Not What It Seems

Book 5: Savannah Series

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Police Procedurals; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson brings her own brand of Southern Gothic back to the Spanish moss-draped shade of Savannah and the swampy marshes of Lowcountry Georgia, as crime writer Nikki Gillette and her husband, Detective Pierce Reed, race to expose an obsessive killer with an enigmatic M.O. . . .

The stone is small and round, easy to miss among the junk surrounding Billy Huber’s body. The man was a hoarder for sure. At first, police assume he fell from a ladder, injuring his throat and smashing his head in the process. Only on closer inspection do they see the polished stone nearby, with a number on one side etched in blood, and a strange symbol on the other.

 

Reporter Nikki Gillette seizes on the story and visits Huber’s sprawling property in Georgia’s low country. She gains little except the uneasy feeling of being watched. Within days, another body is found—a wealthy, thrice-married Savannah socialite dead in her lavish home. More victims follow, each one pierced through the throat. Beside each body, a stone engraved with a different number and symbol.

Detective Pierce Reed, Nikki’s husband, cautions her against getting in too deep. She’s a mother now and can’t keep putting herself in danger. Nikki knows he’s right, but her instincts are in overdrive. This is what she’s good at—finding answers and driving toward justice at any cost. Yet she knows, too, that the most terrifying killers don’t look like monsters at all. And by the time you realize how close they really are, it may already be too late to save yourself.

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

“Gol-dern birds,” Billy Huber muttered, balanced on the old extension ladder while stretching to reach the starlings’ nest that was clogging the gutter of his barn. With one eye to the storm clouds gathering overhead, he held a trowel in his gloved hand, and he poked at the twigs and grass and bits of paper that the birds had collected, but the nest was a little out of reach.

He leaned a bit farther just as his dog started barking his fool head off. “Not now,” he growled, glancing back at his house and noting from this angle that the patches on his roof were about shot. He only hoped they would survive this next storm; then he’d tend to them. And his yard. Geez. From this vantage point, it looked bad. Real bad. Patchy grass, car parts left to rust, the old mower sitting where it died last summer, some rodeo equipment, even carnival paraphernalia. Along with a lot of other things. He’d have to get after the yard, too. Clean it up. He would. When the weather turned.

He sighed. Ever since Linnie had passed, about eight years earlier, he’d let the place go, and in his head, he heard her tsk-tsking. And her voice. Always her voice.

“Bill Huber, what’s got into you? Where’s your pride?” She would eye the trash in the yard and shake her head, her blond ponytail scraping her shoulders. “I don’t know why you collect these things. Car parts and old washers and whatnot filling the sheds and littering the yard so that the chickens don’t know where to feed? Old signs and posters and broken-down furniture you’re never gonna fix. And what about them banjos and guitars you ain’t never gonna play? And don’t get me started on the carnival crap—weird mirrors and the like! What’re y’all thinkin’?” Her lips would be pursed, her blue eyes glittering hard as ice. She’d wipe her tiny hands on her apron, then make shooing motions as she ordered, “Now, go on. You fix that fence, and while you’re at it, put the mower away. Go on, now, you know you can get a new part for the John Deere down at Wheeler’s, so don’t you be gittin’ lazy on me, y’hear.” Then she would nod curtly, turn back to the house and say over her shoulder that she would call him in when the meal was on the table. Just before the old screen door slammed behind her, he’d hear her say, “And don’t you dare be late for supper!”

“Yes’m,” he said aloud now, as if his dear departed Linnie could still hear him. As if she was still in the kitchen, baking rhubarb pie, or seated in her favorite recliner, mending his clothes or reading from the Good Book. Oh, how she liked to quote the Bible to him. Especially once their daughter had left for college down in Florida and only returned at Christmas and on Linnie’s birthday in June.

