CHAPTER
SEVEN

Caden had watched as three more bodies were transported to waiting ambulances. The ambulances would carry their cargo to the morgue.

He had studied each victim, taking notes in his little black notebook. He’d worked along with the crime scene photographer, hoping the information would be helpful as the investigation progressed. Just digging everything up and making sure they hadn’t missed anything was going to take days.

Caden watched the third ambulance disappear around the curve and rubbed a hand over his weary face. He was no expert, but of the last three bodies he’d examined, two had looked like kids to him. The third had looked older, like an adult. She’d been buried deeper, and once the dog had alerted for the second time in that area, the dig team had gone to work and unearthed her. Blue jeans and a short-sleeved pink T-shirt had still covered her, and Caden had a feeling she’d been one of the first. Someone had taken more time with her. As though they cared?

His stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard by those in close proximity. The four stale peanut butter crackers he’d found in his coat pocket and scarfed down three hours ago were long gone.

Mickey and Deveraux looked at him. “Need to stop and get something for that grumpy stomach?” Deveraux asked.

“If you guys have time. It’ll be a while before we get the first bits of information on the ones in the morgue, and I need to keep my strength up.”

“Don’t we all?” Mickey said. “Let’s head to that little meat and three place on Congaree Road. We can eat and discuss how we’re going to handle finding who those victims are.”

It didn’t take long to round up Zane and head out. Soon, they were seated at a table and the food was brought by a skinny waitress with dishwater blonde hair and pretty blue eyes.

Only Caden found himself suddenly without an appetite. For a moment, he simply stared at the full plate in front of him and wondered about the children in the graves. What had their last meals been? Were there more children?

“Cade?”

Mickey’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

Caden forced a tight smile. “Sure.” He wasn’t a green agent. He’d been at this for several years now and had seen more of the darker side of life than he cared to think about, but when it came to the kids . . . yeah. The children got to him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he figured this out—and arrested those responsible for the deaths of those kids. And if for some reason it miraculously turned out that they had died from natural causes—he mentally scoffed but allowed the possibility to register—then he’d find the person responsible for tossing them out like yesterday’s trash.

“Bothers me too,” Deveraux said.

Caden looked up and met the man’s eyes. “Yeah.” And in spite of his churning gut, he ate the food.

“So,” Mickey said, “let’s think about this. Twelve shallow graves. Twelve bodies. Some are kids. We won’t know ages or time of death until Clarissa and her team finish with them, but it looks like there are various ages and dates of death.” He paused. “I’m not buying that they all died from some mysterious disease.”

“Come on,” Caden said, “no speculation. We won’t be able to say that until Clarissa gets back to us. They’ll start with the most recent death and work backward, I would think.”

“Sounds about right to me,” Deveraux said. “But just because one died a certain way doesn’t mean they all did.”

“I know that.”

“Of course you do,” Mickey said, “but I’m thinking if we can identify one of the bodies, there will be a connection to the others and everything will fall into place.”

“Maybe.” Caden had a funny feeling about this case. “Clarissa said she couldn’t see an immediate cause of death. Meaning no gunshot wounds, stabbings, et cetera. I realize that some of the bodies have been scavenged, so she may find something like that after the autopsies, but what else could have caused this? Deaths over an extended period of time? Say it was murder or some kind of Jim Jones thing.”

“A cult?” Mickey asked.

“Why not? Drugs? Poison? Or even a human trafficking ring?”

Deveraux nodded. “Could definitely be a cult. But if it’s human trafficking, why kill them? It sounds cold, but aren’t you hurting your profit margin if you kill your inventory?”

It did sound cold and Caden didn’t like the way the man worded it, but it was accurate. “Maybe the ring didn’t want kids, just the parents,” he said.

Mickey shook his head. “We could sit here all day and come up with a hundred different scenarios and reasons for the bodies in those graves. Until we know more, I say let’s move on to another part of the investigation.”

“I’m good with that,” Deveraux said. He took a sip of his tea. “Let’s talk location. Whoever picked that spot for the graves did so for a reason. There’s no security footage in that area. It’s remote and no one really goes up there much. The killer could have some kind of personal, historic connection to the place and feels comfortable here. Taking the time to bury numerous bodies at various times says he’s not too concerned about being discovered.”

“And probably wouldn’t have been if not for the doctor and his dog,” Caden said. “Did he say why he was taking that route this morning? I’m assuming it’s not his usual one.”

“Said he was bored and simply decided to go a different way,” Mickey said. “I noticed the tracker on his wrist. We’ll get a warrant for the information from it and see if it matches up with what he told us. We’ve got a call in to the owner of the land and will do a full workup on him as well.”

