Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(92)

The man pivoted, slowly, uncertainly. When the man’s back was turned, he pulled his baton off his duty belt and hit him over the head. The man’s legs crumbled. He went down hard.

Mary screamed again.

He had to get her off this road.

“Shut up.” Anger roared inside him as he knocked her to the ground and straddled her. With her hands cuffed behind her back, she couldn’t resist. His fingers were around her throat. He squeezed until she was still and lifeless and fucking quiet.

He stopped, panting.

She was dead.

Fuck! That hadn’t been part of the plan.

Her death should have looked like an accident. No chance of that with his fingermarks around her neck.

Now what?

Now he had two more deaths to cover up, that’s what.

He’d have to improvise. He ran to the vehicle and opened the trunk. Hauling Mary off the pavement, he put her inside. Then he dragged the man to the back of the car and muscled him in too. Sliding behind the wheel, he opened the glove compartment and found the registration. Victor Kruger lived in Scarlet Falls.

Correction: Had lived in Scarlet Falls.

He needed a plan to get rid of both bodies and the car. The car he could sink in Grey Lake. If he put Victor at the wheel of his car, the deaths could look like a combination murder and suicide. But they would have no connection to one another. Murder-suicides were typically crimes of passion, born of the desperation that came from twisted love.

If these bodies were ever discovered, what he needed was a way to make it appear as if Victor killed Mary and then left town. The car could go in the lake with Mary in the trunk. He’d bury Vic in the woods. He knew just the spot. When it was done, he’d call Owen for a pickup. Owen was an accessory. He’d keep his mouth shut.

A twig cracked ahead, pulling his attention back to his task. Kruger and Dane must be just ahead. He slowed his pace, easing along the trail. The footprints muddied in the snow, as if they’d stopped to rest. His gaze fell to the spot of blood in the snow ahead. He walked closer. They couldn’t be far, not with one of them still bleeding.

The footprints disappeared into the thick foliage of an evergreen tree. Could they be trying to hide? With slow and silent steps, he eased forward and separated the branches of the evergreen. She huddled on the ground, wet, cold, and scraggly as a lost kitten.

“Ms. Dane. Nice to see you.” He gestured with the barrel of the rifle. Her hand was bloody.

Ms. Dane lifted her hands. Her skin and lips were blue, and she staggered as she tried to get to her feet. Even if he hadn’t found her, she wouldn’t have lasted much longer. She was running on pure determination, which he admitted, she had in spades.

It was a shame she had to die.

“Where’s Kruger?” he asked.

“He went ahead for help.” She swayed on her feet. “I can’t walk anymore.”

Kruger would never leave her.

“Liar.” King whipped the rifle around and smacked her in the face with the butt of the stock. She crumpled to the ground and lay in the snow, unmoving. He hadn’t delivered a full-force blow, hadn’t meant to knock her out, only to stun her. But she was a more delicate creature than he was accustomed to handling. Whatever. At this point, he needed to be flexible and keep his eyes on the prize. Now he would use her as bait.

He aimed the rifle at her face. “Come on out, Kruger. I know you can hear me. You have three seconds to show yourself before I pull the trigger.”





Chapter Forty-Nine

Heart-hammering, Lance stared at the sheriff’s back. Wavering, he hesitated for a fraction of a second. If he jumped the sheriff, King could shoot Morgan. But if he didn’t, King would definitely shoot them both. He could not, under any circumstances, allow either of them to be taken prisoner by King. That would be the end.

Surprise—and the sheriff’s own confidence—would be Lance’s best weapons.

He took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. Pushing off his good leg, he launched himself at the sheriff’s back. He looped his cuffed hands over the sheriff’s head. Pulling hard, he yanked the chain joining the cuffs into the sheriff’s windpipe. The sheriff dropped the rifle. His hands went to his throat. He grabbed Lance’s arms and tried to relieve the pressure. But Lance had the upper hand, and he wasn’t letting go. If this didn’t work, he and Morgan were both dead.

There would be no more running. No more game of cat and mouse. The mice didn’t have any more chase left in them.

The sheriff gagged, a sick choking sound emanating from his throat as he fought to breathe. He thrashed, clawing at Lance’s hands and using his size and weight to attempt to pull Lance off balance.

King was large, strong, and trained in defense and arrest tactics. He dropped one hand to his belt and freed a knife from its sheath. Reaching over his shoulder, King jabbed the point at Lance’s head. Lance ducked his head out of the knife’s path, but the effort cost him leverage.

The sheriff grabbed Lance’s wrist with his other hand, eased the pressure on his own throat, and heaved Lance forward with brute strength. King pinned Lance’s wrist just below his own collarbone. Lance dropped his weight and fought to hold his position.

The knife came at Lance’s eye next. He shifted his head. His arms trembled. Agony seared through his ribcage. Exhausted, hypothermic, and injured, he was nearing his limit. It would be now or never.