The Hidden (3 page)

The stairs to her apartment were to the far left. A sign hanging from a velvet rope advised No Admittance. She unhooked the rope and walked upstairs.

The whole second floor was hers. She had a kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom and even a guest room. It wasn’t fancy, but to be honest, she preferred it to the main house, which had been fully renovated to offer the rustic, frontier look guests expected.

In the main house, the parlor was spacious, and boasted Victorian furniture, period portraits and paintings, and a number of mounted animal heads, all of them at least a hundred years’ old. The dining room offered more massive heads, including a giant moose head that stared down at the large central table, which seated twelve.

The animal heads actually made Scarlet a little sad, but Trisha had told her that they were part of the tradition of the West and the guests expected them. Even so, Scarlet had never quite gotten used to them, and she had actually declined several meals at the main house because she felt so uncomfortable eating with the dead moose looking down at her.

Her place, however, was, in her opinion, just as nice as the main house, not to mention it was her own.

And neither her apartment nor the museum had trophy heads anywhere on the walls.

The apartment had been recently remodeled and refurbished. The master bedroom held two antique dressers, a washstand with a pitcher and bowl and an antique bed frame that held a very modern and comfortable queen-size mattress.

Scarlet loved her job here and was enjoying the emphasis on the Civil War, Reconstruction and westward expansion. It was so different from her work in Florida, which had focused on the Seminole Wars.

She walked into the kitchen and decided to brew tea while debating whether to go into town for dinner. She hadn’t actually left the property in a few days, so getting out and about was probably a good thing to do. She could become reclusive all too easily, she knew.

She was mulling over the strange pictures on the camera and pouring hot water over a tea bag when she heard a thump.

It was a loud thump. Loud enough to make her nearly spill scalding water over her hand.

She quickly set down the kettle and frowned. The sound had come from downstairs, where there shouldn’t have been anyone. She was certain she’d locked the door behind her.

Unease filled her. There wasn’t even a door between her and the downstairs, something she’d never thought about before.

She dug in her pocket quickly for her cell phone. After the camera incident, she didn’t want to sound like a paranoid idiot, but she didn’t want to take any chances, either.

She dialed the main house. “Hey,” she said when Ben picked up, “I’m just checking. Is anyone supposed to be downstairs in the museum? I just heard...something down there.”

“Not to worry, I’ll be right there,” he told her.

“I hate to bother you.”

“It’s a bother of about thirty steps. I’ll see you in two minutes.”

As soon as Scarlet heard Ben’s key in the door she ran down the steps to meet him.

He hit the switch that turned on all the overhead lights. “Let’s see what’s up, okay?” he asked.

“Thanks. I didn’t know—I thought maybe someone was supposed to be in here.”

He shook his head. “You, Trisha and I have keys. No one else. So what did you hear?”

“A thump.”

“A thump. Hmm. Well, let’s look around.”

The museum consisted of a single large room, with the platform holding Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir right in the middle.

They began to walk from one end to the other and found one of the frontiersmen on the floor.

“I’ll be darned. My great-great-whatever fell down,” Ben said.

“Poor Nathan Kendall,” Scarlet murmured. The mannequin was a handsome one; Nathan’s father-in-law had commissioned it—along with one of his daughter, which had disappeared at some time over the years—because he’d wanted them for his grandchild. Scarlet had never been sure whether she’d thought that was nice or creepy.

He grinned and hunkered down by the fallen figure. “I guess he wants to be sure we remember him. Well, we should. We’re both his descendants, after all. Give me a hand, will you?”

Scarlet helped him lift the mannequin. It was heavy, which made sense, since it had been carved from solid wood, then painted with care and dressed in period clothing. She assessed the handsome features for damage, thinking the nose might have been broken in the fall, but it was unharmed.

“Why would a statue just fall over?” she ventured.

“Who knows? So much mining went on around here, the earth is always adjusting. You okay?”

“Of course. The noise just startled me, that’s all.”

“I should probably install a security system out here. I never really thought that much about it. Locks on the doors. I didn’t even buy a gun and learn how to shoot until a few months ago. They frown on stockbrokers packing heat on the streets of New York.”

“I know how to shoot,” Scarlet said quietly. “But I don’t own a gun.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Your ex-husband was a cop.”

“Agent,” Scarlet said. “Federal agent.”

“I remember meeting him in New York one time, before you took that job in Florida. He seemed like a nice guy. But...none of my business. His loss is our gain, I say.”

“He
is
a nice guy,” Scarlet said. “Sometimes things just don’t work. Anyway, yes, he taught me how to use a gun.”

“Well, there you go—you’ve got a room full of guns right here,” Ben said. “Of course, half of these are older than the war between the States.”

