Chilled (Bone Secrets, #2)(41)

The three men had stared at the blood on Paul’s white shirt as the security guards pushed through the doorway and tackled Kinton from behind. The little office had turned into a melee of shouting men and blood. Paul had passed out.

Kinton hadn’t defended his actions at his behavior hearing and was fired a week later. He hadn’t apologized either.

Paul hadn’t pressed charges. He’d wanted the entire matter dropped as quickly as possible. No telling where an investigation might have led. Thank God, no one else had the balls to ask questions about Besand’s details except Kinton. If the other agents noticed, they’d kept it to themselves. What he didn’t need was an internal investigation into what had set Kinton off. Luckily, Kinton never showed his face around the office again. Paul managed to keep single men on Besand’s details, knowing the right opportunity would eventually present itself to take care of Besand’s private demand.

Glancing over his shoulder, Paul watched Sheriff Collins hold up both his hands, gesturing in a “quiet down” movement to the crowd of media. Paul was relieved he’d handed it off to the sheriff. Right now Paul was agitated enough to say something he shouldn’t. He was definitely going to have a private talk with Regan Simmons tonight. He spotted her blonde head in the crowd, her lips moving as she shouted a question at the sheriff. What if she pushed for a repeat performance of last night? He pondered the dilemma for a split second. He could handle her for one more night, but this time he’d keep his secrets to himself.

Hopefully, the search and rescue team was finding a blackened, charred wreck full of crispy skeletons. That would take care of his biggest problem. That would be a perfect end to the huge thorn in his foot, and everything could return to normal. All secrets would be secure. No loose ends floating around. Surely Darrin’s attorney wouldn’t see a plane crash as a suspicious death. Planes went down in bad weather all the time. An attorney wouldn’t suspect anything unusual about that.

Would he?





The female moved up the hill and out of his sight. Darrin sighed and turned the binoculars back on the three men below, wondering what she was up to. She’d left her pack behind, so she wasn’t going far. The other men stared at each other for a few seconds, then the biggest one ducked into the cockpit while Kinton and the short guy talked.

It still bugged him. How had Kinton known where to find him? Maybe he’d been unconscious longer than he realized after the crash.

No. He hadn’t lost a complete day. He could tell by how hungry he felt and how much he’d pissed.

Stubborn. That was the only word to describe Alex Kinton. Alex’s brother, Samuel, had been stubborn too. Not nearly as bad as Alex, but enough to drive Darrin into action.

Darrin had been sloppy with Samuel. And it’d been Darrin’s undoing.

But he’d learned his lesson: don’t kill the brother of a federal agent.

Darrin smirked. He pictured himself wrapping his hands around the neck of a grandma in a nursing home. “Oh, by the way, any relation to government agents?”

He nearly dropped the binoculars as he slapped his hand over his mouth, stopping the laugh, knowing how easily sounds could carry over the snow.

He hadn’t asked any questions of Samuel.

Samuel had kept following him, harassing him, whining about Rosa and her dog. He’d seemed more upset about the dog than the woman. Darrin hadn’t realized Samuel had seen him kill Rosa until Samuel accused him of throwing Hero in the pool. He’d drowned Rosa first. The yippy little dog had been next. Sort of like the cherry on top of the sundae.

Darrin had tried to bribe Samuel. Usually with the retards it didn’t take much to distract or convince them they’d seen something incorrectly. A little chocolate or a soda usually did the trick. He should know. He’d been dealing with frail-minded seniors and retarded adults for two decades. But Samuel was persistent.

Nursing homes. Group care homes. He’d worked in several. They were rife with easy kills and vulnerable victims who’d finished their necessary roles in society.

He’d wanted to be a doctor. That had been his original plan. He’d done what he could at the community college and transferred his credits to a state school where he could get a real degree. Then he’d planned to apply to medical school, driven by a fascination with life and death. He’d wanted to feel that power that doctors exercise when their patients are close to death. Like on the television show ER. To be an emergency room doctor was his long-term goal. But first he’d move to a big city like New York or Chicago. Someplace more violent. The doctors at his local emergency room dealt with a lot of sore throats and ear infections. He wanted the big stuff. Shootings and car accidents.

Death.

But Dad had lost his job and spent his time drinking instead of looking for a new one. Mom had held down two jobs, but it was never enough. Darrin had to work and pay for his own tuition. Not easy at minimum wage. So he’d left home. Why give money to Mom to pay her bills when he could simply pay his own bills? He’d become a certified nursing assistant and found work in a nursing home. Everyone else had hated working there. He’d loved it.

In a nursing home he’d been as powerful as a doctor. His hands had determined who lived and who died. As they died, he would study the fading light in his victims’ eyes and wonder what they saw. Some looked happy; some looked scared. And then he’d watch the families as he drank in the range of emotions at the news of the death of a loved one. Some relief, some sorrow.