But that was all over now. Once Linnie passed, Janelle quit visiting, just got to calling him once every week or so—“checking in,” she said, but more likely “checking up” on him, for whatever that was worth. Probably just to see if he’d kicked the bucket. It was a shame, really, but he and Janelle had never gotten along. It hadn’t helped that she’d married a loud, brash ass of a man old enough to be her damned father. Well, almost.

Rather than dwell on his own mistakes in the fatherhood department, Billy let his gaze wander to the side of the house where the garden had been. Cabbages and string beans, potatoes and squash, musk melons and strawberries, tomatoes and, oh, yes, rhubarb had once thrived in that fenced-in spot. Now it was home to mice and weeds and God knew what else.

She had a way with gardening, his Linnie had. She had a way with a lot of things. He felt that old pang when his thoughts ran to Linda-Sue, gone early. Had to remind himself that what she didn’t have a way with was seeing the beauty and value of the items he found at auction or tossed onto the side of the road, or marked “free” and just waiting for him to scoop them up and toss them into the back of his Ford Ranger.

His chest tightened. It was his fault—

The dog barked loudly, interrupted his daydream—or twilight dream, as the afternoon had already bled into evening. “Arlo! Quiet!” Billy yelled from the fifth rung. But the mutt—part Australian shepherd and part who-knew-what—was pacing along the fence line, his hackles up, his eyes focused on the darkening woods surrounding this scrap of land Billy’s family had called home for nearly a hundred years.

“You hush!” Billy commanded as the ladder shifted under his weight.

But the dog was nervous, his hackles raised, his growl, when he wasn’t barking, low and ominous. Stiff-legged, tail raised, Arlo glared at the shaded woods.

“Darn fool mutt,” Billy said under his breath, but he glanced at the copse of hickory and pine that had caught the shepherd’s attention. Probably a deer hiding there, or maybe a rabbit or possum. Nothing to get all worked up about.

Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.

Nothing unusual to be heard.

Nonetheless, Arlo was usually spot-on about danger.

Billy paused from his work, staring at the tree line and listening hard.

Crickets chirped over the hum of mosquitoes and the rustle of dry leaves as the wind picked up. Somewhere near the creek, a bullfrog was croaking. Dusk was leaning into night, the storm on its way.

A shadow moved in the woods.

Billy blinked.

Then saw nothing.

A chill raced up his spine, an icy touch that had nothing to do with the sultry night and a lot to do with his belief that the devil was always watching, always waiting.

Was there someone—be it Satan or someone of flesh and blood—just beyond the cover of pine needles?

No.

He was letting the dog get to him. That was all.

Time to finish up.

The destroying of the darned starlings’ nest was his last task of the evening. As soon as it was done, he’d head inside, reheating the remains of last night’s supper—Stagg Chili over store-bought biscuits—to be washed down with sweet tea, then topped off with a stiff shot of Jack Daniel’s. Maybe two. He just had to get rid of the stupid nest where yet again a determined starling had found a crevice in the gutter.

Ignoring Arlo’s sharp warning barks from the other side of the fence near the house, Billy leaned closer to the nest.

If he could just reach a little farther …

The tip of the trowel brushed the layer of twigs and grass.

He extended a bit more.

Stretching.

He gave a little poke.

His weight shifted slightly.

Just enough.

The aluminum ladder slid on the uneven ground.

“Shit!”

Billy tried to right it by adjusting his body. Frantically, he grabbed hold of the gutter.

Too late!

The ladder toppled. Falling away.

For a split second, Billy dangled by one arm, the gutter’s sharp edge cutting through his glove, finding flesh, then it too gave way, ripping from the building in a horrendous moan of twisting metal.

“Goddamn!” he swore. Hanging in midair, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye again. What the hell?

A wraith, dressed in black, slipped around the corner of the old pump house.

Satan himself, come to claim his own!

With an earsplitting screech, the galvanized steel gave completely away, ripping from the eave.

“Shit!”

He lost his grip, falling fast.

