Krewe of Hunters: The Hidden Part 3

"You're my number one guy," she a.s.sured him.

She waved to Eddie and started the car, wondering why she still felt so uncomfortable.

Scarlet had the feeling that someone was watching her. Not the man who had approached her before. Someone different. Someone who wouldn't come up to her but would stalk her-and then pounce.

She shook off the feeling, telling herself she was just feeling residual anxiety after the strange events of the day.

It was time for bed.

She drove carefully up the steep winding road to the ranch. She was still becoming accustomed to getting around here and was dreading her first winter.

She felt lighter heading back, convinced that someone had messed with the camera, and that natural vibrations, whether in the earth or the museum itself, had toppled the mannequin. No big deal.

The night was beautiful and very dark. She drove slowly and was glad of it when a buck leaped onto the road and stopped directly in front of her. He simply stood there, caught in her headlights.

"Think maybe you could move now?" she said after a long moment.

When he didn't budge, she gave her horn a tap and was grateful when he bounded off into the surrounding woods.

She drove on, frowning as she saw what seemed to be a sea of light at the Conway Ranch.

There were eleven guests staying there, but she hadn't heard anything about a campfire planned for that night. As she drew closer, she realized that the glow seemed to come from a mult.i.tude of headlights.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she got close enough to see that five cop cars and an ambulance with lights ablaze were parked on the property. A cop standing in the driveway motioned her to a stop and gestured for her to roll down her window.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm Scarlet Barlow. I work at the museum and live above it. What's happened?" she asked anxiously. "Ben and Trisha. Are they okay?"

He nodded to her gravely. "Yes, the owners are all right."

"What's happened?" she persisted.

"May I have your ID, please?"

She handed it over. He looked from it to her, aiming his flashlight at her face and making her blink.

"Says here your name is McCullough."

"I'm divorced. I haven't changed my ID yet," she told him. "See? My license says Scarlet Barlow McCullough."

He was looking at her as if she was a hardened criminal. "They're definitely going to want to talk to you," he said.

"They?"

"The detectives."

"But-"

"You're the one with the camera. The one who took pictures of dead people. The pictures that mysteriously disappeared, right?" he asked, his voice hard-edged.

"Someone messed with my camera, yes, but I don't see why that calls for police response."

"Really? Not when two people have been murdered exactly the way your boss says they were in the pictures you showed him? Park your car, please, then follow me. Lieutenant Gray is going to want to see you, p.r.o.nto."

Scarlet had advanced degrees in history and archaeology; she had worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and on an important dig in South Florida. She was bright, fun, cheerful, beautiful and eager for whatever life brought.

She did not tend to hysteria or tears.

Given all that, Diego wasn't sure how or why he knew instinctively when he answered the phone that she was going to be on the other end.

They were having a small farewell party for Brett at Sea Life, the dolphin facility where Lara Mayhew worked. Brett was flying to DC the next day for orientation. There was talk of him setting up a small Miami office for the Krewe, and if that happened Diego thought maybe he would take them up on their invitation, after all. Meanwhile, he had a party to enjoy.

The food had been catered and set up outside under a large tent. They'd visited the dolphins down at the lagoon earlier, and now everyone was just talking idly.

And yet, when his phone rang, Diego was instantly alert, somehow sure it was going to be his ex-wife.

She'd moved to Colorado, and he hadn't let her see the ache in his heart when she'd told him she was going.

"Scarlet?" he said without even looking at the caller ID, stepping out into the darkness beneath a sea grape tree.

"Diego, yes, it's me."

"How are you? Are you all right?" he asked her anxiously.

"I'm...oh, Diego, I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm in real trouble."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!" She sounded indignant, even angry.

That was good, he thought. "Then what happened?"

"Two people were murdered, and they think...they think I was involved!"

"Why?"

"My camera. The views here are gorgeous, so I bought a good camera at the Miami airport before my flight out. It was working fine, but then today it took pictures of things that weren't there. Bodies. Dead bodies. And then they disappeared."

"The bodies?"

"The pictures!" she said. "The thing is, Ben saw them. Ben Kendall, my boss. He didn't mean to get me in trouble, he was just so stunned when the bodies were found that he blurted it out about the pictures without thinking. They were killed right here at the ranch. They weren't guests, and so far no one knows who they are or why they were here. From what I saw on the camera and what the cops have said, the man was cut to shreds and shot, and the woman was just shot. And they think I did it! It's horrible. And now I'm at the police station, and all I could think to do was call you."

"They think you did it?" he asked, incredulous. Scarlet wasn't perfect, and she could certainly get good and angry. But murder? Never.

"Okay, let me get this straight. They're holding you on suspicion of murder because of pictures that were on your camera but that aren't there now?" Diego asked.

"Yes."

"Then they have nothing."

"Except Ben saw the pictures, too, and he told the police about them, so they think I erased them."

