Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (74 page)

Grabbing the tote, she shimmied through the hole, sliding
into the crawl space. When she was flat on her back, she pulled down the grate.

Please, by all that's holy, don’t let it stick when I need
to get out.

But that was a thought that could drive her crazy, so she
turned her attention to finding a spot to hide the tote. Small amounts of light
filtered through the slats of the grate, letting her see the irregularities in
the wall that gave Sue’s platform that rugged rocky look. If Ivy was caught,
she wanted that skull out of easy reach.

My how her priorities had changed. No more denial for her.
Whoever was giving chase had a deadly serious purpose and Ivy had no illusions
she’d survive if she stood in the way. This was no longer about protecting her
home, it was about preserving her life. Bartering the location of the skull
might be the only way to stay alive. She pushed the tote and its precious cargo
into a convoluted niche, where she was sure it couldn’t easily be spotted.

Leaving nothing to do but stare up at an array of braces and
wiring. And wait.

The space confined her like a coffin, making her think about
the person who’d ended up as a skull in her bag. Had he or she been dead when
put in the ground or half-alive, to be slowly buried in dirt, clawing, trying
to scream through the falling earth?

Killed by the same person... the same? Could that very same
person now be after her? Suddenly, it seemed likely.

The steps were approaching again. Tapping, rat-a-tat-tat.
Loud. So loud. Almost as if they were under Sue and not outside. Different this
time, less deliberate, yet still conveying that sense of determined pursuit.
Then the taps moved into another room, grew fainter until they were little more
than distant drumbeats. Ivy waited again, alone with only the sounds of her own
ragged breath and thrumming pulse, her every muscle stiff with terror, fighting
the urge to claw her way out. She rocked side to side, struggling to regain
inner balance.

She heard a ring.

Her cell phone.

Oh God! The fabric snagged several times as she yanked the
tote toward her, frantic to shut down the phone. Rummaging inside, she
dislodged the Turkish towel and scraped her trembling fingers on rough-edged
bone as she reached around the skull, her make-up bag, her wallet, before
finding the relentlessly ringing phone.

She flipped it open. Oh, let it be Steve.

“Ivy? ”

Todd? Crap!

“This really isn't a good time,” she choked out. “I need you
to call the cops.”

“No! You never call! I’ve got to say it now!” She heard a
big intake of breath. “You can’t dump me, bitch. I already dumped you. ”

Darkness, close quarters, being trapped under a T-Rex—none
of that was enough to dull Ivy’s shock. Was Todd the one after her? If so,
every word she spoke telegraphed her location. He’d be here any moment.

Another call beeped in her ear. She clicked over,
disconnecting Todd.

“Get off that phone, Ivy, ” Steve commanded. “She heard it
ring. Move to a new hiding place.”

“She? A woman is chasing me? No, I saw—where are you, Steve?
I can’t—”

“Don’t argue, Ivy. And don’t make any more noise. Find a new
place to hide.”

He disconnected, leaving Ivy to devise her own means of
escape. Find a new place? Easy for him to say. He wasn’t slithering around
under a T-Rex. She scooched over the pebbly concrete foundation, moving closer
to the tiny hole she’d entered. She’d felt exposed enough going in. Climbing
out head first, shoulders and arms vulnerable and the rest of her trapped
below, seemed like pure madness.

She was just below the grate when a rumble sounded overhead.
For one insane and panicky second she thought Sue had come to life. Reason
returned. Steve had been right, her conversation with Todd had given away her
location and Steve or Todd or some unnamed female was even now prowling around
overhead trying to figure out the precise origin of Ivy’s voice. The overhead
footfalls gave off a rat-tat-tat-tat, betraying the slender heels of a woman’s
shoes. Steve appeared to be right again. So who was the man she'd seen on the
balcony? Todd or Steve? And if Steve, why hadn’t he helped her then? Was his
advice to move actually designed to flush her out of hiding?

Just hours earlier she’d viewed him through rosy glasses,
now she was considering him a possible bad guy? But since she’d already washed
off the sugary haze, she had to stare at the facts. He’d lured her to the
museum and abandoned her here after closing time.

