Skull Creek Stakeout (Caden Chronicles, The) (9 page)

“Maybe he only
thought
it was her car.”

“Possibly. But I have another idea about what happened. I think Edwards didn’t want to be seen driving his car to and from the crime scene so he borrowed Mrs. Forester’s.”

“But wouldn’t that implicate her in the murder?”

“Yes, but it would be easy enough to check and find out she couldn’t have driven the car to the resort because it was in the shop and she couldn’t get it out of the dealership lot. Look, I’m not saying it happened exactly that way; I’m just saying I think her car was at the crime scene and the only person who had access to it was your boss. Maybe the maintenance boy didn’t see the car there. Maybe he was confused. But don’t forget, your boss is one of the few people who could have implanted fangs and added bite marks. I know he’s not a physician, but he probably has some medical skills, right?”

“Ah … yes, but —”

“My guess is, after your boss found out I was looking into the case, he panicked and moved the body before I could prove he murdered Forester.”

Meg rolled her eyes at me. “You got all this out of five stupid television shows? Unbelievable.”

“It’s not all that hard, Meg. People watch TV, get an idea, and act on it. It’s called a copycat crime.”

She released my arm and sat back in her chair. “You can’t prove any of this.”

I could tell she wasn’t buying it. I just sighed and said, “I don’t have to
prove
anything. I’ll let Lieutenant McAlhany build the case against your boss. My job is to flush the killer out into the open and write the story based on the facts as I know them.”

“You’re not sending your article from my laptop, I’ll tell you that. Not if you insist on accusing Dr. Edwards of murder.”

“Fine. I’m sure the hotel has a media center where I can borrow a computer.”

“Don’t, please,” she pleaded. “I’m begging you.”

“Why? What’s the big deal? If he’s a killer, wouldn’t you want him locked up?”

She got this hopeless expression on her face, one that made me feel bad for doubting her. My gut told me she honestly believed her boss was innocent, but how could she be so sure?

“Hey, Meg, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be mean or anything. I’m just looking at the evidence, but if you know something, I need to know it. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Dr. Edwards is dating my mom, okay? That’s how I know he could not possibly be involved with Mrs. Forester.”

“Okay, that’s some news I could have used earlier.”

“That night Forester died? Dr. Edwards was at our house.
All night.
That’s why I’m sure he didn’t kill anyone.”

The
woop-woop
of an ambulance interrupted me before I could suggest that Edwards slipped out of Meg’s house without anybody knowing. Seconds later two paramedics rushed
through the front door and went charging across the lobby and down the hallway toward the shopping area. Guests and hotel staff stood gawking. A woman in a tennis outfit cornered a bellhop and demanded to know what was going on.

“Someone collapsed outside the gift shop. It might have been a heart attack.”

I found myself running after the paramedics without any recollection of leaving my chair. Kids spilled out of the bakery shop, blocking my path. A forest of heads and shoulders made it impossible to see down the walkway. I lowered my shoulder and shoved my way toward the front of the crowd.

Aunt Vivian lay on her back, the contents of her purse spilled onto the walkway. Her face was sallow, mouth slack. Eyes unfocused.

Talking to each other in low voices, the medics slid Aunt Vivian onto a stretcher, uncoiled the gurney’s legs and rolled her away. I followed behind, watching as EMTs tossed medical equipment bags into the back of the ambulance. The last time I’d felt that stunned was when I’d found our dog on the side of the highway.

They put Aunt Vivian into the truck, and one of them settled into a jump seat beside her. Standing at the rear of the ambulance, I blinked away tears as the paramedic slammed the door shut and got behind the wheel.

“She’ll be okay,” a security guard said to me.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist. “You don’t know that.”

“She’ll be okay,” he repeated.

But I wasn’t so sure. Aunt Vivian definitely didn’t
look
okay. Meg suddenly appeared by my side carrying Aunt Vivian’s purse and shopping bags.

“Get my laptop,” she said to me.

“What?”

“I’m bringing your aunt’s car around. I’ll drive you to Asheville General.”

“But you don’t have your license.”

“My laptop! Hurry!”

I
trotted back into the lobby carrying a leaden feeling of hopelessness.
Aunt Vivian, in an ambulance, just like she’d feared.
“About the only exciting thing that happens at ‘the home’ is when an ambulance comes to cart one of us away,” she’d told me in the car before we went inside the morgue. “God help me, Nick, I don’t want to go out that way. Let me tag along with you, please? I want to have some fun.”

Some fun.

