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He looked at his compass, then up through the filter of light to the cable from the police cruiser serving as their dive boat. In his mind, if anything was going to be found, it was going to be closer to the shore. Unless, of course, she’d been kidnapped by a boater and dumped somewhere beyond the bay and out in the Atlantic. If that was the case, their chances of finding her were almost nonexistent. The ocean was huge. True, if caught in a current or an undertow, a body might wash up on land. And if they came up with a suspect who regularly followed a certain route, even a weighted body might somehow be discovered.
But at the moment they were searching blindly. Still, he hadn’t wanted to miss the opportunity to be in on the search, not when he had promised he would do everything humanly possible to find Jennie Lawson. Admittedly, this grim attempt was not to find Jennie but a local teen who had now been missing for nearly forty-eight hours, a case that might or might not be connected to Jennie’s. No one knew if Jennie Lawson had actually made it to the beach in St. Augustine, her intended destination. They only knew that she had landed in Jacksonville, gotten off the plane and picked up a rental car. Neither she nor the car had been seen since.
He didn’t have much hope of finding Jennie alive. Her mother had told him that she knew Jennie was gone, because her daughter had come to her in a dream the night before her disappearance was reported and said goodbye. Caleb wasn’t sure what to believe, because Mr. Lawson seemed to think that Mrs. Lawson had lost her mind when their daughter had disappeared, and he had, in fact, made a motion behind his wife’s back to indicate as much.
Caleb had heard of stranger things than ghostly midnight visits, however, so he had simply smiled and vowed to Jennie’s mother that he would do everything he could to find out the truth, even if he couldn’t return her daughter to her. That had comforted her. Closure was something people needed. Perhaps it was too painful to live with eternal hope.
So Caleb was also looking for Jennie, or any sign of her, even if he was officially on the trail of another young woman for whom many were still holding out hope. But this dive was important for other reasons, too; it was giving him a chance to get to know the local authorities and the local expert on the surrounding waters.
As he moved toward the marshy shore, he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him, but he was accustomed to such conditions. His dive light illuminated the surrounding area as he searched, and he was methodical in covering his assigned section of the bay. He had seen the grid, and he meant to search his assigned area thoroughly, leaving no possibility that anything had been overlooked. As an out-of-stater, he was the odd man out here. If he did anything to make the other men—and the one woman—on the local forensic dive team resent his presence, he would end up ostracized, and that would be a real problem in his search for Jennie. For that reason, getting along with the police lieutenant in charge of the case, Tim Jamison, and Will Perkins, the dive master, was crucial. Caleb was there mainly as a courtesy. He worked for a private agency, Harrison Investigations. The cases they took generally had an unusual twist, something inexplicable, even supernatural, that required their very specific professional services, but in this instance it was Adam Harrison’s personal friendship with Jennie Lawson’s father that had brought Caleb here.
He noted a glitter of light, just this side of the drop-off. He focused his dive light, and headed toward the glint, knowing full well that it might be just another shopping basket.
But as he neared the object in the water, he knew that this was no shopping cart.
It was far too large, for one thing. The full size of it became clear as he drew closer. It was an automobile.
All too often, people intentionally discarded cars in the water. Sometimes they were just junkers and nothing more.
Sometimes they held human remains.
And as he approached the Chevy mired in the mucky, seaweed-laden sand, he saw that this car was not empty. A solid kick with his flippers brought him to the driver-side window.
A face stared out at him, the mouth widened in a giant O, as if in a desperate quest for breath.
The eyes…
Did not exist. Already, the creatures of the deep had started to feed.
“Maybe Osceola was a hero, but they still tricked him and caught him and cut his head off. They chopped it right off!” a young boy said. He was about ten, cute and normal-looking in a T-shirt that had clearly just been purchased at the local alligator farm, jeans and sneakers. But he spoke with a relish that unsettled Sarah McKinley. Caroline Roth, seated at the computer and running the audiovisual end of the Heritage House presentation, let out a soft laugh, stared at Sarah, then grinned wickedly and shrugged.
“No,” Sarah said firmly, and smoothed down the skirt of her period outfit. She was a good storyteller and knew how to handle a large—and diverse—group like the one in the lecture hall that day, which was a mix of kids and adults, tourists and locals, couples, groups and singles. They were into the tail end of summer, so she was getting classes from schools that started early and teachers from schools that started late. There was a Harley event down in Daytona that week, so she was getting a lot of bikers, too.
One man in the crowd, though, seemed to stand out. He was tall, but not inordinately so, maybe six-three. He was dressed as casually as the next tourist in blue jeans and a polo shirt, but he didn’t look like the usual tourist. He wore sunglasses throughout her lecture—not an odd thing, lots of people didn’t take them off when they came in. He was built as if he were in the service and worked out heavily on a daily basis, or as if he were an athlete. He was tanned and rugged, the way a man who spent his day sailing might be, tawny-haired and attractive. What was odd about him, though, was that he was alone. He seemed the type who should be with a beautiful woman, one who was as lithe and athletic as he was himself.
