Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls #3)(7)

He opened his folder. Eight-by-ten color glossies of Missy lying on the bench, arms folded across her midsection Sleeping Beauty-style, hypodermic needle tucked beneath her overlapping fingers. He’d positioned her late Saturday night. Since then, an entire day of severe storms had raged through the area. Maybe the weather or time had affected the precise positioning of Missy’s body.

Next time he’d be more careful. He’d make sure his message was delivered on time.

On the TV, behind the reporters, two men in coveralls rolled a gurney toward a white and red van. Missy had been zipped into a black body bag.

Too bad.

The public should see what happened to the fallen. She’d deserved what she’d gotten. He’d performed a public service: judgment, punishment, and execution of the depraved.

Missy had claimed to be redeemed, but none of them were. She’d been dirty. Weak. Pathetic. And now she was gone, plucked from society like a dandelion ripped from a lush, green lawn. The grass would fill in, healthier, stronger without her tainted roots.

The news segued to a traffic report. He stopped recording.

How could he make his message clear? Some people were unworthy of life. There were consequences for bad decisions. People should be punished for their sins. What would it take for the world to understand?

He replayed the news clip. When Detective Dane entered the frame, he paused the recording. She was in charge. Therefore, she was the one he needed to convince.





Chapter Four


Monday, June 20, near Tabatinga, Brazil

The booming growl of a howler monkey echoed across the forest. Mac froze. He lowered his binoculars, his survival instincts quivering as the rain forest around him went on alert. Something was wrong.

June was past the official rainy season, but this part of the jungle didn’t really have a dry one. The Amazon River flowed fat and fast past him, sunlight glimmering on its rippled surface. Twenty yards away, a male giant river otter poked its head above the water and stared downstream. Mac followed the weasel’s focus, looking for the snout of the black caiman that had been hanging around the day before.

A pair of scarlet macaws burst from the forest and winged out over the river. Mac shifted his binoculars from the water to the canopy. A hundred feet above, the reddish brown body of a howler monkey poised on a thick branch. The air smelled like rain was coming, but torrential downpours were daily events and wouldn’t bother the monkeys. The big male sounded another throaty warning. Something—or someone—was invading the primate’s territory.

Mac lowered his binoculars. His three-member team had been camped near a small village ten miles from Tabatinga, Brazil, for weeks. The monkeys had become accustomed to their presence. Another group of primates could be encroaching on the home turf of the resident troop. Or it could be something else entirely, maybe a jaguar. The monkeys scattered, the canopy shifting, branches and foliage swaying, as the creatures took flight. If another group of primates were muscling in on their territory, the howlers would have stood their ground, at least for a time. There would have been a vocal protest, posturing, possibly even a physical altercation. The animals’ quick abandonment of their domain meant one thing: predator.

He scanned the river. The young otters had stopped playing and had scurried into the shallows. Three adults swam in circles, agitation evident in their tense posture. Their cute, cuddly appearance and playful antics camouflaged their place at the top of the Amazon food chain. Nearly six feet long, giant river otters had few natural predators except black caimans or jaguars. If the otters were on alert, the threat was likely unnatural.

In the jungle, unnatural equaled human.

Sweat dripped into his eye. He yanked a bandana from the back pocket of his nylon cargo pants and tied it around his head.

“Mac!” Behind him, Cheryl bulldozed through the rain forest. How could a woman that small make that much noise? She moved with the grace of a miniature bison. Sweat soaked the armpits of her long-sleeve safari shirt and a camera bounced around her neck.

“Shh.” Mac raised a hand, tilted his head, and listened.

Cheryl stopped and waited. Her gaze roaming the riverbanks. “I don’t hear anything.”

Mac didn’t hear as much as feel the tension in the jungle. It rippled along his skin like a swarm of ants.

Cheryl tightened the band on her ponytail. “We’ve been here for weeks. The locals are friendly. All we’ve seen are fishing boats and ecotours.”

She’d worked in S?o Paulo. She didn’t know jack about life in the jungle. Mac didn’t have the details, but her assignment to his team had been punishment for some infraction.

“Maybe.” He had his doubts about some of the fishing boats they’d seen. The occupants hadn’t look all that interested in the water.

Cheryl swatted at a mosquito the size of a kitten. “The biggest danger here is the bugs. Why don’t they ever bite you?”

Ignoring her complaints, Mac glanced back at the water. The otters had disappeared. Bad sign. He held up a hand to quiet his companion. “The animals know something’s up.”

“Great,” Cheryl muttered. “I had to pull the Dances With Otters assignment.”

“I am a wildlife biologist,” Mac whispered. “Now shut up so I can listen.”

The faint sputter of a motor drifted over the water. Most of the local fishing boats were man-powered. Engines were faster, but they were also expensive and required fuel. Most locals didn’t have the resources for such luxury.