The truck pulled up and halted. A minute later he heard the topper swing open and he knew he was out of time. Beck kicked out at the plastic and shouted his outrage.

  “Figured you’d get that off,” McGovern said.

  “Why ya doin’ this?”

  “Because it’s the way it has to be,” the man replied.

  Did he find my gun? Beck kept it in his glove compartment, so it wasn’t like it was hidden.

  He was hauled to the edge of the tail gate and unceremoniously rolled off the edge. Before he could react, he landed hard, his shoulder and skull slamming into the ground. Woozy from the blow, his head swam in protest.

  The Guild’s doctor had warned him about this, cautioning him to be careful after the head injury he’d taken a short time ago. He had been careful; he’d just not planned on being kidnapped by Sadlersville’s only undertaker. What was missing was a tangle of drunken voices boasting about what they planned to do to that no-good SOB Denny Beck. Had he gotten it wrong? Maybe this wasn’t country justice but something else entirely.

  As McGovern dragged the body bag across the ground, he groaned in discomfort. With considerable difficulty his captor maneuvered him up, then into something that moved, a boat perhaps. Through it all, Beck’s head continued to pound in time with his heart.

  “Where are we goin’?” he called out, his mouth dry.

  McGovern didn’t answer.

  Why is he doin’ this? Beck had never had a problem with the undertaker and the guy should have no beef with him. Maybe it was something with Sadie. Still, that was no reason this man would risk jail time if there’d been bad blood between the two of them.

  Beck tried to concentrate on the little details. Besides the sickening plastic stench there was another smell, one he knew as well as any: They were somewhere in the swamp. His mind narrowed down the possibilities. There were only a few entrances to Okefenokee and the one south of town had a main gate that was locked at sunset. The next closest entrance was Kingfisher Landing, north of Sadlersville, the one locals called Poachers’ Landing because it was open to everyone and the easiest way to slip into the swamp unnoticed. Beck bet that’s exactly where they were.

  With the roar of the boat’s motor in his ears, he forced himself to rest. If he was lucky he’d be given a chance to escape. If not, this was going to be a one-way trip.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  As best he could tell, hours passed. The body bag didn’t allow much personal freedom and so his back ached where it met the uneven bottom of the boat. He kept working on the ropes, but only managed to make his mouth sore and his lips bleed.

  How far are we goin’?

  When the boat slowed and then the motor cut out, Beck knew the journey was almost over. He’d given up on trying to loosen the bonds around his wrists. Those were there to stay. At least he had his feet free and that meant he could run if McGovern hauled him onto solid ground. Swimming wasn’t going to be an option.

  What if he throws me overboard? Beck would drown before he could claw his way out of the bag. Something told him that wasn’t McGovern’s plan, or he’d have done the deed already.

  The boat rocked as his captor climbed out. Probably tying it off to a tree.

  “Ya still haven’t told me what this is all about,” Beck said, trying to sound like he’d given in to the inevitable.

  “It’s nothing personal. It’s just something has to happen.”

  Keep him talkin’. “That’s not making me feel good here.”

  A chuckle. “Always did like your sense of humor. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your mother has a good funeral.”

  Beck’s fury grew and he struggled to keep it in check. “Ya let me go and I’ll not say a word to the cops.”

  The only response was McGovern manhandling him out of the craft and onto the bank. Water splashed around the bag, but it remained intact. More dragging, but this time it wasn’t as easy as his body passed over branches and other swamp debris.

  “Yer gonna kill me, aren’t ya?”

  “Yeah, it’s come to that. Sorry.”

  Nothing would prevent McGovern from murdering him while he was still inside the bag. Beck had to get him to unzip it. “Then at least let me see the sky one last time. I don’t want to die staring at the inside of some damned black bag.”

  His captor kept hauling him onward, farther from the boat.

  Beck forced his pride down to gain one last chance at survival. “Come on, man. I’m . . . beggin’ ya here.”

  There was a resigned sigh and the dragging halted.

  That’s it. Open the bag.

  As McGovern fumbled with the zipper, Beck prepared himself. He needed to make an explosive leap and tackle his kidnapper before the man had the opportunity to react. He’d never get another chance.

  Suddenly the undertaker yelped in terror. There were noises Beck couldn’t place, then two rapid-fire gunshots split the air. He grimaced, waiting for the searing pain, but it didn’t come.

  “This is mine!” a voice cried out.

  McGovern shrieked and then there was the sound of someone crashing through the brush in a blind panic.

  What the hell just happened?

  The body bag continued its journey across the ground, in the direction he’d originally been headed.

  Beck called out. “Hey! I thought ya were gonna open this bag.”

  “Not yet,” the new voice said. “In time.”

  “Who are ya?”

  A low laugh turned his blood to ice. “Sleep, Denver Beck,” the voice said. “For there will be little of it when you awake.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but his brain shut down before he had the chance to form one word.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Riley woke with a start, blinking open her eyes. The clock on the nightstand said she’d been asleep for over two hours. Beck should be back and in bed by now, but the light was still on in his room.

