Face of Danger (16 page)

“Well, in my investigative experience, finding the security breach that allowed a killer to get in the house can really affect a case, too. So come with me while we do a search of the grounds.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but then, with Lang, nothing was. “On one condition.”

He choked softly. “Vivi, I don’t do conditions. And are you forgetting who’s in charge?”

As if that would be possible. “There’s something on the property I want to see.”

He hesitated, then moved forward. “What?”

“The abandoned cranberry farm where, according to Mercedes Graff, Cara spent a good chunk of her childhood, in a bog house.”

“Because you think you’ll figure something out if you see the environment and get in tune with the emotional connection Cara has to this land?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. Definitely teasing. Why would she even dream it was admiration?

“Nothing so deep, Lang. We’re looking for places Cara might have hidden something and, since I’m pretty much unable to cruise the crime scene up in her bedroom, I’m just trying to think outside the box.”

“I’ll buy that. Let’s go.”

I
found a pair of shit kickers.”

The voice, the phrase, even the verbal attitude was so “Vivi” that Colt got a little jolt when he looked up from the ignition of the ATV to see a woman who appeared to be nothing like her bounding into the garage.

Even with the long, fake hair pulled up in a ponytail and stuck through a baseball cap, shades covering the made-up eyes, and the rubber-bottomed suede boots she proudly extended for his examination, Vivi—as Cara—was drop-dead sexy. Why didn’t she try a little harder to look like a woman? It suited her. It slayed him.

“Shit kickers?”

She placed the foot in question on the running board of a Honda Rancher, one of several in the garage, gracefully swinging her leg over and settling behind him on the four-wheeler’s seat. “The only shoes in that woman’s closet without a heel. Let’s roll, Lang. I love riding these things.” She gave her legs a squeeze, smashing the inside
of her thighs against the outside of his. “In fact I love them so much, it’s difficult to let you drive.”

“You’re not
letting
me do anything,” he said, turning the key so the transmission rumbled right underneath them, feeling as powerful as the contact with her body. “However, I am
letting
you come along.” Rolling out to the drive, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, already programmed to a satellite image of the property, and handed it to her.

“You can navigate.” He revved the engine and headed to the back of the property, where he already knew he could pick up the first trail in the woods behind the house.

“Whoa, look at this map,” Vivi said. “This place is huge.”

“I want to check the perimeter where the privacy wall gives way to brush and foliage and swamp land. We’ll start at the northernmost trail and work down. Hang on.”

Instantly, she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tight as he followed a path into an opening in the woods. The brush was thick along the trail, but the dead pines made a smooth path and he went a little faster than necessary just for the pleasure of having her hang on to him.

Before long, she let go, steadying herself with one hand around his stomach, working the satellite map with the other.

“We should be coming to the end of this trail, and either the privacy wall or—”

“A swamp.” He hit the brakes and eased up as they reached a wide area of wetlands. “You’d need a swamp buggy to get through that, and if anyone had been through here they would have left tracks in this mud. Pakpao
didn’t come through, but we’re going to have to get this opening barricaded right away.”

They went through the same process on two more trails, one ending in thick brush that hadn’t been trespassed, the other closed in by part of the privacy wall. They headed west, deeper into the woods, the wheels of the ATV rolling over large rocks and splashing through early spring mud. On the roughest patches and tightest turns, Vivi held firmly to him, close enough that he could feel her heart beat against his back and her breath on his neck. Her hand rested low on his abdomen, perilously close to his crotch, an area humming with life and a little too much blood, blissfully unaware they were on a security search at the moment.

The engine vibrated between his legs, aggravating the tightness in his balls, the dryness in his throat, the temptation to stop and drag her into the most secluded grove of trees, and—

“The bog’s that way, Lang.” She let go and pointed to another path. “I can see it right here on your phone.”

