Sound of Darkness--A Novel Read online

  Praise for the novels of

  New York Times bestselling author

  Heather Graham

  “A high-octane page turner that’s two parts thrills, one part cautionary tale, and an absolute blast to read.”

  —Providence Journal on Danger in Numbers

  “Fast-paced...twists and turns...steamy... This book doesn’t disappoint.”

  —MysterySequels.com on The Final Deception

  “A great read that will keep you on your toes...[featuring] family dynamics, danger and intrigue with a lot of sneaky twists and turns.”

  —Fresh Fiction on A Lethal Legacy

  “Graham is the queen of romantic suspense.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Intense... A wild, mindboggling thriller from start to finish.”

  —The Reading Café on The Forbidden

  “Don’t trust anyone in the book until you get to the end.”

  —Fresh Fiction on The Unforgiven

  “Graham strikes a fine balance between romantic suspense and a gothic ghost story in her latest Krewe of Hunters tale.”

  —Booklist on The Summoning

  Also by New York Times bestselling author

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  CRIMSON SUMMER

  DANGER IN NUMBERS

  New York Confidential

  THE FINAL DECEPTION

  A LETHAL LEGACY

  A DANGEROUS GAME

  A PERFECT OBSESSION

  FLAWLESS

  Krewe of Hunters

  THE UNKNOWN

  THE FORBIDDEN

  THE UNFORGIVEN

  DREAMING DEATH

  DEADLY TOUCH

  SEEING DARKNESS

  THE STALKING

  THE SEEKERS

  THE SUMMONING

  ECHOES OF EVIL

  PALE AS DEATH

  FADE TO BLACK

  WICKED DEEDS

  DARK RITES

  DYING BREATH

  DARKEST JOURNEY

  DEADLY FATE

  HAUNTED DESTINY

  THE HIDDEN

  THE FORGOTTEN

  THE SILENCED

  THE BETRAYED

  THE HEXED

  THE CURSED

  THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

  THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

  THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

  THE UNINVITED

  THE UNSPOKEN

  THE UNHOLY

  THE UNSEEN

  THE EVIL INSIDE

  SACRED EVIL

  HEART OF EVIL

  PHANTOM EVIL

  Cafferty & Quinn

  THE DEAD PLAY ON

  WAKING THE DEAD

  LET THE DEAD SLEEP

  Harrison Investigations

  NIGHTWALKER

  THE SÉANCE

  THE PRESENCE

  UNHALLOWED GROUND

  THE DEATH DEALER

  THE DEAD ROOM

  THE VISION

  GHOST WALK

  HAUNTED

  Bone Island

  GHOST MOON

  GHOST NIGHT

  GHOST SHADOW

  The Flynn Brothers

  DEADLY GIFT

  DEADLY HARVEST

  DEADLY NIGHT

  Look for Heather Graham’s next novel

  AURA OF NIGHT

  available soon from MIRA.

  Sound of Darkness

  Heather Graham

  With lots of love and all best wishes for

  Gysselle Escobar-Leon, Ray, Jeff, Zohe, Koralis and Emily.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Excerpt from Aura of Night by Heather Graham

  Prologue

  Orlando, ten years ago

  “Help me!”

  Colleen Law heard the call as clearly as if the person had shouted in her ear.

  But she was nowhere near anyone.

  “Help, me! Oh, please...help!”

  She was in the playground in her neighborhood, a quiet residential area just east of Celebration in Orlando, Florida.

  It was a pleasant, middle-class place, with a low crime rate. While Central Florida might be theme-park-ville, she knew her parents had chosen a home with a high safety rate for children.

  What else did one prioritize when they had three children, triplets no less?

  But now, someone was screaming for help.

  She leapt out of the swing where she had been sitting, playing games on her phone, and raced across the street to her house where her father had been working in the yard, pruning the hibiscus bush that grew around the house.

  “Dad!” she cried.

  “What?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Don’t you hear that? Someone is screaming for help!”

  He frowned, casting his head to the side. She loved her father; he was a good dad and a good man. But he was now looking at her as if she were crazy.

  “Honey, I don’t hear anything. What did you hear?”

  Before she could answer, she heard the cry again, now more like a sob of someone who had lost hope.

  This time, she had a direction.

  It was coming from a car parked in front of the Clancy house just down the street.

  “Dad, there’s someone in that car who needs help!”

  “Colleen, are you sure? That car has been parked there for a few hours—”

  He clearly wasn’t listening. She had heard the cries plain as day. She looked at her father in frustration and raced down to the car. A quick glance assured her there was no one in it, but it also showed her the keys had been dropped on the floor near the gas pedal below the driver’s seat.

