The room was ice cold, the frosty air slamming into Ellie, and it was lined with metal tables ready for multiple bodies to be stored. But it was empty. Ellie breathed a sigh of relief.
Ducking back into the hallway, she scanned the sign at the end of the hall. It was the room which stored the coffins for families to choose from. Tension knotted her shoulders as she pushed open the door.
Her flashlight darted across the eerie scene of a row of coffins. Pewter, silver, bronzed, some of the lids open, some of them shut.
Shondra’s face taunted her and she stepped forward to search the caskets. She imagined opening a coffin and seeing her friend, pale and lifeless, lying there.
But just as she shoved aside the image, Cord grunted. Suddenly something hard slammed against the back of her head and she let out a yelp of pain. Her flashlight fell to the floor, immediately going out and enveloping them in darkness. Ellie tried to reach out for Cord, to call for help.
But her hand connected with empty air and spots danced behind her eyes as she collapsed on the floor with a thud.
Ninety-Two
Crooked Creek
Entering Crooked Creek’s police station, Derrick hoped to meet up with Ellie. He’d phoned her on the way back to town but gotten her voicemail. A quick check with the hospital, and he learned she wasn’t there. She’d mentioned talking to McClain about a place to look for Friday’s victim. Was she out looking now?
Captain Hale was in a meeting with the mayor and the sheriff when he arrived, heated voices coming from his office, and Deputy Landrum was hunched over his computer, his face pinched with worry.
“Have you heard from Detective Reeves?” Derrick asked.
The deputy gave him a quick glance, then his eye twitched as he looked away, as if he didn’t know how to answer.
“Where is she?” Derrick asked again.
“I don’t exactly know.”
Derrick threw an accusing stare. The sheriff, the mayor and Ellie’s captain stepped from the office and went still, listening. “Listen to me, Deputy. Someone tried to kill her last night, and we think he may have a partner. If you know something, tell me. She could be in trouble.”
The deputy rocked back in his chair, his expression worried. “She asked me to look into funeral homes and morticians in the area. I dug around and learned Ranger McClain grew up above a funeral home. A place called Finton’s Final Resting Home. It’s run now by the old man’s son, Roy. He’s had complaints filed against him for desecration of female corpses. I think she was going to question him about it.”
Holy shit. “You let her go alone?”
“She didn’t ask me to go with her.”
Of course she wouldn’t. She was independent and stubborn and would never ask for help.
“She should have called me,” the sheriff said.
“You need to get your people under control,” the mayor told the captain.
Captain Hale cut him a sharp look. “What else did you learn about the Fintons?” he asked Deputy Landrum.
The deputy ran his fingers through his hair. “Felix Finton was one of Ranger McClain’s foster fathers, but Cord was sent to juvie at age fourteen for assault. Finton told the social worker that Cord had a sick obsession with the bodies he brought in for preparation. That he found him running his fingers over the corpses of the females. And that twice he caught him dressing the bodies in pretty clothes and making up their faces.”
“Did Ellie know all this?”
The deputy shook his head. “Some of it. I tried to call and tell her the rest, but she didn’t answer.”
“What happened after McClain got out of juvie?” Derrick asked. “Any arrests?”
“Not that I found.” The deputy exhaled. “Although I can’t seem to find anything on him until he started working for FEMA.”
“What about Finton?”
“Can’t find a current address on the father. But the funeral home is not far from Crooked Creek, and the son, Roy, still runs it. And there’s something else.”
Derrick traded looks with the captain and the sheriff. “What?”
“The lab called earlier about prints found on Deputy Eastwood’s truck. They belonged to Ranger McClain.”
The sheriff muttered an obscenity while Captain Hale shook his head in denial and the mayor wiped a hand down his chin. He was starting to sweat profusely.
Derrick mentally reviewed what he’d just learned, fitting pieces together. McClain knew all about Ellie’s family issues, about Hiram and the dolls, about the locations on the trail. He was a loner who disappeared into the woods for god knows how long and would know the perfect places in the wilderness to hide a hostage or plant bodies. And no one knew where he had been or what he’d done for years.
Ellie had defended him on the Ghost case. But lightning doesn’t strike twice.
Ninety-Three
Finton’s Final Resting Home
Ellie slowly roused back to consciousness, confused and disoriented. Her head throbbed, and it was so dark she blinked to bring the world back into focus. But her head and memory were fuzzy.
Closing her eyes, she struggled to remember the last few minutes before she’d passed out. Slowly they came back to her, the scenes reeling through her head. She and Cord had come to Finton’s funeral home to search for Shondra. They’d searched the prep room and cold room, finding them empty. Then they’d entered the room housing the caskets. And everything went black.
Panicking suddenly, she attempted to sit up but realized there was no room, her head banging on something hard. Heart racing, she reached out to either side and felt the slick coldness of satin. Choking on a sob, she lifted her hands above her but could only reach a few inches. More satin.
God help her… she was in one of the coffins.
The cave where she’d been trapped as a child had been tight, but she couldn’t even sit up or turn over in here. It was so black, she found herself paralyzed with fear.
Tense seconds passed as she lay frozen in horror. Her chest constricted as she worked to catch her breath. The top of the casket seemed to slowly drop closer to her face. The sides closed in, and her lungs strained for air.
Where was Cord? Had he been assaulted, too? Had Finton been here and caught them looking for Shondra?
Fighting hysteria, she finally forced herself to move, lifting her hand and feeling along inside the coffin for a release button. Surely there had to be one. Her fingers brushed over the satin lining below her and on the side panels, then she ran her fingers frantically along the top.
The small space shifted around her again, robbing her of breath, and she gasped.
Think, Ellie, think. Breathe through the panic.
Slowly her breathing steadied, and she remembered a class discussion at the academy. Someone had asked the instructor how long a person could survive if they were buried alive. The time frame varied depending on a person’s body size, and rate of oxygen consumption per minute. She couldn’t remember the exact formula, but she thought a person could survive about five hours on average.
A shudder coursed through her. She couldn’t stay in here for five hours, couldn’t just lie here and slowly suffocate in the dark. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, sweat trickling down her back.