Tangled Threat

“Yes, I was here working that summer,” Maura said flatly.

“Your name was never in the paper?”

“That’s right. The police were careful to keep the employees away from the media. And since we are so isolated on the ranch, news reporters didn’t get wind of anything until the next day. My parents had me out of here by then, and Donald Glass was emphatic about the press leaving his young staff alone.”

“But a kid was arrested—”

“And released. And honestly, Angie, I am a little worried. Even if it has nothing to do with the past, there’s something not good going on now. Haven’t you watched the news? They found the remains of a young woman not far from here.”

“Not far from here, but not here,” Angie said. “Hey,” she said again, frowning with concern. “That can’t have anything to do with anything—the Frampton ranch killer committed suicide, I thought.”

“One of the cooks killed himself,” Maura said. “Yes, but... I mean, he never had his day in court. Most people believed he killed Francine—he hated her. But a lot of people disliked her.”

“But he killed himself.”

“Yes. I wasn’t here then. I did hear about it, of course.”

Angie was pensive for a moment, and then she asked, “Maura, you don’t think that the tree is...evil, do you?”

“Trees—a palm laced in with an oak. And no. I’m quite accustomed to the spooky and creepy, and we both know that places don’t become evil, nor do things. But people can be wicked as hell—and they can feed off legends. I don’t like being out here—not alone. There will be a campfire tonight with the history and ghost stories and the walk—we’ll join that. I have waivers for whoever attends tonight.”

“What if someone doesn’t want to be filmed?” Angie asked anxiously. “You tell the story just as well as anyone else, right? And the camera loves you—a perfect, slinky blonde beauty with those enormous gray eyes of yours. Come on, you’ve told a few of the stories before. You can—”

“I cannot do a good video for you as a selfie,” Maura said patiently.

“Right. I can film you telling the story,” Angie said. “Just that part. And I can do it now—I think you said that the stories were told by the campfire, and then the historic walk began. I’ll get you—right here and now—doing the story part of it. Oh, and you can include... Oh, God!” Angie said, her eyes widening. “You weren’t just here—you saw the dead woman! The murdered woman...I mean, from this century. Francine Renault. And they arrested a kid, Brock McGovern, but he was innocent, and it was proved almost immediately, but then... Well, then, if the cook didn’t do it, they never caught the killer!”

Maura kept her face impassive. Angie always wrote about old crimes that were unsolved—and why a place was naturally haunted after ghastly deeds had occurred there.

She did her homework, however. Angie probably knew more than Maura remembered.

She had loved the sad legend of the beautiful Gyselle, who had died so tragically for love. But, of course, she would have delved as deeply as possible into every event that had occurred at the ranch.

“Do they—do they tell that story at the campfire?” Angie asked.

Maura sighed. “Angie, I haven’t been here since the night it happened. I was still young. My parents dragged me home immediately.”

She was here now—and she could remember that night all too clearly. Coming to the tree, then realizing while denying it that a real body was hanging from it. That it was Francine Renault. That she had been hanged from a heavy branch, hanged by the neck, and that she dangled far above the ground, tongue bulging, face grotesque.

She remembered screaming...

And she remembered the police and how they had taken Brock away, frowning and massively confused, still tall and straight and almost regally dignified.

And she could remember that there were still those who speculated on his guilt or innocence—until dozens of people had spoken out, having seen him through the time when Francine might have been taken and killed. His arrest had really been ludicrous—a detective’s desperate bid to silence the horror and outrage that was beginning to spread.

Brock’s life had changed, and thus her life had changed.

Everything had changed.

Except for this spot.

She could even imagine that she was a kid again, that she could see Francine Renault, so macabre in death, barely believable, yet so real and tragic and terrifying as she dangled from the thick limb.

“Oh,” Angie groaned, the one word drawn out long enough to be a sentence. “Now I know why you were against doing a video here!”

Angie had wanted the History Tree. And when she had started to grow curious regarding Maura’s reluctance to head to the Frampton Ranch and Resort—especially since the resort was supposedly great and the expense of rooms went on Angie’s bill—Maura had decided it was time to cave.

She hadn’t wanted to give any explanations.

“Angie, it’s in your book, and you sell great and your video channel is doing great, as well. It’s fine. Really. But because they did recently find what seems to be the remains of a murder victim near here, I do think we need to be careful. As in, stay out of these woods after dark.”

“There is a big bad wolf. Was a big bad wolf... But seriously, I’m not a criminologist of any kind, but I’d say the killer back then was making a point. Maybe the bones they found belonged to someone who died of natural causes.”

Angie wasn’t stupid, but Maura was sure that the look she gave her tiny friend at that moment implied that she thought she was.

“Maybe,” Angie said defensively.

“Angie, you don’t rot in the dirt on purpose and then wind up with your bones in a cache of hotel laundry,” Maura said.

“No, but, hey—there could be another explanation. Like a car accident. And whoever hit her was terrified and ran—and then, sadly, she just rotted.”

“And wound up in hotel sheets?”

Maura asked incredulously. Angie couldn’t be serious.

“Okay, so that’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Angie, it’s been reported that the remains were found of a murder victim. Last I saw, they were still seeking her identity, but they said that she was killed.”

“Well, they found bones, from what I understand. Anyway,” Angie said, dusting her hands on her skirt and speaking softly and with dignity and compassion, “I wish you would have just said that you were here when it happened. Let’s get out of here. I’m sorry I made you do this.”

“You didn’t make me do it. If I had been determined not to come back here, I wouldn’t have done so. But it’s going to get dark soon. Let me shoot a bit of you doing your speech by the tree while I still have good light.”

Maura lifted her camera, looked at the tree and then up at the sky.

They wouldn’t have the light much longer.