“Decapitated!” another kid called out.
Sarah’s attention was drawn back to her lecture. She had been talking about Osceola, the most famous leader of the Seminole people, who had galvanized friend and foe alike when he had struck a knife into a treaty that would have been a death knell for his people. Like so many others, he had been imprisoned at the Castillo de San Marcos, the coquina shell bastion built by the Spanish that was the most imposing architectural feature of the city.
Leave it to a kid to dwell on the most gruesome fact he could think of—not to mention that he had it wrong.
“History records lots of terrible things that were done, but that wasn’t one of them,” she said.
“Hey, I heard he was decapitated, too,” a grown man interrupted.
Sarah took a deep breath. She couldn’t really blame the guy—who had a sunburn identifying him as out-of-state—when even Florida schoolchildren often had the story wrong. “Osceola was a great leader, and respected even by his enemies. The treachery that led to his capture was deplorable, and despite the Indian wars raging across the country at the time, people despised General Jesup for the way he treated Osceola, who came in peace, with his safety guaranteed, and was taken anyway. But he wasn’t decapitated by the U.S. Army. He was held for a while at Fort Marion, originally known as the Castillo de San Marcos, but he died of malaria up at Fort Moultrie, in South Carolina. He was attended by a shaman from his own clan, and an American doctor, a man named Frederick Wheedon, who did have his head removed and embalmed, but only after he was already dead. And,” she said, unable to resist, “legend has it that Dr. Wheedon used the head to punish his children. If they behaved badly, he would leave the head on their bedposts at night. In fact, he bequeathed the head to his son-in-law—just in case his grandchildren misbehaved. His son-in-law passed it on to a man named Valentine Mott, another doctor, who kept it in a pathology museum, but the museum burned down, and the head was lost.”
She had gained the silent stares of everyone in the room, of every age, and she offered them a broad smile. “You can learn a lot about Osceola and Florida’s Native Americans over at Fort Marion, and we have wonderful books on Osceola and the history of the area in our bookstore. Remember, St. Augustine is over four hundred years old.” She grinned at the boy who had first brought up the subject of decapitation. “All kinds of gruesome things have happened here.”
She announced that her speech was over and was given a nice round of applause, and a number of people thanked her as they walked out of the lecture hall. A few lingered to examine the artifacts in the cases that lined the walls, but she noticed that the tall stranger who had drawn her attention wasn’t among them.
Caroline, rising and stretching, started laughing as soon as the last of the four o’clock lecture group walked out of the room. “A few of those kids are going to wake up in the night imagining a head on their bedpost.”
“Yeah?” Sarah asked. “I don’t think that many kids have bedposts anymore.”
“I’m sure lots of them are staying at local B and Bs. And lots of those beds have bedposts,” Caroline reminded her.
“Well, what’s a story without something scary?” Sarah asked, sinking into one of the front row seats. “And I didn’t make anything up.” She looked at Caroline and sighed. “Now you’re going to give me a speech on being nice to tourists and downplaying our more gruesome history, right?”
Caroline shook her head. “No, not today, I’m not.” She frowned suddenly, distracted. “Do you think we know him from somewhere?”
“Him who?” Sarah asked.
Caroline looked at her and laughed again. “Him who was studly and cool. Oh, come on. You couldn’t possibly have missed him.”
“Yeah, I saw him,” Sarah said. Caroline could only be talking about the man she had noted earlier in the crowd. “But what about him?”
“I felt like I knew him, or should know him, from somewhere.”
“He was good-looking—”
Caroline stared at her hard.
“Okay, I admit he looked a little bit familiar, but maybe he’s just so gorgeous he reminds me of a movie star or something.”
Caroline shrugged. “I don’t know, I just had a feeling about him…. It’s like he looks like someone we once knew, only…different. I wonder if he signed in? I’ll go look. And as for you scaring tourists, have some patience with the kids, huh? It’s no wonder they’re sounding a little gruesome. Have you seen this?”
She picked up the local newspaper, which had been lying next to her computer.
“Seen what?” Sarah asked. “I didn’t read the paper today—I left right after I woke up and came here.” She winced. “It’s all that hammering, you know?”
“Oh, how’s that going?” Caroline asked.
“Loudly.”
