Dying Embers Read online

  Dying Embers

  by B.E. Sanderson

  Copyright © 2015 – Beth Sanderson. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  In memory of Dr. Thomas Hruska.

  For Hubs, who believed in me through it all, and told me I had no business doing anything with my life but writing books. And for K.D., who survived growing up with a writer for a mom.

  Thanks to all the folks who helped me make this book a reality, but special thanks to friends and fellow writers: Silver James, JB Lynn, and Janet Corcoran – my go-to crew who have spent years cheering me on, giving me advice, and being there when I spazzed. Also a special thanks to my editor, Alicia Dean, and my cover artist, Derek Murphy of Creativindie, for helping turn my manuscript into something publishable.

  Chapter One

  When she first approached the twisted Mercedes, its cracked side mirror winked at her as if they shared some unspeakable secret. The wind blew through her mousy-brown hair, making the leaves of the grand, old trees waver and the moonlight dance across the pine straw. All around her whispered the soft hush of the forest, with only the faint noise of an occasional vehicle on the road above. The scene felt so peaceful Emma could almost forget what she’d done—if not for the sickly, wet gurgle from below.

  Standing beside a tree a few yards above the wreckage, she couldn’t tell if the sound emanated from the vital fluids dripping from the engine, or the ones from her husband and his mistress. Perhaps the old oak beside her moaned as its life oozed from where the metal ripped into its woody flesh. The car was dead. The other three still suffered.

  She only felt sorry for the tree.

  Her intention had been to send the lovers down the embankment to the gully below. If not for a tree stopping them partway down, her impromptu idea to force them off the road would’ve gone so much better. If she’d had time to plan, no innocents would’ve been hurt.

  Whatever Will had done, the tree didn’t deserve to pay for it.

  “Hello?” A harsh voice filled with pain, and the wet sound of too much spit or too much blood rasped into the night air. The words were so soft most people wouldn’t have been able to tell who survived the impact, but the cadence echoed deep inside her, even before her brain had time to register it consciously.

  “Hello, Will,” she whispered back. With a slow deliberateness, she nudged a rock down the steep hillside. It bounced off one of its many brethren with a loud clack, and her smile widened. Except for the poor oak, they’d ended up in the perfect spot.

  “Hello?” he said louder, his terror filling the air. “Is someone there?”

  Her lips curled into a sneer as she bent to pick up a rock. With a deftness cultivated during many summer softball games, she tested the weight of it and then hurled it against the one pane of glass left unbroken.

  The sound of shattering came only an instant before Will screamed like a little girl. Or maybe his cheap hussy had shrieked. Either way, it suited Emma fine.

  With any luck, they both still lived. Their heartbeats would mean her hidden dreams hadn’t completely deserted her after all. Oh, she wanted them dead, but not too quickly. If she had to spend the rest of her life suffering from their betrayal, the least they could do was spend a little time suffering, too.

  On the road above, a semi chugged up the hill, and Emma froze. Everything would be ruined if someone discovered them now. Truck drivers could see too much from their perches, and her tormentors needed time to die. In the morning, their skid marks would be visible on the asphalt, or the sun would glint off the car’s mirrors, and they would be found.

  Too late.

  “Whoever you are, please help us. My wife is bleeding badly, and she’s having trouble breathing.”

  The smile left her face. His wife? His wife? So the lies were to continue even unto death. Bastard.

  “She’s not your wife,” she said into the darkness, each word drawn from her like the splinters from a stake in her heart. Step by merciless step, she crept toward the vehicle—each one bringing her closer to her goal.

  “She never was your wife.” With each step, she imagined another millimeter of her white teeth glowing in the moonlight—like the fangs of a wolf. She was snarling by the time she slid the last few feet.

  “And she never will be.” When she reached the back bumper, loose rocks slid beneath her feet, lurching her against the trunk. The car wobbled precariously.

  Good. Better than she hoped for, actually. If the car tumbled into the ravine, days could pass before anyone found the bodies.

  “Emma?” her husband called with a new kind of fear soaking through his tone. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Will. I’m here.” Even as she spoke the words, though, she knew the Emma Sweet she’d been had disappeared forever—inside the gaping hole within her. For more than a decade, Will had been her world, and like an asteroid’s impact, this event had left her burnt and hollowed-out.

  “Go get help.” His command shook her out of her misery. He had no right to boss her around anymore. Still, her hand closed around the phone in her pocket. She had the power to save him. He’d be grateful for his life…

  Too bad for him, not just his life hung by her will.

  “For you?” she said sweetly, and then let the hate that filled her saturate her words. “Or for her?”

  “For both of us. Please, Emma.” His pleading refreshed her like a cool drink on a hot day.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please. I know what you’re thinking, but I can explain.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said again. The cold sound of her words almost shocked her back to sanity. Everyone loved and admired her. Emma Sweet wasn’t just a name; it was a persona she’d wrapped around herself for years. Anyone who knew her would insist she couldn’t hurt a fly—

  The gurgling filtered up to her ears again. The tramp was choking on her own blood. She wouldn’t hurt a fly even now, but these two were so much worse than flies.

