Hell on the Heart (19 page)

She didn’t want to see their faces when her family heard who was responsible. But this was putting off the inevitable. Resolutely, she marched toward the hall, knowing regardless of the outcome, she’d never escape being the scapegoat now.

No one would say anything. No one ever did, but her name already dented from previous incidents would be tarnished forever.

Dawn crept over the horizon as Cain braked the bike, slumping over the bars to apply sufficient pressure. The strength required to hold himself upright during the long ride abandoned him, and he crumpled to the ground, pulling the bike down on him. His upper arm burned from the pressure of the self-applied tourniquet that had slowed the bleeding.

A hospital was out of the question. Police investigated gunshots wounds. Damn gypsies. He’d plotted his revenge on the ride back. No one would escape. He’d take out the entire bunch.

He’d already proven himself more than capable.

The mousy waitress had been another disappointment. When would he learn?

She’d forced him to gag her to muffle her cries. Naked, her body was little more than a bag of bones. So disgusting, she hadn’t even enticed him to get it up.

She’d begged him. That’s what whores did. But like all sluts she deserved to be punished. He’d taken his time. Tracing each of her six tattoos, careful to get all the detail with the point of his knife. Asking her questions.

By the time he’d finished she’d told him everything she knew about the gypsies. The girl had been a bloody mess, but alive. Whimpering like a wounded dog as he rolled her into the rug and stuffed her body into the trunk of her car. The sun had set, but finding a deserted boat ramp had been easy enough.

He’d opened the trunk one last time to remove the gag. But she had passed out and he wasn’t able to hear her final screams as the car slowly sank into lake.

Weeks would pass before they’d find her.

Now, he was exhausted. Too tired to lift the bike up and drive it up the loading ramp into the plane. Too weak and worn out to pound on the door to get someone to load it for him, he sank to the ground, fumbling for his cell phone.

As night faded into day, Cezi chugged her second thermos of coffee. Rolf lay in the dining hall surrounded by the clan, fighting for his life from a gunshot wound to the chest. Not for the first time, she wondered why her cousin couldn’t be taken to a hospital.

She understood the Nazi’s had used gypsies as well as Jews for medical experiments during WWII, but that was then and this was now. Rolf needed help. Uncle Luca sat with his arm wrapped around his wife, Jaelle as she stared straight ahead refusing to let tears form.

Cezi twisted her fingers and paced the thirty-six steps between the kitchen door and the rear entrance. She had to do something. Anything.

“Go outside,” Nadya whispered as she re-shuffled her tarot deck. “You’re in the way.”

The group of women seated at the long benches watched the interplay with undisguised interest. Cezi rolled her eyes and immediately regretted it. Exhaling a tortured breath, she tossed her head making sure everyone knew exactly how annoyed she was and stormed out the rear exit. No doubt her father would hear about her lack of respect before the hour was out.

Nothing to do, but wait. Her body refused to follow her mind’s direction and head toward her home. Instead she found herself at the front gate.

A short time later she completed her own criminal investigation including a cast of the Harley’s tire tracks and shoe prints. Every scrap of evidence she found at the site had been photographed, labeled and bagged. Gum wrappers, a piece of torn fabric caught on bark, and spent shell casings. Her best find had been the discarded listening device caught in the tangled underbrush.

Samples of splattered blood, along with photographs and drawings of the entire scene were preserved. Pictures indicated where each piece of evidence had been found. Cameras recorded the entire event the night before. Everything had happened so fast the film was a blur of action. The only person she knew with enough computer skills to slow it down to a frame-by-frame photo flitted between life and death in the dining hall.

She refused to think the worst. Thinking negative thoughts only invited marimé. Enough problems existed. She didn’t need outside help. None of them did.

Not for the first time she wished John were here. For once she was willing to let him be in charge. If her phone hadn’t been all the way up the hill, she might have called him just to hear a friendly voice.

“You’ve caused enough problems already. Go home. Stay home.” He folded his arms across his chest. If he’d been bald, he would have doubled for Mr. Clean.

Cezi bunched her fists and placed them on her hips. “The lab’s safe. Probably safer than here.”

“The lab’s more important than your family?” Of course, he went for guilt, the cornerstone of family discipline. For once, she wasn’t buying it.

“Finding who is hunting us is more important than hiding.” Without waiting for a reply, she leapt into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear.

Downtown Dillo Creek was coming to life. Artificial smoke rings rose from the neon pink ten-foot-high armadillo above the diner as he rocked back and forth while puffing on a fat cigar.

Before she followed her usual procedure of driving past, it occurred to her that at six-thirty in the morning the diner was deserted. Safe enough for her to grab breakfast to go. She pulled into a diagonal parking spot and headed inside.