Which was the understatement of the year, Sarah thought. She loved the historic property she had bought after her recent return to town, but it was badly in need of not just refurbishing but reinforcement, as well. The previous owner, Mrs. Douglas, had tried to salvage it before the days of community awareness, when it might have been torn down but she hadn’t had the funds to do all the necessary work. When Mrs. Douglas turned eighty, she had decided she was never going to get to it, so she decided to sell and offered the house to Sarah first, because Mrs. Douglas had been friends with Sarah’s maternal grandmother. Given the house’s history, the price had been amazing, another special deal because she had been so close with Sarah’s grandmother, and also because Sarah’s grandmother’s grandmother had been born a Grant, and the property was known as the Grant House. As far as Sarah knew, her mother’s side of the family had actually come from Savannah, but since the name—whether the connection was real or imaginary—had helped her to acquire the property, she was willing to go with it.
“I’ve wanted to live in that house for as long as I can remember,” Sarah said.
“I remember, and I always thought you were crazy. Old Mrs. Douglas never did anything with it, and we’ve been watching it crumble all these years,” Caroline said. “Remember when Pete Albright went in that Halloween? How we made up the most horrifying stories and then dared him to go in? Some head of the football team! He came out white as a ghost, saying he’d quit being quarterback before he’d sleep in the place all night. He said he heard ghosts in the walls and could feel them trying to touch him. He was absolutely terrified.”
“Of course he was. We were just terrible. We told him all those old tales about the woman who sold potions and voodooed people to death. And we told him it was full of corpses—which it had been, of course, since it was a mortuary for years.”
Caroline wrinkled her nose. She was a petite blonde, cute and winsome, even when she made a face. She’d dated Pete Albright back in the day.
“We were horrible. But he could be pretty macho, so I kind of think he deserved it. And as for you, well, you’re just crazy for living there. That house is spooky.”
“I’ve slept in the house, and it’s just fine. And I applaud Mrs. Douglas. She couldn’t begin to afford to fix it up, but she kept it from the wrecking ball. I say good for her.” Sarah shrugged. “Although I do wish she’d fixed at least a few things.”
Caroline smiled. “Hey, you wanted history. Not me—not to live with, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I like history fine or I wouldn’t be working here,” she was quick to say. Not that she really had much choice. The Heritage House was a private museum, owned and operated by her parents. They had come to St. Augustine the year before she was born, embracing everything about the city and quickly making it their home. They were delighted to boast that St. Augustine was the oldest continually inhabited European-based community in the country, founded by the Spaniards in 1565, long before the English stepped foot in Jamestown and even longer before the Mayflower sailed across the sea. They were history buffs, and they hadn’t started up their business to get rich; they simply loved what they did. Caroline’s father, Harry, wrote history textbooks, and that endeavor, not the museum, was what supported them.
“Give me plumbing and electric that work any day. And a roof that doesn’t leak,” Caroline told her.
“I hear you,” Sarah admitted. “But the house is magnificent. And in a year’s time, I’ll have it all set up as a bed-and-breakfast, and I’ll run a collectibles and antiques business out of it, as well. You’ll see,” Sarah assured her.
Caroline laughed. “We should both live so long.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. You’ll get it done. I just don’t envy you the process. I grew up in the middle of constant renovations, remember? Every bad storm that came through, we were in the dark for weeks. No closets—they all had wardrobes back then. No whirlpool tubs.” Caroline frowned. “And I’m not sure you should be staying there alone. It’s too big. With everything that’s going on, I don’t think it’s safe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I meant to show you the paper right away. I get sidetracked too easily.”
“What happened?”
“Another missing woman. This one a local.”
“Oh, no,” Sarah said, reaching for the paper.
“A student from the community college,” Caroline said. “She lived at home, but she went out a couple of night ago with a group of kids for a bonfire on the beach out on Anastasia Island…and didn’t come back. There’s her picture,” Caroline said, tapping the paper.
“That’s horrible,” Sarah said softly. The picture was of a young woman, pretty and blond. It was her high school graduation photo. She had bright eyes full of hope, and long shining hair beneath her cap.
“Scary, huh?” Caroline said. “She looks a lot like the girl who disappeared last year, the one who was on vacation from D.C.”
“That girl disappeared from Jacksonville,” Sarah said. But she stared at the picture. The girls really had been similar in appearance. The big bright eyes, the long blond hair. Serial killers often picked a certain physical type, and if there was a serial killer working somewhere in the area, he had obviously chosen his. Pretty blondes with large eyes. She looked at Caroline, who was still studying the paper. “They don’t know that the other girl ever even came this far. Jacksonville is a big city, and with traffic these days, an hour away.”
“What? Serial killers don’t have cars?” Caroline asked her.
“I know, I know. But look on the bright side. Maybe this girl will turn up,” Sarah said. “Thing is, you can’t obsess, or you’d never leave your house. You just have to be smart and careful.”
Caroline shook her head. “I’m not worried about me. I’m the world’s biggest coward. I wouldn’t live in your spooky old house alone for all the tea in China. I’m worried about you. Nothing scares you, and I think some things should.”