“Good.” Caden finished the meal and pushed his plate to the side. “Let’s head to the morgue. I can’t handle this sitting around and waiting stuff.”

“Clarissa will just kick you out,” Mickey said.

“Well, maybe she’ll talk a little while she’s kicking.”

Asher pulled to a stop in the drive of a small cottage-style house painted a light blue with white trim. Brooke had a two-car garage straight ahead, and to his right was a short walkway that led to a covered front porch. “This is nice,” he said.

“Thanks, I love it. I’ve only lived here two months. I found the house online while I was in Kabul and put in an offer. After a bit of haggling, it was finally accepted.” She shot him a glance. “The day before the bombing. I gave my real estate agent power of attorney so I didn’t have to be at the closing. After the bombing, the owners graciously waited until I was conscious and lucid enough to decide whether or not I wanted to proceed.”

“They were going to let you out of the contract?”

“Yes. They have a son in Iraq, and when they were told what happened, they . . .” A fond smile curved her lips. “They were very kind. They even came to see me in the burn center in Atlanta.”

“Wow, that’s above and beyond.”

“I know. I’ve seen them several times since I’ve moved in. They’re lovely people.” A small sigh slipped from her.

“What?” he asked.

She waved a hand. “It’s silly.”

“Silly is good. The world is filled with way too much seriousness.”

“Well, that’s true enough. I . . . it’s kind of embarrassing, but sometimes I fantasize that they’re my real parents who just discovered I’m the daughter they gave up for adoption thirty-six years ago and are trying to get to know me before they decide whether or not to break the news.” She said it in a rush of words. “I know, I’m pitiful. I have no idea why I shared that with you.”

Asher’s heart hurt for her and he gripped her fingers. “You’ve got a long way to go before you reach pitiful.”

“Ha. Well, thanks, I think.”

The flowers amidst the shrubs snagged his attention. “You have red flowers blooming in the middle of January? How in the world did you manage that?”

She shot him a tired smile. “They’re amaryllis. They only bloom in the winter and I love coming home to them.” She opened the door and stepped out, pulling her keys from her purse. Her phone rang. Once. Twice.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” he asked.

She glanced at the screen. “It’s coming up as a private call, so no.”

“It could be one of the detectives needing to talk to you about this morning.”

“If it’s important, they’ll call back or leave a message.” She stuffed the phone in the pocket of her coat. “I just can’t deal with anything else at the moment.”

He could understand that.

“Although I do need to call Kat at some point.”

“Kat took the pictures. I remember her well. She was on the base always snapping something.”

“Yes.” She unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and punched in the code to disarm the alarm system.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

For a moment, she just stood there in the foyer, back to him, head lowered. He noted the dining room to the left and a room set up as an office to his right. Straight ahead, the foyer opened into the great room.

Finally, after several seconds, she turned. “I don’t know. Walking into my house feels so normal, it’s hard to believe that Sharon’s really dead. That the next time I go in to work, she won’t be there. I think I’m still in shock—or denial. Or both.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and drew in a slow breath.

Asher let his hands rest on her shoulders. “I’m not the psychiatrist here, but I’d say that’s probably an accurate diagnosis.”

“I didn’t know her long,” she said, “and before I accepted the job, Marcus said how much I’d like working with her. He talked about how she was kind to everyone around her and had a gentle spirit and good-natured humor. I got to see evidence of that in the past couple of months, and I was enjoying getting to know her.”

A low thud from the back of her house stilled Asher. Brooke didn’t seem to notice. His hands fell from her shoulders, and his right hand went to the weapon in the shoulder holster. “Brooke?” he said softly.

She frowned. “What?”

“Do you have any pets?”

“No, why?”

When he pulled his weapon, her eyes went wide. “What is it? What are you doing?” For a split second, he could see the flash of mingled doubt and fear that she’d misjudged him.

He let that roll off as he held a finger up to his lips. “I heard something. Stay behind me.” Without question, she let him step ahead of her. “Tell me the rest of the layout,” he whispered.

“Um . . . straight ahead is the great room and kitchen that overlooks the pool and the backyard. To the right off the great room is my guest bedroom. To the left of the kitchen and eating area is my master bedroom.”

Her hushed voice barely reached him, but he heard her—along with the fear his sudden caution had generated. His ears strained. No other noises reached him other than the faint pant of her quickened breathing—and the thundering of his own heartbeat. And then that faded and his senses focused, homed in on whatever threat was in front of them. “You have your phone?”

“Yes.”

“Call 911, then place your hand on my shoulder and stay with me.” He could feel her moving to comply. When her hand settled on his left shoulder, he tilted his head. “Who’s there?” he called out. Holding his weapon in ready position, he aimed it toward the back of the house and started walking.