Thud! He hit the ground and heard his ankle snap, the gutter crumpling beside him. An upturned rake impaled his right arm in its jaws. “Yow!” Steel teeth cut through his shirt, slicing into his flesh. He sucked his breath through his teeth as the pain sizzled through his arm and shoulder. And his ankle. It was broken, sure enough. Throbbing, hot and hard.

He blinked. Staring upward. Hoping he’d imagined the specter.

But in that moment of agony, he locked eyes with Lucifer himself, his dark form looming over him. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he whispered, trying and failing to scoot away.

Beelzebub, the damned Prince of Darkness, had come to claim his soul.

No! He tried to scream as he inched backward over the uneven ground.

No words escaped his dry throat as he saw the weapon—a sharp blade in the wraith’s hands.

Oh, sweet Jesus!

Quick as lightning, the demon struck, driving the instrument of death deep into Billy’s throat.

As blood gurgled from the wound, the specter grabbed hold of Billy’s head, raising it upward just long enough for recognition to dawn in Billy’s eyes.

Not the devil, but—

Slam!

The monster thrust Billy’s head down and onto the star-shaped blades of a garden tiller left to rust in the rain.

Lights flashed behind Billy’s eyes.

Pain exploded in his skull.

Then, thankfully, there was nothing.

Pierce Reed’s cell phone rang through the warm Georgia night.

His wife heard it. Even over the buzz of conversation and the music flowing from inside the house, Nikki caught its distinctive tone.

Oh, great.

Here they were, at his best friend’s daughter’s sweet-sixteen party, dancing on the veranda under twinkling fairy lights strung overhead, and his damned phone had the nerve to ring.

“Don’t answer it,” she said, as he reached into his jacket.

“Yeah, right.” His gaze caught hers, and one corner of his mouth lifted.

He had a point there. As an independent crime reporter, when had she ever ignored a call?

“But—”

He held up a finger to quiet her arguments, then wended through the dancers, away from the crowd and around a corner.

She waited a couple of minutes, but when he didn’t return, she cut across the lawn toward the garage side of the house, where Pierce had disappeared. She nearly ran into Naomi, who was walking rapidly toward a kitchen door and away from a tall, lanky man who was just climbing into the crew cab of a large, black Ram truck. His features were illuminated momentarily, dark hair catching in the light, square jaw rock-hard, thin lips set in a grim line. He sent an angry look toward the house, where Naomi was disappearing through a door near the kitchen. Muttering something unintelligible under his breath, he yanked the cab door shut, and he was shrouded in darkness until he turned on the ignition; the big truck’s engine roared to life, and the driver’s sharp features were visible in the glow from the dash lights.

As Nikki watched, he executed a quick three-point turn, then, with a roar of the big truck’s engine, sped down the long drive.

Odd, Nikki thought, just as she caught a glimpse of Pierce rounding a corner.

She took off after him, cutting around a waiter carrying a tray of drinks, following her husband to a brick patio where a waterfall splashed into the large pool and moonlight danced upon the water’s smooth surface. Stars glimmered overhead, and the soft hoot of an owl came from the woods surrounding the Kittle estate.

As she reached Pierce, she heard his end of what seemed to be a terse conversation. “… Yeah. I’ll be there …” He checked his watch. “Twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

Nikki’s heart sank.

Since the birth of their daughter, Chloe, nearly three years earlier, she and Pierce hadn’t enjoyed many nights out alone. Between his job as a homicide detective with the police force and hers as a freelance writer, they were both busy. Lara Kittle’s birthday celebration had been the exception.

And yet, she understood.

More than that, she was intrigued, as always, with her husband’s work.

As Pierce cut off the call, she asked, “What’s that all about?”

“Oh, so suddenly you’re interested?” he said, though he wasn’t really teasing. His jaw was set.

“Someone was murdered.”

“Someone is dead,” he corrected.

“But if you’re involved,” she pointed out.

