-at-eleven smile, and tonight it would be splashed across television screens and newspapers throughout the Florida panhandle, right next to the stunned mug of Larry Morehouse. Morehouse, the former commander-in-chief of the state’s largest ring of prostitution houses masquerading as strip clubs, had just been slammed with a few not-so-minor convictions: conspiracy to engage in prostitution, coercion, money laundering, racketeering, and tax evasion. As lead prosecutor, Grace had dealt the blows, swift and hard, and she’d loved every minute of the fight.

Her step light, she wound through the buzzing crowd to the offices that housed the team of prosecutors from Florida’s Second Judicial Circuit. She pushed the button on the elevator that would take her to her third-floor, garden-view office and to defendant Helena Ring. Ring was the twenty-four-year-old meth user who’d given birth to a son in a rest stop toilet off Highway 319 and left the newborn to die amidst human waste.
Florida v. Morehouse
was over, and she couldn’t wait to dig into
Florida v. Ring
.

The phone at her waist buzzed. Call display showed
RESTRICTED NUMBER
. She banished the call to voicemail where it would be saved so she could forward it—and the six others she received today—to the sheriff’s department. Again she jabbed the elevator button. The calls from restricted numbers had started months ago when the Morehouse camp had approached her with a bribe, suggesting she offer the whorehouse king a deal down. She laughed then and now. The day she took a bribe was the day she dined with alligators. Both were dumb and dangerous, sure to bite you in the ass. With the elevator stuck on the second floor, she spun on her gray sling backs and took the stairs.

Inside her office, a man sitting in silhouette on the windowsill bent in a sweeping bow. “I shall buy you furs and chocolate bonbons and place diamonds at your feet,” her boss, Travis Theobold, said.

She switched on the light. “I’m sure your
wife
will take issue with that.”

“Nah. She knows you too well.” A man with a mop of silvery hair and a politician’s easy grin, her boss served as the state attorney for Florida’s Second Circuit. “Damn, Grace, you buried that son of a bitch and made us look brilliant.”

Some called her a justice-seeking missile. Those with less tact called her the Blond Bulldozer. In her youth her father had simply called her a winner. For the briefest of moments, she raised her gaze heavenward and allowed the corners of her mouth to tilt in a grin that wasn’t practiced, a little girl smile that came from a heart some defense attorneys claimed she didn’t have.

See that, Daddy, I won.

“Why don’t you knock off for the day? Come to Jeb’s with the rest of the team and celebrate?” Travis asked.

“Can’t. Helena Ring needs my immediate attention.” She settled behind her desk and switched on her computer.

Travis cupped his hand over hers. “You’re off the Ring case.”

She jammed her hair behind her ears. She must not have heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

“It’s about the bribe.”

“You mean the one Morehouse’s people offered and I didn’t take?” She made no attempt to keep the sharp edge out of her voice. She was fed up with Morehouse and his minions.

“This morning I received information about a bank account in Nevis in your name. Deposit records show a six-figure transfer from one of Morehouse’s companies.”

In her dreams. Until payday she had a whopping fifty-six dollars to her name. “This is clearly a twisted case of identity theft.”

“I agree, and when we’re done investigating, I hope to rack up a few more counts against Morehouse, but for now, I need you on
vacation
.” He held out his hand and waggled his fingers. “Keys, please.”

She recoiled as if those fingers were five baby cottonmouths. “You can’t be serious.”

His hand slithered closer.

Ten years ago, when her personal life had been slammed with a class five hurricane, this job had been her refuge, a safe place to land, a solid foundation on which to rebuild.

“Work with me on this,” Travis said. “Anyway, after the Morehouse case, you deserve a vacation.”

Her computer stared at her with its giant, unblinking blue eye. In the decade she’d worked at the SA’s office, she hadn’t taken a single vacation day. “Exactly what do people
do
on vacation?”

Travis gave her a devilish grin. “How about something with your new housemate?”

“Hah!” Last week her new
housemate
ruined her favorite silk suit, and this morning he broke the back door. “He’s about to be evicted.”

“How about your new place? Doesn’t construction begin soon?”

A hint of a smile chased away her scowl. Four months ago she’d been a player in a bidding war for the old Giroux place, twenty prize acres of land on the Cypress Bend River near Apalachicola Bay. There she planned to build her dream home, a two-story Greek revival with tennis courts and a tire swing.

Another win, Daddy. See it?

