Buried Secrets (New Adult Dark Suspense Romance) (22 page)

He laughed. “Guns make you feel sexy?”

“Mmm.” She ran her hands up under his shirt. “Hard steel… all that… power…”

“Dusty,” he whispered against her neck as she slid her hand over the crotch of his jeans.

“Ever had sex in a pile of guns?” she asked, taking her t-shirt off and unhooking her bra. His eyes moved over her, hungry, and then it was his hands, cupping and kneading her flesh.

“No, not on the guns,” he said as she turned away from him, unbuttoning her jeans and sliding them over her hips along with her panties. “Dusty, seriously…”

She crawled up on the bed on her hands and knees, feeling the cool metal of the Glock against her wrist as she found a place to put her hands in the midst of the weapons laid out on his bed.

“Come on,” she whispered, arching her back, sticking her bottom in the air.

He groaned and she smiled when she heard the sound of his zipper. Then he was behind her, and then he was inside her, and she lost and found herself with him again and again.

Dusty gripped the bedspread, and she found her hand wrapped around one of the guns, a .38, maybe the one that would kill the monster that took her brother’s life.

When Shane drove her forward onto the bed, pressing his full weight into her, Dusty gasped, feeling the cold steel of the guns biting her belly and thighs. She arched and took all of him as his hands dug into her shoulders to gain more leverage. She twisted and arched underneath him, feeling the hard steel of the guns against her skin until they were both spent, his weight on her crushing the air from her lungs, but she didn’t care.

“Ouch,” she said finally, and he laughed, standing up and pulling her with him. She had little red marks where her skin had been pressed into metal.

“It was your bright idea,” he murmured, kissing her deeply.

“Shane?” Dusty asked, watching him put the guns in a box and store them under his bed.

“What?” The moon shone into the room, casting eerie shadows.

“What happens if guns don't work?” she asked. “What if it
can’t
be killed?”

“Well,” he said, opening the bedroom door. “Either one or all of us will die.”

She looked at him in the pale moonlight and her heart seemed to forget to beat.

“I love you,” she said. “Whatever happens.” It was the first time she’d ever actually spoken those words to him out loud.

He held his hand out to her and she took it, letting him lead her back to bed. The mattress was warm and soft and welcoming now and they snuggled together under the comforter, not speaking, lost in their own thoughts. She knew what she’d asked of him was a lot—and that if they got caught, if something happened, Shane would be blamed. This town always tried to blame him, if they could.

How ironic, that the town’s real enemies were walking around in the light, members of the town council, respectable citizens. People like Guy Walker. And her own father. She still hadn’t talked to him—and now she knew she didn’t want to. There was nothing he could say that would change things, explain away what she had heard. He might not have killed a man himself—but he’d been involved. And for what? To save his job? Because, as he said, he had two kids heading to college?

Not anymore.

No. Not anymore. Nick would never go to college, and Dusty had lost interest in anything that had to do with becoming any sort of “respectable citizen.” Like her father. Or Julia.

It seemed to her that Shane’s way of life—living off the grid, off the land, out in the middle of nowhere—fit her perfectly. Just the way her head fit perfectly under his chin on his chest. Just the way her hand fit perfectly in his.

No, she didn’t want to be like her father. His actions had likely directly or indirectly caused the death of his own son.

“Shane?”

“Hm?” He twirled a strand of her hair around and around his finger.

“I think I know what… who… it is.”

She felt his breath catch.

“What?”

She took a deep breath and told him the rest of what she’d overheard in her father’s office, including the part about the
“fucking Indians snooping around and a dead body buried out there somewhere!”

“I think they killed Sam’s father. I think they buried the body out there. And I think… maybe he wasn’t dead.”

“Jesus.” Shane’s voice was faint, his hand over his eyes, like he could maybe unsee the picture she’d just painted. “Dusty… I’m the Indians. Well, I’m not, but I’ve been taking them out there. I had no idea the company knew. Fuck.”

“What are you talking about?”

He took a deep breath. “They’re trying to shut down the fracking site for good. The Ottawa tribe has been looking for evidence that the land is full of Native artifacts. And I’m pretty sure we found enough proof on our last trip to shut them down permanently. They just need to take it to the judge.”