  “Emma,” he said, his voice strained with concern. “Don’t let her die because of me. She never knew I was married.”

  “Liar!” The woman couldn’t have been ignorant of Will’s vows. His ring had been too tight to remove for years. Their marriage was too public a thing. They’d attended too many functions and been in too many news articles. She couldn’t conceive of the idea this woman hadn’t been ignorant of the happiest couple in the area.

  Now he’d ruined everything. And everyone would know. She pushed against the car in her fury, rocking it slightly.

  “Emma! Don’t!”

  “Thirteen years, Will.” The wind whipped through the trees, warming her from the outside. She felt like a corpse… Or a zombie. Cold and lifeless, but still moving. “Maybe thirteen is an unlucky number after all.”

  She rocked the car again and moved it an inch or two. Will continued to shout at her, alternating between rage and fear. The sounds of his hands scrabbling to open the door drifted in the air. It made her think of a rabbit caught in a snare, but no one could ever think of Will as a cute, little bunny. He’d told her often enough how he was King of the Beasts in his own home.

  Well, he’s not home now.

  With all her might, she pressed against the car. It shifted a little and then stopped. A few more rocks slid down the embankment. They hit bottom seconds later, and the sound rebounded down the gully. She feared she’d never be able to move the car by herself. Unless…

  Push. Rock bac
k. Push. Rock back.

  Just like the time she had to help poor Mrs. Isaac get her car out of the ditch. The old lady was too fat and too old to be much help, so she pushed the behemoth out by herself.

  Push and rock.

  Momentum—the only way for a woman of her stature to move a large object. Physics. She laughed out loud when she thought of Will’s insistence she fill her pointless life with some college courses.

  Push.

  Ten miles away, Will had stopped to fill his tank before climbing into the Porcupine Mountains. They’d made the journey many times in thirteen years, and he always filled his tank at the same spot. He was so damn predictable. Most men were.

  Rock back.

  While she watched him pump gas, an idea percolating in the back of her head began to take shape. A stretch of road where the shoulder sloped away into oblivion lay ahead of them. A full tank of gas would make a lovely explosion, and obliterate any evidence.

  Push.

  All the nights spent watching television while her husband supposedly worked late. All the crime dramas giving her little bits of information she could use to make him pay.

  Rock back.

  But why stop with him? her anger whispered. When there are so many others… If it weren’t for them, you never would have married Will. If they hadn’t hurt you, you could’ve been happy…

  Push.

  “You could’ve been happy.”

  A low rustle startled her. The bumper moved away from her hands so quickly she nearly fell after it. If not for the tree.

  Will’s scream echoed up to her just before the Mercedes hit the ground. Leaking gasoline. Metal scraping along rock. A tiny spark. Kaboom. Then the resounding whoompf.

  No more Will. No more cheap whore. Just a lovely, warm bonfire.

  Sitting in the woods—listening to the crackle of flame—reminded her of Girl Scout camp. Above the noise of her husband’s pyre and the breeze in the trees, a new sound rang. After several moments, Emma realized she was singing.

  “Fire in the galley. Fire down below. Fetch a bucket of water boys, there’s fire down below.”

  She almost wished she’d thought to bring marshmallows.

  Chapter Two

  Eleven months later.

  Pushing away from the dock, Agent Jace Douglas struck out across the lake, measuring the water one arm-length after another. Even under the hot July sun, the water was cold and clear, making her relish each solitary stroke. As the surface tension slid along her skin, the stress slipped away. Twelve acres of solitude and reflection—twelve acres she only saw between assignments—and it was all hers. Still, if she had things her way, she wouldn’t be at home; she’d be at the office focusing on her case.

  Swimming along with nothing but the wind and the waves to distract her, she admitted to herself Director Graham had been right. Time away from the Serial Crimes Investigation Unit had been just what she needed, if only for perspective, and her ranch in the Piney Woods was just the ticket.

  If they find another… The thought came unbidden as she pulled herself through the calm water. Not if, when they find another body, I won’t have much time to breathe, let alone think.

  The case intruded on the single-mindedness of exercise. Her strokes faltered and then stopped. She tried to get back into the rhythm, but she’d lost the calming groove. Too many unanswered questions assaulted her. Rolling onto her back, she allowed the gentle water to hold her up and her work to fill her once more.

  “Jace, you need a break,” he’d said right before he ordered her to leave the building and not come back until she had learned to let things go a little.

  At the time, she thought, I’ll take one day off, and then I’ll go back. And if Graham had a problem, she’d fake being relaxed. She could do it, if she had to. Still, before she knew it, her one day had stretched to three.