  She knew she had to grab the keys quickly, aware her father had frantically chased after her; he probably thought she was breaking into someone’s private property.

  She was, of course. Though was it breaking in if the door was unlocked?

  It wasn’t. But there was a loose rock from the small coral stone wall that surrounded the Clancy property and she swept it up quickly, thinking of just how long she was going to be grounded if she was wrong and there was no one in the trunk.

  But she knew she had heard the cries!

  The coral rock smashed the window with a shattering sound. She unlocked the door and grabbed the keys as she heard her father yelling, “Colleen! Have you lost your mind?”

  He was almost upon her. She studied the keys as quickly as she could, shaking.

  She found the key fob, which held buttons to lock and unlock the car, and open the trunk.

  She hit the one for the trunk, opening it.

  It lifted just as her father reached the passenger’s side of the car, and she raced to the rear.

  Then she screamed.

  There was a woman in the trunk. She was bound, gagged, and beaten badly.

  Her father came around and saw the woman; a dark look came over his face as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He called the police, describing the situation and demanding they get an ambulance out to them fast.

  “Dad! We can’t wait! We have to help her!” Colleen said, reaching into the car. She couldn’t believe she was doing so. The woman was covered in blood, but there was duct tape covering her mouth, and though her eyes were closed, Colleen refused to believe she was dead.

  She ripped off the duct tape.

  “Oh, God, Colleen,” her father warned. “You shouldn’t... We don’t know if she’s...”

  Alive! Colleen thought.

  But her father suddenly came to that realization and reached into the car, lifting the woman out. He was a strong man; she knew he had kept fit chasing after her and her siblings. He was able to lift the woman cleanly from the trunk, not bumping her head or body into anything.

  He laid her on the ground, pulled a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket, and sliced through the ropes that tied her wrists and ankles. He had her stretched out on the lawn, and he quickly began artificial respiration. They could hear sirens in the distance, drawing closer.

  As the first police car and ambulance pulled to a halt, Colleen saw the woman cough and gasp and take her first breath.

  She was alive.

  Colleen looked at her father. “Dad,” she whispered, almost crying she was so relieved. “You saved her!”

  Her father looked at her strangely.

  “No, Colleen,” he said softly. “You saved her. I don’t know how...but you saved her.”

  One

  Mark Gallagher spoke softly to his dog as he pulled his phone from his pants pocket to call his partner, Ragnar Johansen, who was sitting at a bus stop within shouting distance.

  “Act chill for a minute, Red,” he told the dog.

  Red was a big Labrador mix, a good hundred pounds.

  “He found it?” Ragnar asked over the phone.

  “Hey! Yeah!” Mark said loudly for anyone who
might have been watching or in earshot.

  Red sat for a moment at his feet. He had already indicated the house where the young woman was being held.

  “He found it, and we can move,” Ragnar said. “Red is one damned cool canine.”

  It wasn’t Red’s size that made him so unique. The Krewe members all called him “Special Agent Red” since he was a service dog in many ways, but he was highly trained in other areas.

  Red was excellent at finding people—both the living and the dead.

  “He found this house, and hopefully Sally. Alive,” Mark said softly.

  The young woman had gone missing, and according to her parents and friends, she wasn’t the type to just disappear. And while a dozen possibilities could be considered in any disappearance, they’d been immediately concerned.

  Two women from areas just outside of DC had also recently disappeared.

  Only they were later found—dead.

  “Heading around the back now. It’s number 1405. I checked with Angela. The house has been rented by an Alex Grant. Angela says it’s a pseudonym.”

  “So, it’s really Carver,” Ragnar said. “But this is your plan. Um, I’ll take the front. I’ll come up with a ruse—selling Girl Scout Cookies won’t work.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mark said dryly. His partner not only had a Scandinavian name—he looked as if he’d stepped off the set of a Viking movie.

  “Maybe I’ll be selling life insurance.”

  “I know you’ll make something work. We’ll go,” Mark told him, and ended the call.

  It was going to be tricky; the man could be holding a young woman. The young woman could die. But they didn’t have a search warrant and the laws weren’t always on their side.

  But right now, life came first.

  “Now, boy, if you will,” Mark said softly to the dog.

  Red let out a woof and took off at a dead run. Mark pretended to lose the leash, running after the dog into the yard.

  He was grateful there was no fence.