She raised her head, eyes bright. “You’ve been doing that all along?”

He nodded, touching her cheek. “Why are you always so surprised I’m one of the good guys?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled in the dark, snuggling against him again. “I guess I’m a slow learner.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I forgive you.”

“So he’s human… the thing you saw. I’m sure I’m right. It can be killed.”

Shane nodded. “I guess. But Dusty, I swear to you, I’ve been trying to track it—him—for over a month. And I’m a damned good tracker. I can’t find it. I’ve set traps. I’ve gone out on watches. I’ve looked. It’s the damnedest thing. I don’t understand it. It defies all the laws of nature.”

“We’ll find it. It’s in the graveyard. I know it.”

“How do you know?”

She couldn’t explain it. “Women’s intuition.”

“Well I hope you’re right. Because I want it
dead
.”

“So do I.” She smiled, tracing the words she was thinking,
I love you
, on his chest. “And I want
you.”

“Not dead, I hope?” He lifted his head to look at her and she saw the flash of his smile in the dark.

“Not anymore.” She grinned. “Now come on, gimme what I want.”

“Yes, princess.”

He rolled her over, kissing her breathless, until neither of them could think of anything—corrupt officials, dead loved ones, monsters, real or imaginary—except how much they loved and wanted each other.

They came together and, for one glorious moment, became each other’s entire universe.

✝
Chapter Ninetee
n
✝

They stood outside of th
e cemetery, the six of them together for the very last time.

Trees loomed beyond the iron fence, rising spear-like from the ground. Graves, arranged in rows, seemed haphazard from this angle among winding paths of asphalt. Headstones rose darkly, stretching up toward the sullenness of the waning moon and the wide expanse of black sky above them, casting slanting shadows in the snow.

“I feel like Butch Cassidy or something.” Jake hefted the gun in his hand. He had a .38. Dusty's own gun, Nick’s Glock, felt heavy in her hands.

“
I
feel like going home.” Ryan eyed the fence. “Letterman’s on.”

“I feel like a burrito from Taco Bell,” Nate said, a sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun propped against his shoulder.

“Funny, you don't look like one,” Cody remarked.

No one laughed.

“Once we get over the fence, we'll split up in twos,” Shane told them. “Leave the guns on the outside of the fence and when you get over, reach through to get them. We don't need anyone shooting themselves.”

They began to climb. The fence was wet from the melting snow. Dusty's tennis shoes slipped on the cross bar. Being shorter than they were, it took her longer to find a way to get over without killing herself. When her feet were on the ground, she let out her pent-up breath. Those spikes were no joke.

“I hate this damned fence.” Cody reached through it to pick up his gun. It was a Glock, like Dusty's. Ryan, like Nate, had a sawed-off twelve gauge. “If I spear my nuts on this thing, my wife is gonna kill me.”

Dusty stood close to Shane. He looked across the cemetery, holding a flashlight, the heavy-duty kind, in one hand, his gun in the other.

“Nate, you’ve got the other flashlight right?” Shane asked.

Nate flashed it as an answer.

“And you have the other one, Jake?”

“Yeah,” Jake agreed.

“Okay. We'll do it this way. Ryan, you go with Jake. Nate, take Cody with you. I'll take Dusty. We've got to check the mausoleums first. But
be careful
,” he warned.

Shane met Dusty's eyes and then looked around, shaking his head. “Just don't mess around, okay?”

“Yell if you see anything,” Dusty reminded them, as if anyone needed reminding.

They all paused to look around and Dusty looked back toward the car with a sinking feeling in her stomach. It was parked in its usual spot by the eastern fence.
What if there are only five of us left to get into it?
She thought.
Or none of us?

“Let's get moving,” she said. “I'm cold.”

“Who wants to cover the back?” Shane looked around the circle they made. No one volunteered.

“We will.” Jake finally said, looking at Ryan. “Is that okay with you?”

“Okay.” Ryan pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave a short nod.

The two of them started across the graveyard, hopping over the smaller headstones, winding around the larger ones. Dusty watched them go and the ache in her stomach got worse.

“We'll cover the middle,” Cody told Shane. “You stay up here and get these up front. And keep an eye on the road.”

Shane nodded.

Cody tipped him a salute. “See ya in a while, boss.”

