The Hidden

  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.

  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 enoug
h 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 ran to the top of the stairs, amazed at what she had done. She had left her fingerprints all over the damn thing, and now she was going to pretend that it had never appeared at the foot of her bed.

  “Scarlet?” Ben called as she heard the museum door open.

  At that moment her cell phone rang. Diego.

  An hour, just one hour, and he would be there!

  She ran back down the stairs and through the museum, breathless as she came face-to-face with Ben.

  He looked at her with surprise. “I woke you up. I’m so sorry. I forgot how late it was when we got in. I just came by to make sure you really are okay after yesterday.”

  “I’m fine. What about you and Trisha?”

  He nodded. “We’re going to be okay, though with the news rocketing around town and a cop car in front of the house, we won’t be too busy for a while.”

  “Everything will be all right eventually, Ben, I promise. They’ll catch the person who did this and prove it had nothing to do with the ranch, and everything will go back to normal. Just hang in there, okay?” she added quietly.

  He grinned ruefully. “I was a stockbroker, remember? I’m used to life on the roller coaster. We’ll be good. It’s just that I love this place so much.”

  “And you should love it,” Scarlet said. “Spend more time during the next few days riding the trails. Hike.”

  He brightened. “I can help you out here in the museum.”

  She opened her mouth, trying to figure out just how to answer him.

  She didn’t have to; the front door opened again and Trisha walked in. “Scarlet, you doing all right?” she asked.

  Scarlet nodded. “I just got up.”

  “I can see that,” Trisha said with a smile. “Want us to hang around down here while you go upstairs and shower?” She looked toward the stairs as she spoke, and her eyes widened. “Where’s Nathan?” she asked, almost as if the mannequin was a living, breathing man who might have headed out for a morning walk.

  “I have him upstairs,” Scarlet said. “I’m studying his construction. I think he was carved in the 1870s but I’m trying to ascertain who the artist might have been.”

  “You moved him upstairs?” Trisha asked.

  “Yeah, I’m stronger than I look,” Scarlet said lightly. “But, it’s such a great figure, I want to know more about it.”

  “People whittled in these mountains all the time, so if you don’t find a signature or anything, it won’t be surprising. Back then, once the snow fell, there wasn’t much to do except sit around the fire and whittle,” Ben said.

  “That’s always true in my line of work,” Scarlet said. “Sometimes we can find the answers, sometimes we can’t. But yes, I’d feel more secure if I knew the two of you were here while I was getting ready. Thank you. Come on up. Nathan Kendall’s in the living room, if you feel like visiting him.”

  She turned and fled up the stairs, wondering for a minute if she’d asked a pair of psychotic killers to stand guard while she showered.

  No. The idea that Ben and Trisha could be killers was ridiculous.

  More ridiculous than that a mannequin had moved on its own?

  She winced and silently prayed that Diego would arrive soon.

  Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she had to behave normally. Still, she locked the door to her room. Her mind was racing, filled with all the crazy things that had happened in less than twenty-four hours.

  Ben and Trisha, the murders, the mannequin at the foot of the bed, her feeling of being watched, the pictures, the man who had stopped her in town...

  She finally turned on the water.

  But even in the shower, she kept peeking around the curtain, making sure that Nathan didn’t walk in to surprise her when she stepped out.

  She was more relieved than she liked to admit when he didn’t make another appearance.

  Clean and dressed, she entered the living room. Nathan Kendall was still right where she had put him, and Ben and Trisha were talking about his merits. Despite herself, she couldn’t help feeling suspicious.

  Trisha turned to her with a smile. “I took the liberty of putting coffee on,” she said. “Or would you rather have tea?”

  “I’m happy with either,” Scarlet assured her. “And no liberty—you own this place.”

  “But we’ve given you the apartment as part of your employee package,” Ben said. “That means we’re guests in here right now.”

  “Then I should be getting you coffee,” Scarlet said. “And I hope you don’t mind, but Diego, my ex, has three other agents with him. I can ask them to stay somewhere else if you’d rather.”

  “Four FBI agents to watch over us?” Trish asked. “I don’t mind in the least. In fact, I’m thrilled.”

  “We have an almost empty bed-and-breakfast,” Ben said drily. “Not a problem at all.”

  “They should be here soon. While we’re waiting, I’ll whip up omelets,” Scarlet said. “I’m actually a pretty good cook,” she promised.

  She looked at her watch and realized that she didn’t want to be alone in the museum.

  And once Diego and his friends got here, did she tell him that either one or both of her employers might be a psychotic killer, or else a mannequin had moved all by itself? Even if he didn’t think she was the killer, she really didn’t want him thinking she was crazy.

  That thought made her smile fade as she looked at Ben and Trisha.

/>   “Any more news on the couple who were killed?” she asked.

  “The police are still withholding identification pending notification of next of kin,” Ben said. “But the town is buzzing with speculation. Scarlet,” he said, clearly upset, “I saw them. I saw those pictures, and then I saw them. I have to admit, it’s unnerving to think about something like that happening right here on the ranch.”

  “It can’t have anything to do with us,” Trisha whispered.

  “No, of course not,” Ben said. “But I’m a grown man and I have to say, I’m glad I keep a gun in the house, because I’m more than a little scared.”

  So am I, Scarlet thought.

  But Diego was coming, and he would find a way to make everything right.

  Now, looking at Ben’s stricken expression, she decided she had to be crazy to think he and Trisha could have had anything to do with the deaths. And if they were after her, they could have killed her at any time.

  Like the person who had moved the mannequin. That person could have killed her last night if he’d wanted to.

  Unless the mannequin had moved on its own.

  Okay, she told herself, that was enough of that. If she kept thinking along those lines she would start thinking she was crazy.

  Diego and his friends would be there soon. All she had to do was hold on until then.

  “I’ll make breakfast,” she said.

  And then she fled to the kitchen to concentrate on creating omelets.

  * * *

  The minute Diego saw Scarlet come running out the door of the museum, eyes anxious and hopeful, he felt his muscles tighten, and an aching pulse began to pound through him. He wondered how things could have gone so wrong between the two of them when they’d loved each other so much.

  Watching her run to him, blue eyes wide, chestnut hair streaming out behind her, he felt the same rush in his veins that he’d felt the first time he’d seen her. Her features were alive with intelligence, her movements the epitome of grace, even when fear, relief and a dozen other emotions were fighting for expression.