“There’s a possibility of homicide.”

“Possibility?”

“Could be an accident.”

“Someone from the department called you,” she clarified, not about to be put off, “so it’s got to be suspicious.”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ve got to go.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Nikki, please …” This was their long, ongoing argument. He wanted to keep his work close to his vest. Police procedure and all that. And she, being naturally curious and a crime writer to boot, was always pushing. He thought she was nosy. She told herself she was just inquisitive. Well, and eager for the next story.

“And how am I supposed to get home?”

“You can get a ride with …” His voice trailed off. “I’m sure Jamison has a friend who lives in town and they wouldn’t mind dropping you off.”

“Forget it.” She wasn’t about to be pawned off on one of Jamison Kittle’s buddies or their stuck-up wives. No way. No how. Though she, herself, was the daughter of a judge—God rest his soul—and her own mother was a known social climber, Nikki had no use for all that nonsense. “I’m coming with you.”

“Jesus, Nikki, for just this once—”

“Let’s go.” She shot him a look, and he clamped his mouth shut rather than continue the argument as they walked through the veranda, where adults were still dancing or sipping drinks, then into the huge recreation room, where most of the teenagers had gathered. Nikki recognized a few, including her niece’s horseback-riding instructor, Annabelle Van Camp.

Inside, the music was rap and hip-hop, the kids playing pool or lounging in groups on leather couches and probably drinking on the sly.

A long bar ran down one side of the room, and on the opposite wall was a display of weaponry any mercenary would envy. Jamison Kittle’s collection of rifles, bows, swords, and knives ran the gamut from historic, with his great-great-grandfather’s shotgun, to state-of-the-art semiautomatic rifles. He boasted all types of weapons, from Revolutionary War muskets to a World War II Luger supposedly taken off a fallen German soldier and a more recent AR-15, all gleaming behind locked glass panels.

A jukebox straight out of the fifties glowed in one corner, and a poker table was off to one side. There were two steps up to the kitchen, where Jamison’s wife, Naomi, petite, blond, and in charge, was organizing the servers, making sure the refreshments—sliders and mini pizzas and burgers—were arranged on silver platters.

Through an archway, Nikki spied the dining room, where the table was festooned in pink and silver, a huge cake displayed in the center, while around it were silver platters of cupcakes, confections, and gleaming jars of candy.

At that moment, Lara Kittle swept through the kitchen in a gown of frothy pink. Her hair, piled loosely on her head, was dark, her eyes a deep brown, and her glossy lips were turned down into a pissy frown. “Is this good enough?” she demanded of her mother and poked a finger at her outfit.

Naomi glanced away from a bowl filled with melon balls and eyed her eldest daughter. “It’s not how Shirley would have done it, but it’s okay, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Lara rolled her large eyes. “Jesu—Geez, Mom, I’m in the damned dress. Isn’t that good enough?”

“For the pictures, dear.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Lara blew out her lips. “Let’s get them over with.”

“Your sisters aren’t ready.” Naomi sent a sidelong glance toward Nikki as if to silently convey: See what you’re in for?

Lara picked up her skirt and, back stiff in indignation, dashed down to the rec room and her friends.

“Where’s Jamison?” Pierce asked as Naomi fretted over some prawns displayed on a mound of ice and lemon wedges.

“Who knows?” She stepped away from the counter, where a server was waiting. With a broad sweep of her hand, she indicated that the trays were to her liking and could be whisked away. Yet she was obviously perturbed, her glossy pink lips pinched. She glanced up at Pierce as the waitress scurried off with two trays of appetizers. “He knows we want pictures of all of the girls! Maybe in his office?” With a huff, she said, “That would be just like him! In the middle of Lara’s big night, if you can believe it.” Then spying a platter of refreshments that didn’t meet her standards, she said, “No … no, that’s not right! Mini pizzas by themselves. Mini burgers on a separate tray! What’re y’all thinking?”

