She was starting to perspire and nearly crawling along the bank, the smell of earth and the river heavy in her nostrils, a slight breeze playing with the tendrils of her hair. She had always been athletic and agile, but she was making slow progress past the old dock, around the bend, relying on the scant overhang and impending darkness as cover. Here the river was deeper, the narrow bank and cattails giving way to dark depths, where, as youths, her brothers had dived and swum and boats could maneuver close to the shore.
It was tricky going, pebbles and rocks slick under her boots, and she braced herself by hanging on to any exposed root or weed on the underside of the shelf. She picked her way around a garden rake and a broken dollhouse that had been carried away during the storm, inching around the point, feeling a burn in her thighs from crab-walking. The thought crossed her mind that this might not have been the best idea she’d ever come up with, but she ignored it and kept moving, shifting her weight, trying not to turn her ankle on the slick pebbles and stones. By the time she’d rounded the point and was on the north side of the grounds, she was wet with sweat. But at least she was closer to the weed-choked rose garden and long lane that curved to the back of the house. Unfortunately, here the shoreline was nearly nonexistent, the overhanging shelf much lower, and ahead she saw in the gloaming that soon the land would level off, the shelf disappearing into a marshy lowland. There would be no hiding place.
So what then?
Expose herself?
Hope Reed had taken off?
Pretend that she’d gotten past the deputies at the front gate?
Take a chance that one of the cops would talk to her?
This would be the tricky part.
Biting her lip, she dared straighten a bit and peek over the ledge of the overhang, and her heart nearly stopped as she caught a glimpse of white-blond hair. Sylvie Morrisette was standing only a few yards away from the river, but fortunately she was turned back to face the house and didn’t catch a glimpse of Nikki.
Crap!
Of all the people to be nearby. Reed’s damned partner.
Just what she did not need.
Nikki fought a surge of panic; after all, this was bound to happen. She just had to be careful because she didn’t want to be found out until she could explain the situation to her husband first and convince him that she would be a help rather than a hindrance to the case!
So what now?
Keep moving!
Adrenaline pumping through her, she bent even lower and scrambled over the slick stones and mud. All the while she scoured the area for a spot to hide until Sylvie Morrisette was out of sight.
Where, where, where?
There had to be a hiding spot. Had to!
As the beach narrowed, she was barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Here the river deepened, rushing closer before turning again away from the house, and finally giving way to marshland on the far side of the garden.
Her legs were cramping and she was seriously second-guessing herself as the sun slid beneath the horizon.
She started to slip, caught her balance and then spied a willow tree leaning over the water not fifty yards ahead, near the next bend in the river. The tree’s leafy branches draped over the water, some flexible limbs touching the river and being tugged by the current.
If she could just make it the short distance without being seen, she could hide in the shelter behind the curtain of leaves. She started to move as she heard Morrisette’s twangy voice.
“Yeah, nothin’ so far. Still lookin’. Probably a wild-goose chase anyhoo, y’know. Hopefully there’s nothin’ more.” Then a pause.
Oh, God. Morrisette was closer than Nikki had thought, just on the ledge above, and she was talking to someone . . . no, more likely speaking on the phone. To Reed?
Nikki held her breath.
Morrisette began to talk again. “Yeah, yeah. Good. Meet back at the house . . . yeah, I can’t wait.” A brittle laugh.
Straining to hear, Nikki leaned forward. She kept her balance by grabbing a wet, exposed root.
“It’ll be interesting to hear what our pal Bronco has to say for himself.”
Bronco?
“Wouldn’t you know that lowlife would be the one to call it in. Even if he did it anonymously. Makes you wonder what else he knows, y’know. Maybe he can tell us why there looks like a third grave in that basement. Two bodies, three burial spots? I can’t figure it. What the hell’s that all about? Yeah . . . yeah, I know. I hope we don’t find any others. What? Oh, yeah. Deputies are looking for our buddy as we speak, but it looks like Bronco’s gone to ground, y’know? Not at home, not at work . . . Yeah, heard he was laid off from the construction company. . . . uh-huh, staking it out . . . What? Oh, the Red Knuckle. He’s a regular there. Hangs out there every damned evening, the way I hear it. They probably have a stool with his name on it.... What? His home? . . . Yeah, it’s a cabin across the river from here, been in his family for years, I think.... Yeah, yeah, me too. Can’t wait to hear what he has to say.”
Nikki couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her pulse jumped and her brain raced with the information. The only person named Bronco that Nikki knew about was Bronco Cravens, a two-bit con artist who had lived in the area for years. Bronco had been trouble from the get-go, the son of a preacher and yet always at odds with the law. He’d even been to prison if she remembered correctly. Burglary or robbery or something? She couldn’t remember the exact charge, but she did know that he had a connection to the place.
Bronco’s grandfather had been the caretaker at the Beaumont place for years. Nikki herself had seen Wynn Cravens, his hair as white as an egret, working in the tool shed or clipping roses in the garden more than once when she and her family had visited the estate.
She chewed on that for a second, her mind spinning. A third burial spot? In the basement? Two bodies, but three graves? What was that all about?
And why had Bronco called the police anonymously? No reason, unless he was guilty, right? Was he involved? But surely not the killer—because he wouldn’t have called. Was he an accomplice who had second thoughts? Or, unbeknownst to the killers, had he surreptitiously witnessed the murder being committed? And the police had already figured out he’d been the caller?
“Okay.” Morrisette’s voice broke into the spool of her thoughts. “Yeah, got it,” she said, and seemed to end the call.
Dozens of questions racing through her mind, Nikki redoubled her efforts to get to her hiding spot. The tree was much closer now. Crouched over nearly double, she started moving again. If she could just cover the distance of twenty yards or so under the overhang of the bank, she might be okay. She would be able to—
She saw movement between the branches, the silver-green leaves a shifting veil and hiding something within.
She froze, her heart hammering as she squinted into the gathering darkness. Had she spied an animal . . . a muskrat or . . . a bobcat . . . maybe an alligator? No good options there.
And then she caught a glimpse of pale red. As the willow leaves shuddered, turning with the current, she spied the shadow of . . . a boat?
What?
She stopped suddenly, the fingers of one hand twined around a clump of weeds that had poked through the rocks, her throat tight. What the hell?
Why would a boat be moored beneath the tree after a storm the likes of which hadn’t been seen in this part of the country in decades? She thought of a local fisherman braving the swollen river but immediately discarded the idea. More likely whoever had shown up was someone interested in what was going on at the Beaumont mansion, someone who had heard the news that bodies had been located, but a person who didn’t want to be noticed by the cops.