But why go to such trouble? He could have walked off with
the skull when she’d handed it to him and she wouldn’t have been the wiser
until later.

So maybe he was leading a rescue effort. Or maybe aiding the
woman prowling overhead. Either way, Ivy had to act. Steve was right to say she
couldn’t stay here. The woman would find her, trapped like a corpse in a
coffin. In fact, she already seemed to have given up on her topside search. Her
steps now came from the far side of the platform, then stopped at the edge.

Seconds later, Ivy heard a light thud. The woman was
climbing down to the walkway on the opposite side of the structure, giving Ivy
time to get out undetected. Go! Now! Go!

She stashed the tote again, turned off the phone and shoved
it in her bra, then pushed on the grate, her heart nearly stopping when it
didn’t immediately give way. Her second shove sent the grate clanging onto the
concrete. She might as well have blown a whistle.

Suppressing a horrified shudder, she reached up through the
opening to pull herself out and was caught just like she’d feared, head and
torso exposed, hips still inside. A figure loomed above her, and she saw—Dear
God, she must be getting delirious—Isis, the Egyptian dog goddess, lurked over
her, barking, “Where is the skull?”

But the goddess's body didn't ... well, it wasn’t exactly an
Isis lookalike. The outfit was just plain slutty. Black skin-tight pencil-slim
skirt, a midriff-baring low-cut top and Blahnik knockoff stilettos. Ivy had
almost worn a similarly obvious outfit to meet with Steve and was glad she’d
sidestepped that disastrous choice. One thing for sure, she wouldn’t have
topped the outfit off with a Darth Vader helmet.

“The skull, Ivy.” The raspy voice was the same one she’d
heard in the basement.

“Melanie Powell, I presume.” As soon as the words were out,
Ivy knew she’d regret them.

Pain exploded in her head. When her eyes stopped watering,
she saw a humongous walking stick in Melanie's hand.

“Who I am has no relevance,” the dog-head growled.

“Guess not,” Ivy mumbled, earning another blow.

Her head felt fuzzy, something wet trickled down her temple.
She considered digging the phone out of her cleavage and hitting the last call
return button for Steve but couldn’t get past the possibility that he and
Melanie might be in cahoots. She had only herself to trust and could think of
only one way out. Give Melanie the skull.

“In the T-Rex,” she said, her tongue feeling thick.

The Darth Vader head tilted back. “Impossible. There’s no
way to climb those bones.”

“Not up, beneath me.” Even though Ivy’s limbs felt weak,
with some effort she could still lever herself out, but if she did, Melanie
would undoubtedly send her back in for the tote. So she feigned several
collapses and, as a finale, toppled forward to rest her bleeding head on her
arms.

“For God’s sake,” the Darth head grumbled, the body bending
to pull Ivy out by her arms.

“Ouch.” Ivy crumpled on the walkway. “I...My
head...feels...funny.”

Melanie waved the stick. “So sad. Now where is the skull?”

“To the...to the left of...the opening. In a book bag.”

Melanie went down on her knees and reached in, blindly
patting the floor. Ivy knew she wouldn’t find the niche that easily and waited
for the next annoyed explosion.

“Goddamit, where is it?”

Ivy dragged herself closer to Melanie. “Lean in more...feel
for...the curve.”

Melanie pulled her arm back. “You’re lying.”

“No, no. Right there...under the, under the...you know.”

“The grate? Under the grate?”

“Look...down. You’ll see it.”

Melanie paused for a heartbeat, then bent and put her head
through the opening without taking time to remove the helmet. Ivy sprang to her
feet. Ignoring the scorching sparks of misery from her injury, she threw
herself at Melanie’s backside. The woman plunged through the opening, her
stiletto-shod feet frantically kicking empty air. Ivy pushed again. And again.
Until Melanie’s ample butt was firmly wedged.

Her inner counselor disapproved of her evil plan, but Ivy
couldn’t resist. She picked up the devil stick and whacked Melanie’s heinie,
only once, despite the gratifying screech coming through the Vader mask, then
put down the stick and brushed off her hands. “That’s what you get for messing
with a woman who’s about to lose her head.”

“Nice work, babe.”