Travis had a point. It might be good to be home for a few days to oversee the start of construction. “Earth movers begin clearing tomorrow morning,” she said.

“So go home, drink champagne, and celebrate that you, dear Grace, are living the dream, that you are one of the privileged souls who gets everything you ever go after.”

A face with eyes the color of a July sky flashed into her head. No, not everything.

She jerked open her briefcase, dug through the mountain of papers, and finally unearthed her keys. As Travis plucked them from her hand, her phone vibrated again. With a jab and a glare, she sent the call to voicemail.

“Another Morehouse crank?” Travis asked.

“Eight calls today from a restricted number. Fits his M.O.”

“You’ll report this to the sheriff’s office?”

“Of course.” She was independent, not stupid.

“Seriously, Grace, be careful out there. Your new place is remote, and with Morehouse in jail, his people are riled.”

With Travis’s footsteps fading in the hall, she turned to her computer and flexed her fingers. If she was going on vacation, Helena Ring was going with her. She typed in her pass code and hit,
Enter
.

Denied
.

She rekeyed the information.

Denied
.

After ten years, her boss knew her well. “Okay,” she said with a laugh, “I’m going on
vacation
.”

She turned off her computer, and her unknown caller buzzed again. Cranks thrived on reaction, but she might as well see what she could get for the sheriff’s office. “Grace Courtemanche.”

A pause stretched along the line followed by a sharp intake of breath, almost a gasp. “G…g…grace, is it really you?” The voice was soft and female, low and scratchy. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but no one answered. Got your voice mail. Over and over. Why, Grace, why didn’t you answer your phone?”

The words pricked at the base of her neck. “Who is this?”

Raspy breath. “L…Lia Grant.”

“Listen, Lia Grant, or whoever you are, I—”

“It’s cold. And dark. I can’t breathe.” Hollow rattling poured across the line, like stones rolling about a wooden box.

“I don’t know who you are or what you want—”

“Help! I want help. I’m in a box. Underground.” A cracked sob, as if the caller’s body had been torn in two, followed. “I need your help.”

Grace ran her fingers along the scattered pearls at her neck. Not just help.
Your
help. Which made no sense. Grace didn’t know Lia Grant, had never heard of Lia Grant, and there was no reason for Lia Grant to call her if she was in trouble.

“Please, Grace, help me.” The whisper burrowed deeper, the hushed words bone-chilling cold. If this was the Morehouse camp orchestrating another crank call meant to unnerve her, they’d hired a damn good actress. “Tell Momma I tried to be a good girl. I tried…” Another strangled sob poured out of the phone followed by a long, broken wheeze.

Cold shot across Grace’s body, freezing any further arguments. “Lia?”

No words, just a faint push of breath.

“Lia. Where are you?”

More breathy whispers.

“Lia, talk to me. Tell me where you are.”

Click.

The lights on Grace’s phone flickered out. Lia Grant was gone. The air in her office thinned. No, Lia Grant was not entirely gone. She called up her voicemail, her heartbeat quickening at the eight messages. She pushed,
Play
.

Beeeeep
.
Dial tone.

Beeeeep
. “Um…my name is Lia Grant and I need your help. Please call me as soon as possible. This is”—
cracking voice
—“an emergency. Um…thank you.”

Beeeeep
. “It’s Lia again. Call me. Please.”

Beeeeep
. “Listen, Grace, I need your help. This is going to sound crazy but someone put me in a box and…and buried me. The box isn’t airtight, but it’s getting harder to breathe. I’m not sure where I’m at, somewhere in the swamp, maybe near Apalachicola. Please call me. Please.”

Beeeeep
. “Dammit, Grace, pick up your stupid phone!”

Beeeeep. Sob.
“I’m sorry for yelling. I’m in a bad place, Grace, really bad.”

Beeeeep
.
Dial tone.

Beeeeep. Cough
. “Hey, Grace. It’s me again. Lia. The phone, it’s dying.”
Choky sob.
“This may be my last call. Please call my momma and tell her I love her. God bless.”

Click.

The tendons at Grace’s wrist strained under the heavy silence. In her ten years with the State Attorney’s office, she’d encountered real fear and real terror in the voices of victims who’d been violated and in the whispered truths of witnesses who’d come face-to-face with evil. And there was something about Lia’s voice, something grave and desperate and
real
.

An uncharacteristic tremor rocked her hand as she retrieved her contacts on speed dial.

“Franklin County Sherriff’s Department, Criminal Division,” a cheery voice answered. “How can I direct your call?”