  In retrospect, she’d left her boss no choice but to make her take some time off. She was the one who’d blown up at her co-workers for making jokes. Six months on any case would test the calm of anyone, especially when the case continued to provide more bodies without providing any more evidence. But this case niggled at her in a way she hadn’t permitted anything to affect her since before she joined the S.C.I.U.—maybe not since that hot summer day when she was a teen and her life fell apart.

  Even with the tightest reins, sometimes you can’t control a beast as unruly as your past.

  Just the thought of going down the path of her past tightened every muscle in her body, and she sank beneath the rippled surface. She came up coughing pond water.

  Another moment’s peace ruined.

  Striking back toward shore, she focused on putting one arm in front of the other until she reached the dock. As she began to pull herself out of the water, a hand reached toward her, and she paddled back until she identified the face of a young agent she’d seen around the S.C.I.U.—Peter Something.

  “You all right, Agent Douglas?”

  She ignored the offered digits and slung herself up onto the wooden structure. “Did they miss me already?” she said through gritted teeth. Even though she’d been forced to take time off, she resented the intrusion. Given that Graham had told her to take a break—a break she finally accepted—the arrival of one of his minions irritated her to no end.

  Still, the Director sending someone to fetch her could mean a break in the case. “It’s too early for another body,” she said as she toweled off her hair, wondering whether her words were the truth or just foolish hope.

  “I don’t have the particulars. Graham just wants you back at the office.”

  “Pronto, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  During the walk to the house, she mustered every ounce of willpower to keep from ordering him to stop with the ‘ma’am’ thing, but she managed it. “Wait in the living room. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the young man’s appreciative stare as she climbed the stairs to her room. The reason he was checking her out escaped her. Her more than modest swimsuit was actually made for swimming. Her body was fast approaching forty, and while not an extra ounce took up space beneath her skin, the signs of age were beginning to show. Not that it bothered her—time caught up with everyone sooner or later—but she believed in being a realist, and she wasn’t turning heads anymore.

  Most likely, the kid never thought of her as anything but the suit and sensible shoes she presented at the office. Even as far as her occupation had come, the less feminine you were, the more respect you got. It didn’t grind at her the way it did some female agents—it was just a fact of life.

  Opening her closet, she pushed aside the cute dresses she never had a chance to wear, but refused to throw out, and wondered what the kid would say if she came out of the bedroom in the sexy, black number. Technically, her vacation didn’t end for another few days, and the look on Walter Graham’s face might almost be worth the whispers afterward. She grabbed a staid blouse and beige slacks instead. Her blue blazer completed the look. Today wasn’t the day to shatter illusions.

  No more than ten minutes passed before she returned to find Agent Peter frozen in the exact same spot. “You could’ve made yourself comfortable, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinding on her last nerve. “Thank you, but Director Graham made it clear we need to get back as soon as possible.”

  Of course.

  Outside, the kid had the passenger door open to his sedan before she made it off the porch. As if she would let someone younger than her favorite pair of shoes chauffeur her around the Texas highways. With a shake of her head, she retrieved her own company vehicle from the garage, motioning for him to lead the way.

  Letting him take point was her first mistake of the day. She hoped it would be her last.

  On the hour drive into Dallas, Jace followed the youngster—doing ten miles under the speed limit all the way. On any other day, she would’ve bet cash money the kid was a speeder. N
o man that young should ever drive so slowly, unless he’s being tailed or he’s trying to impress a law enforcement official. It wasn’t like she had the authority to pull him over.

  Forty-five minutes in, her patience deserted her, and she floored her sedan past him. The look on his face was worth the potential ticket.

  Maybe the boss had been right about her needing a vacation—however short it turned out to be. Clearly, her sense of humor had taken a hit. Still, if she never heard the phrase ‘Car-B-Que Killer’ again, it would be too soon. The bad thing about naming serial murderers, even as a joke—names tended to stick, and once they did, the press would get wind of them sooner or later. No matter how funny the guys in the office thought it was, the moniker seemed too perverse for public consumption.

  She arrived at the office ten minutes ahead of her escort, but instead of tromping into the lobby, she leaned against the brick façade to wait for the kid. Her arrival before his would probably dent his self-esteem almost as much as arriving alone. Even though he kept calling her ma’am, she couldn’t see putting him through that kind of torture. When he eventually arrived, she hadn’t moved—unwilling to enter and yet unable to leave.

  Looking back, she could remember driving into the parking lot for the first time and being in awe of her new assignment. The sign alone—Homeland Security: Serial Crimes Investigation Unit—should inspire anyone who believed justice still existed in the world. Back then, she’d been one of those people. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  Scuttlebutt was, when they first opened the new division, a huge debate ensued over the name. Half wanted to call it Special Crimes, the other half were pulling for Serial Crimes—most likely on the taxpayers’ dime. She couldn’t have cared either way. In her experience, all crimes were special. Some crimes needed more attention than others. This one more than any she’d yet worked.

  As her escort walked toward her with pinker cheeks than a government agent ought to have, she asked, “What took you so long?”