Fatal Fall: A Thrilling Suspense Novel

Book 5: The Jess Kimball Thrillers Series

by Diane Capri

Genres: Financial Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

When Jess Kimball’s investigator finds a boy that could be her missing son, Jess races to Seattle to claim him and crosses paths with a rich and powerful Senator who will stop at nothing to keep his twisted, secret life private. Can Jess discover the senator's past and expose him before he kills again, or will she and the boy be the next victims?

Investigative Reporter Jess Kimball’s impossible mission to find her missing son and protect others victimized by crime thrills in this new novel from New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Diane Capri.

For fans of Greg Iles, Lisa Gardner, Karin Slaughter, Lee Child, Jack Reacher, John Grisham, and James Patterson’s Women's Murder Club

“Full of thrills and tension – but smart and human too.” — Lee Child, #1 World Wide Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers

“Expertise shines on every page.” -- Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award Winning MWA Past President

"Relentlessly determined to bring justice to an unjust world, Jess Kimball is like a female Jack Reacher, only nicer!" -- Martha Powers, award winning author of Conspiracy of Silence and Death Angel

Readers Love Jess Kimball and Clamor for More!

“Smart, fast-paced, personal and, dare I say, thrilling. It's the kind of "this could happen to me" thrill that really chills me to the bone if I think about it too much. I could not put this book down until I found out if everything was going to turn out okay. Does it? Well you'll have to read it and see!”

“Highly recommend-- kept me on the edge of my seat and I had a hard time putting it down-- Great characters and storyline-- can only hope Diane Capri will make a series out of Jess and Helen-- I do want more!”

“This thought-provoking novel is populated with strong women and likable men. Ms. Capri fully develops these characters while maintaining a tension-filled pace that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours of the morning.”

Start reading Jess Kimball Thrillers today and you'll be glued to the page. But lock the doors first. These books are nail biters!

Release date: December 13, 2016

Publisher: AugustBooks

Print pages: 404

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

Randolph, Washington

Monday, September 26

5:00 a.m. Pacific Time

 

It wasn’t easy.

Moving a body never was.

The new grave was a mile from the old one, deep in a thick wooded area. A better location. Well hidden. He’d chosen the first location under pressure, but it had served well for more than a decade. This second grave should last forever.

He touched the sores on his hands where blisters had formed and burst. Fall’s rain and humidity had weighted the soil and compacted the ground. The digging had taken much longer than expected, but it was finished. The hole was ready.

Now he needed the body.

Carrying his shovel, Karl Blackstake set off for the old grave. The undergrowth in the woods was heavy. He changed directions often, looking for an easier route. Branches clawed at him as he pushed through. He held the shovel in front of his face to fend off the worst of the thorns.

He trudged through deep darkness. He shined a weak light on the ground ahead of his footfalls. Red. The least observable color, in case someone was watching. He grunted. Red light was the least illuminating, too. He backtracked several times, eventually exiting the woods a half mile farther than he’d intended.

Out in the open, he had to sacrifice the weak red light, but from here, he knew his route.

Thirty minutes later he reached the old grave. He’d dug it fourteen years ago at the base of a substantial nine-foot gray steel fence post. The border fence had been under construction back then. It ran for more than a mile, intended to keep trespassers off the property. Beyond the fence in the opposite direction was a ribbon of trees maybe a hundred feet thick, and beyond the trees lay a minor road.

The fence was a massive structure with thick steel cables running horizontally between the steel posts. Three rows of barbed wire ran along the top. It was an intimidating sight, and it was intended to be so.

It had been constructed years earlier when vandals had knocked down a low fieldstone wall that had been intended to serve the same purpose. The wall had failed to keep trespassers away. The new fence would not.

A giant tractor had dug holes for the steel fence posts. The holes were deep into the soil. He’d put the tractor’s efforts to his own use back then. The tractor had dug the old grave and done a decent job of the task. The body could have stayed there until it decomposed. It was a perfect plan at the time.

But some do-gooder lawyer up in Seattle had won a court order allowing local complainers to move the fence and build a new pathway. Something about an old covenant that he had no time for. All he knew was that the body couldn’t be here when the workmen arrived to move the perfectly good fence at the end of the week.

At the gravesite, he drove his shovel into the ground. He removed the grassy layer from the top of the grave and set the grass to one side. He’d use the sod to cover the hole after he filled it in with dirt.

