The Girl and the Field of Bones (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 10) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by A.J. Rivers

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  Book Ten - The Girl and the Field of Bones

  A.J. Rivers

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Staying In Touch With A.J.

  Also by A.J. Rivers

  Prologue

  Seconds after death.

  The dead have thoughts.

  In the seconds after death, as all oxygen leaves the brain, a surge of activity fires every neuron-like one last bolt of lightning. Every path lights up. Every connection, every potential thought, makes one final rush to the surface. No one knows what those thoughts are.

  The dead can't speak.

  But they can remember.

  For those final seconds, they are more alive than when they took their first breath. The brain churns out thought, grasping for anything and everything. This will be the last.

  By the time her face splashed into the dirty puddle in the cracked asphalt, her brain was flashing with every moment she had ever lived. Every breath. Every voice she ever heard. Every word she ever said. It was all there.

  And just as quickly as it passed, it was over. Her head lolled in the hands that lifted it up from the puddle. She didn't feel her feet being dragged across the pavement or the loose gravel tearing holes in her pantyhose.

  Twenty minutes after death.

  The dead can bleed.

  The heart has stopped, but for several minutes, blood continues to flow through the veins. By force. By memory. By sheer inertia. But then it stops. There is no more heartbeat, no more pressure. The blood stops, the capillaries empty, and the color of life drains away. Soon the blood will pool where it stopped, darkening to red and purple and black. But for a time, all is pale.

  She was nearly translucent by the time the trunk closed over her. If she was still breathing, her lungs would have dragged the smell of cotton and heat into her lungs. Lips losing their moisture stuck to the cloth, but her eyes were closed. They couldn't have seen the dark.

  Three hours after death.

  The dead hold tight.

  What takes months to build and grow takes only a fraction of that time to break down. But the body doesn't give up gently. It rages against death. It holds onto every shred of life. Within hours, as the brain lies dormant and the heart drains fully of blood, the muscles clench and tighten. The entire body goes stiff, holding the position it assumed upon death. It will stay that way for a couple of days before relinquishing itself to finality.

  It was hours after the trunk closed over her that she was given over to the ground. She didn't know it was cold and wet, more mud than dirt. But the hands that dug down into it knew. It wasn't easy to get her into the trunk. It was harder to drag her curled, hardened body to the hastily dug grave. Harder still to dig around her, to force away more of the mud and tangled roots, so she would fit.

  She could have ended up anywhere, yet somehow this felt like the only option. It was the only place that made sense. Here she wouldn't be alone. Even if no one ever knew where she was. And that was the plan. No one would ever know. She would just fade away, be forgotten.

  But it was beautiful here. At least there was that.

  That soothed some of the guilt.

  The rest of the guilt was buried with her. Soaking through the cloth with raindrops. It stayed with her as the mud came down, and the earth swallowed her. It would cover her as time continued to pass.

  Five days after death.

  Two weeks after death.

  Six months after death.

  Ten years after death.

  Twenty years after death.

  The dead tell secrets.

  Chapter One

  “Dead?” Dean asks. “What do you mean he's supposed to be dead?”

  “Exactly what I said,” I tell him, walking around the side of the car. “Darren Blackwell, better known as the Dragon. Major drug lord. Organized crime. He had airtight control over his massive syndicate. The Bureau had him under investigation for years. They wanted to close the case by sending somebody undercover. I was new and unknown. So, they chose me.”

  “What happened?” Dean asks.

  “A story for another time,” I say. “But the last I heard of him was that he was dead, buried in a prisoners’ field. Nobody claimed his body.”

  “If he's dead, why would Lydia Walsh have notes about him for her little cold case website? And why would the members of Prometheus react to his name?” Dean points out.

  “I don't know. But it wouldn't be the first time in my life somebody came back from the dead,” I note.

  I climb in the car, and Dean gets in behind the wheel. We drive back up the uneven dirt road to the temple. What was a pocket of deep darkness earlier is now flashing in blue, red, and white. Different patterns and tempos to match the vehicles parked haphazardly on the grass.

  “Why did they send a rescue squad?” Dean frowns as we pull up beside Sam's car and climb out.

  “Standard procedure,” I say. “Any time they think there might be conflict, they like to have emergency response vehicles handy. Just in case.”