Rather than question her further, Pierce peeled off and went through a door to the main hallway, where streamers and fairy lights decorated a wide staircase. Two girls in matching silvery gowns were giggling as they descended, nearly tripping on their skirts. Jamison and Naomi’s younger daughters. Shana, the redhead, eleven-ish, was in front, while blond Michelle, the youngest, tumbled after her. Somehow neither tripped as they slid in glittery sandals on the hardwood and rounded the corner, careening into the kitchen.

“Naomi’s not going to like that,” Pierce said and crossed the foyer to the closed French doors of the den. Through the sheer curtains, Nikki spied Jamison, his chiseled face tense as he talked on the phone. Pierce rapped on the doorframe, and Jamison nodded curtly and motioned for him to enter.

“Got it,” he said into the phone. “Be there as soon as I can.” He clicked off and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “You heard. About Billy Huber?” he said without preamble.

Pierce was nodding. “Just got the call. On my way there now.”

Jamison glanced at Nikki. “And you?”

“I’m tagging along.” At the furrowing of Jamison’s brow, she held up a hand. “I’ll stay in the car.”

He didn’t seem convinced, and really, it was probably a lie. She couldn’t imagine watching from the sidelines.

“She’ll wait until we sort out what happened.” Pierce was talking to Jamison, and the fact that he wasn’t addressing her directly got under Nikki’s skin.

“We don’t want another incident,” Jamison said, and Nikki sucked in a swift breath. Pierce’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed. They both understood, and a hot surge of guilt swept through Nikki when she thought of Sylvie Morrisette, once Pierce’s partner, now deceased. The Texas-tough detective had died while trying to rescue Nikki, who had been investigating a case where she hadn’t been wanted, where she shouldn’t have been, at least in the minds of the local cops. To this day, many officers in the police department blamed Pierce’s pushy wife for the loss of one of their own.

It hadn’t been easy for Nikki.

It was much worse for her husband.

“I said, ‘I’ll wait,’” she clarified, trying and failing to hide her annoyance.

“Good.” Jamison turned his attention to Pierce. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I have to deal with the party. Naomi’s insisting on family pictures since the girls are all dressed up.” Irritated, he shoved a hand through his hair. “So far, it’s been one helluva night.”

Pierce agreed. “And it’s not over yet.”

Jamison gave a curt nod as he headed toward the rec room. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Will you contact Augustin?” he asked, referencing Pierce’s most recent partner, Sol Augustin. “I think she’s out of town.”

“Coming back tomorrow morning, but I’ll loop her in.”

“Good.” Jamison seemed satisfied. “Let’s roll.”

Pierce was already on his way outside, Nikki in lockstep.

“Billy Huber?” Nikki said once they were in the car. She remembered the name from when she’d written about a single-car accident that had taken Linda-Sue Huber’s life. Nikki had been a reporter for the Savannah Sentinel at the time. “His wife died, what? Six, maybe seven years ago?”

“Around eight, I think.” Pierce’s headlights cut through the night. “Something like that.”

He was wrapped in concentration, and she saw his face in profile, illuminated by the dash lights. In her mind, he was still startlingly handsome. Not a Hollywood he-man, but tall and lanky, with thick dark hair and light brown eyes that could glint gold when he was angry.

Of course, they were often at odds over her career. Though she was now a freelance journalist and author and no longer worked shifts at the newspaper’s office, she was always interested in her husband’s cases, and that caused friction between them. That said, they never grew tired of each other. Theirs was not one of those steady, by-the-book, everything-on-a-schedule marriages, but it worked. Sometimes their fights were mercurial, but their relationship was never, ever dull. The truth was that Nikki was in love with Pierce now as much as she’d been when she’d first set eyes on him.

Now his eyebrows were drawn together, his jaw set in granite, beard shadow evident. As she studied him, she felt a little thrill. Silly, she supposed, after all these years, but there it was.