The wet soil clumped around the shovel’s blade. His boots slipped in the mud. Sweat ran down into his eyes. He cussed at the stinging rivulets and wiped them with the back of his filthy hand. He probably looked like a coal miner or something. A long, hot shower was going to feel great when he finished the job.

The ground was tight at the base of the fence post, and trees were close on the other side. He had trouble getting good leverage on the shovel. He had to dig from an awkward position to avoid damaging the structure. It meant he had to use his weaker, left arm, making the digging slower and harder. The sores on his hands developed new blisters that bled when they burst. Blood mixed with sweat and rain made the shovel handle slippery. He grunted as he pushed the shovel into the ground, again and again.

Two feet down, Blackstake leaned his shovel against the fence and straightened his back. He could feel the individual vertebrae popping back into their proper location. Click, click click. He rotated his hips, stretching out his cramped muscles.

He’d been a lot younger when he had buried the girl. His grave digging days should have been over long before now. He could have hired younger men with stronger muscles to do the job. Trustworthy men who could be counted on to keep their mouths shut. But his boss didn’t trust anyone else to handle the biggest secrets. Blackstake felt a wry grin steal across his mouth. This was very definitely a skeleton in the senator’s closet.

Blackstake looked up the hill in front of him. Sunrise was maybe an hour away. The moon was a thin sliver, low on the horizon, its light cold and weak, but sufficient for his purposes. At the top of the rise was the mansion, three stories and sprawling. His employer, Senator Meisner, his wife, and a small cadre of kitchen staff, housekeepers, and day-to-day security lived on the premises. Soon, the staff would be rising. Time was short.

He cracked his knuckles. Blackstake knew the mansion’s routines. He was a member of the security team. He’d been lucky. He came out of the navy right as Meisner started his run for senator. They were a perfect fit—Meisner needed someone with his special blend of skill and resourcefulness, and he needed a job.

The mansion’s white walls were pale in the weak moonlight. By day the place was visible for miles. Visible to the media, too. Though the senator hadn’t announced his intention to mount a bid for the presidential race in two years’ time, he was driving hard to raise funds and a few of the more savvy media outlets had prematurely connected the dots. He lived under a spotlight now that required more discretion than usual. Neither he nor Meisner was happy about the increased scrutiny.

Around the mansion was the gravel driveway, though to call it a driveway was a misnomer. It was fifty feet across and known to the security team as the killing zone because running on its rough surface was impossible.

In a couple of weeks, covered pathways would run from the house to the lawns. The start of the preparations for Meisner’s first serious fundraiser. Marquees would be positioned at the end of those pathways, giant tent structures that would cocoon the occupants in luxury, insulating them from the Northwest’s rainy weather while providing the vaguest impression of being outdoors. A fancy catering company from Seattle would stock the marquees with food, flowers, and all the other baubles that impressed the rich.

Guests would land their helicopters on the pad at the rear of the property, and be whisked to the reception. He grinned. The whisking would be done by beautiful and expensively dressed women, handpicked by the senator for their conviviality.

The senator would then ply the one trade he was superb at. Talking. He would direct his focus to each person in turn, deftly praising their accomplishments, complimenting their spouses, and hinting at how he really wanted to support their pet project. The rich were far more petty than ordinary people. They had no idea as to what they wanted to change in their lives, so they just picked something. It didn’t appear to matter what that was, as long as they had something. Meisner had said that to him, and he believed it because once the conversation reached a conclusion, they would stare each other in the eye, give a firm handshake, and Meisner’s political coffers would be a hundred thousand richer.

There had been lean times, but Meisner had solved his cash flow problems in the same way aristocracy had solved such problems for centuries. He had married into money.

Blackstake picked up his shovel. The brief respite had eased his aches. He attacked the ground with renewed vigor. As he progressed deeper into the earth, the soil ran back into the hole. He broadened the hole, extending it into a short trench, aligned with where he remembered he had hidden the body.

Lights came on up at the mansion. Blackstake sweated. He was running late. The sun wasn’t up, but its light was reflecting off the sky. The world around him was gaining that milky black and white effect of the earliest moments of dawn. If he could just get the body out of the ground and hidden in a wheelbarrow before it really got light, he’d look like any ordinary workman.

Another minute’s digging and a shiny surface became visible. The plastic bag in which he had wrapped the girl. He worked his way around the edges, clearing the mud until he could lever the shovel under the body. He had torn the bag and punctured it with his knife, to allow nature to reclaim what was hers.