  I meet his eyes, not needing to put out into the universe the words going through my mind. Various officers move in and out of the building. I jog up to the doorway and step inside.

  There is a distinctly different feeling in the building now. It's hard to explain. It doesn't feel lighter, as if some sort of exorcism had occurred to cleanse it once the members of The Order of Prometheus left under cover of darkness. Instead, it's hollow. Like a shell. There should be something in here, and even though it isn't here now, the impression still lingers. It's the same feeling I get when walking through an old crime scene. There's energy in the air, an indelible mark on the atmosphere itself that I can feel around me.

  "Emma," Detective Noah White calls over, coming toward me. "Good to see you in one piece."

  "I don't suggest you make that your usual greeting," I comment. "But thanks for the sentiment. Are you sure everyone is gone?"

  He nods. “The crew swarmed the place as soon as we got here and checked every room we had access to. We d
idn't find a single person.”

  “The rooms you have access to?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the doors in the building are locked. We were only able to get into a few of them, and they were pretty much empty,” he explains.

  “Locked? That doesn't make any sense.”

  “They weren't locked when you were here?”

  “No,” I say.

  Sam comes up behind me. His hand rests on my lower back like he's trying to steady me.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “The doors are locked,” I tell him. “They weren't locked when Dean and I were here. We didn't try many of them, but there was an office and the sanctuary. Were you able to see either one of those?”

  “No,” the detective says.

  Sam shakes his head in agreement. “I haven't been able to see much of it, obviously, but from what I hear from the guys who've been here, they're not seeing anything that you described. Not that it isn't in here, just that the doors are locked, and they can't get through them.”

  “So, open the doors,” I shrug.

  Noah shakes his head. “You know as well as I do we can't do that. We can't go into any of the rooms that are locked or blocked. We don't have probable cause or reason to believe a crime is currently being committed. The word of an FBI agent who was in the act of breaking and entering when she saw those things doesn't work as cause.”

  “So, you just—won’t do anything?” I practically sputter. “There was a group of men in ceremonial robes ten seconds away from murdering me and tossing me out into a cornfield. The same men who are responsible for Lakyn Monroe's death, as well as the deaths of however many people are out in that field where she was. Not to mention Andrew Eagan, whose death means Xavier Renton is still sitting in prison for something he didn't do.”

  “Emma, I understand you're upset. I am too. If there was something I could do right now, I would. But you know that I can't. I need you to think clearly on this right now and understand that we have to follow procedures.”

  I know we do, but it doesn't make it any easier. I hate standing here in the building where Dean and I were not an hour ago and feeling as if the answers have just slipped through my fingers.

  “So, what now?” I sigh.

  “We'll keep the building under surveillance,” Noah tells me. “I’ll make sure it's constantly watched, so if anybody tries to go inside, we'll see him.”

  “How about the men? Sterling Jennings. Lorenzo Tarasco. Mason Goldman, also known as Eleanor Goldman. The warden. Are you going to keep track of them if they show up?” I ask.

  “Emma,” Sam says. “We can't put surveillance on them. You know that. Even if we wanted to bend the rules a bit, these are all well-known and respected members of the community. No jury in the whole county will take our word over theirs. If we want to take these guys down, it’s got to be an absolutely iron-clad case. We can’t afford to cut any corners. And as of right now, they aren't technically under suspicion for anything. We can't just harass them. We have to wait.”

  “Or get a warrant,” I reply. “If we can get a warrant for the temple, we'll be able to open any door we want.”

  “We can try,” Noah says. “I'll see what I can do.”

  The next day, I walk into the hotel room and kick off my shoes mid-step. Without slowing down, I walk into the bathroom and turn the faucet on full blast. Pressing the heels of my hands into the counter, I lean over the sink and take a deep breath. I fill my hands with water and splash it into my face a couple of times.

  “How did it go?” Sam asks, coming to the door of the bathroom.

  I snatch one of the hand towels off the metal bar attached to the wall beside the sink and press it against my face as I walk past him back into the main portion of the hotel room. Tossing the towel onto the bed, I start to undress. I just want to be in something comfortable right now.

  “He's still there,” I say.

  “I know,” Sam says.

  I look into his eyes, shaking my head. “He's still there, Sam.”

  “I know,” he repeats, his lips pulled tight in sadness.

  “He didn't do anything. We know who murdered Andrew Eagan and why, and yet Xavier is still sitting there in that screwed-up facility under the thumb of those awful cultists. He still has people tell him when to get up in the morning and when to go to bed at night. When he can eat. If he's allowed to go outside his cell.”

  “He won't be in there forever,” Sam says.

  “He can't be,” I say. “They have to give him a new trial. With a new judge. They need to let him out.”

  “What did he say when you told him what happened?”

  I let out a sigh and go to the dresser for a pair of stretch pants and an oversized long-sleeve t-shirt.

  “He told me the apple on a tree doesn’t mind the time it takes to ripen. Makes for a better apple pie.”

  “What does that mean?” he asks.

  “That he's been waiting this long already. He can keep waiting,” I say. “But I'm not willing to let him keep waiting. Not if there's anything I can do about it. I promised him I would do everything I can to get him out of that place and get him a new trial as fast as possible.”

  “And when he does get his new trial?” Sam asks. “The lawyer has to prove there is sufficient new evidence to even start the trial. But after that, he has to create an effective enough case to convince people the courts got it wrong the first time. That’s not something that happens too often. How is he going to prove he wasn't involved in Andrew's death and that it was actually Lorenzo Tarasco who did it?”

  “That's what we have to figure out next,” I say.

  Chapter Two

  Eight weeks later …

  Another bone comes up from the dirt. It wasn't buried. Not formally, anyway. From the way it was positioned and the grass and weeds growing around it, it looks as if this is one of the bones that was just scattered throughout the cornfield.

  Thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Not because I have a problem with the bones. But because I have a problem with the way they were treated. These were once people. They aren't props or ancient remnants. No more than a handful of years ago, they were living, breathing human beings.

  Until someone took them and tossed them out among the rows of corn to be forgotten. Now I know the real benefit of the cage that was put over Lakyn Monroe's body.

  It wasn't put over her while she was still alive. That had been my first thought when I first saw it. I thought someone had caged her and left her out to die of exposure and starvation. But the cage was too lightweight, too weak to hold a human being inside. It was put in place after she was already dead. And after weeks of watching the forensics team collect and unearth bones and remnants of who these people once were, I understand why the cage was there.

  It protected her. It kept the animals away and stopped them from tearing her apart and scattering her throughout the field the way the others were. For many of them, parts of their bodies will never be found. They've been taken far away and will never be seen again. It's entirely possible there will be people who we will never be able to identify because too much of them has gone missing.

  We may not even know how many are here.

  But we know who she was. We found all of her—at least, what was left—because of that cage. I don't understand how it came to be there. I described it to Xavier, but he didn't have an explanation for me. Not even one that I couldn't understand. According to him, she should have just been discarded the way all the others were. But someone had a different idea.

  And because she knew her minutes were numbered, she used the very last grains of sand counting of her life to leave a message detailing where she was going. Her final gift was making sure we knew where to look for her. And because of the cage, we found her.

  And because of her, we found the others.

  And we keep finding them. It's been two months now, and the excavation is still going on. It hasn't been conti
nuous. Autumn storms and red tape have slowed progress. It's infuriating. Every day that goes by, I watch more people come up from the field and have to keep waiting. I know who did this. And there's nothing I can do.

  “Explain to me again why we haven't been able to get back into the temple, Detective,” I tell Noah, as he wipes dirt from his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “Because we haven't gotten a warrant, Emma. You know that. We have to have a search warrant in order to go inside and open any of those doors. Right now, there is no clear-cut evidence that anybody who is inside that temple did anything wrong. Unless you want to get technical and count you and your cousin for breaking in,” he replies.

  “How are we supposed to get a warrant? You know who's involved in all this. The judge, the warden, some of the most powerful people in Harlan are wrapped up in The Order of Prometheus. How are we supposed to get a search warrant to prove they are responsible for what's looking like more than a dozen deaths so far? And that doesn't even include the ones involved in the initiation rituals.”

  “Emma, you know this. You have to think clearly about it. You have to remember that the law works in a specific way. Just because it doesn't always fit perfectly with what's going on, and just because it's not always fair or convenient, doesn't mean we can just toss it away and make our own rules,” he says.