As he drove, the illumination from the headlights of approaching cars washing over them, Pierce placed a call to his partner. When Sol Augustin didn’t pick up, he left a message and turned deeper into the low country, where traffic thinned and the woods deepened. Pierce was on his phone several times during the drive, each conversation short and clipped, while Nikki continually checked hers, searching for information on William Huber and his deceased wife.

“This must be the place,” Pierce said, spying an overgrown lane. Tree branches formed a canopy overhead, weeds and vines created hazards in the ruts of the drive, and through the brush, Nikki saw the pulsating lights of emergency vehicles. They rounded a final corner to a clearing where several police cars were parked. Portable lights illuminated an area littered with debris from last night’s storm, the ground already covered by junk of every shape and size. Under the artificial illumination, old washers and refrigerators, tools and equipment, televisions and rusting car parts were visible. Nikki even recognized the front end of an ancient Studebaker, tires included, like the one she remembered her grandfather driving before she’d entered elementary school.

A hoarder’s dream.

A fire marshal’s nightmare.

“Look at this,” she whispered, taking it all in and noticing the fire truck and EMT vehicles idling, drivers at the wheels.

In the middle of it all, surrounded by men and women in uniform, some with flashlights, was the body of a bearded man in jeans and a sweatshirt, lying supine, the back of his head impaled on the blade of a rusted garden tiller. A fallen ladder lay nearby, resting on what appeared to be part of a Whac-A-Mole display.

“Billy Huber?” Nikki asked, focusing on the dead body.

“I assume.” Pierce had cut the engine of his Jeep and was opening the driver’s side door. He paused, his eyes finding hers. “Stay put.”

“I—”

“I mean it, Nikki.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He paused for just a second, his lips tight as conversation and the sound of a barking dog drifted into the car.

“Just don’t order me around,” she insisted. “Okay? I said I’d wait, and I will.”

“Remember. This is police business.”

“Got it.” From the corner of one eye, Nikki saw the source of the noise, a shaggy shepherd, pacing on the porch and barking like crazy. “Is that dog limping?” she asked, turning to look at the animal, who was separated from the barnyard by a wire fence.

“Don’t know.” Pierce slammed the car door shut and picked his way around an unruly stack of tires and over the patchy, unmown grass to the area where several officers had collected.

A bit stung by his harsh tone, Nikki eyed the scene through the windshield but couldn’t hear the conversation he was having with the other cops. She was trying to tamp down her irritation and keep her emotions under rein. Pierce wasn’t being high-handed, she told herself. He was doing his job. But yeah, he could whittle down his authoritative attitude by more than a few notches.

She’d never been one to take orders. He knew that. But he also knew that the last time she’d disobeyed him, the consequences had been traumatic. Deadly. She bit her lip. But the word disobeyed stuck in her craw. He was a partner, her husband …

And a homicide detective who’d lost his partner.

Because of you, that nasty voice in her head reminded her.

There was a lot of emotional baggage involved in that particular incident. A lot. She counted herself lucky that she was still married.

She absently rubbed her abdomen and watched as the emergency vehicles drove away. No need for the EMTs to stick around, nor the fire department. Billy Huber was obviously dead. And had been for a while, she guessed, noting the dried blood on his body and the tiller’s blade.

She scanned the area, turned on the AC, and lowered the passenger door window, letting in a warm breeze that brought with it the scent of pine and earth and something she couldn’t quite name.

Death.

That was it.

This whole place appeared as if it were dying.

From the looks of it, Billy Huber had toppled from the ladder, stripping off a gutter that lay near him. And he’d had the bad luck to fall onto the blades. Except that the police were suspicious that a crime had been committed.

She wondered about it, as she stared at the blood crusted in the victim’s matted hair. Had someone intentionally knocked Billy off the ladder, then rammed his head into the sharp, spiky disks that reminded her of ninja stars? But who would do this to him? And why? Was it really murder? Or just an awful accident? She squinted at the dead body while vaguely aware of the still-barking dog.