He brought a plastic wheelbarrow alongside the hole. He slid a plastic sheet under the body and lifted it out. His muscles strained at the weight, his back protested, but in a few moments the body was secure in the barrow and covered by another plastic sheet. Out of sight.

Moving the soil back into the hole was easier than digging it out. He tamped down the layers and set the turf last. Sweat poured down his face, but he wasn’t finished. He had a mile to cover before sunrise.

The sun was on the verge of breaking over the horizon. He secured his shovel to the wheelbarrow.

A buzz sounded. Not loud, but close.

He ducked down. The sound came from the woods. He moved his head left and right. The noise was diffuse, bouncing off the trees and hiding its source. He pulled out his gun. He’d already fitted the silencer, though the sound of gunfire in the stillness would carry a long way.

He shed his jacket and folded it double. He pulled himself up the wires that held the fence in place. The tension made them almost rigid. At the top, he laid his jacket on the rows of barbed wire. Thick layers of fabric rendered the knife-sharp barbs ineffective. He rolled over the top, and slid down the other side, outside the fence.

He stood still. The buzz continued, but there was no chatter or laughter. No shuffling of feet or whispered conversation. Probably one person, then. One, he could deal with. A team presented bigger problems.

The sound was faint. The buzzing waxed and waned, partly from the distance and partly from the shielding effect of the trees. He moved toward the road. It was one of the most open areas of the thin ribbon of woods. Even so, the tree canopy filtered out almost all light.

The buzz stuttered. He froze, rotating his head, fruitlessly searching for direction. The faint buzz grew louder. The pitch rose and fell. He strained to see in the blackness but saw nothing.

He heard movement, footsteps on leaves, but couldn’t judge the exact location. If someone was in the woods he had to find them. He pushed onto the edge of the forest, where the trees met the minor road that ran along that side of the estate.

He kept his fingers tight around the gun’s grip, his finger against the trigger with the barest pressure. He searched the road in either direction. There was no car and no sign of life. He moved to another tree, kneeling down and resting his weight against its trunk for protection.

The wet tarmac glistened in the dim light. He had a good position, elevated with a clear view of almost a quarter of a mile in either direction. All he needed was a target.

The buzz’s tone rose to a squeal and stopped. He turned. It was behind him. He stared into the mottled darkness between the trees. There were only two choices. Keep his position and take out anyone who emerged, or head back into the woods and risk missing the target. He rolled his shoulders. He could miss the target even if he waited there.

He turned back to the woods. The sound had stopped. He had come straight through the trees to the road, so whoever was making the noise had to be to the left or right. He chose right, and moved fast, gun first.

The wet leaves slapped at his clothes. Faint light penetrated the foliage.

The trees thinned out. He saw a faint outline of the fence. He’d have to double back, covering a different angle and more ground. He swore to himself.

A branch broke to his right. The crack rang out through the damp air. He dropped to his knees, amid the undergrowth. He searched to his right, training his gun across the ground. Nothing moved. He saw only trees and the thick ground layer of weeds.

He moved forward, tree to tree. Swift movements from one camouflaged position to another. Ahead lay an opening, maybe twenty feet across. It was clear.

He exhaled. The sound of the breaking branch had been too loud suggesting a branch too big to have been broken by a woodland animal. He swung a full three-sixty, his gun trained, his eyes straining into the gloom.

Another branch cracked. Loud. Close. He jolted back, dropping to his knees behind the protection of a tree trunk. The sound had come from above. Far above. He pressed close to the tree, searching upwards. He saw branches moving, perhaps forty feet above him.

He stared. Someone was climbing? Had they seen him and now thought they were going to hide? He frowned. How stupid were they? As high as they had climbed, they were well within range. He hefted his gun and stopped. Even with the silencer, a gunshot would be too loud.

He watched leaves shake high above him. Perhaps they weren’t as stupid as they first seemed. They were forcing his hand. They might survive a few shots. Tree limbs had plenty of stopping power, and the noise would bring the estate’s guards running.

He cursed. He was running out of time. He had to act. He holstered his gun and pulled out a hunting knife. Its blade glinted in the pre-dawn light. He prepared to climb after them. A knife was his best weapon.

The sight of a knife was usually enough to make ordinary people freeze. Their throats closed up. Their mouths hung open. Often, they would simply hold their breath. Exactly the wrong actions if they hoped to survive.