“Yeah to both.” Cezi sank onto a counter stool. The waitress shoved a cup coffee and cream in her direction. The rich aroma of the coffee caused her stomach to growl. Bacon sizzled and popped on the griddle. The odor drifted through the pass-window of the kitchen, her mouth watered, imagining the taste.

The bell above the door jangled as early customers drifted in for breakfast. Cezi concentrated on her coffee, ignoring the newcomers.

“Order up.” A white Styrofoam box appeared in the window. Cezi chugged the last of her coffee and dug in her pocket to pay for the bill.

Wasn’t that just like the Sheriff’s office? If John was here, he’d kick their asses into shape. Her stomach fluttered. She had it bad if the thought of him sent her into tremors.

The waitresses hugged each other.

Do not get involved. Do not get involved. Oh, hell. It couldn’t be coincidence. She had to see. “Can you take me there?”

Both women stared. “You’re the PI, aren’t you?” the older one finally asked. When Cezi nodded, Patty, the one who’d been sent over to wake the missing girl, wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I’m not going back there.”

The second-floor apartment was surprisingly well ordered. Neither the living room nor the bedroom gave any indication of anything out of line. With camera in hand Cezi took several photographs from the door before entering.

Blood pooled, coagulated but not completely dry on the farmhouse kitchen table and the surrounding floor. White cotton ropes knotted in a figure eight pattern connected to the sturdy table legs and lay soaking in the blackening spatters. Splotched red dribbles decorated the nearest wall.

A busy circle of flies drew her attention to the two bloody shoe prints by the sink. Would they match the ones she’d found earlier? Cezi snapped on her gloves and began photographing in earnest.

Diluted pink worm tracks in the sink indicated the attacker had washed up, but the lack of blood in the living room or outside told the story of a moved body wrapped to protect it. Neighbors might have seen or heard a detail easily dismissed that would give them a time frame.

Angry voices erupted outside. Great! All she needed was a bunch of locals mucking up the scene. Footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors.

“One that you’re contaminating.” She pointed at Bobby Joe’s shoe. With an insolent smirk, Bobby Joe lifted his foot and drug it across the floor leaving a blood smear that further destroyed the scene.

“Get out before we arrest you.”

Cezi bit back her words of defiance. Normally, she wouldn’t care if the deputies wanted to waste their time hauling her ass off to jail. Her father would bail her out. But not today. Not while the family focused their concern on Rolf.

Seeing no other alternative, Cezi snatched up her tools not even bothering to repack out of fear the deputies would impound her photos.

Neither asked. What a bunch of yokels. She knew more than either of them and they’d had professional training.

Stillwater turned the pages of the Fort Worth Star Telegram as he lounged on the hotel lobby sofa. He’d already skimmed the newspaper twice. Uniformed as an employee, D’Sean dusted the lobby for at least the fifth time and was now reduced to polishing each green apple pyramided in a bowl.

While John’s team remained on alert outside, FBI agents patrolled every landing site in the Fort Worth-Dallas area checking for private aircraft.

Behind closed floor-to-ceiling doors sat fifty-seven men and woman looking for the adventure of a lifetime, according to the Craig’s list ad. Among them were two federal agents, one male, one female. Both had been carefully chosen for their youthful appearance.

Where were these guys? The group interview was scheduled to begin thirty minutes ago. Mentally he retraced the preparations. If the unsubs weren’t coming, what had tipped them off?

The mic in his ear clicked. “Anything?” Ciggy’s voice asked from the FBI surveillance van.

Stillwater rattled the pages. “No.” D’Sean, followed by each of the agents inside, all joined with the same response.

The door to the conference room opened and a couple of young women exited. Three more followed. Another voice added, “The group’s breaking up.”

“What’s our next step?”

All John knew for sure was that this was the second day Czigany hadn’t responded to his texts or calls. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach bubbled like an overheated caldron.

How was Cain always one step ahead? Who or what alerted them?

Annoyed John punched the phone number one more time and listened as the call went straight to voice mail. Where was she?  Before he could hang up, his mic beeped.

John followed the SUV, grateful for the FBI’s help. The unmanned landing strip would have been impossible to find without some local knowledge. The private airstrip had been designed for homeowners of million-dollar-plus homes situated around a small lake and golf course.

Cain’s setup wouldn’t be regarded as out of place. A few lines of BS about engine problems and they’d be welcomed with open arms.

Roll that Limo on out here.

His luck continued to run true to form. No one had seen a thing. Witnesses were non-existent. Sooner or later Cain’s karma would fail him. Maybe it already had. Was that his blood? Or one of the women? What made them leave without following through on the group interview?