“Not true, trust me. I have a healthy respect for being careful. I lock my doors, and I got friendly with my neighbors right off the bat,” Sarah protested.
Caroline sniffed. “Oh, right. To the left, the pregnant teenager whose husband is in the service. And to the right, the octogenarian. They’ll be a big help in a pinch.”
“Brenda Cole isn’t a teenager, she’s twenty-one. And Mr. Healey is not an octogenarian, he’s only in his seventies—and he has a dog.”
“A teacup Yorkie!” Caroline said.
“One vicious teacup Yorkie, I’ll have you know. He barks like a son of a bitch,” Sarah assured her, then laughed. “Which he is, of course. But seriously, I’m okay, honestly. I have a baseball bat, I will have an alarm system, and I can dial 911 faster than a speeding bullet.”
“Just be careful,” Caroline warned her.
“Yes, ma’am, I promise.”
“Okay. Hey, want to have dinner?”
“I can’t. I have to get home. Gary is at the house.”
“And he’s going to work all night?” Caroline asked.
“Until dark. He’s trying to finish tracing all the pipes today. I have a leak in one wall. So I’m going to head home and call up for pizza delivery.”
“Stop for a six-pack on the way home, too,” Caroline warned. “Make Gary happy. He’s the best. He’s nice, and he can do anything. Funny how all that works out, huh? Gary was such a shop geek in high school, and now he’s doing great. Pete Albright was a star, and I hear he’s working in a fast food restaurant up in Atlanta. Go figure.” She yawned. “Anyway, I’m meeting Will with Renee and Barry. You should grab Gary and go with us.” When Sarah started to reply, Caroline waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. I know, the house comes first. Anyway, let’s go get changed.”
“Will, huh?” Renee Otten and Barry Travis were fellow docents who had struck up a romance, and Will Perkins was Sarah’s second cousin. Their mothers had been close, so he was almost like a brother to her, practically a fraternal twin, since they were both the same age, born a day apart, and shared the same coloring. And lately he and Caroline had become quite the item.
“He’ll be disappointed that you’re not coming. You haven’t been home that long,” Caroline said, turning on the reproach.
Sarah laughed. “I’ve been here six months. And Will and I see plenty of each other. In fact, he has threatened to move in once the place is done.” While she had attended Florida State—not all that far away in Tallahassee—for her bachelor’s degree, she had gone to Virginia for grad school, and then taken a job with an Arlington historical research and tour agency. But when Caroline’s parents had needed another docent, especially one with her knowledge of local history and lore, she had decided it was time to come back. Virginia was beautiful, and she would always love it, but nothing could compare to the city in which she had been born and raised.
“Fine, be that way. In the meantime, I’m changing into something cute and cool and sure to wow them over at Hunky Harry’s.”
“Honey, all you have to do is walk into Hunky Harry’s to wow everyone,” Sarah assured her. “Trust me, you’re ‘wow’ material even in what you’re wearing now.”
The lectures they gave covered topics ranging from the coming of the first Spaniards to British rule, American rule, the Confederacy, Henry Flagler and the railroad, Prohibition and beyond, and they had different outfits to wear for each. Today they were focused on the Seminole Wars and the Civil War. So today they weren’t dressed in silk and satin as would befit a pair of Southern belles.
Today they wore homespun cotton skirts and prim shirts that buttoned chastely to the neck. They were middle-class women of the era, those who churned butter and milked cows. And still, Caroline looked adorable. Sarah had yet to see a style from any era that Caroline didn’t wear well.
“Why, Miss McKinley, you do go on,” Caroline said with a mock simper. “And my, my, but if you aren’t just a plate of buttered grits yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, Missy-yourself, let’s just change and get out of here,” Sarah said as they left the lecture hall. Barry Travis, in breeches and a homespun cotton shirt, was also heading toward the door marked Cast Members Only. He was a tall, handsome man of thirty, with longish brown hair that worked well in historical context.
“I hope you two can get changed quickly, because I’m starving. Renee is ushering the last of the book buyers out the front door, and we are officially closed,” he said cheerfully.
“Sarah’s not coming,” Caroline informed him.
“Can’t,” Sarah said. “My house needs me.” She smiled to acknowledge that even she knew how silly that sounded.
“You know,” he said, studying her and shaking his head, “you could have bought a nice new condo.”
“There will be other nights,” she said.
“What if the world ends tomorrow?” Barry demanded.
“My house will be one day closer to done, and Gary won’t hate me,” Sarah said.
“I give up,” Barry said. “We’ll miss you as we dine on succulent burgers—oh, wait. You didn’t suddenly become a vegetarian, did you?” he asked her.
“She’s a fish-a-tarian, I believe,” Caroline.
“Pescatarian,” Barry said.
“Whatever,” Caroline agreed.