Shane watched him walk in the direction Jake and Ryan had gone. Dusty could barely make out their shapes as they got farther away.

“Do you think it's here?”

“Yeah.” Shane started to walk and Dusty followed him closely. The snow crunched under their shoes. Shane had abandoned his boots and his feet were clad in soft-soled moccasins.

Dusty followed the tracks he left in the snow, walking between the rows of headstones. They were drawing near the first mausoleum and it looked pale gray in the moonlight. Icicles hung precariously from the roof, dripping onto the melting snow below. The family name engraved read
Jackson.

“Stay behind me.” Shane slowed. She didn’t argue with him. He flicked the flashlight on and Dusty gripped her gun firmly in both hands, looking around him. He shined the light around the door, running the beam over its edges. It was shut.

“Are you—?”

“Shh.” He motioned for her to be quiet, mounting the two cement steps. She followed and waited, breathing shallow, taking the flashlight from him. Then he shouldered the door open, stepping inside, the gun pointed in front of him. Dusty quickly flashed the light inside. Nothing.

At least, nothing unusual. Just six cemented-in coffins.

“Next.” Shane turned to face her.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she backed out of the mausoleum and he shut the door behind him. She looked off into the distance and made out the shapes of two people. Cody and Nate, most likely.

“Sounds like they haven't found anything.”

“Yeah. But I think splitting up may have been a bad idea.” Shane started to walk again. “If they find it, it's going to be all over before I can get there.”

“They've got the same guns and bullets we do.” Dusty walked next to him. “And like Cody said, we get it done faster this way.”

“Yeah, I thought so too, at first, but I forgot—that thing has an advantage over them that it doesn't have over me.
I’ve
seen it.” He dodged a tree. It split them up for a moment. “They just may freak out long enough for it to get them.”

“I doubt it,” Dusty said, but the thought itched at her. There was safety in numbers. Bare tree branches swayed above them, casting shadows in the moonlight. ‘Besides, Ryan saw it.”

Of course, if Shane’s description of Ryan’s reaction was accurate, Dusty thought Jake might have to go at it on his own, if they were the ones to find it.

“Here we are,” Shane said and Dusty looked up at it. It was larger than the last. The inscription read:
Thompson.
They were still one of the more “important” families in Larkspur—Buck Thompson among them.

Again, the beam traced the edges of the door. Shut. She held the light steady, gun in her other hand, pointed in the same direction. Shane stood, looking back at her, and she had an awful image of the door pulling open and him falling inward, long claws reaching out—

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded.

He shouldered the door, but it stuck. He tried again and there was a loud scraping sound when the door flew open and Shane stumbled inward, sprawling across the cement floor.

Dusty gasped, hurrying up the steps, flashing the light around and finding nothing but Shane lying on his back, looking up at her.

“You okay?” She knelt beside him. “Are you hurt?”

“Fine.” He leaned up on his elbows.

“Come on.” She stood. “I don't like it in these mausoleums.”

He leaned over and picked up his gun. “Lucky thing it didn't go off.”

“Come
on
.” Dusty hugged herself, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. Even in here it was cold, although the wind was less.

“Well, that's two down.” Shane walked toward her, reaching to close the door. “And we haven't heard anyone yelling. Maybe I was right when I said it moved on.”

Dusty screamed, backing quickly out. She forgot about the steps and fell, landing in the snow, dropping both her gun and her flashlight.

“Something ran over my foot!”

Shane came to retrieve the flashlight and then she heard him laugh from inside.

“It was a mouse.” He came out, shutting the door. It made the same awful scraping noise as it shut.

“Are you okay?” He offered her a hand and Dusty took it, letting him pull her up.

“Scared the daylights out of me,” she told him and she wasn't kidding. She trembled in his arms.

“You scared him too,” he said. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against him.

“You okay?” he repeated.

She smiled. “My ass is wet and I'm going to catch pneumonia, but other than that, I'm just fine.”

He grabbed her bottom, squeezing. “We'll have to take you home and get you out of those wet clothes.”

She slapped his hand away. “Quit!”

But she was smiling when she leaned over to retrieve her gun.

“Sounds good, though, doesn't it?” he asked, reached over and squeezing her hand.

