Heather Graham - The Hidden

She couldn’t help wondering, though, whether she really was going to be all right, or if maybe she should have agreed to sleep at the main house.

After all, two people had been brutally murdered just where the mountain rose to meet the Conway Ranch. She shouldn’t be alone.

But she was exhausted, so exhausted that she didn’t even take off her clothes as she pitched down on the bed.

It wasn’t over, she thought. Not for her. Lieutenant Gray had said so.

But Diego was coming. He had said that he would, and he was always true to his word.

She thought she would never sleep, as her distraught mind kept going over the events of the day.

The pictures on her camera...

And then two people dead just like the people in the photos...

And then she’d been interrogated. The kid who had never stolen so much as a piece of gum.

To her amazement, her eyes finally closed and her mind began to shut down. She was just so tired.

But her dreams were troubled...

Blood was everywhere in her mind’s eye. She could see the dead, and they could see her. She felt their eyes, and the intensity of their regard sent chills up her spine...

Restless, she awoke. She walked into the kitchen and made herself a cup of chamomile tea. At the kitchen table, she sat sipping it, listening. The museum was quiet. The door below was locked.

Diego would be here soon.

She finished her tea, walked to the window and looked out. Everything was peaceful.

Bizarrely peaceful, given what had happened there in the woods.

And as she stood there, she felt once again that she was being watched.

She told herself that was foolish. “I am alone,” she said into the empty air.

The feeling persisted, but she forced herself back to bed, leaving the door to her room ajar so that she could hear anything that went on in the museum.

Surprisingly, she fell asleep easily, and so deeply that she was untroubled by dreams.

The next thing she knew, she heard birds.

She smiled slightly, waking up. It was nice here, that sound of birds in the morning, with the feel of the sun, strong and warm at this time of year.

She opened her eyes, feeling as if everything would be all right.

Then she realized someone was standing at the foot of her bed, and a scream tore from her lips.

She stopped with a gasp when she saw who that someone was.

The decidedly not-alive statue of Nathan Kendall was staring down at her.

3

Diego wondered why he had ever turned down an invitation to join the Krewe of Hunters.

By 6:00 a.m. he was aboard a private plane with Brett Cody, along with Krewe agents—and lovers—Meg Murray and Matt Bosworth. They were flying out via a friend of Adam Harrison’s, the man who had established and still ran the Krewe. Nothing they were doing was official yet—and might never be, Matt had reminded him. Until the local authorities asked for their help, they couldn’t officially give it, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t run their own investigation.

That was one of the greatest assets of the Krewe. Their purpose was to investigate when there were strange and otherworldly elements to a crime, but they operated independently, beholden to no one and able to operate freely.

All Diego really knew was that he was incredibly grateful that he had been able to ask for assistance, and that it could so quickly and easily be granted.

“Adam will be coming out himself,” Matt had told Diego earlier. “Estes Park is apparently one of his favorite places in the world. He’s a major supporter of our national parks, and Rocky Mountain National Park is one of his favorites.”

Diego was glad to have a seasoned agent like Matt on the case. Meg was still new—not even a year out of the academy—but she was a rising star, and since the Krewe had its own rules, their personal relationship was no barrier to the two of them working together.

All they’d had to do was make a few phone calls to set everything in motion. Special Agent Angela Hawkins—wife of Jackson Crow, their official field director—had made travel arrangements for them and found out everything the police knew so far regarding the murders at the Conway Ranch.

The dead couple was Candace and Larry Parker, who’d been visiting the area from their home in Denver. They had apparently headed out to Estes Park without hotel reservations for a lodge; one supposition was that they’d been hiking up to the Conway Ranch to see if there was a vacancy.

Based on bark found in abrasions on his back and blood found on a nearby tree, Larry Parker had been strung up and had his torso ripped repeatedly by a bowie knife or something similar, and then he’d been shot in the head. Candace had been shot in the gut and bled out in about twenty minutes, according to the medical examiner’s estimate.

Bertram—aka Ben—Kendall had found the bodies at approximately 10:30 p.m. The medical examiner could narrow the time of death down to about an hour—sometime between eight and nine the night before, Monday, a beautiful, cool October evening.

There were more details about the insects and woodland creatures that had already gone to work before the bodies were found. Diego read the reports with a careful and practiced eye.

The police had questioned one Scarlet Barlow McCullough regarding reports of her having had in her possession a camera with pictures of a similar murder scene, pictures that were no longer on the memory card. The camera had been thoroughly examined by the police techs and no evidence of any such pictures had been found, nor could they find any indication that the camera might have been tampered with. Further, witnesses had been found to corroborate her claim that she had gone into town to eat and visit a local bar at the time of the murders. The guests and staff of the Conway Ranch had been questioned, as well. No one had seen the victims or anything suspicious, but they’d all been asked to remain in the area for the next twenty-four hours, though a number of the guests had elected to check out and rebook elsewhere.

The most interesting aspect of the case—one that might have tightened the noose around Scarlet’s neck if not for her solid alibi—was that the bullets had come from a vintage Colt revolver.

Antique bullets and casings.

Like the ones in the museum where she worked.

Not that the museum was a model of security. It was part of a rustic mountaintop resort. The door locks could be picked by anyone with a modicum of skill. The only security on the property came from the cats in the stables, and they only kept the place secure against mice.

They touched down in Denver at 10:00 a.m. The drive out to Estes Park was about an hour, give or take, depending on traffic.

Diego knew that Scarlet had been released from police custody and was back at the ranch. He called her cell to let her know that they were on their way.

She didn’t sound at all like herself. Her voice was raspy and anxious.

“Just hang in there, okay?” he told her. “Brett and a couple of agents from a special unit are with me, and we’ll be there in an hour.”

“Of course,” she told him, then added, “Just hurry. Please.”

As if he hadn’t been concerned enough before, he thought.

He hadn’t been to Colorado, and despite his eagerness to reach Scarlet and make sure she really was all right, he couldn’t help noticing how beautiful the scenery was as they moved higher into the Rocky Mountains. They passed through charming small towns and what was obviously horse country, and saw ads for businesses dedicated to celebrating the Old West. Wild Bill Hickok had a museum dedicated to him, and the casinos all seemed to have modeled themselves on old mining towns.

But nothing could detract from the raw and even savage beauty of the land, soaring rock faces and crystalline waters that gleamed in the sunlight as they climbed toward Estes Park.