The Buried (The Apostles) (17 page)

“Part is not what I want, not what I
need
.”

“But it could be.” With their fingers clasped, he drew her closer. “Tell me you don’t need this.” He lowered his face and brushed his lips against her temple, her cheek, her jaw, a tiny trickle of kisses but with the power of a tidal wave, drowning her and taking away her breath. “And tell me you don’t need this.” His lips trailed along her neck and shoulder, and the fingers of his free hand glided down her back and pulled. And like the tug of the moon on the tide, she moved closer. “Tell me, Grace. Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

Hot desire rippled her flesh, heating her blood and sending swirls of steam fogging her brain and blurring the line between want and need. His lips slid along hers. Sweet, so sweet. A wave of golden warmth, like a jar of honey sitting under a July sun.

She slipped her fingers through the sides of his silken hair, pulling his lips from hers. “You’re right. I want this, even
need
this.” Because what she felt for Hatch was a gut-deep need. “But I deserve
more
than this.”

Hatch’s fingers stilled along her ribcage. “Do you need me to tell you again and again that I love you?”

Her heart hammered against his hands. “I deserve more than words, Hatch. I deserve a man who can commit.”

“I’m committing to now.”

She ripped his hands from her skin. “But what about next week or next month?”

“We’ll deal with them next week and next month.”

“And there’s the crux.” She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms about her legs, holding them tightly against her chest so her heart, her aching, bleeding heart, wouldn’t jump out of her body and into his hands. “I don’t want just next week and next month. You of all people know me. I want the win and the grand prize that comes with it. If I give you my love this time, Hatch, I want forever. I
deserve
forever.”

Hatch frowned at his empty hands, as if genuinely unable to comprehend why they no longer slid across her skin, wreaking havoc and bringing up emotions she long ago buried. Seeing his confusion and hurt wasn’t any easier the second time around.

“My phone battery is getting low,” she said. “We need to get back.”

They could work a case together, but they could never work.

Hatch remained silent. Because there were no more words. He stood at the wheel in shadows, and she couldn’t read his face. Did he regret coming back? Admitting he loved her and always would? The marker lights of the marina drew close, and she took her position at the sails, the wind snapping the canvas and stinging her eyes. Hatch didn’t believe in regrets, and that would be a healthy attitude to adopt. Her relationship with Hatch had been intense and incredible but in the end, impossible. Even though she loved him and always would, they had no future. Her fingers curled around a rope. The decade-old realization still rocked the deck beneath her feet.

When they reached the dock, Hatch turned off the motor, and
No Regrets
slid silently into the slip. She tied off while Hatch secured the boat for the night, his deck shoes padding over the deck. Without a word, he ducked below to gather his things. She sat on one of the bench seats and ran her toe along Blue’s belly. The dog cracked one eye, shifted so she could reach more of his belly, and fell asleep, oblivious to her pitching world.

A soft, chiming ring broke the quiet. She dug her phone from her pocket as Hatch popped his head out of the doorway. “Alex?” he asked.

The ID on the screen showed
Restricted Number
. She sucked in a fast breath.

Hatch flew to her side.

“Hello,” Grace said.

“H…h…lo? Wh…who…who is this?”

Grace’s skin grew stone cold. “My name is Grace Courtemanche.”

“H…help…m…me, Grace.” A scream ripped from the phone and tore at the night sky.

I
’m here.” Grace clutched the phone as if it were a lifeline. “Do you hear me? I’m here!”

Another high-pitched scream pierced Grace’s ear. She held the phone closer, tighter. “Tell me where you are. Tell me, and I will get you out of there.”

Sob after sob poured out of the phone.

“It’s going to be okay, but you first need to calm down.”

Hatch dropped to her side and handed her his phone. “Call Lieutenant Lang. Have her come down to the marina. I don’t want to move and risk a dropped call.” One by one he pried her fingers from her phone and said to the caller, “Hey there. My name’s Hatch, and we’re going to get you out of there.”