He steeled his muscles for the task ahead. He really had only one choice. The risk of discovery was unacceptable. He would have to deal with the intruder.

Above him, wood splintered. The climber screamed. High pitched, perhaps female. A large chunk of the tree peeled off, crashing and tumbling as it fell, striking branches and limbs on the way down. Blackstake ran for the edge of the clearing. Somewhere in the blur, the screaming continued.

The tree limb hit the ground in a flurry of leaves and twigs. A sharp smack. The screaming stopped abruptly. The climber had fallen all the way down along with the limb.

On the ground was a mess of branches and leaves. The sound of falling debris stopped. Silence returned to the darkness.

Blackstake leaped forward through the undergrowth. He ran flat-out. Bounding across the opening. Closing the gap on the unsuspecting intruder. He raised his knife, his momentum carrying him forward, his arm tensed for the pounding blow that would drive the knife into the intruder’s chest.

He reached the fallen limb and froze.

The intruder lay prone on the ground. A boy. Young. The crest of some middle school on his jacket. His hair was a jumbled mat. Even in the dim light, Blackstake could see he had suffered a head injury that covered one side of his head with blood. His mouth was open, but he made no noise.

Blackstake hesitated, hunting knife held high. The boy had been standing not fifty feet from the girl’s grave. He might have seen nothing or everything. Leaving him alive was too big a risk. Unnecessary.

He adjusted his grip on his knife. He’d seen a lot of head trauma before, and the boy’s was extensive. Blood on the boy’s body glistened in the growing light.

He lowered his knife. The boy wasn’t going to make it. He’d fallen at least forty feet. He’d been climbing a tree, doing something stupid. He’d be found dead, and people would come to the same conclusion.

If he added further injuries to the boy, an autopsy would likely show them.

He slid his knife into the sheath. He would leave the brat to die. It was the least risky option.

Under the boy’s collar rested a set of cheap headphones. Tinny. He leaned closer. They were silent, probably broken in the fall. He looked up the tree. The boy couldn’t have seen anything at the gravesite, really. If he had, he would have run away. Fast. He wouldn’t have wasted time listening to music and climbing a tree.

Blackstake walked away. He climbed back over the fence and pulled his jacket after him. He picked up the wheelbarrow and set off across the field. He had almost a mile to walk.

He kept close to the fence, dragging the wheelbarrow behind him. Morning dew soaked his boots and jeans. He leaned forward, his legs pushing hard, following the same path he had taken earlier.

Light was growing all around him. He kept his head up, and his grip tight on the barrow’s handles.

Thirty minutes later he arrived at the edge of the thick woods, just as dawn broke over the horizon. He gave a great sigh. He was going to make it. He’d finish soon. No one had seen him. Or at least, no one who could possibly talk about what they’d seen.

An hour later, the girl’s body was back in the ground, and the vegetation around her new grave was carefully arranged to cover the disturbance.

On his return to the manor, he saw that the fence post had collapsed and pulled another post along with it. Despite his care, his digging had undermined its footings. He shrugged. The fence was slated to be moved anyway.

He kicked off his muddy boots and ignored the housekeeper’s stares as he walked through the mansion’s basement in his filthy clothes. He entered his private apartment and dumped his clothes in the trash. Later he would incinerate them.

He showered, and fell, exhausted, onto his bed.

His day’s work was done.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Denver, Colorado

Monday, September 26

10:00 a.m. Mountain Time

Jess Kimball pushed her curtains back as far as they would go, letting the Denver sunshine sweep away the deserted apartment feeling. The air was stale. Dust motes swayed in the sun’s rays.

She spent very little time here. No wonder the place never felt like a home. She’d create a real home someday. After she found her son. Until then, this almost abandoned apartment was as good as anywhere else for stashing what few belongings she possessed between the trips required by her Taboo Magazine assignments.

She rinsed out her coffee machine and washed a mug. She hadn’t been here for weeks. Everything had acquired a thin layer of dust that made her sneeze. The machine gurgled and hissed, and filled the single mug. Coffee for one. She wondered if Peter drank coffee now. His fourteenth birthday was three months ago. Maybe he was still too young, but Jess had been drinking coffee at age eleven.

Her fridge was barren, and she’d eaten her last protein bar last night. She sat in the room’s only armchair and looked out of the window. Small white clouds dotted the deep blue sky. She could see the mountains in the distance.