He had to stop thinking about sex with her, because she was obviously not feeling distracted by the same thoughts. Knowing Vivi, she was probably planning her ambush on his personal life. It was his own fault; he’d opened the door by mentioning what had happened to Jennifer. Part of him wanted to tell her. Not so she pitied him, and not so she understood why he needed to escape the memories that lurked in every corner of Boston.

But because Vivi ought to know that taking risks had deadly consequences.

“Oh, look at that.” She squeezed tighter, her breasts plastered to his back, images of her curves hugged by a
white lace bra wiping out the view that had her gasping against him. “It’s the cranberry bog. So pretty.”

He concentrated on the panorama, slowing the ATV as they ripped through some overgrown brush that blocked the path. For acres in all directions, the shallow, murky water glistened under the sun, reflecting the clouds and making the whole stretch a mirror image of the sky. Some bushes and dried-up cranberry vines shot up through the murk like nature’s craggy fingers, and the still barren tree line that encircled the bog only added to the sense of death and abandonment.

On the far western banks, a small weathered-gray wooden structure stood out in stark contrast to the natural beauty.

“That must be the bog house where Cara grew up,” Vivi said, giving his right arm a nudge toward the handle accelerator. “I want to see it.”

He took the four-wheeler that way, rounding the path until they reached the house. Vivi was climbing off and jogging toward the house before he’d even shut off the engine.

“Wait a second,” he called after her, his attention on her instead of the dwelling.

She paused long enough to check it out, then looked over her shoulder to wave him closer. “I wonder why she doesn’t publicize these humble beginnings,” she mused. “America loves a rags-to-riches story.”

“Same reason she changed her name, probably. The quest for glamour.” And this place couldn’t be less glamorous. He reached her in three steps and she grabbed his hand to pull him into her adventure, eyes glistening like they did when Vivi was doing something she shouldn’t do.

Why the hell did that turn him on so much? That trait
should be a blinding red flag:
Run, Colt, run.
And that was the plan, if this whole assignment went right.

“Let’s go in,” she said.

“Sure. Let’s B-and-E unsafe, unsecured property. Why the hell not?”

She just laughed, letting go of him halfway around the back to the door.

Sometimes her force couldn’t be fought. Like on the plane, in the closet—when would he give in to the constant ache to touch her next? Here, in this desolate, vacant house, on an old pine floor, naked… wrestling… doing exactly what they shouldn’t be doing.

Anyone could come by. He hung back, inhaling the pine and musk of the afternoon air, listening to the random call of a bird. And Vivi.

Her soft cry from the back of the house made him drop the sex thoughts and run, his right hand toward the weapon in his holster. She stood at the back door, hands on her hips.

“No lock picking necessary, big guy. The door’s wide open.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Like someone just left.”

“Or is still inside.” He stepped in front of her, drawing his weapon. “Stay out here.”

He moved stealthily into a darkened, mold-scented kitchen, no sign of life unless he counted the spider crawling across a cracked and yellowed Formica counter.

Dusty and as abandoned as the bog it overlooked, the house couldn’t have been a thousand square feet. He could see into a living area at the front of the house, empty except for a blackened mantel around an ash-filled fireplace. There was one other room off to the side and a
bathroom that, from the looks of the pipes sticking out of the wall, once doubled as a laundry room. That was it. There was no furniture, only chipped paint and a stained and threadbare carpet.

“No one’s here,” he said from the front room, peering out a cloudy pane of glass to the bog outside. The front door was closed and latched with a flimsy lock that a good shake could probably break.

He headed into the bedroom, toward a closet door. He opened it, ready to fire, but it was as empty as the rest of the house, except for a pile of old paint tarps on the floor.

“The back door must have just been left unlocked,” he called to Vivi. But his instinct said otherwise. The house smelled like it had been sealed up, not like fresh air had been blowing through.

He turned and crossed the space into the kitchen, noting the faded paint marks on the living room walls, the outlines where pictures once hung. Dust in every corner, dead bugs, and filth.

“It’s a wonder she doesn’t just tear this place down,” he said. “Can’t be a good memory—Vivi?”

She didn’t respond and the kitchen was empty.