Grace stared at her empty hand, now ice cold. She curled her chilled fingers into her palm and brought her hand to her chest, where her heart was beating in a heated frenzy. She wanted to be on the line with that girl, to do something, anything, to help. Next to her Hatch continued to talk, his voice steady, his words soothing. He was doing what he did best.

She gave her hand a shake, getting the blood flowing again. They had a game plan in place. The minute the phone activated, the phone company would triangulate the call to determine the location, Lieutenant Lang would mobilize searchers, and Hatch would talk. This time she had her team in place. This time there would be no strike.

Grace hopped onto the dock, and with steady fingers dialed the lieutenant, who answered on the third ring, her greeting fuzzy with sleep.

“Second victim,” Grace said. “Hatch and I are at the Cypress Bend Marina, middle dock. Hatch is on the phone with her.”

The lieutenant swore with sudden clarity and volume. “Location?”

Behind Grace screams still poured from the phone. “Hatch is working on it.”

“On my way.”

Grace joined Hatch, who’d put the girl on speaker phone. The screams had faded to choky sobs. “Good, that’s good, sweetheart,” he was saying. “What’s your name?”

“J…j…janis,” she said with a raspy cough. “Janis J…J…Jaffee.”

Grace snatched her purse and dug out a pen. Where the hell was a piece of paper? If Hatch was going to do the talking, the least she could do was take notes. She found a takeout menu and jotted the girl’s name in the margin.

“You’re doing great, Janis,” Hatch said. “Can you tell me where you are?”

“N…n…no. Can’t see. Too dark. Can’t see.” A sob tumbled from the phone.

“Are you in some kind of box?” Hatch asked.

“Y…y…yes.” A jarring pounding sounded as if Janis were banging the phone against the lid of a wooden coffin. Grace pictured Lia’s hands, black with bruises, the fingertips shredded. “Get me out. Get me out now!”

“We’re doing just that, darlin’.”

“C…can’t breathe. I… I’m gonna die.”

“You can breathe, Janis. The box isn’t air tight. Lift your hands. Find one of the joints. Find the air. Then breathe. Just breathe.”

Grace pulled in a long draw of air, her own breathing steadying and evening out along with the woman on the phone.

“Good girl,” Hatch said. “Now I need you to pretend your phone is my hand. Can you do that?”

“Y…yes.”

“Good, now wrap your fingers around the phone. Are you doing that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m at your side, Janis, holding your hand. When you get scared, you give my hand a squeeze. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you know where you are?” Hatch asked, his free hand fisted and white-knuckled on his thigh.

“No.”

“How did you get in the box?”

“Running on beach. Carrabelle Beach. By my house. Always run. Years and years of running. But…” She choked out another sob.

“And you’re going to run again. What happened while you were on the beach?”

“Hit me from behind, knocked me out. Next thing I know I’m in the bottom of a boat.”

 “Did you see your attacker?”

“No. But I heard her voice.”

“Her?” Hatch and Grace said in unison.

“Your attacker was a woman?” For the first time since taking the phone call, Hatch’s voice was anything but calm.

“I…I think…so. I remember her hands. Small and soft.”

“What did she say?”

“Crazy. Something crazy.” Another sob. “Something like…like…level two. Must have been the hit to my head. Doesn’t make sense.”

But it made perfect sense. “Lia Grant was Level One,” Grace said under her breath, and Hatch nodded.

“Are you on or near Carrabelle Beach?” Hatch asked.

“No. Swamp. I think I’m in the swamp.”

Grace jotted the name of the beach and texted the abduction location to the lieutenant.

“What makes you think you’re in the swamp?” Hatch asked.

“I woke up in the boat. Smelled swamp water, not seawater.”

“Did you see anything? Landmarks? Buildings?”

“Blindfold. Hands and feet tied.” Another sob.

“Do you know how long you were out?”

“No idea. God help me. Someone help me!”

“Squeeze my hand, Janis.” When the girl’s scream faded to a whimper, Hatch asked, “How about sounds? Do you hear any sounds now? Running water or animal sounds or cars?”

“Quiet. So quiet. Alone. All alone.” A scream tried to tear from Janis, but it came out as a strangled gasp.

“You’re not alone, Janis. I’m holding your hand.”