She blew off the steam and sipped her coffee, savoring the burning sensation in her throat. She felt a bit uneasy. The apartment seemed too quiet. Her life now was chasing exciting stories for Taboo, not enjoying morning solitude. She was still too young for peace and quiet. Maybe she’d become addicted to adrenaline along with the caffeine.

She blew out a long breath and shook her head. No. Not adrenaline. It wasn’t a quest for excitement that drove her.

It was justice for the victims that pushed her beyond her limits. She couldn’t right all wrongs, and sometimes families were beyond anything justice could offer. But crime victims deserved justice. Justice shouldn’t always serve the rights of criminals at the expense of victims. Victims needed an advocate like Jess. Especially when the system failed. Which, in Jess’s view, happened all too often.

Like her son, Peter. The system had failed him. Failed her. She and Peter deserved justice, too. And they’d have it. One day. Until then, she’d do what she could for other victims.

She looked around the empty apartment. She rarely socialized. Work came first. But did she really need to put her own life on hold forever? As her assistant, Mandy, warned her all the time, Jess wasn’t getting any younger. She grinned. Maybe Mandy was right. Maybe she should think about finding the right guy one of these days.

Her phone buzzed. Not the normal ring, but short, sharp buzzes. She put down her mug and hurried across the room.

She didn’t need to look at the name on the display before stabbing the talk button. “This is Jess Kimball.”

“Good morning, ma’am.” Brentwood Stephenson’s warm drawl was unmistakable. Her chief investigator. The man she’d hired to lead the effort to find her son, missing twelve years now. Definitely not her prince charming, but that wasn’t why she needed him.

Stephenson sounded like the sort of person for whom the words “southern gentleman” were invented, but she’d hired him because of his years in the Dallas PD. It was his record, not his manners that made him her number one choice for the job. His gallantry and unflappable calm were simply a welcome bonus.

Jess perched on the arm of the cheap sofa. Her heartbeat quickened. Stephenson wasn’t due to call today. “I’m here. What’s up?”

“Still alive? Haven’t heard from you in a few days. You know I always worry about my clients.” He laughed, teasing her as he often did. “Mainly because the dead ones don’t pay up.”

She put a smile into her voice because she felt emotional all of a sudden. She was tired. Exhausted, really. That must be it. She’d cried all of her tears for Peter long ago. “Well, I’m still alive, and I believe you’re still getting your monthly retainer straight from my bank account?”

“I do believe I am. Every month. On the dot. Which is why I’m calling.” He paused and his voice dropped an octave. “I heard from a contact. Washington State Police.”

Jess leaned forward, crushing the phone to her ear.

“They have a boy in the hospital.” Stephenson’s teasing had stopped. His tone was deadly serious.

She swallowed. “And?”

“I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

She brushed his concern aside. “Tell me everything.”

“Jess, I barely know anything. In fact, I wasn’t even going to call you. But the boy might not make it. I thought you had a right to know and make up your own mind.”

“I’m okay.” Her voice squeaked. She took a deep breath and sighed deliberately into the mouthpiece. “Just tell me what you do know, and we’ll take it from there.”

“A boy, seems about the right age. Admitted to a hospital in a small town southeast of Seattle this morning. Randolph, Washington.” He paused and she could hear him inhale. “Head trauma. Bad. They’ve got him in a medically induced coma.”

“Isn’t that dangerous for a head injury? To sedate him?” She’d meant to wait for his full report before asking questions, but her worry had popped out of her mouth of its own accord.

“Sometimes. It can be. These docs seem to know what they’re doing. It’s a good hospital. State-of-the-art, I’m told.”

She hoped he was right. “What else?”

“No ID on the boy yet. Police are doing everything to find out who he is. They’ll be on TV, Internet, everywhere.” He took another deep breath and held it a moment before he spoke again. “When they admitted him, the only thing they got out of him was a name.”

She gritted her teeth. She knew what was coming. She’d been down similar roads before.

“It’s why I called you.” Stephenson paused as if to soften the blow. “He said his name was Peter.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her jaw trembled, tapping her teeth against each other. She clamped her mouth shut and breathed deeply for control. Was this her Peter? After all these years? Could it be true? She grabbed a tissue from a box and dabbed the moisture from her eyes.

“Jess? Are you still there?” Stephenson’s voice came from the speaker, tiny and distant.

Her heart beat in pounding thumps, and she snatched short breaths, avoiding tears, but barely. She’d been through this so many times. But this time felt different, and she wasn’t sure why.