“But most of them are in good working order,” she said. “Anyway, I’m fine. I think I’m going to head into town, but I’ll make sure I lock up when I go and when I get back.”

“’Night, then,” he said and left, locking the door carefully behind him.

Scarlet looked at the handsome face of Nathan Kendall. He and his wife had both been killed soon after he’d built the place, though their infant son had been spared. No one had ever been brought to justice for the murders. Some believed that the marauders he’d once ridden with had murdered them for revenge. Others said that Nathan’s father-in-law—a United States marshal who had taken over the ranch and raised the child, and who had opposed the marriage—had been responsible. Scarlet hated to think that a father might have killed his own daughter, but she knew that such things still happened to this day.

Back then, there had been no way to find the killer or killers. Forensic science had barely existed, and this little plateau had been truly isolated. Estes Park had been a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, and The Stanley had yet to rise on the mountaintop across the way.

“You behave,” she told the statue, wagging a finger at it. “I’ve been here two months and you’ve been good so far. Keep it up. I’m going out, and I don’t want to find that you’ve messed up the place when I get back, okay?”

She ran upstairs and grabbed a sweatshirt and her shoulder bag, then went back down.

She looked around the museum before leaving. Everything was quiet, just as it should have been.

But she was still spooked by the fallen mannequin.

Maybe it bugged her so much because it had come right after she’d seen those horrible pictures on her camera.
Could
a camera be hacked? She simply didn’t know.

She
did
know that she hadn’t taken those pictures.

If only Diego was here, maybe she wouldn’t feel so uneasy.

But Diego
wasn’t
with her. She had made that choice, and now...

She regretted it every day.

But this was her life now. And she loved Estes Park and the museum and the Conway Ranch. Okay, a mannequin had fallen over. No biggie. Maybe someone had bumped into it the other day and it had been unsteady ever since, so her walking around upstairs was all it had taken to tip it over.

And the pictures...

Ben had undoubtedly been right. She’d been hacked or tricked or played for a fool, somehow. She had just bought it on impulse at the electronics shop at the Miami airport, so some jerk there had probably fooled with it.

But how would anyone at the airport have known that she would be staying in the mountains, much less right here at this very ranch? She was certain she hadn’t said anything.

She let out a groan of self-disgust.

Getting shaky over this was ridiculous.

Scarlet stepped outside and started to close the door, but she paused and looked back, then said, “You all behave in here, do you understand me? I’m your best friend, preserving your history for posterity, so you need to listen to me, okay?”

Naturally, the mannequins did not reply.

She closed and locked the door and headed for her car, determined to think only about which restaurant to choose in town.

2

“T
he invitation will always stand,” FBI agent Brett Cody said, glancing over at Diego. “I’ve got to say, amigo, you’re the best partner I’ve ever had. So,” he added, “even if you don’t accept right now, we’ll always want you in the Krewe. And that really means something. No one gets into the Krewe by asking—it’s invitation only.”

Diego looked over at his partner. Brett was finishing out his last day at the Miami field office; he’d transferred in to the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters—the elite unit that investigated crimes that crossed over into the supernatural—when they’d closed a recent major case, a series of “zombie” murders that had rocked Miami.

Not only that, but Brett was also now engaged to Lara Mayhew, who’d been key in helping them solve the case—in part by calling in longtime friends who were part of the Krewe—after a truly whirlwind romance. Not that he should comment on that. He and Scarlet had gotten married less than two months after meeting.

Would they have made it, if not for the accident?

He didn’t know. And there was no reason for him to doubt Brett and Lara just because of his own failure.

His mind returned to the recent case, when they’d been aided by the ghosts of several of the victims. Brett had actually been visited by them, and though he’d balked, he’d finally come to believe.

Diego wondered why he himself really had no problem believing in ghosts. He’d seen the murdered couple—Miguel and Maria Gomez—and never questioned the reality of the experience.

Then again, he’d grown up Cuban and Irish, and between the two sides of the family, he’d heard stories about ghosts, pixies,
chupacabras
,
espíritus
and all kinds of otherworldly beings. Maybe because of that, he hadn’t even been shaken when he’d seen Miguel’s and Maria’s ghosts.

Maybe that was why he’d been invited to join the Krewe along with Brett. But the Krewe only had offices in New York City and Alexandria, with teams dispatched all over the country as needed, and for years he’d wanted to fight the good fight in his native Miami. Still, it was hard thinking that he and Brett would no longer be partners; they’d worked together for several years and had become good friends. He’d always felt safe knowing that Brett had his back.

Of course, for now Brett would be coming and going. Lara wasn’t giving up her job at the Sea Life Center, so they were going to be long-distance lovers for a while. And he knew that the Bureau could transfer him anywhere, but unless his bosses forced him to leave Miami, he just wasn’t ready to move yet.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Diego assured Brett. “Let’s finish this, shall we?”