It was hard to see, but it looked as if he’d somehow injured his neck, too. Wasn’t that blood at the base of his throat? Some kind of cut?

If only she could get a better view …

Over the barking, she heard one burly deputy ask Pierce, “Possibly an accident? You think he fell and hit his head?”

Pierce wasn’t convinced. “If so, he was pretty unlucky.”

“Was he? If ya ask me, ya fall off a ladder into this mess of a yard, and nine times outta ten yer gonna hit somethin’. Take a look around. Have you ever seen so much shit scattered in a yard? Mother of God, this place is a pigsty. So much goddamned crap. You’d think my ex lived here!”

A woman cop nearby said, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” She was tall and lean, athletic, her brown hair brushing her shoulders, her face pale in the harsh light. Nikki thought she recognized her, had met her at some of the station functions—maybe last year’s Christmas party. Her name was Liz something … what was it? Martin? No. Maddox. Liz Maddox. Yeah, that was it.

“If you say so.” The big man was clearly skeptical.

“I’ve seen your desk, Swanson,” she replied with a huff. “You got no call to judge.”

Oh, right, Ron Swanson. He was a deputy, Nikki thought. She’d heard his name before, but had never met him. She made a mental note and wished to high heaven she could hear more. If she could just take a peek around …

“Goddamn! Can someone shut that fuckin’ mutt up!” It was Swanson again, and he was glaring at the porch, where the dog continued its incessant barking.

She could help with the shepherd. She was good with dogs.

No!

She’d promised Pierce.

She fought a mental battle, but her fingers strayed to the door handle.

She wouldn’t be hindering but helping, she reasoned.

“I swear if that damned cur don’t stop that infernal racket,” Swanson declared, “I’ll take care of him myself!”

“I’ll call animal control.” Maddox was reaching for her cell phone, and Nikki clicked open the Jeep’s door to step outside as Pierce, ignoring the bickering and racket, crouched down for a better look at the body.

Nikki slipped outside, closing the Jeep’s door softly so that the interior light winked off. “Don’t call animal control,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the barking and chatter of conversation. “I’ve got this,” and she started for the fenced area around the house. She caught a glimpse of her husband’s tightened lips before he gave a quick shake of his head. Ignoring his silent warning, she slipped through the gate just as she heard Swanson say, “Hey! What the fuck is this? Jesus, it’s got a number carved into it—Looks like a six or … well, maybe a nine, depending on which is end is up.”

“It’s a rock, Swanson. For Crissakes, look at all this junk,” his partner said, waving an arm at the piles of trash only made worse by the broken tree branches littering the area. “One damned rock in acres of this crap, and that’s what you focus on?”

Nikki shot a look at Swanson, who was holding up a stone in his gloved hand. “It was next to the body. Kinda tucked under it. Maybe dropped out of the guy’s pocket. And look at it. Shiny. Probably polished. Like a big agate.”

“Okay.” Maddox was unmoved.

“But on the other side some kind of mark—I can’t figure it out.” Swanson was clearly puzzled. “Looks like hieroglyphics of some kind.”

“It’s a damned rock, Swanson. Do you see what we’re dealing with here?”

Nikki strained to hear the rest of the conversation, but she couldn’t appear too interested, and she had the dog to deal with.

It watched her as she approached, its black lips pulled back, sharp teeth bared, dark eyes bright from the reflection of the lights. As she approached, it snarled in warning.

“Shhh,” she commanded softly, and the beast, a shepherd of some kind, glared. “Quiet.” She was calm and steady, moving slowly, but with determination. “It’s okay,” she said, which, of course, it very much wasn’t.

The dog lunged and snapped. Teeth flashing.

“No!” she ordered tautly but didn’t back down. She’d been in tighter spots than this. One scared shepherd wasn’t going to stop her. She t