Heather Graham - Tangled Threat

She was here now—and she could remember that night all too clearly. Coming to the tree, then realizing while denying it that a real body was hanging from it. That it was Francine Renault. That she had been hanged from a heavy branch, hanged by the neck, and that she dangled far above the ground, tongue bulging, face grotesque.

She remembered screaming...

And she remembered the police and how they had taken Brock away, frowning and massively confused, still tall and straight and almost regally dignified.

And she could remember that there were still those who speculated on his guilt or innocence—until dozens of people had spoken out, having seen him through the time when Francine might have been taken and killed. His arrest had really been ludicrous—a detective’s desperate bid to silence the horror and outrage that was beginning to spread.

Brock’s life had changed, and thus her life had changed.

Everything had changed.

Except for this spot.

She could even imagine that she was a kid again, that she could see Francine Renault, so macabre in death, barely believable, yet so real and tragic and terrifying as she dangled from the thick limb.

“Oh,” Angie groaned, the one word drawn out long enough to be a sentence. “Now I know why you were against doing a video here!”

Angie had wanted the History Tree. And when she had started to grow curious regarding Maura’s reluctance to head to the Frampton Ranch and Resort—especially since the resort was supposedly great and the expense of rooms went on Angie’s bill—Maura had decided it was time to cave.

She hadn’t wanted to give any explanations.

“Angie, it’s in your book, and you sell great and your video channel is doing great, as well. It’s fine. Really. But because they did recently find what seems to be the remains of a murder victim near here, I do think we need to be careful. As in, stay out of these woods after dark.”

“There is a big bad wolf. Was a big bad wolf... But seriously, I’m not a criminologist of any kind, but I’d say the killer back then was making a point. Maybe the bones they found belonged to someone who died of natural causes.”

Angie wasn’t stupid, but Maura was sure that the look she gave her tiny friend at that moment implied that she thought she was.

“Maybe,” Angie said defensively.

“Angie, you don’t rot in the dirt on purpose and then wind up with your bones in a cache of hotel laundry,” Maura said.

“No, but, hey—there could be another explanation. Like a car accident. And whoever hit her was terrified and ran—and then, sadly, she just rotted.”

“And wound up in hotel sheets?”

Maura asked incredulously. Angie couldn’t be serious.

“Okay, so that’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Angie, it’s been reported that the remains were found of a murder victim. Last I saw, they were still seeking her identity, but they said that she was killed.”

“Well, they found bones, from what I understand. Anyway,” Angie said, dusting her hands on her skirt and speaking softly and with dignity and compassion, “I wish you would have just said that you were here when it happened. Let’s get out of here. I’m sorry I made you do this.”

“You didn’t make me do it. If I had been determined not to come back here, I wouldn’t have done so. But it’s going to get dark soon. Let me shoot a bit of you doing your speech by the tree while I still have good light.”

Maura lifted her camera, looked at the tree and then up at the sky.

They wouldn’t have the light much longer.

“Angie, come on—let’s film you.”

“Please—you know the stories so well. Let me film you this time.”

“They’re your books.”

“But you’ll give me a great authenticity. I’ll interview you—and you were here when the last crime occurred. I’m surprised they haven’t hacked this sucker to the ground, really,” Angie said, looking at the tree. “Or at the very least, they should have video surveillance out here.”

“Now, that would be the right idea. They have video surveillance in the lobby, the elevators—and other areas. But for now, please?”

They were never going to be able to leave.

“All right, all right!” Maura said. She adjusted the camera on its lightweight tripod and looked at the image on the camera’s viewing screen. “I’ve got it lined up already. I’ll go right there. You need to get it rolling. The mic is on already, and you can see what you’re filming.”

“Hey, I’ve used it before—not a lot, but I kind of know what I’m doing,” Angie reminded her.

Maura stepped away from the camera and headed over to the tree. Angie had paid attention to her. She lifted her fingers and said, “In three...” and then went silent, counting down the rest by hand.

Maura was amazed at how quickly it all came back to her. She told the tale of the beautiful Gyselle and then went into the later crimes.

Ending, of course, with the murder of Francine Renault.

“A false lead caused the arrest of an innocent young man. But this is America, and we all know that any man is innocent until proved guilty, and this young man was quickly proved innocent. He was only under arrest for a night, because eyewitness reports confirmed he was with several other people—busy at work—when the crime took place. Still, it was a travesty, shattering a great deal of the promise of the young man’s life. He was, however, as I said, quickly released—and until this day, the crime goes unsolved.”

She finished speaking and saw that Angie was still running the camera, looking past her, appearing perplexed—and pleased—by something that she saw.

“Hello there! Are you with Frampton Ranch and Resort? You aren’t, by any chance, the host for the campfire stories tonight, are you?”

Angie was smiling sweetly—having shifted into her flirtatious mode.

Curious, Maura turned around and started toward the path.

If a jaw could actually drop, hers did.

She quickly closed her mouth, but perhaps her eyes were bulging, as well. It seemed almost as if someone had physically knocked the breath from her.

Brock McGovern was standing there.

Different.

The same.

A bit taller than he’d been at eighteen; his shoulders had filled out and he appeared to have acquired a great deal more solid muscle. He filled out a dark blue suit and tailored shirt exceptionally well.

His face was the same...

Different.

There was something hard about him now that hadn’t been there before. His features were leaner, his eyes...

Still deep brown. But they were harder now, too, or appeared to be harder, as if there was a shield of glass on them. He’d always walked and moved with purpose, confident in what he wanted and where he was going.

Now, just standing still, he was an imposing presence.

And though Angie had spoken, he was looking at Maura.

“Wow,” Angie said softly. “Did I dream up the perfect assistant for you—tall, dark and to die for? Who the hell... The storyteller guy is wickedly cute, but this guy...”

He couldn’t have heard her words; he wasn’t close enough.

And he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Maura.

“That was great,” he said smoothly. “However, I don’t consider my life to have been shattered . I mean—I hope I have fulfilled a few of the promises I made to myself.”

Maura wanted to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t work.

Angie, however, had no problem.

“Oh, my God!” Angie cried.

Every once in a while, her Valley girl came out.

“You—you’re Brock McGovern?” she asked.

“I am,” he said, but he still wasn’t looking at Angie. He was locked on Maura. Then he smiled. A rueful smile, dry and maybe even a little bitter.