  Probably reading his book.

  She crawled out of bed and stuck her head around the door. Beck’s bed was untouched and the bathroom empty. She plodded to the window and pushed back the curtain—his truck was still gone and yet his trapping bag was where he’d left it. He wouldn’t go that far without that, even in his hometown.

  Where are you?

  Three hours in she dialed his cell phone. As she waited for it to ring, Riley tried to figure out what she was going to say to him. She suspected it would start with, “Where the hell are you?”

  It rolled over to voice mail. It was close to midnight now, and he would never leave her alone for that length of time, not with how paranoid he’d been about Sadlersville.

  Maybe he’s at a bar somewhere. The moment she considered that she knew that was wrong. Beck could go bar hopping in Atlanta with no hassles, but down here it was a surefire way to land him in a fight. He wasn’t looking for that kind of trouble, not with all the extra responsibilities that came with his mom’s death.

  Something is wrong. She fumbled through the phone book until she could find the business number for the sheriff’s office. The radio dispatcher wielded a deep Southern drawl like a blunt-edged weapon, and it took Riley a bit to understand what the woman was telling her: The sheriff was out of town. What did she need?

  Riley explained the situation and was relieved when the dispatcher said she’d send a deputy to the motel. Only then did Riley notice she was still in her nightclothes so she quickly changed and took a position near the window. Fifteen minutes later there was the crunch of gravel as a cop car pulled into the parking lot. Riley hurried outside, tucking her jacket around her.

  The deputy took his time hauling his butt out of the cruiser, like a missing person was no big deal. He was clad in a thick coat, which was open at the front and he had a slight paunch.

  “You the one who called the office?” he asked in a lazy drawl.

  “Yes. I’ve got a friend who is missing. I need you to find him.”

  “You’re the girl with Denny Beck, aren’t you?”

  “He’s the one that’s missing,” Riley replied, walking closer. She nervously gave him the details of what had happened and why she was so worried.

  The deputy clearly didn’t share her concern. “He probably ran out of beer.”

  “No! There are four more bottles in the sink, and he left his wallet here.”

  “You been drinking any of that brew, missy?” the man asked, frowning now.

  “What? No, I haven’t. I don’t like beer.” Besides the fact that she was underage.

  “He’ll probably be back in the morning with one helluva hangover. That’s his style.” The deputy began to fold himself back into his the car.

  “Wait! Where are you going? He needs your help.”

  “He always took off, even when he was a kid. If he’s not back by tomorrow night, call the office. We’ll get you to the bus station. You wouldn’t be the first girl he ditched after he’s done with her.”

  He thought she was Beck’s squeeze. “We just trap demons together. He wouldn’t leave me here on my own.”

  The man chuckled. “You trap demons. That’s a good one.”

  Before she could retrieve her trappers’ license and jam it under this idiot’s nose, he drove away.

  “You . . . moron,” she shouted, kicking gravel at the departing car. She stormed into her room and slammed the door, then felt bad for all the noise.

  What could she do? Call Stewart? That wouldn’t help much since the master was in Atlanta. With the sheriff unavailable and her without a car, she was stuck here until morning.

  Frightened of every sound now, Riley retrieved Beck’s steel pipe and climbed into his bed. It smelled of his aftershave but that did nothing to calm her. Tucking a pillow close to her chest, she closed her eyes and prayed that her worst fears were all imaginary.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Blinking in the dark, Beck found himself propped against a tree, a thin sliver of a moon visible through the trees above him. He shivered in the cold, despite his leather jacket.

  The good news was that the ropes on his wrists were gone. He rolled his neck around and felt it cramp on the right side in protest. At least his vision was okay so maybe he’d avoided a concussion. It was only when he moved his legs to stand that he discovered the bad news: A log chain, heavy with rusted links, stretched from the tree to his left ankle. A battered padlock mated him and the chain together in an unmovable union.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he said, his panic rocketing off the charts. A jerk on the metal proved his ankle would snap before he broke free. He dug his fingers underneath the links, trying to force it off his boot. It was too tight.

  Beck rose on unsteady feet and studied the tree behind him—it was a cypress, one of the aged sentinels of the swamp, smooth and thick. It was so large that it would take three of him to get his arms around it. He cinched up the chain, braced his feet against the trunk, and pulled hard. Heat spread across his arms and back muscles, but the restraint held. He returned to his feet, wiping his hands free of the dirt and rust.

  “Ya bastard!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the wilderness around him. In the distance an owl hooted in reply. Who had done this? Why attack McGovern just to steal him and chain him to a tree?

  Beck tried to slow his breathing, think it through. If he didn’t find a way to escape this was going to be short and brutal: If one of the swamp’s demons didn’t take him down, he could die from exposure. A bear or snake could get him, or an alligator would tear him free of the chain and carry his ravaged body into the water to stash in its larder.