That morning they’d arrested a human trafficker named Amelio Parva and his partner, known only as Pancho, in the act of betraying and abandoning at sea a group of Cuban refugees who’d paid handsomely to be brought safely ashore. With the bad guys in custody, the rescued refugees had been taken to a detainment center, where Diego and Brett had just arrived so they could sign off on the paperwork.

“Here’s hoping they all get asylum,” Brett muttered as he parked. The people being held here weren’t criminals, but even so, the facility was surrounded by barbed wire. Once inside, though, it wasn’t so much a prison as it was a hospital.

Diego finished signing, then handed the papers to Brett and wandered over to look through a window into a social room, where the newest refugees had been allowed to gather.

Diego noted a woman sitting in a rocking chair. She was probably about seventy, gray-haired, very thin, with sharp blue eyes. She noticed him, too, and stared at him hard.

She lifted a hand and beckoned him over. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew she had something important to say to him.

Brett touched his shoulder. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“Hang on. I just want to talk to someone for a minute,” Diego said.

“I’m not sure if we should—” Brett began.

A doctor exited the room just then, and Diego went over to him. “Hey, we were on the detail that found these people today. Mind if I go speak to one of them?” Diego asked.

“I don’t see why not,” the doctor said.

As Diego stepped into the room, everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him.

The old woman was still watching him, and she lifted her hand to him again.

He walked over and hunkered down by her chair.

She smiled—a toothless smile that was still somehow beautiful.
“Gracias, gracias,”
she said, then picked up his hand and brought it to her cheek. “I will live out my days here,” she said in heavily accented English, smiling, and glancing up at Brett, who had followed and was standing just behind Diego. “Thanks to you.” Then she met Diego’s eyes again, her own bright and piercing. “But you—you must be very careful. And you must go where you are called. You understand? You will know. You must go where you are called.”

He rose, smiling, his mind spinning with thoughts. He wondered if she had been considered a
bruja
, a witch, back home, if young girls had come to her, wanting to know if they would marry the loves of their lives.

“Thank you, senora,” he told her.
“Muchas gracias.”

She smiled sweetly. “You are a good man, but sometimes that isn’t enough. Listen with your soul and you will survive.”

“Thank you, senora,” he repeated.

He joined Brett, ready to leave, but stopped when she spoke again.

This time her voice was odd—it was suddenly deep and husky, and she sounded like a man. Stranger still, there wasn’t a hint of an accent as she spoke.

“I just want to protect her, too.”

Diego spun around to look at the old woman. Her head was down, her eyes closed, and she appeared to be sleeping. No one else was anywhere nearby.

He shook off his unease, and they left the facility. Diego was glad that his mother’s parents had come to the States when they had, aware that there was trouble ahead.

“She liked you,” Brett teased.

Diego shrugged. “What’s not to like?”

“You know, you
are
divorced, and Lara has a lot of friends,” Brett said.

Diego stopped walking and laughed. “No. No, no, no. I don’t need to be fixed up. I can find my own dates if I want to. I’m cool, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” Brett said.

* * *

Dinner was delicious. Scarlet had chosen one of the town’s many barbecue restaurants, where she’d run into a number of people she’d already met casually. Afterward she headed down to one of the bars where a local band played live every night.

It was on her way there that the one flaw in the evening happened.

As Scarlet walked down the sidewalk, dodging people—including a number of children who asked their parents to buy them “moose droppings,” the local name for little balls of chocolate aimed at the tourists—she was approached by a man in his thirties wearing jeans and a striped cowboy shirt. She would have found him handsome and appealing if the weird way he’d come on to her hadn’t been so unnerving.

“You need to be careful,” he told her without preamble.

“Excuse me?” she said in shock.

“You shouldn’t be running around alone,” he said. “You have to be careful. There’s something going on.”

“I’m always careful, thank you,” she said, trying to get past him and be polite at the same time. “And what’s going on is that you’re bothering me.”

“Be careful,” he persisted.

He gripped her arm, but she was so upset she didn’t feel anything. She paused and stared at him, then realized people were staring at
her
.

“Listen—” Scarlet began.

“You’re one of us. And they’ll come after you. They’ll want
you
dead, too.”

Really shaken now, she jerked her arm away. “Leave me alone,” she said firmly. People were still staring at her, and that upset her further. She loathed making a scene. She left him behind and hurried down the street.

Once she was in the bar, she felt fine. She’d been there several times before, and the drummer in the house band, Eddie Keye, had even asked her out. She’d told him the truth, that she wasn’t ready to date again yet. He’d accepted her refusal with a smile, and they’d become friends. She waved to him as she entered, then took a seat in the corner, where he joined her during the break between sets and she told him about her strange encounter.