The crowd of rubberneckers began to drift away. Bellhops loaded bags onto luggage carts; front desk clerks swiped credit cards as guests checked in. From the bar came the sound of
ice cubes clanking into sturdy drinking glasses. I couldn’t get the sight of Aunt Vivian out of my mind.
Dad’s right. Family is everything.

I had thought he was doing me a favor by letting me travel to Transylvania alone, and he was, but the real gift was Aunt Vivian. She was by far the best part of the trip. I had pictured Dad’s aunt as a cranky, demanding old woman who was annoyed at having to babysit me, but she’d been the exact opposite. I could tell all our running around had left her tired, but she hadn’t complained. Just the opposite — she acted like I should be doing
more
to catch the killer. Aunt Vivian had become the sweet grandmother I’d never had, the one they make movies about where the actress playing the part gets an Oscar. That’s what Aunt Vivian was — a Golden Globe — winning aunt.

I reached the area where we’d been sitting but stopped well short of the chairs. Meg’s laptop was open, lid up, with a line of text on the screen. I whirled around but didn’t see anyone darting away. I went over and peered down at the screen. Instantly my pulse began to race.

Congratulations, Nicholas, you ALMOST solved the case.

I jerked my head around again, expecting to find someone watching me, but saw no one. More text crawled across the page.

Sit, we need to talk.

I remained hunched over the laptop, my palms damp with sweat.

I said SIT!

Dropping into the chair, I angled the laptop so only I could read the mysterious message.

The frowning face made my stomach flip. I whipped my head around. No sign of Meg with Aunt Vivian’s Cadillac.

No way could I smile; my heart was racing too fast.

I checked over my shoulder, desperately hoping to see Aunt Vivian’s car pulling up.

I scooted to the edge of the chair and tried to tamp down the feeling of panic building inside me.

I took a final quick peek back at the drop-off area, hoping to see Aunt Vivian’s Cadillac.
Meg, where are you? This isn’t funny.

I looked down and I saw my backpack and Barlow’s medical bag wedged between the chairs.

I
found Aunt Vivian’s car parked in the middle of a weedy field near a row of grave markers. I had not told the resort’s shuttle driver the real reason I needed to get off the shuttle halfway down the mountain, only that I wanted to walk the hiking trail back up to the resort.

Standing by the road, I studied the instructions left to me in my backpack:
Place your backpack and the medical bag on the front passenger seat and put your phone in the cup holder. I will know if you do not.

I did as ordered and slammed the car door shut.
No tools and no way to call for help. Great.
The route had been
highlighted in yellow. My journey began with a large X next to the gnarled oak overlooking an abandoned graveyard. I knew I was walking into a trap, but what choice did I have? Aunt Vivian’s car parked in the field proved Raintree was deadly serious about me finding him alone.

A buzzard came winging in low and circled the giant oak before settling on a branch. Turkey vultures are scavengers. They feed almost exclusively on the carcasses of animals and rodents and have laser-sharp eyes. But it’s their keen sense of smell that draws them to roadside kills and wooded hills with freshly dug graves.

I choked down the bile rising in my throat. If I was going to catch the killer and save Meg, I needed to become as calm as Raintree.

I followed a serpentine path across matted grass toward the tree line. Mountain shadows had turned green pines purplish-blue. Crickets chirped, gnats buzzed. Several yards into the woods I found the old logging road mentioned on the map. The road was little more than a foot trail. Dusk settled over the forest; the air grew cool. With each step I felt smaller and weaker. I had to keep reminding myself that Meg was ahead of me, waiting for me to save her. It took every ounce of courage to keep from running back to the car and calling the lieutenant.

Or Dad.

I picked up the pace, walking briskly up the darkened path. I’d been walking maybe fifteen minutes when I came to a mossy area guarded by towering spruces and pines. Though
an edge of light sky remained in the western sky, the moon was already up and growing brighter as the sun set behind the mountains. Ferns sprouted from dead tree stumps, and a wispy haze cloaked the ground. I kept telling myself it would be okay, that I’d find Meg and all of it would turn out to be one big hoax, that someone — maybe her — was yanking my chain. She had insisted Edwards wasn’t the killer. Maybe this was her way of getting back at me for thinking her boss was the killer.

All I could picture, though, was Meg getting into Aunt Vivian’s Cadillac and a cold hand stifling her screams.

The breeze bending the treetops carried with it the sour odor of rot and decay. Twilight is a time of endings. End of work, end of day, end of sunlight and the freedom it brings.

