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As the beach narrowed, she was barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Here the river deepened, rushing closer before turning again away from the house, and finally giving way to marshland on the far side of the garden.
Her legs were cramping and she was seriously second-guessing herself as the sun slid beneath the horizon.
She started to slip, caught her balance and then spied a willow tree leaning over the water not fifty yards ahead, near the next bend in the river. The tree’s leafy branches draped over the water, some flexible limbs touching the river and being tugged by the current.
If she could just make it the short distance without being seen, she could hide in the shelter behind the curtain of leaves. She started to move as she heard Morrisette’s twangy voice.
“Yeah, nothin’ so far. Still lookin’. Probably a wild-goose chase anyhoo, y’know. Hopefully there’s nothin’ more.” Then a pause.
Oh, God. Morrisette was closer than Nikki had thought, just on the ledge above, and she was talking to someone . . . no, more likely speaking on the phone. To Reed?
Nikki held her breath.
Morrisette began to talk again. “Yeah, yeah. Good. Meet back at the house . . . yeah, I can’t wait.” A brittle laugh.
Straining to hear, Nikki leaned forward. She kept her balance by grabbing a wet, exposed root.
“It’ll be interesting to hear what our pal Bronco has to say for himself.”
Bronco?
“Wouldn’t you know that lowlife would be the one to call it in. Even if he did it anonymously. Makes you wonder what else he knows, y’know. Maybe he can tell us why there looks like a third grave in that basement. Two bodies, three burial spots? I can’t figure it. What the hell’s that all about? Yeah . . . yeah, I know. I hope we don’t find any others. What? Oh, yeah. Deputies are looking for our buddy as we speak, but it looks like Bronco’s gone to ground, y’know? Not at home, not at work . . . Yeah, heard he was laid off from the construction company. . . . uh-huh, staking it out . . . What? Oh, the Red Knuckle. He’s a regular there. Hangs out there every damned evening, the way I hear it. They probably have a stool with his name on it.... What? His home? . . . Yeah, it’s a cabin across the river from here, been in his family for years, I think.... Yeah, yeah, me too. Can’t wait to hear what he has to say.”
Nikki couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her pulse jumped and her brain raced with the information. The only person named Bronco that Nikki knew about was Bronco Cravens, a two-bit con artist who had lived in the area for years. Bronco had been trouble from the get-go, the son of a preacher and yet always at odds with the law. He’d even been to prison if she remembered correctly. Burglary or robbery or something? She couldn’t remember the exact charge, but she did know that he had a connection to the place.
Bronco’s grandfather had been the caretaker at the Beaumont place for years. Nikki herself had seen Wynn Cravens, his hair as white as an egret, working in the tool shed or clipping roses in the garden more than once when she and her family had visited the estate.
She chewed on that for a second, her mind spinning. A third burial spot? In the basement? Two bodies, but three graves? What was that all about?
And why had Bronco called the police anonymously? No reason, unless he was guilty, right? Was he involved? But surely not the killer—because he wouldn’t have called. Was he an accomplice who had second thoughts? Or, unbeknownst to the killers, had he surreptitiously witnessed the murder being committed? And the police had already figured out he’d been the caller?
“Okay.” Morrisette’s voice broke into the spool of her thoughts. “Yeah, got it,” she said, and seemed to end the call.
Dozens of questions racing through her mind, Nikki redoubled her efforts to get to her hiding spot. The tree was much closer now. Crouched over nearly double, she started moving again. If she could just cover the distance of twenty yards or so under the overhang of the bank, she might be okay. She would be able to—
She saw movement between the branches, the silver-green leaves a shifting veil and hiding something within.
She froze, her heart hammering as she squinted into the gathering darkness. Had she spied an animal . . . a muskrat or . . . a bobcat . . . maybe an alligator? No good options there.
And then she caught a glimpse of pale red. As the willow leaves shuddered, turning with the current, she spied the shadow of . . . a boat?
What?
She stopped suddenly, the fingers of one hand twined around a clump of weeds that had poked through the rocks, her throat tight. What the hell?
Why would a boat be moored beneath the tree after a storm the likes of which hadn’t been seen in this part of the country in decades? She thought of a local fisherman braving the swollen river but immediately discarded the idea. More likely whoever had shown up was someone interested in what was going on at the Beaumont mansion, someone who had heard the news that bodies had been located, but a person who didn’t want to be noticed by the cops.
Someone like her.
Another reporter?
Someone who had been held at bay at the main gate and had circumvented the police by boat?
For the briefest of seconds, the image of Norm Metzger with his neatly trimmed goatee and sneering disapproval flashed before her eyes. Wouldn’t it be just like him . . . but no, he was too damned lazy.
Maybe some other reporter, or perhaps a nosy neighbor.
Or the boat could be abandoned, tied to the tree and moving with the current that flowed more swiftly here where the water was deeper.