“Jess, you’re worrying me. Do I need to send Denver PD over there?”

She knew he’d make good on the promise, so she brought the phone back to her ear and cleared her throat. “I’m here. Just a little under the weather today. Sorry.”

Stephenson kept talking, giving her time to collect herself. He was an intuitive man, which was one of the things that made him a good investigator. “It could be him. It’s possible. Not likely, but possible.”

“Right.” She choked the word out between snatched breaths.

“Look, Jess.” His tone was gently stern as if he was talking her off a ledge or something. “Keep calm. There are millions of Peters in the world. This isn’t the first one we’ve run across who is the right age and lacking ID, right?”

“But you think this one could be him.” She wiped her nose. “That’s why you called, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. He was found in a small town, but his picture wasn’t recognized at the schools there, which is strange. No one seems to know who he is or where he came from.” Stephenson paused a beat. “His parents haven’t been located. He might have run away or been dropped off. We just don’t know yet.”

“Where?” Jess breathed hard, sucking air deep into her lungs, pushing back the emotions rolling over her composure. Stephenson wouldn’t call without good reason. She cleared her throat again. “What hospital is he in?”

“Only one in that town, but it’s a pretty good one. Randolph Memorial Hospital. ICU.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

“Not yet.”

She felt the decision make itself. “I’m going.”

“That’s not a good idea, Jess. Not yet. This kid’s suffered a head trauma. It’s bad.” His warnings fell into the silence and disappeared.

“If it’s not him, maybe I can help.” She paused to steady her breathing. “If it is him, I need to be there when he wakes up.”

“Docs are not upbeat about his chances,” Stephenson said warily.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Then I need to go now.”

“They might find the parents any minute.” He wasn’t the type to give up easily on his best judgment.

“Look, Brent. I appreciate you looking out for me. I do. But if he’s my Peter, no matter what happens, I have to be there.” Her voice broke, and she coughed to conceal her uncharacteristic emotion. Maybe she was losing her mind. Other mothers she’d met over the years had slipped over the edge into madness, eventually. She’d never thought the same might happen to her.

“It’s only been a couple of hours since they found him,” Stephenson said. “We’ll have more info later. Why not wait until we know more?”

“Send me any information you get as soon as you have it. Thanks, Brent. I’ll keep in touch.” Jess hung up and booked the next flight out of Denver to Seattle. She’d send a note to her assistant and deal with a car rental and everything else from the airport.

She felt better, stronger, for making the decision. It was the right move.

If the boy wasn’t her son, she’d catch a flight back in the morning.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

Randolph, Washington

Monday, September 26

9:30 a.m. Pacific Time

 

The phone in Blackstake’s basement kitchen buzzed. The mansion had its own internal telephone system. Extravagant when it was installed. Unnecessary in the age of cell phones. But the system had advantages. No records were created. No log of calls or recorded conversations. When his phone rang, he answered immediately.

The boss spoke before Blackstake had a chance. “Security tells me three local police officers are milling around the area where you were busy last night.”

Blackstake’s blood ran cold. He punched buttons on a TV monitor to bring up the closed-circuit cameras pointed toward where he had been working. The distance and the thick forest challenged the camera range. He could make out three figures moving in the woods, but little else.

“I’ll deal with them.”

“Why are they here?”

“I’ll find out.”

“I was told an ambulance arrived and departed.”

Blackstake took a deep breath. The ambulance must have been for the dead boy. He should have reported the boy’s death earlier, but he’d assumed the body would lie there for a long time. Days, perhaps.

He sighed. “There was a boy down by the fence. An idiot. Climbed a tree and fell out of it.”

“Did he see you?”

“Definitely not. Any boy with an ounce of sense who sees me digging up a body is going to run a mile. He isn’t going to play Tarzan up a tree.”

Another long silence. “Then why are the police here?”

Blackstake pursed his lips. “Like I said, I’ll find out.”

“You do that. Report back immediately.”

The phone went dead.

Blackstake donned hiking boots and a thick jacket and left the mansion.

A police presence after someone had found the dead boy wasn’t surprising, but it raised his adrenaline.

He remembered every single tool and weapon he had carried with him the night before. He counted them off. He ran through the list twice. He’d brought everything back with him. No question.

His clothes had been ripped and torn. He’d probably left fragments. Disturbed soil at both gravesites might be discovered. Forensic trace evidence was likely, if a crime scene team scoured the area. But why would they?