“Yes. Okay. I remember.”

“When you were on the boat, did you hear anything? Anything like a train or cars or people?”

“No…nothing like that. But I heard dogs once. Lots of dogs.”

This county was full of hunters, much like Lamar Giroux. Grace grabbed Hatch’s arm and pulled the phone to her chin. “Did you hear any rattling, like metal jostling, when you heard the dogs?”

Long breath. “Yes, clanking. I heard barking and clanking and metal against metal.”

Grace’s fingers dug into Hatch’s arm. “I know of a few hunters who keep their dogs on floating pens.”

“Anything on Cypress Point?”

“No, further west toward Apalach.” She searched her memory, visualizing the pens. The hunters built floating docks and piled on large crates in game-rich areas. In less than a minute, she jotted down the names of four creeks, all further from her home. But that made sense. Level Two would be more challenging.

“Any other sounds?” Hatch continued. “How about smells? Do you remember anything else?”

“No. Nothing.” Janis coughed then sputtered. “Can’t talk. Getting harder to talk.”

“Okay, Janis. You just keep hold of that phone and keep squeezing my hand, and I’ll do the talking. You’re a strong woman, a smart woman, and pretty soon we’ll have you out of there. You know, my great aunt Piper Jane is smart and strong like you. Five months ago she took off on her sixth trip around the world. Sixty-two years old and…”

A siren wailed, and Grace ran up the dock. A sheriff’s SUV with flashing lights pulled into the parking lot followed by four other vehicles. Lieutenant Lang ran toward her. “The phone guys are on it,” the lieutenant said. “GPS wasn’t activated, so they’re tracking down the cell sites and sectors. Anything specific from the girl?”

“She’s in the swamp, possibly near Apalachicola and near a group of dogs.” Grace drew a map on the takeout menu, showing the four areas she knew housed dogs as she brought them up to speed. “I’m going to start here near Nettle Creek.”

The lieutenant took the paper, and together they hurried to Hatch’s boat, where a small group had gathered. Hatch climbed off the boat, his hands empty but for the keys to the SUV.

Her heart lodged in her throat. “Did we lose Janis?”

He shook his head and stepped to the side, revealing a tall, lean man in black pants and a black knit shirt. He stood in the shadowy stern, Grace’s phone to his ear. He was as dark as Hatch was light, with trimmed midnight black hair and intense charcoal eyes. “Jonny Mac’s here.”

The raven man dipped his head in a slight bow. This was Hatch’s teammate, the Apostle who specialized in finding lost souls.

Lamar Giroux’s fishing boat wasn’t fast or big, and it smelled like Allegheny Blue, but it did a hell of a job winding through twisting sloughs and creeks. Hatch had spoken to Jonny Mac minutes ago. Janis was no longer talking, but his teammate could still make out low, shallow breaths. Hatch ran the spotlight along the shore of Nettle Creek and peered through the dense shrubbery for any sign of a young woman buried alive. Downriver a pack of dogs barked.

“Shine the light to the right near the lilies,” Grace said as she squinted through the blackness, softened only by a sliver of moon. “Something’s been there.”

The spotlight cut across the lilies and landed on a flattened patch of broken reeds. His pulse spiking, he grabbed a low-hanging cypress branch and pulled them closer.

Damn. Too narrow for a boat, even a fourteen footer. “Another gator slide,” he said. Another dead end.

Grace maneuvered the boat out of the tiny creek, gliding to a set of yellow-slitted eyes poking out of the water. Hatch stared down the gator until it blinked and spun away. He’d take on every gator in Florida if it meant getting to Janis Jaffee in time. Although time was key, Grace continued to boat slowly down the river as he searched the banks, looking for any signs of human disturbance. Hatch ground his back teeth. Make that any signs of a disturbed human. They were dealing with a twisted and dangerous mind.

Once on the Apalachicola River, Hatch’s phone vibrated with a text from Lieutenant Lang. “Cell phone company just identified two towers picking up signals,” he told Grace. “Cross section of the towers is some place called Bremen’s Bayou. Name ring a bell?”

“Northwest of here,” Grace called out over the gun of the motor.

