Chapter 9

Hawthorne bypassed the line of visitors waiting to take the Logboat Adventure ride and opened the chain-link gate that blocked a concrete path. He closed the gate behind him and followed the walkway, but his mind was elsewhere.

The image of the Best Life pin, forever seared in his memory, now blocked his vision. What was it doing on the fairgrounds? Directly under the slide that had just blown up. Well, not exactly. The fifty-year-old slide itself was relatively undamaged. But the supports would need to be rebuilt, and the ride probably closed for the rest of this year's fair. Was that the goal? Why?

Cult members weren't even allowed to attend the fair. It was so-called worldly entertainment and included on the very long, unwritten list of activities and choices banned by the cult. Or, more specifically, by Desmond Patch, founder and leader of the Best Life cult. Destroyer of families. Thief of lives.

The staff entrance door stood in front of Hawthorne, and he halted the maddening train of thought he tried to avoid riding as much as possible. It always led to the same place. A dead end of frustration, sadness, and helplessness.

Hawthorne slipped his ID card into the reader and waited for it to beep and blink a green light. He pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness of the Logboat Adventure ride cave-like tunnel.

Whoever had dropped the pin had broken the cult's rules to be at the fair. Like Sam had. Funny how breaking the cult's rules seemed to go hand-in-hand with trouble. Though funny was probably the wrong word for the correlation. Frightening would be more appropriate.

Hawthorne walked along the narrow path that was a few inches below the faux riverbank. The riverbank continued to the middle of the tunnel where it met the manmade river that was bordered by another bank on its opposite side. The skinny path Hawthorne took allowed staff members to get where they needed to without damaging the foliage and rocks of the life-like riverbank.

Laughter and voices echoed in the cave as visitors coursed down the river in boats shaped like carved-out logs.

They passed Hawthorne without paying him any attention. Probably couldn't see him in the darkness where he was.

Dim lights illuminated the river and shore with just enough light to appreciate the display but also keep the atmosphere slightly surprising and mysterious. That allowed for more excitement when they reached the rapids sections of the ride and the dramatic plummet at the end. Though one of the more sedate rides at the fair, visitors wanted some degree of thrill to keep it entertaining.

Hawthorne slowed as he reached the section he was looking for. The curve after the first rapids.

He stopped and watched logboats float past, most holding two or three visitors each. He waited until a few minutes passed and no boats appeared. Should signal the end of this batch of visitors. It would take at least ten minutes for those riders to finish the ride, disembark, and a new group to load up and start. Hawthorne shouldn't need that much time.

He carefully stepped up onto the riverbank display. It was firm but pliable under his shoe.

Real dirt. He had thought it might be concrete or plastic.

He felt the leaf of a plant. Real plants, too. Did that mean the rocks were real and not fake?

He reached the river and stopped. It was wider than he'd expected.

He backed up a step, took a running start, and jumped the water.

He dropped to his knees as he landed on the other bank, trying not to damage the display. There probably was a way the staff accessed this other bank. But he wasn't long on time at the moment.

He was technically allowed in the Logboat Adventure ride staff areas, thanks to his position as a security guard. But he didn't relish the thought of explaining to Butch or anyone else why he was wandering around there. Especially now that someone was apparently sabotaging rides. Didn't need to have anyone suspect him of that.

He looked for the small pine tree, groundcover, and rock configuration from the photographs in the police report copy he'd requested.

There it was. A pine tree short enough to fit under the ceiling that nearly skimmed the top of Hawthorne's head stood near the river's edge.

Green groundcover. And a large rock.

The rock where Sam Ackerman had hit his head and died.

At least according to the police report.

Rebekah had said it was impossible.

Sam had been terrified of water. The boy's father had said the same thing to the press, according to newspaper articles in the days following Sam's death. He never would have gone on the Logboat Adventure ride.

If that was true, then Sam wouldn't have been in a boat, riding down the river, goofing off because of the alcohol the autopsy showed was in his system. He wouldn't have stood up, lost his balance, and toppled out of the boat, head catching the rock that stood at the edge of the water. The conclusions drawn by the police to explain his death wouldn't be true. It wouldn't be an accident.

The thriller writer in him wanted to see the holes. To lean toward Rebekah's claim it wasn't an accident. And believe it was intentional. A murder.

But he'd been an MP too long to approach an investigation with a preferred or foregone conclusion. And that part of him also knew what murder was like in real life. It wasn't exciting and entertaining like a murder in the pages of a mystery or in a movie.

It was horrible. Tragic. More so than an accident because it carried malice and the full horror of intentional evil.