"They need to get the camera to a police tech and examine the memory card."

"They already have."

"And they're still holding you?"

"Yes!"

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I'll make some calls, get the right people involved. Just don't go snapping at anyone until I get there and can straighten things out."

"I don't snap."

"You do when your pride is hurt. But don't let them get to you, okay? Just be honest with them."

"Yes, of course."

"I'll be there," he promised.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And then she was gone.

He suddenly found himself thinking about the refugees they had rescued and the words the old woman had said to him.

But you-you must be very careful. And you must go where you are called. You understand? You will know. You must go where you are called.

He'd always been open to possibilities in life, but he'd never been superst.i.tious or a believer in omens.

But now...

It was time to join the Krewe.

He headed back inside to find Brett, and he prayed that the Krewe really did operate as efficiently and swiftly as he'd heard.

Because with or without official benediction, he was heading west.

He found Brett talking to Matt Bosworth, a longtime Krewe agent, and pulled them aside.

"This Krewe thing-I want in. But first I need help."

"What is it?" Brett asked.

"I've got to get to Estes Park, Colorado, fast. As fast as possible. It's Scarlet. She's in trouble. They're holding her for murder."

Diego was amazed at the speed with which things happened after that. In short order their transport was set up for early the following morning, and he still had a few hours left to sleep. Luckily he'd taught himself how to sleep in any circ.u.mstances, even in the middle of a case.

But that night his sleep was disjointed and troubled. His dreams were of the old woman, and of Scarlet walking toward him through a fog.

A fog filled with the faces of the nameless dead.

The one place Scarlet had never expected to be in Estes Park was an interrogation room at the police station.

She understood that she wasn't under arrest, at least not yet. Officially, she had only been asked in for questioning. But the questioning, she quickly realized, was intended to trip her up and lead to her arrest.

Her camera was with the police techs, and she really did understand why they suspected her and didn't blame Ben for being so shocked that he hadn't been able to stop himself from talking about the pictures. She hadn't been allowed to speak with him, but she had seen him and Trisha, arm in arm, standing on the porch together, looking as if they'd been hit by a sledgehammer.

Meanwhile, she was reeling from the fact that two people had been found murdered right where the majestic elk had been standing earlier. Right where the bodies had been in the pictures.

And then there was that wacko in town who had warned her to be careful and had said she was "one of us," whatever that might mean.

In one day, her world had gone mad.

"Tell me again about your day, Mrs. McCullough," her interrogator said. Lieutenant Gray was somewhere between thirty-five and forty. He'd started out in a suit, but his jacket was gone now, his sleeves rolled up. His hair was military short, and his eyes were tired, his face haggard. His name fit him very well, she thought.

Though she had told him a dozen times that she was divorced, he insisted on calling her Mrs. McCullough. Somehow it seemed especially painful to hear that name tonight.

They never would have treated her like this if Diego was there, she thought.

And it was true. He would have stopped them cold.

She had told Lieutenant Gray as much. He hadn't been impressed.

"The guy divorced you, huh?" he'd said at one point, his tone implying that whoever her husband had been, he'd been smart to separate from her.

She felt like a little kid, desperately hoping that someone bigger and tougher really would come to defend her.

And he would come, wouldn't he? She'd made him her first phone call, and miraculously, he'd answered. He'd certainly sounded as if he intended to get here as soon as possible.

By morning, she hoped.

"Mrs. McCullough?" Gray repeated. "Pay attention. Tell me about your day again."

"I woke up. I showered. I made tea. I had a bowl of cereal. I checked my email," Scarlet said. "I went downstairs and spent the morning cataloging a display case of Civil War weapons. I inspected each for its condition, which I noted in the records. I went through the old display cards to find out when each piece was received by the museum. At noon I went back upstairs to my apartment and ate a tuna fish sandwich. No, wait, it was closer to twelve thirty, I think. But the sandwich was definitely tuna," she said, trying very hard to maintain her temper. "At one o'clock I was back downstairs. I've been making notes on the different mannequins, their composition, the year they were donated to or commissioned by the museum or, before the museum's funding, by the current owner of the Conway Ranch during the years when it was only a private collection. I began working on that project soon after I got here, about two months ago."

"How late did you work?" he asked her.

"At four thirty I decided it was time to quit for the day. I went back upstairs and got my camera-I purchased it at the airport in Miami when I was coming out here. I have the receipt somewhere in the apartment. Wait-no," she added, furrowing her brows. "I think it was more like four forty-five. And I didn't go outside right away. I checked my email again first. Then I went out to take pictures. I saw a bull elk, who was practically posing for me. After that I went back to the ranch, where I talked to Ben Kendall. On the way I saw Angus Fillmore, Terry Ballantree and the Bartons down by the stables. Oh, and..."

"And?" he prompted.

"Horses," she said gravely. "There were horses at the stables."