Steve! Ivy grabbed the devil stick again and swished it a
time or two as she looked up to see him standing on the platform where Melanie
had walked. He held a gun in his hand, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. A
few moments earlier she might have found herself melting under the power of his
disreputable grin, but now her hand trembled. The stick was no match for a gun
and she had a freaking killer of a headache.

“Tell me, mister, are you for me...or against?”

“I’m wounded you ask.” He jumped from the platform, landing
just feet away, and Ivy took two more steps back. “Haven’t I always been—”

She barely heard his words over the bolt of pain that sliced
her forehead. Her head went light. She swayed.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she heard Steve say.

Then the museum went black again and everything faded.

“Unh!” Ivy jerked back when she saw Steve slumped in a chair
beside her hospital bed.

His eyes snapped open at her outcry and he reached forward
to take her hand. “It’s okay, Ivy. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

“So,” she said, mistrust dancing on the tip of her tongue.
“Can you explain what my takedown foreman was doing wandering around the Field
Museum holding a gun?”

“Technically, Ivy, I’m not your foreman. I’m an undercover
cop and we were always looking for the body of Melanie’s former lover’s wife.
The murder happened over ten years ago, and at first everyone thought the
husband did it so he could marry Melanie.”

Steve went on to say the police were convinced the man had
buried the body under a room addition in progress when the wife went missing.
But they lacked enough evidence for a warrant, and the husband committed
suicide before the investigation was complete. Much of the evidence suggested
that Melanie had been the killer, but the man had never named her as his
mistress so no charges were ever filed.

“And that concerns me because—” Steve started to answer, but
Ivy put up her free hand, “–-because it’s my property?”

“Correct.” Your tear-down gave us access to dig up the body.
Since I once worked construction and was on the original investigating team, I
took the undercover assignment.”

“You bastard! Couldn’t you have warned me?”

Ivy yanked her hand, but Steve held on too tightly. He rose
to his feet, gazing down with fatigue-circled eyes that held a haunted look.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he said. “I am a bastard, a stupid one. I should
have told you what was going down when you found the skull. Instead I used you
as bait. I knew better. Melanie already killed one woman and some people think
she killed her lover, too. But this was our last chance to get evidence on
her.”

“So what do you want, Steve?” She tried to still sound
angry, but he looked so sad it had kind of gone out of her. “My forgiveness? I
don’t know if...”

Steve shook his head. “Just to keep you safe, babe.” He
leaned closer and brushed a damp lock of hair off of her forehead. “And to do
this.”

He kissed her. Softly, sweetly and very provocatively. A
happy sigh rose deep in Ivy’s chest. Her fantasies about the sexy foreman
hadn’t been so far off, after all.

And to think it all started with old bones.

 
# # #

K.C. Flynn is the pseudonym for Connie's suspense and mystery
books and short stories and has been prolific lately. The Derek Shriver short
mysteries are now available on Kindle.

There's a Dead Elf in Santa's Workshop introduces the former
Special Services officer turned amusement park owner is accused of murdering
Christmasland's head elf, and Murder at the Toadstool Cafe finds Derek caught
up in a dramatic shooting at
 
Faerie
World amusement park where a headless horseman is the prime suspect.
 
Buy now at
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Abou
t the Author
:

The books of Connie Flynn, a bestselling, award-winning author
of ten novels and several short stories, are getting some positive attention
from eBooks readers these days. She writes in several genres, including
paranormal romance, romantic comedy and romantic action/adventure, contemporary
fantasy, and mystery/suspense and, as Connie Flynn, has won a conveted PRISM
award and was a finalist several times. Look for more backlist titles and new
releases over the next year.
 
Connie says
she's the brains behind the Connie Flynn/K.C. Flynn stories, but than K.C. says
the same thing. Regardless, we keep them coming.

Note From
Connie
:

Thank you for purchasing CHILLS & THRILLS.
 
  
I
hoped you enjoyed reading
 
the stories as
much as I enjoyed writing them.
 
I would
love to hear about your reading experience and if you have a moment I'd
appreciate
 
you doing me a huge favor by
posting an honest review on
Amazon
.
 
Authors are ranked by their reviews and their
like buttons so even the shortest review is of enormous help.