“Vivi?” he called again, heading to the door, freezing at the sound of the ATV starting up. What the hell was she doing? “Vivi!” He jogged to the door just as the four-wheeler disappeared into the woods, before he could even glimpse her on it.

Son of a
bitch
. He stuffed his gun back in the holster and listened to the fading engine, his temper choking. What the fuck was wrong with that woman?

•    •    •

Vivi opened her mouth to scream as some insect flew right in. Spitting madly, she threw her hands out into the darkness.

What the hell happened? Had she fallen? She’d been standing outside the house on the rotten wood of the deck when Lang went in and the board under her feet just caved in.

Or had it? She’d stumbled, instantly falling down into someplace dark and cavernous, cold and hard, then the board—or was it a trapdoor?—had closed above her. Had she been pushed? It happened so fast.

Where the hell was she?

The ground underfoot was hard, like cement. The walls were the same, and closed in. A tunnel? A way into the drainage ditches? She knew next to nothing about cranberry bogs, except that they were lined with drainpipes and some of them had underwater platforms for farmers to walk across when they harvested the fruit.

Was that what she had fallen into?

And—holy hell—did Lang know? She reached out to get her bearings, touching rough, rounded concrete. Something tickled her fingers and she snapped back her hand.

Shaking a little, she swiped at her face, not sure if it was her imagination, her fake hair, or—God, spiders! She brushed at her arms. More of them. With a grunt of disgust, she protected her mouth to avoid swallowing one, then from behind her hand she let out a scream that thudded into the walls through the enclosed space.

No answer.

“Lang!” She tried again, so loud it shredded her throat.

The ground rumbled a little and she could have sworn she heard the ATV engine.

Was he leaving? If he was, she’d kill him.

Something bumped above her head. She peered up, half expecting another spider on her face, seeing nothing but absolute blackness. How far down was she? It hadn’t hurt to fall, so she couldn’t have dropped very deep in the ground. Was it a hole? A well?

Gingerly she reached up a hand, feeling air. She called for help, but the plea was swallowed up by the cement around her. Could he even hear her down there? Did he have any clue where she was? Was he right above her on the rotten wooden deck?

Then why wouldn’t he hear her?

She screamed again, the sound muffled by the cement.

She stuffed her hand into the skintight back pocket of Cara’s jeans, fishing out her phone, praying for a—
No Signal.

“Shit!” But at least it cast a light. She turned the screen to see her surroundings and instantly wished she hadn’t. Spiders crawled all over the walls, and the opening above was a good four feet from her reach.

Still, she tried again, spurred by frustration and the light pressure of a tendril of panic that was slowly curling around her chest. “Lang, I’m down here!” The sound just wasn’t carrying.

She breathed through her nose, trying to stay calm, smelling dirt and mildew, and the tangy hint of cranberry. The light showed some kind of hole leading out of the bottom, about two feet wide.

Was there any other option? Could she crawl up? Could she somehow creep up the way she came?

Thanking God and whatever stylist had recommended that Cara buy rubber-soled boots, she reached her arms
out, the phone in her teeth so she could see the spiders, squishing those that skittered over her hands. She made it a foot and slid back down.
Damn
it.

But it wasn’t the only way out.

Crouching down, she shone the light into the tunnel. A rat scurried away, running toward blackness on the other side. This was a drainage pipe, she decided, used for irrigation when the bog was running.

So it should lead somewhere. To a water source or into the bog. Oh, Lord, please don’t let that be the only way out.

Another, braver, bolder rat scurried toward her, his eyes trapped in the light. Chills crawled up her skin, her stomach turning.

“Fuck you, swamp rat,” she said. “I’m fifty times your size.”

But not too big to crawl through that pipe.

She hated the thought the minute it landed in her head. Surely a drainage pipe led out somewhere, though. Unless it led to another hole like the one she was in, with another covered opening, and then—

Was she eventually going to run out of air?

She took another breath and screamed again. “Goddamn you, Lang! I’m down here!”