He ground his teeth. Speculation was useless. He needed facts to assess his risk and evaluate options.

He took a golf cart with oversized tires down the hill and angled to the left of the police to a gate in the fence. He recognized the police captain, Nelson, his lackey Gardner, and their trailer-trash dispatcher Charlene Mackie. They were on their knees, sifting through the undergrowth. What the hell were they looking for?

He used a master key to unlock the gate. Nelson stood as he approached.

“Problem?” Blackstake said, with a concerned frown.

Nelson nodded. “Could say that. You on the senator’s staff?”

“Karl Blackstake. Security.” He shook hands. “So, what happened here?”

Nelson pointed. “A boy fell from that tree. The cottonwood.”

Blackstake looked up. The tree was huge. The trunk disappeared into the canopy of leaves, but he guessed it was a good hundred feet tall. “Folks walk through here all the time, as you know. We try to keep them out, but you know how unsuccessful that’s been.” He glanced at Gardner and Mackie and shrugged. “Kids climb the trees, even though we’d prefer they didn’t.”

“He fell forty feet,” Nelson said.

Blackstake whistled. “Will he be okay?”

Nelson shook his head. “He’s hanging on in the ICU. Stable for the moment. But not good.”

“Broken bones?”

“Several.” Nelson nodded. “And significant head trauma.”

“What was he doing all the way up there?” Blackstake pursed his lips and tried to look concerned. The kid should be dead already, but head traumas could go either way. Tricky thing, the brain.

Nelson shrugged. “He’s still unconscious. The doctors are probably going to keep him that way for a while.”

Blackstake grimaced. “Parents with him?”

Nelson shook his head. “He didn’t have any ID. The only thing he’s said so far is his first name. Peter. No last name.”

“But you’ll find the parents, surely?”

“We hope. We’ve guessed his age. We’re checking the schools and we’ve asked the media to help.”

“You didn’t find a backpack or anything with his name and address in it?” Blackstake cocked his head. “Seems like every kid I see is carrying a backpack these days.”

Nelson shook his head. “We’ve gone over the ground twice. There’s nothing else here.”

“How do you know he fell from this tree?”

Nelson pointed to a yellow gash high up the trunk. “Looks like the tree limb couldn’t hold his weight.”

Blackstake looked up. The gash hadn’t been visible in the early dawn light.

Blackstake walked to the fence. He followed the immediate portion of the path he had taken at dawn, dragging his boots across the ground, disturbing everything he could reach.

Nelson followed.

Blackstake shook the fallen fence post. The steel cables that ran to the neighboring posts flapped.

“These steel posts are strong. This one couldn’t have been knocked down by that boy without some kind of help.”

“No.”

“Petty vandalism then. Unrelated to the boy.”

“Seems like,” Nelson said.

Blackstake raised his eyebrows. “You think there was someone else here with him?”

Nelson snorted and shook his head. He gestured to where the boy had landed. “Believe me, no civilized human being would have left him there alone. It’s a miracle he’s alive.”

“Poor kid.” Blackstake nodded. “He’s lucky you found him.”

“Pure luck,” Nelson said. “A couple of high school kids decided to take a shortcut. They found him earlier this morning. We interviewed them, but they don’t know anything.”

Blackstake nodded again. He handed over a card with the senator’s security office phone number on it. “Will you keep us updated on his progress?”

Nelson took the card. “It won’t be a liability issue if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Blackstake shook his head. “I’m sure the senator would like to express his sympathies to the parents. If you let us know when they’re found, we’ll arrange something.”

Nelson nodded.

“I’ve got to get back. And I’ll call for repairs to the fence.”

Nelson nodded again.

Blackstake turned and stepped over the fallen fence post, stomping a few extra times on the surrounding dirt for good measure, and returned to his golf cart.

The encounter had gone better that he expected. Nelson and his team had found no evidence that Blackstake had been there earlier.

The boy had survived. That was a surprising disappointment. But one that should remedy itself soon enough. If he lived, he’d more than likely have amnesia of the events surrounding his injury. Head trauma often produced memory loss of the actual event.

If none of that worked out, there were other options. He’d deal with that problem when and if the boy woke up.

Nelson seemed convinced the boy’s fall had been an accident. None of the three cops had taken any interest in the first gravesite.

All in all, it was as good a result as he could hope for considering the boy hadn’t died as expected.

He took the golf cart back up the hill, much happier now than when he had descended. The boss would be pleased.