  A rustling in the undergrowth pulled his eyes in that direction. He had no weapon, so Beck reeled in the chain and held it between his hands. If he was lucky, it was a foraging raccoon.

  Not with all the noise I’ve been makin’.

  When there was no further rustling, Beck forced himself to relax. If he remained on the ground he’d be more vulnerable, so he tried to scale the tree. That was a major fail as the slick bark wouldn’t give him any traction. Swinging up, he managed to dislodge some Spanish moss from a long branch above him and he kept kicking until a thick pile of it hit the ground. At least that would help him stay warm tonight. Come morning he’d have to find a way to break free or he’d never see Riley again—and he realized now, that was the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Riley was out of bed at a little before seven in the morning, though there had been scant sleep overnight. Every noise jerked her awake, reigniting her hope that it was Beck and that he’d finally returned. But he never had.

  He’d been gone for ten hours now. She’d promised his mother she’d keep him safe, and the woman wasn’t even in her grave yet and Riley had already broken that vow.

  She didn’t bother with makeup, not caring what she looked like. After using her laptop to figure out where the sheriff’s office was located, she bundled up in her warmest clothes, hoisted her backpack, and began the hike into town. The cold morning air nipped at her nose and ears. Every time a car passed her she’d turn to check it out. One old guy pulled off the side of the road and offered to give her a ride, but she refused. There was no way she could trust anyone even if they had more wrinkles than a shar-pei. Adjusting her pack, she kept hiking.

  Five minutes into her walk she’d worked up the courage and dialed Stewart. She needed backup.

  “Lass, good mornin’ ta ya. How’s it goin’?”

  He sounded in good spirits and she was about to ruin that. When she gave him a rundown of the situation, she heard a long sigh down the phone.

  “Ah, damn,” he said. “Where are ya now?”

  “I’m going into town to talk to the sheriff. He seems to like Beck so he’ll help me find him.”

  “That’s a good plan. Things are in a mess up here so I canna come down, but I’ll see who I can spare. Keep me in the loop. Ya be verra careful, ya hear?”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  She ended the call and kept walking.

  THIRTEEN

  Riley reached the outskirts of Sadlersville just as the town was stirring to life. When she walked past the diner she wasn’t surprised to find the old guys already lined up at the long table, coffee and gossip in abundance. One of them was the dude who’d offered her a ride. Once she’d checked in with the sheriff she’d come back and have some breakfast, try to tap into this town’s rumor mill.

  It has to be good for something.

  According to their website, the county sheriff’s office was housed in a single-story building located next to the courthouse. When she found it, Riley pushed open the front door and then paused to get her bearings. The moment she crossed the threshold into the office the aroma of fresh coffee teased her nose. It reminded her of the old Starbucks where she attended school.

  “Hello?” No reply. Since there wasn’t anyone in sight, she moved to the closest desk, put her pack down, and plopped into a chair. Clearly the city wasn’t a hotbed of criminal activity. About a minute later a deputy wandered out from the back of the building, coffee cup in hand. He was young and had a suntanned face. His name tag proclaimed he was Steve Newman, and he’d been a cop for the last three years.

  “Morning,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, is Sheriff Donovan here?”

  “No. He’ll be back later today. What can I do for you?”

  At least this guy is nice. “I’m looking for Denver Beck. He’s missing.”

  “Are you the young lady who called the dispatcher?”

  “Yes. Would you have any idea where he might be?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Deputy Martin said you were worried about him not coming back to the motel. Tell me what’s going on.”

  That sounded good so Riley laid it all out, point by point. At least this time the cop took notes.

  “What makes you so sure he’s in trouble?” the young man asked.

  “Beck left his wallet behind and he never goes anywhere without his trapping bag. That’s one of the first things we’re taught—carry Holy Water at all times or you’re demon food. He left it in his motel room, along with the steel pipe he uses for protection.”

  The deputy blinked. “You’re a trapper too?” Riley nodded.

  Newman took another sip from his mug—it had a picture of a collie on it. “I heard his mother died yesterday. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  She picked at a fingernail in nervous frustration. “Beck was upset, but we talked it out. Look, I know him, he wouldn’t leave me on my own. He’s like a . . . big brother. He’s always worrying about me, and he was really spooked that something might happen while I was down here with him.”

  The deputy nodded in understanding. “Truth is, I can’t file a missing person’s report on an adult until twenty-four hours have passed.” At her protest, he added, “But I’ll put the word out. Give me a description of his truck. Someone must have seen him.”

  She gave him the information, along with her cell phone number.

  Looking up, he issued a reassuring smile. “The sheriff is due back in town in a couple of hours and I’ll make sure he knows about this. Maybe by then Beck will have shown up.”

  If he does, he better have one amazing excuse or he’s a dead man. “Thanks.”

  “Do you need a ride back to the motel?”

  “No, I’m headed to the diner.” She rose from the chair. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “We’ll see if we can find him.”

  That’s all I want.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †