Hidden in the Everglades. Margaret Daley
tile floor by him, in front of an open sliding glass door, as a soft breeze blew the curtains.
Had the killer already escaped? Or was he in the bathroom or closet? She slunk along the wall to the first door and threw it wide. After inspecting the empty closet, she quickly moved on. At the bathroom, the door was ajar, and she nudged it farther open. As soon as she assessed no threat, she hurried to the man on the floor to see if there was anything she could do.
Tattoos covering both arms and an elaborate black dagger inked on his neck, the victim, probably between eighteen and twenty-two, wore blue jeans, the bottoms encrusted with wet mud, and a snow-white T-shirt, now saturated with blood from multiple shots to his gut. In her line of work she’d seen lethal wounds. This was one of them.
She placed another call to 911 to let them know a person was critically injured in the bedroom of the vacant house and the shooter had fled the scene possibly pursuing a potential witness. As she hung up, a flash caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Leaping to her feet, she saw a man dressed in camouflage plunge into the thick underbrush on the right side of the house—into the thicket that led to the swamp nearby.
Was he going after the girl to finish her off?
Kyra couldn’t let that happen. She’d done all she could for the young man, but maybe she could protect the teenage girl from getting killed, too.
She rushed out onto the small deck at the side of the house and scoured the area for any sign of an accomplice or the witness, then followed the assailant into the tangle of vegetation.
Dr. Michael Hunt scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to keep awake after pulling an all-nighter with a patient, a mother who finally delivered her baby boy at 5:13 a.m. this morning. Pouring his third mug of coffee, he wandered toward his bedroom to change, so he could turn around and go back to the clinic for today’s appointments. At least his partner would be back from vacation to help take some of the load off.
The blare of a siren halted Michael’s progress. He glanced toward the front of his house. The sound grew closer. Curiosity led him toward the entryway. He opened his door as two police cars passed his home on Pelican Lane and came to a stop five houses down from his place.
The old Patterson house? Was someone hurt? No one lived there. Hadn’t for the past six months, according to his kid sister, Amy.
He heard the click of the back door and swiveled around, catching a glimpse of his youngest sister hurrying down the hallway. What was Amy doing up so early? She wasn’t a morning person. He started forward to find out where she’d been when the shrill ring of his phone sliced through the silence.
Not far from the table in the entryway where it sat, he snatched up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Dr. Hunt, this is Officer Wilson with Flamingo Cay Police. A man is injured at the Pattersons’ place. He was shot. An ambulance won’t get here for at least fifteen more minutes from Clear Springs. Since you only live—”
“I’ll be there.” Michael grabbed his black bag from a chair nearby and headed out the front door.
The urgency in the officer’s voice prodded him to quicken his pace. As he neared the vacant house, Levi Wilson came around from the side, a frown on his face.
He waved Michael toward him. “There’s a dead man on the beach, but there’s one in the bedroom alive. Barely.”
“Shot where?”
“In the gut.”
Michael rushed up the steps to the small deck on the side of the house. Just inside the sliding glass door lay a young man, faceup. He’d seen his fair share of fatal gunshot wounds. This one looked bad.
Michael knelt on the tile floor next to the injured young man who moaned, fixing his eyes on Michael. The young man’s eyes fluttered right before his head lolled to the side and the breath went out of him.
In seconds, Kyra plunged into the wooded area and found herself ankle-deep in muddy water, a tangle of green vegetation hemming her in. Up ahead, she spotted movement and pressed ahead, branches clawing at her. Sweat coated her face. The realization that she didn’t know which way the young girl had gone hastened her pace, even though the soggy ground weighed each step down. She couldn’t let the killer add another victim to his list.
As she progressed, she spied the trampled bushes and vines where the assailant had run through. Then suddenly she came out onto a path with boot prints, about size eleven, which headed toward the canal. If she could remember correctly, the old pier people in the neighborhood used was in that direction—at least it had when she’d been growing up in Flamingo Cay.
Quickening her pace, she kept combing the area for any sign the killer had deviated from the trail. In the background she heard sirens coming closer but decided to keep going after the assailant. Deep into the green jungle of plants, her old fear began to encroach in her mind, robbing her of her full concentration. She nearly tripped over a half-buried log, managing at the last second to steady herself.
A muzzled pop sounded, followed immediately by a bullet whistling by her ear. She ducked behind a cypress not far from the path. With the loud beating of her heart vying with the drone of the insects, she peeked around the tree. Another pop echoed through the swamp. Splinters of bark flew off the cypress. She waited a minute, inching toward the other side of the large tree. Aiming high in case the girl was nearby, Kyra squeezed off several shots.
The noise of a motor revving came from the canal. Kyra peered in that direction. Through the foliage she saw a motorboat pull away. She hurried toward the old pier about twenty yards away. By the time she got to the bank of the water, the craft had disappeared around a bend going south.
Breathing hard, she bent over and tried to fill her lungs with oxygen. From behind her sloshing footsteps announced she had company. She straightened, bringing her gun up, and whirled to face any new threat.
TWO
Kyra lowered her Glock when she saw Gabe Stanford, the Flamingo Cay police chief, and another officer hurrying down the path toward her. For the first time since she’d heard the muffled noise of the first gunshot she relaxed her tense muscles, rolling her head to work the aches out of her neck and shoulders.
Gabe stopped in front of her, a little out of breath. “This isn’t the way I envisioned us meeting when your aunt told me you were finally coming home for a visit.”
Smiling at the man who had been her inspiration to become a law-enforcement officer, she went to him and gave him a hug. “Me neither. I came back for my first vacation in six years and got caught up in a murder.”
Gabe frowned, peered back at the officer and said, “I’ve got this, Connors. You can go back and help Wilson.”
The large thirtysomething man nodded and retraced his steps toward Pelican Lane.
“What happened here? I was checking the yard by the swamp and heard gunshots.” Gabe glanced down at the Glock.
“I returned the killer’s fire. He ran out of the Pattersons’, and I went after him. He shot twice at me then got into a motorboat and went that way.” Kyra pointed to the south.
“Did you get a good look at him?” He holstered his gun.
“No. He was too far away and his head was turned from me. He was wearing camouflage pants and shirt, boots and a ball cap, pulled down low on his forehead. He was about six feet, slender build. That’s all I got. Sorry.” As a police officer for twelve years before founding Guardians, Inc., she knew the importance of a detailed and correct description of an assailant.
“It’s better than a lot I’ve gotten. Did you see the man kill either victim back at the Pattersons’?”
She shook her head. “I did see him shoot at a girl who fled the scene. I don’t think he hit her. I thought he might be going after her so I took off after him.”
“What’s the girl look like?”
“Sixteen,