“Angie, come on—let’s film you.”

“Please—you know the stories so well. Let me film you this time.”

“They’re your books.”

“But you’ll give me a great authenticity. I’ll interview you—and you were here when the last crime occurred. I’m surprised they haven’t hacked this sucker to the ground, really,” Angie said, looking at the tree. “Or at the very least, they should have video surveillance out here.”

“Now, that would be the right idea. They have video surveillance in the lobby, the elevators—and other areas. But for now, please?”

They were never going to be able to leave.

“All right, all right!” Maura said. She adjusted the camera on its lightweight tripod and looked at the image on the camera’s viewing screen. “I’ve got it lined up already. I’ll go right there. You need to get it rolling. The mic is on already, and you can see what you’re filming.”

“Hey, I’ve used it before—not a lot, but I kind of know what I’m doing,” Angie reminded her.

Maura stepped away from the camera and headed over to the tree. Angie had paid attention to her. She lifted her fingers and said, “In three...” and then went silent, counting down the rest by hand.

Maura was amazed at how quickly it all came back to her. She told the tale of the beautiful Gyselle and then went into the later crimes.

Ending, of course, with the murder of Francine Renault.

“A false lead caused the arrest of an innocent young man. But this is America, and we all know that any man is innocent until proved guilty, and this young man was quickly proved innocent. He was only under arrest for a night, because eyewitness reports confirmed he was with several other people—busy at work—when the crime took place. Still, it was a travesty, shattering a great deal of the promise of the young man’s life. He was, however, as I said, quickly released—and until this day, the crime goes unsolved.”

She finished speaking and saw that Angie was still running the camera, looking past her, appearing perplexed—and pleased—by something that she saw.

“Hello there! Are you with Frampton Ranch and Resort? You aren’t, by any chance, the host for the campfire stories tonight, are you?”

Angie was smiling sweetly—having shifted into her flirtatious mode.

Curious, Maura turned around and started toward the path.

If a jaw could actually drop, hers did.

She quickly closed her mouth, but perhaps her eyes were bulging, as well. It seemed almost as if someone had physically knocked the breath from her.

Brock McGovern was standing there.

Different.

The same.

A bit taller than he’d been at eighteen; his shoulders had filled out and he appeared to have acquired a great deal more solid muscle. He filled out a dark blue suit and tailored shirt exceptionally well.

His face was the same...

Different.

There was something hard about him now that hadn’t been there before. His features were leaner, his eyes...

Still deep brown. But they were harder now, too, or appeared to be harder, as if there was a shield of glass on them. He’d always walked and moved with purpose, confident in what he wanted and where he was going.

Now, just standing still, he was an imposing presence.

And though Angie had spoken, he was looking at Maura.

“Wow,” Angie said softly. “Did I dream up the perfect assistant for you—tall, dark and to die for? Who the hell... The storyteller guy is wickedly cute, but this guy...”

He couldn’t have heard her words; he wasn’t close enough.

And he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Maura.

“That was great,” he said smoothly. “However, I don’t consider my life to have been shattered. I mean—I hope I have fulfilled a few of the promises I made to myself.”

Maura wanted to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t work.

Angie, however, had no problem.

“Oh, my God!” Angie cried.

Every once in a while, her Valley girl came out.

“You—you’re Brock McGovern?” she asked.

“I am,” he said, but he still wasn’t looking at Angie. He was locked on Maura. Then he smiled. A rueful smile, dry and maybe even a little bitter.

“Here—in Florida,” Angie said. “I mean—at the History Tree.”

He turned at last to face Angie. “I’m here for an investigation now. I’m going to suggest that you two head back to the resort and don’t wander off alone. A woman’s remains were found at a laundry facility not far from here, and there are three young women who have gone missing recently. Best to stay in the main areas—with plenty of people around.”

“Oh!” Angie went into damsel-in-distress mode then. “Is it really dangerous, do you think? I’m so glad that you’re here, if there is danger. I mean, we’ve seen the news...heard things, but seriously, bad things aren’t necessarily happening here, right? It’s just a tree. Florida is far from crime-free, but... Anyway, thank God that you’re here. We didn’t really think we needed to be afraid, but now you’re here...and thank God! Right, Maura?”

Maura didn’t reply. She’d heard Angie speaking as if she’d been far, far away. Then she found her voice. Or, at least, a whisper of it.

“Brock,” she murmured.

“Maura,” he returned casually. “Good to see you. Well, surprised to see you—but good to see you.”

“Investigation,” she said, grasping for something to say. She seemed to be able to manage one word at a time.

“I just told you—they found a woman’s remains, and three young women who have been reported missing had a connection to the Frampton Ranch and Resort. The FDLE has asked for Bureau help,” he explained politely.

“Yes, we were just talking about the young woman’s remains—and the missing girls. I, uh, I think I’d heard that you did go into the FBI,” she said. “And they sent you...here.” There. She had spoken in complete sentences. More or less. She’d been almost comprehensible.

“Yes, pretty much followed my original plans. Navy, college, the academy—FBI. And yes, I’m back here. Nothing like sending in an agent who knows the terrain,” he said. “Shall we head back? I am serious. You shouldn’t be in the woods alone when...well, when no one has any idea of what is really going on. We’re not trying to incite fear. We’re just trying to get a grip on what is happening, but I do suggest caution. Shall we head back?”

He was the same.

He was different.

And she was afraid to come too close to him. Afraid that the emotions of a teenager would erupt within her again, as if the years meant nothing...

If she got too close, she would either want to beat upon him, slamming her fists against his chest, demanding to know why he had never called, never tried to reach her and how it had been so easy to forget her.

Either that, or she would throw herself into his arms and sob and do anything just to touch him again.

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