Far better for Sam's death to have been an accident.

The thought was enough to give Hawthorne pause. Should he not have agreed to look into Sam's death for Rebekah? What if he dragged up more pain than she already had? And more pain for Sam's family.

But the only way he'd do that would be if he learned the boy's death was not an accident. And if that were true, he couldn't let a murderer walk around free and unpunished. No, he had to make sure the original findings were true. For Rebekah. And for the sake of justice.

She was so sure it couldn't have happened. Not the way the police had concluded from the evidence they'd found.

Sam had been discovered in this spot, dead. His blood on the rock. A contusion in his skull matched the shape of the rock. His positioning was correct for a fall from the boat if he'd stood up during the ride.

No blood marked the rock now. But, of course, they'd have cleaned that off long ago. Everything else looked the same as in the police photos. Except Sam wasn't in them.

The memory of his still, pale face in the pictures loomed in Hawthorne's mind. Not the first dead face he'd seen. But he never forgot any of them.

He had to be certain the truth had been found. For Sam and the boy's family, who couldn't rest until they knew for sure. Until they could accept it was an accident. Or Hawthorne could find his killer.

Carson leaned over the body, the tragedy of the death wailing in his heart—a soundtrack to spur him on to end the madness.

The victim's hands were positioned to point to three and fifteen in the clock of the killer's mind.

Three fifteen. The numbers floated into place, falling in line with the sequence the previous victims had been positioned to indicate.

Carson straightened, the truth hitting him with the force of a bullet from behind.

There was no serial killer.

And Carson's mistake may be about to cost another life.

A nudge against Jazz's leg dragged her attention from the riveting pages of Seconds in Shadow, but she couldn't stop there. She had to turn the page to the next chapter, find out what Carson had realized.

A slobbery jaw slid across her arm.

"Eww, Flash." She gave the Malinois a look with her mouth in a scrunched blend of smile and grossed-out.

He stood next to her favorite armchair in her apartment, staring at her as if completely unaware of how ill-timed his interruption was.

"I was in a really good part, bud." She flipped the book to the back cover, examining Hawthorne Emerson's photo that she'd seen so many times. It was so funny to think of him as Hawthorne alone, not coupled with his last name as she'd always said it before. She could see the resemblance in his photo clearly now. Though, in her defense, he did look drastically different with the beard that hid the handsome lines of his face and features.

She still couldn't believe she'd actually met her favorite author. Worked with him. Climbed a Ferris wheel with him. How crazy was that?

"Pinch me now, Flash."

The Malinois panted as he stared at her, backing up slightly, like he was waiting for her to do something.

"What?" She looked at her watch. 6:40 p.m. "Oh, my goodness. I've been reading for nearly two hours? Sorry, bud." She'd meant to go for a run with Flash when she got home after her shift ended at four. But then she'd seen Carson Steele sitting on the table. She couldn't resist at least starting the first little bit.

She should've known she'd get sucked in as usual. And this novel might be the best yet. As she devoured every page, she noticed something funny happening. Instead of the voice she'd always heard in her head as the narrator, she was starting to hear a slightly huskier voice. Hawthorne's voice.

She smiled. Didn't ruin the reading experience one bit.

Flash whined.

She looked away from Hawthorne's photo, which her gaze had somehow locked onto again. "Sorry, Flash. You're right. We need a run." Checking the time again, she stood and hurried to change into her running gear.

It was technically past Flash's dinner time. And hers. But with the trail only ten minutes away, they should be able to finish their run before dark. Dinner could wait until they got back.

Her prediction was right, though barely. The sun set during the tail end of their hour-long run, but the sky didn't become fully dark until she was driving home.

As she slowed and turned into the apartment complex parking lot, her mind was already skipping ahead to throwing a frozen entrée into the microwave and jumping back into the Carson Steele novel as quickly as she could. She'd been turning it over in her mind during the run, trying to puzzle out how Carson knew the series of murders weren't done by a serial killer.

Hawthorne sure was a clever guy.

Jazz found an open stall far from her apartment building. The additional exercise wouldn't hurt.

Flash whined from the back seat.

"I know, we're late on dinner. You'll have to blame Hawthorne for writing such a good book." Jazz grinned at the Malinois' reflection in the rearview mirror. "You can talk to him about it tomorrow."

Would he be there tomorrow? During her shift again? Maybe she should've checked the duty roster.

Jazz dropped out of her SUV and opened the side door for Flash.

She'd love to tell Haw—

Flash launched a string of short barks.

Jazz hit the pavement just as shots pierced the night.