The cooing of the wind fell away, leaving only the sound of my footsteps crunching dried underbrush. I reached the spillway we’d crossed the night before and paused. Behind me I heard snapping and crunching, like something prowling about. I pivoted and strained to see through the dark gray mist. My pulse quickened. I remembered how the wolf dog had appeared out of the fog and moved with phantom speed as it chased the carriage.
Is there one or more? A pack, maybe?

My heart pounded against the walls of my chest. I began a slow, measured jog up the trail, trotting farther into the woods until only the moon’s silver light penetrated the mist. The moon’s glow gave the forest an eerie green, phosphorescent tint. Again, leaves rustled behind me; once more I stopped and looked. Now I heard the heavy pounding of something
barreling through the forest, snapping limbs and crushing leaves underfoot.

I raced toward the sound of rushing water, knowing if I could reach Skull Creek I’d find sanctuary in the catacomb I’d used to escape the manor. If the map was accurate, it wasn’t far ahead.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement, looked left, and in the moonlight caught a glimpse of the wolf dog darting through the mist. Its shaggy fur glistened silver in the damp air. I darted behind a pine and stood perfectly still. The tree provided no comfort, none at all. The wolf dog went past the trees in a brisk, bouncy trot, the way an animal will when it’s on a scent and ready to sprint in for the kill.

Past me and toward the creek it trotted. Then I saw its prey. A stag buck stood on the opposite bank. Its rack was ten points at least. The deer lowered its head to graze by the water’s edge, then looked up quickly, presenting a long, meaty brown throat. For several long seconds the stag stood frozen in the silver moonlight.

I slipped from behind the tree and circled down toward the creek, moving away while being careful not to make a sound. I reached the creek a good ways downstream and paused, looking for smooth stones I could step on to cross. The stag bent its neck and looked at me. Large mule ears angled toward me.

The wolf dog sprang with a deathly silence. Its claws clamped onto the deer’s haunch and deadly fangs sank into the stag’s throat. A ragged, pulsating gash opened that sent
blood spewing into the creek. Under the weight of the wolf dog, the stag’s front legs buckled, and both fell splashing into the gurgling water now brown with blood. For several horrifying seconds I stood stunned, too afraid to move as the deer fought to kick free, but with fierce bites the wolf dog ripped away large chunks of meat with a savageness that sickened me.

At last I tore my gaze away and went splashing across the creek and up the other side. Behind me, I heard gnarling and snapping and a terrible sound out of the stag’s wheezing cries for help. Running became the only thing that mattered. I darted around trees and up the sloping forest floor with small plants slapping at my legs. In the moonlight I saw a clearing hollowed out in the woods. As I drew closer I realized it was a stone crypt, one built into the side of the hill. Vines choked its rusty bars. Gargoyle sculptures looked down from atop two massive columns supporting the overhang covering a short stoop. A half-opened gate anchored the center of an iron fence running around the stoop.

The wolf dog’s victory howl echoed through the forest and was followed instantly by the thunder of paws approaching. I chanced a single backward glance — just one — and saw the beast charging after me, its fur sodden by the stag’s blood, eyes yellow and glowing in the moon’s light. I hit the metal bars with my shoulder and knocked the gate open, fell inside, and slammed the gate shut with my foot.

Before I could sit up and slide the latch into place, the wolf dog erupted from the forest, charged across the small meadow
of damp grass, and lunged at the gate. Its front paws hit with such force that the impact sent me skidding backward across slate tiles. I thrust my feet forward, closing the gate on the animal’s head. With bloody fangs inches from my face, I kicked the bars a final time and forced the wolf dog back, then reached up and shoved the latch into place. The beast responded by slamming into the gate again, but the latch held.

I scooted all the way across the tiles until my back rested against the front door’s heavy wood paneling. Terrified by the wolf dog’s rabid snapping and growling and hyped up on adrenaline, I could not make my hands stop shaking. Finally I reached over my head, turned the door’s knob, and fell back inside. Still on my back, I wormed my way in and slammed the door shut. I lay on the cold slate tiles in the darkness and listened, my heart hammering in my chest.

The crypt smelled like mildew, a tangy odor of rodents, and damp rot. A needle of moonlight came through the crack in the door and provided some light, but not enough to get a good idea of the size of the room. The rustle of cloth approached from somewhere behind me. I sensed a heavy shadow standing over me. A voice, no, a whisper, blew into my ear.

“So good of you to join me, Nicholas. I know you are
dying
to close this case, so let’s begin.”