The Hidden. Heather Graham
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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.
From the road, he could see the famous Stanley Hotel, gleaming in the sunlight.
Finally the road curved, they passed through a break in the trees and arrived at the Conway Ranch. Diego let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The main house was built of wood and handsomely varnished in its natural shade. To the left were the museum and stables, both nicely restored, as well. To the right, two more outbuildings—the smokehouse and the bunkhouse.
And surrounding everything was a dense forest that draped like a cloak over the mountain to the valley below.
Up the mountain he could see the bright yellow crime-scene tape, though the bodies were long gone. A lone officer sat in a patrol car in the parking lot, his head back and his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, presumably keeping time to whatever music the radio was playing.
Matt, who was driving, pulled up out front. Yes, everything here was magnificent, Diego thought, but the only nature he was interested in was the force of nature that was Scarlet.
* * *
Of course Scarlet had screamed as if every hellhound from the dark unknown had come after her.
And of course no one heard her.
Something she would need to remember.
She’d leaped from the bed, staring at the thing in terror, all the while telling herself it was a mannequin, just a damned mannequin.
That meant someone alive and stealthy had carried it up the stairs and left it there to terrify her. But the doors had been locked, and only she, Ben and Trisha had keys.
After her initial shock of fear, her instinct had warned her that someone might still be in the building with her, lurking, waiting...
Well, they would know, after the way she had screamed, that she was now awake.
Were they waiting for her?
Next she thought of a weapon. She could grab a big knife from the kitchen. She wished she was a black belt, but she wasn’t.
What she needed was a gun.
The place was full of guns, of course.
But they were all downstairs.
She did have one thing. Her spear gun. She’d brought it with her when she moved, since she didn’t own enough stuff to make renting a storage locker worthwhile. She’d gotten the spear gun in case of a visit from a too-inquisitive shark when she went diving, one of the things she loved about being a Floridian.
It was in her closet. Staring warily at the mannequin, as if half believing it could move on its own, she backed over to the closet and found the spear gun, then clicked the spear into the mechanism.
Ridiculous.
She lifted the gun toward the mannequin. “Don’t you move—and I mean it,” she said.
The effigy of Nathan Kendall just stared back at her.
She slipped from the room and into the kitchen, then down the hall to the living room and then on into the second bedroom. No one.
She dared to go downstairs. Inch by inch she swept the place—nothing had changed.
Nothing, of course, except that the pedestal near the stairs where Nathan Kendall usually stood was empty.
A key started to turn in the lock of the front door. She was standing there in flannel pajamas, a spear gun in her hand.
“Scarlet, coming in!” someone called. It was Ben.
In that moment she stood there as different scenarios flashed through her mind like wildfire.
Tell Ben what had happened? Accuse him or Trisha of having moved a mannequin upstairs in the middle of the night to give her a heart attack? Accuse them of giving someone else a key?
Someone was guilty of something, that much she knew.
Ben had found the bodies.
Could Ben have killed someone? Surely not.
Then she remembered her feeling of being watched during the night. Had someone really been out there observing her? Had that someone gotten in and brought the mannequin upstairs?
Was that someone Ben?
She had to keep her wits about her, had to keep silent. It was broad daylight now. Even if he was a killer, surely Ben wouldn’t dare do violence right here in his own museum.
But if she told him what had happened...
She could wind up back at the police station with everyone thinking she was a lunatic, at the very least.
“Hang on!” she called. “Let me just throw on a robe.”
She raced back up the stairs, threw on her robe, then struggled to carry Nathan into the living room, hoping she could keep Ben from noticing his absence from his usual spot.
She