Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(2)

He backed silently out the front door, closing it behind him. As he receded deeper into the shadows and the seconds ticked by, his pulse slowed and the jolt of energy that had cut through him eased.

He watched as she slowly lowered her gun and pressed trembling fingers to her temple. She sat on the edge of her bed and replaced the gun in the nightstand. But she didn’t shut off her light, as if she felt Death stalking her.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t wait her out and return. He could. But for reasons even he didn’t really understand, he decided to pass her by.





CHAPTER ONE

Monday, November 11, 2019, 10:30 a.m.

Deep Run, Virginia

Dave Sherman was hungover. The days when he could drink any man under the table and then rise and shine the next day were long gone. He was forty-six, so every extra can of beer and shot of bourbon kicked his ass.

Clearing his throat, Sherman winced against the sunlight hitting his face as he looked up at the old red barn. Time and weather had stripped away most of its paint, leaving behind a dark-gray wood that a craftsman in Richmond had already agreed to purchase for a pretty penny.

Most of the reclaimed timbers were destined for a new log cabin in Winchester, and what wasn’t spoken for would be soon. This job was going to solve a lot of financial problems. As long as he kept putting one foot in front of the other, dismantled the beams, and loaded his bounty onto the one-hundred-dollars-an-hour flatbed, he would be set.

Sherman drained the last of his coffee. “Let’s get moving! Break’s over.”

The two men rose up off the tailgate, downed the last of their energy drinks, and headed inside the barn. Sunlight seeped through the holes in the tin roof and along the wooden slats dried out by time and weather.

“We’re taking down the hay chute next.” Nineteenth-century German settlers had crafted the shaft to move feed from the second-story loft to the livestock on the first floor. Protected from the elements, the wood was in near-perfect condition and would make a nice table if he and his men could dismantle it intact.

Sherman ran his hand over the rough grain of the square box, admiring the wooden pegs that had held it together for a couple hundred years. He hated to knock the pegs from their interlocking joints, but a man had to make a living.

The younger of his workers, Nate, a nineteen-year-old kid with scrub for a beard and long blond hair, scurried up a ladder to the loft. Nate moved with the speed and agility Sherman could only reminisce about.

The kid and he operated in concert, working their crowbars back and forth, prying the peg from its hole. However, two-hundred-year-old hewed and crafted wooden dowels did not surrender easily.

“It’s not budging,” Nate shouted. “Do you want me to force it?”

“You’ll crack the wood, and it won’t be of any use to me,” Sherman growled.

“I think it just needs a few hard blows,” the kid insisted.

“Easy, Nate.”

Normally, Sherman had patience when it came to this kind of work, but today his pounding head and the young man were getting on his last nerve.

“One solid yank, Mr. Sherman. That’ll do it.”

Maybe Nate was right for once. “Fine, let’s do it.”

They both yanked hard, and the joint cracked and looked as if it would break clean until it caught and split right up the center just as he’d feared. Seconds later the wood fell, and he jumped back. The large splinters dropped around him as decades of dust filled the air.

Quick on the heels of the grime, a big object barreled down the partially opened chute and struck him on the shoulder. Flinching as he turned, he prayed his rotator cuff hadn’t been retorn. What the hell had hit him?

Sherman wiped the fine coating of muck from his face. “Did you look down the damn chute?”

The kid shrugged. “Didn’t think there’d be anything after all this time.”

“Dumbass.” Sherman glared at what had damn near fractured his shoulder and discovered it was a faded red backpack. As he reached for the pack, his gaze was drawn to the objects that were strewed around. He picked up what looked like a stick and then quickly dropped it. He leaped back and released a string of curses.

Scattered around him was a collection of bones.





CHAPTER TWO

Monday, November 11, 11:30 a.m.

When Mike Nevada ended a fifteen-year career with the FBI, his intention was never to become a small-town sheriff or a gentleman farmer. His strategy had been to take a few weeks off from the Quantico-based profiling team tasked with finding and capturing the most vicious serial killers. He wanted to reflect on some of the choices he’d made and work on the house he had inherited from his grandfather.

And yet, here he stood, the newly elected county sheriff.

Within days of his arrival in Deep Run for what was supposed to have been a vacation, he had received an anonymous tip about untested rape kits. The tip had led to a meeting with the sitting sheriff, but their conversation had quickly degraded into a pissing match. Frustrated, he had left the sheriff’s office, resigned from the FBI, and immediately declared his intention to run against the incumbent. The move hadn’t been his most logical. But once he started down a trail, he never doubled back.

It was an election nobody, himself included, thought he would win. But he did. And now, two weeks after the votes had been tallied, he was responding to a potential homicide.