“Big area?” Hatch asked.

“Couple hundred acres.”

Even with the roar of the outboard, he heard the excitement in her voice. “What?”

“One of Lamar’s old hunting buddies keeps his dogs on a floating pen in that area. Janis heard the dogs right before she was dragged from the boat. We find the dogs, we’ll find the girl.”

Within fifteen minutes, Grace had them racing down the Apalachicola River and onto Bremen’s Bayou, a slow-moving waterway surrounded by cypress and oak dripping with Spanish moss. His light glided over cypress roots reaching up from the water like fingerless hands. The trees hung low over the water, and branches scratched the side of the boat. And some of the branches—

“Broken!” Grace said on a fast breath. “The wood’s still damp at the break. Someone’s had a boat back in here recently.”

She inched the boat through the tangle of branches. His light landed on a flattened bush and a pair of crushed white trumpet-like flowers. He fanned the light higher. “Drag marks. Too wide for a gator.”

Grace jammed the boat into the bank. He launched himself over the side, his feet sinking into swampy earth. Swatting brush, he chased the drag marks into the knot of blue-black shrubs and trees. Vines reached for his hands and legs. A ropy length of moss wrapped around his neck, and he yanked. Something snarled. Something else hissed. And still he ran.

The brush gave way to marsh. Mud sucked at his feet. His shins. His knees.

On the other side of the bog, he spotted the earthen mound.

He tore up the rise. Something sharp sliced into his right foot. Shoe. He’d lost a shoe.

At the mound, he fell to his knees and clawed the earth. “Janis!” he called. “It’s Hatch. I’m here.”

No banging. No choking gasp.

He scraped harder, faster, sandy soil flying. His finger scraped against something flat and cold. He tugged, and a rock came free. With the flat rock he shoveled earth.

Something crashed through the marshy grass and fell next to him. Another set of hands.

“Spotted three boats coming this way.” Grace jammed her hands in the dirt and shoveled.

His rock hit wood. Someone let loose a cry. Grace? Him? Janis?

More sandy soil flew through the air. He unearthed one corner. Another. With two feet of wood exposed, he banged the rock at the joint along the top. The wood split. He grabbed the broken lengths of wood and yanked, every muscle in his body straining. Nails screeched, the wood splintered, and half of the top board broke off, exposing a pale, dark-haired young woman.

In the weak glow of the moon, the young woman was stone still. Not even her chest moved. Grace jammed her fingers against her neck. “No pulse, but she’s still warm.”

Hatch reached under the woman’s shoulders and heaved her from the grave. He dropped to his knees beside the girl, settled his mouth on hers, and breathed.

Allegheny Blue hobbled down the porch steps and rested his head on Grace’s thigh, a line of drool sliding onto her mud-caked sandal. She scrubbed the old dog’s head and matched her breathing to his, slow and steady.

Breathing. An act so mundane and engrained that most people weren’t aware of doing it until they couldn’t.

Janis Jaffee, a twenty-three-year-old jogger from Carrabelle, was breathing, but not on her own. She was surrounded by a team of doctors and machines at the Cypress Bend Medical Center helping her fight for her life. Relief mingled with joy and exhaustion as Grace walked up the porch steps.

Hatch locked the SUV, but instead of climbing the steps he walked to the side of her shack, his movements slow and labored, as if weighed down by the mud caking his body. He toed off one shoe and peeled off his shirt. He slipped the gun from the holster at his back and set it on the porch along with his long shorts. Standing only in a pair of boxers, Hatch reached for the hose bib.

“You can shower inside,” Grace said. “A little bit of mud won’t hurt this place.”

Hatch cranked the spigot, and a frothy arc burst from the hose. Hatch stared, as if mesmerized by the rushing water. Was he thinking of the inky waters they’d traveled in their hunt for a girl buried alive? The sweat running down his face as he pulled the girl from her grave? Or other waters that would take him away from the horror of the night? He lifted the hose over his head and closed his eyes, sighing as a river of mud sluiced down his chest and legs to the pebbly ground. Or maybe he was just a tired, dirty guy who wanted to clean up after a long day’s work.