“The best,” she said, returning his smile. “After all of this is over, we—”

The screams cut her off.

“They found it.” Shane’s voice was flat and he started to run.

It took her a moment to move, as if the messages to her brain were being delayed somehow. Then she followed him, instinct kicking in. His strides were longer and he was faster, jumping over headstones she had to go around. She followed him as fast as she was able, but her feet slipped in the snow, slowing her down.

And the screams...

They closed the distance, but the wind carried the words away. She could only hear sounds and couldn’t tell exactly where they were coming from. And then, there was a sound like firecrackers, but she knew the sound of gunshots well enough not to mistake them. Shane seemed to know exactly where he was going and his pace never slowed.

Then, the screams stopped.

There was just the sound of the wind and their feet on the snow. Shane paused then, and Dusty caught up to stand beside him. Her breathing was short and harsh and she had a stitch in her side. Shane glanced at her. It was too quiet and her eyes widened. The silence was worse.

So much worse.

“No,” Shane breathed. “No, damnit,
no!”

He began to run again and she followed. The spaces between headstones were larger back here and they ran between the rows. Dusty concentrated on keeping up with him and maintaining a tight grip on her gun. She held the flashlight in her other hand.

Then she ran into Shane, who stopped abruptly, and she steadied herself by grabbing onto the back of his jacket. She peeked around him and saw the mausoleum. It was similar to the others, rectangular and ugly, two cement steps leading up to the door.

Except this door stood slightly ajar.

Dusty strained to see inside, but it was impossible. There was no sound, just the swaying of the branches of the big oak above them and the wind in her ears.

He advanced, but she hesitated. Now that she was here, the moment at hand, she didn’t want to go in there. Not now, not ever.
For Nick
, she thought, looking at the gun in her hand. But she started forward for Shane—she couldn’t let him go in there alone.

He stood on the steps, looking at the gap between the door and the frame. Then he looked at Dusty, who came to stand beside him. Her hands trembled as she flicked the flashlight on.

Why the silence?

Where were the guys? If this was the place, they should be jumping around and clapping each other on the back for a job well done. Her mind simply wouldn’t allow any other conclusion.

The silence was deafening, a roar in her ears, and her breath turned to glass in her throat. She looked away, up to where the icicles hung, and down, where they dripped onto the snow. Something glinted there—glass, maybe a bottle. Dusty leaned to get a closer look, shining the light on it.

It was glass all right—shining out of wire-rimmed frames.

Glasses—Ryan's glasses—separated at the bridge.

That's when whatever was left of the real world began to ebb away. The slow horrible reality dawned and, paradoxically, things began to happen at an alarmingly fast rate.

There was that awful grating as Shane shouldered the door open and moonlight flooded inside, slanting toward the back wall. The life drained out of her body in one fell swoop, and all memory was lost—she forgot how to breathe, move.

She remained only eyes, watching, immense saucers.

Shane grabbed the flashlight from her hands, shining it across the floor. Dusty grimaced, looking down. The floor was dark and as Dusty took a step, she almost slipped and had to grab onto Shane to keep from falling.

In the circle of the flashlight's beam she saw the reddish tinge to the floor and realized with a slow, dawning horror that she had slipped in blood. The floor was thick with it, slick with it.

Shane brought the light upward and across the floor and Dusty closed her eyes, a small gagging sound escaping her throat. Blood pooled around Ryan and Jake, sprawled across one another, lifeless. The beam of light ran across their faces, and there were gaping holes where their eyes had been. Their blue jeans were stained black with blood, intestines spilling across their laps, strung across the floor, ribs starkly white and protruding.

Likes eyes best,
Dusty thought, opening her own eyes with a shudder. Guns—the .38 and a sawed-off shotgun—lay uselessly on the cement. The light flashed over them to the far wall, trembling.

“Mine!” it croaked.

Dusty tried to scream, but air just escaped her throat with a small hissing sound.

Sitting Indian-style on the cement, whatever was left of Roy Lewis grinned up at them with teeth that had razor-sharp points. It wasn’t human, no longer a man, although it resembled one, in some respects. She didn’t know how long she stared at it, unable to discern what it was, unable to digest what she was seeing. It couldn’t have been more than seconds, brief impressions that would haunt her dreams in later years.