Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane 3)

“You’re forgetting something.” Owen’s gaze indicated the doorway that led into the rear corridor.

Mary.

He had forgotten about her. Unfortunately for Mary, she was a witness.

“Come on.” He moved toward the doorway.

“What are you going to do?” Owen asked.

“Just follow me.”

Mary was still cuffed to the ring in the wall. Her eyes widened as he approached her, the whites glowing in the dim corridor. She pressed her back against the wall. She knew what she’d seen and what it meant.

“How about we make a deal, Mary?” King walked closer.

She swallowed, the column of her throat undulating. “Wh-at?” Her voice trembled.

“I’ll drop the charges. You forget you were here tonight.”

Mary’s quick nod was tense and desperate.

He took off her handcuffs. “I’ll even drive you back to PJ’s.”

With one hand on her bicep, he guided her out the rear door and into the back seat of his car. He glanced over his shoulder at Owen. “Do your paperwork on Ford as if he passed out—then go back out like normal. We’ll find him dead later.”

Owen nodded.

Then King drove out into the countryside, away from Grey’s Hollow and into neighboring Scarlet Falls. If a client killed Mary, he’d want to put some distance between her body and the crime scene.

Mary pressed her hands to the side window. “This ain’t the way to PJ’s.”

At a rest stop, he pulled off the road and parked. There were no other cars in sight. Insects hummed in the warm August night. He got out of the car and opened the rear door.

“Get out,” he said.

She obeyed. Between the hem of her miniskirt and her fuck-me heels, she wobbled as she climbed from the back seat. She sidled along the car fender. He closed the rear door.

As he turned to reach for her arm, she kicked out. His hips jerked sideways. Her foot struck him high on the thigh and grazed his groin. His knees buckled, and she bolted, stepping right out of her shoes.

Shit!

Cupping his balls, he limped after her.

He recovered his stride after a couple of minutes, but she’d put a hundred feet between them. Barefoot, she hit the side of the road, turned, and ran straight up the yellow line. Ahead, her bare legs churned, but he was gaining on her.

Until he saw the one thing that could ruin his plan.

Headlights.

Screaming, Mary stayed in the center of the road and waved her arms. The vehicle slowed, then stopped. A man got out of a sedan and stepped into the beams of his headlights.

“Help me!” Mary yelled, glancing over her shoulder. “He’s going to kill me.”

He closed the gap just as Mary reached her Good Samaritan.

The man was tall and athletic-looking. “Is everything all right, Deputy?”

“Just fine. I’m arresting this woman,” he said, cuffing Mary’s arms behind her back.

“No.” Mary struggled. “He’s going to kill me! Please. Help.”

The man shifted his weight. Hell, even if the man left now, he was a risk. A witness. Thanks to Mary’s outbursts, the man would remember her.

“She’s been drinking.” He took Mary by the arm and tugged her back. “You can get back in your car now, sir. I have everything under control.”

The man pivoted, slowly, uncertainly. When the man’s back was turned, he pulled his baton off his duty belt and hit him over the head. The man’s legs crumbled. He went down hard.

Mary screamed again.

He had to get her off this road.

“Shut up.” Anger roared inside him as he knocked her to the ground and straddled her. With her hands cuffed behind her back, she couldn’t resist. His fingers were around her throat. He squeezed until she was still and lifeless and fucking quiet.

He stopped, panting.

She was dead.

Fuck! That hadn’t been part of the plan.

Her death should have looked like an accident. No chance of that with his fingermarks around her neck.

Now what?

Now he had two more deaths to cover up, that’s what.

He’d have to improvise. He ran to the vehicle and opened the trunk. Hauling Mary off the pavement, he put her inside. Then he dragged the man to the back of the car and muscled him in too. Sliding behind the wheel, he opened the glove compartment and found the registration. Victor Kruger lived in Scarlet Falls.

Correction: Had lived in Scarlet Falls.

He needed a plan to get rid of both bodies and the car. The car he could sink in Grey Lake. If he put Victor at the wheel of his car, the deaths could look like a combination murder and suicide. But they would have no connection to one another. Murder-suicides were typically crimes of passion, born of the desperation that came from twisted love.

If these bodies were ever discovered, what he needed was a way to make it appear as if Victor killed Mary and then left town. The car could go in the lake with Mary in the trunk. He’d bury Vic in the woods. He knew just the spot. When it was done, he’d call Owen for a pickup. Owen was an accessory. He’d keep his mouth shut.

A twig cracked ahead, pulling his attention back to his task. Kruger and Dane must be just ahead. He slowed his pace, easing along the trail. The footprints muddied in the snow, as if they’d stopped to rest. His gaze fell to the spot of blood in the snow ahead. He walked closer. They couldn’t be far, not with one of them still bleeding.

The footprints disappeared into the thick foliage of an evergreen tree. Could they be trying to hide? With slow and silent steps, he eased forward and separated the branches of the evergreen. She huddled on the ground, wet, cold, and scraggly as a lost kitten.

“Ms. Dane. Nice to see you.” He gestured with the barrel of the rifle. Her hand was bloody.

Ms. Dane lifted her hands. Her skin and lips were blue, and she staggered as she tried to get to her feet. Even if he hadn’t found her, she wouldn’t have lasted much longer. She was running on pure determination, which he admitted, she had in spades.

It was a shame she had to die.

“Where’s Kruger?” he asked.

“He went ahead for help.” She swayed on her feet. “I can’t walk anymore.”

Kruger would never leave her.

“Liar.” King whipped the rifle around and smacked her in the face with the butt of the stock. She crumpled to the ground and lay in the snow, unmoving. He hadn’t delivered a full-force blow, hadn’t meant to knock her out, only to stun her. But she was a more delicate creature than he was accustomed to handling. Whatever. At this point, he needed to be flexible and keep his eyes on the prize. Now he would use her as bait.

He aimed the rifle at her face. “Come on out, Kruger. I know you can hear me. You have three seconds to show yourself before I pull the trigger.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Heart-hammering, Lance stared at the sheriff’s back. Wavering, he hesitated for a fraction of a second. If he jumped the sheriff, King could shoot Morgan. But if he didn’t, King would definitely shoot them both. He could not, under any circumstances, allow either of them to be taken prisoner by King. That would be the end.

Surprise—and the sheriff’s own confidence—would be Lance’s best weapons.

He took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. Pushing off his good leg, he launched himself at the sheriff’s back. He looped his cuffed hands over the sheriff’s head. Pulling hard, he yanked the chain joining the cuffs into the sheriff’s windpipe. The sheriff dropped the rifle. His hands went to his throat. He grabbed Lance’s arms and tried to relieve the pressure. But Lance had the upper hand, and he wasn’t letting go. If this didn’t work, he and Morgan were both dead.