When the band had finished for the night, Eddie walked her to her car. He assured her that he would deck the guy if they ran into him again. “Probably just a drunk,” he said.

Scarlet shook her head. “He didn’t seem drunk.”

“A loony, then,” he said reassuringly.

They’d reached her car by then, and she thanked him for escorting her, then hesitated. “It’s just been a weird day,” she said, and told him about the strange pictures on her camera.

“Did it come with a memory card? They might have been there when you bought it,” he said. “Some practical joker’s idea of funny. I say you should just chalk it up to the fact that the world is crazy and let it go.”

It was good advice. “I’ll do that,” she promised.

“Drive safe, and call me when you’re ready to hit the trail to romance again,” he told her cheerfully.

“You’re my number one guy,” she assured him.

She waved to Eddie and started the car, wondering why she still felt so uncomfortable.

Scarlet had the feeling that someone was watching her. Not the man who had approached her before. Someone different. Someone who wouldn’t come up to her but would stalk her—and then pounce.

She shook off the feeling, telling herself she was just feeling residual anxiety after the strange events of the day.

It was time for bed.

She drove carefully up the steep winding road to the ranch. She was still becoming accustomed to getting around here and was dreading her first winter.

She felt lighter heading back, convinced that someone had messed with the camera, and that natural vibrations, whether in the earth or the museum itself, had toppled the mannequin. No big deal.

The night was beautiful and very dark. She drove slowly and was glad of it when a buck leaped onto the road and stopped directly in front of her. He simply stood there, caught in her headlights.

“Think maybe you could move now?” she said after a long moment.

When he didn’t budge, she gave her horn a tap and was grateful when he bounded off into the surrounding woods.

She drove on, frowning as she saw what seemed to be a sea of light at the Conway Ranch.

There were eleven guests staying there, but she hadn’t heard anything about a campfire planned for that night. As she drew closer, she realized that the glow seemed to come from a multitude of headlights.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she got close enough to see that five cop cars and an ambulance with lights ablaze were parked on the property. A cop standing in the driveway motioned her to a stop and gestured for her to roll down her window.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m Scarlet Barlow. I work at the museum and live above it. What’s happened?” she asked anxiously. “Ben and Trisha. Are they okay?”

He nodded to her gravely. “Yes, the owners are all right.”

“What’s happened?” she persisted.

“May I have your ID, please?”

She handed it over. He looked from it to her, aiming his flashlight at her face and making her blink.

“Says here your name is McCullough.”

“I’m divorced. I haven’t changed my ID yet,” she told him. “See? My license says Scarlet Barlow McCullough.”

He was looking at her as if she was a hardened criminal. “They’re definitely going to want to talk to you,” he said.

“They?”

“The detectives.”

“But—”

“You’re the one with the camera. The one who took pictures of dead people. The pictures that mysteriously disappeared, right?” he asked, his voice hard-edged.

“Someone messed with my camera, yes, but I don’t see why that calls for police response.”

“Really? Not when two people have been murdered exactly the way your boss says they were in the pictures you showed him? Park your car, please, then follow me. Lieutenant Gray is going to want to see you, pronto.”

* * *

Scarlet had advanced degrees in history and archaeology; she had worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and on an important dig in South Florida. She was bright, fun, cheerful, beautiful and eager for whatever life brought.

She did not tend to hysteria or tears.

Given all that, Diego wasn’t sure how or why he knew instinctively when he answered the phone that she was going to be on the other end.

They were having a small farewell party for Brett at Sea Life, the dolphin facility where Lara Mayhew worked. Brett was flying to DC the next day for orientation. There was talk of him setting up a small Miami office for the Krewe, and if that happened Diego thought maybe he would take them up on their invitation, after all. Meanwhile, he had a party to enjoy.

The food had been catered and set up outside under a large tent. They’d visited the dolphins down at the lagoon earlier, and now everyone was just talking idly.

And yet, when his phone rang, Diego was instantly alert, somehow sure it was going to be his ex-wife.

She’d moved to Colorado, and he hadn’t let her see the ache in his heart when she’d told him she was going.

“Scarlet?” he said without even looking at the caller ID, stepping out into the darkness beneath a sea grape tree.

“Diego, yes, it’s me.”

“How are you? Are you all right?” he asked her anxiously.

“I’m...oh, Diego, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m in real trouble.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She sounded indignant, even angry.

That was good, he thought. “Then what happened?”

“Two people were murdered, and they think...they think I was involved!”

“Why?”

“My camera. The views here are gorgeous, so I bought a good camera at the Miami airport before my flight out. It was working fine, but then today it took pictures of things that weren’t there. Bodies. Dead bodies. And then they disappeared.”

“The bodies?”