  Red went around to the back. Mark, following after him, heard the doorbell ring, and he knew his partner was at the front. He gave the bell a minute to be answered, and then nodded at Red, who loped to the back door, throwing himself against it.

  “Red, hey boy, stop, please!” Mark said. Of course, the dog knew to keep going.

  It worked as he had hoped. Their suspect, Jim Carver, after answering the doorbell and hearing the ruckus in the other room, was soon at the back door, swearing. But as planned, Ragnar had taken the opportunity to enter the house after Carver had answered the ringing doorbell.

  Red pushed his way into the house, barking furiously at Carver.

  “What the hell?” Carver yelled furiously. “I’m going to have this animal put to sleep—and you!” He stopped, staring at Ragnar. “What the hell?” he repeated. “I said you could come into the foyer, and now, you’re in my house! Get the hell out!”

  “I heard someone screaming,” Ragnar said.

  “What? You didn’t hear anyone screaming!” Carver said. “You—you’re cops—”

  “Sorry, there goes my dog,” Mark said.

  The dog raced through the kitchen, and Mark hurried after him, followed by Ragnar and Carver with Carver threatening them with lawsuits with every step.

  The door to the basement was closed.

  “I told you. I heard someone screaming,” Ragnar said. “There’s more screaming!”

  “No one is screaming!” Carver protested.

  “The dog hears it. He’s going crazy,” Mark agreed.

  “You people! This is illegal! This is my residence—”

  “Taken under a pseudonym. Reasonable cause for entry, then again, you did let me in. And now? Someone is screaming. We can hear it!” Ragnar said.

  “You do not hear screaming!” Carver protested. “And a pseudonym! What the hell? I will have my day in court!”

  “Oh, yes, you will,” Mark agreed. He stared at the man. “What? You don’t think we hear screams? Is your victim dead already?”

  Carver backed away, staring at him.

  The basement door was locked. Ragnar and Mark looked at one another and thudded their shoulders against the door simultaneously. Mark barely regained his balance; steps led down to the basement below and a fall could have been serious—even deadly.

  Red barked furiously again, weaving through their legs and tearing down the steps.

  Carver realized he’d been made; he turned to take off running, grabbing a Smith & Wesson pistol off the table as he did.

  Mark didn’t know for sure if Carver was the man who was now the scourge of a dozen police agencies and the FBI.

  “The Embracer” as he had been termed in the press.

  But Carver had been holding Sally Smithson. Red was never wrong.

  “Drop it!” Mark thundered, drawing his own weapon from beneath his jacket.

  Carver fired wildly. Mark fired a warning shot.

  “Drop it!”

  Carver started running.

  “I’ve got him,” Ragnar said to Mark. “And the 911.”

  Mark nodded and followed the dog down the stairs. And there, on a cot, lay the woman they had been seeking. Sally Smithson. Her eyes were closed; she was pale as ash. A bucket for a toilet lay at the foot of the cot.

  The basement also held some lumber and some tools. No built boxes or coffins, just the usual supplies that a basement might contain. Nothing there proved that the man was the Embracer.

  He could already hear sirens. The local police chief had not minded the FBI intervention. Sally had been taken from her home in Maryland, and they were now in Virginia. Mark had been confident about the Krewe and the certainty they would find Sally, and the police chief acknowledged that what few clues they had led to Virginia, so he had been happy to agree to their handling of the case.

  Mark hurried to the young woman, feeling for a pulse. It was there—weak, but steady.

  “Sally,” he said softly.

  Red whined and gave her a sloppy lick.

  Sally opened her eyes, screaming hysterically and edging up against the wall.

  The girl had just turned twenty-four. She had large brown eyes, a tangled mane of dark hair, and a pretty face filled with fear and despair.

  “Sally, Sally, it’s all right,” Mark assured her. “I’m FBI. You’re safe,” he said softly.

  She stared at him at first, afraid to believe she might have been rescued. Her eyes switched from terror to mistrust. Then she started to cry. Red set his paws on the cot and whined as if also telling her it was okay. The girl threw herself against the dog, sobbing.

  The local police and emergency crews had been put on alert, and they must have been near when Ragnar had put through his 911 call.

  A paramedic hurried down the basement steps, followed by a county deputy.

  “Sally—” Mark began.

  But she threw her arms into the air and started shaking and crying and speaking in disjointed sentences that made no sense.

  “Let me get her to the hospital,” the paramedic said. “Give her time. You can talk to the doctor later. They’ll get her checked out, hydrated, and sedated, and by tomorrow morning, she’ll probably make more sense.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said, and turned to the deputy. “Carver ran. I’m going after him—my partner is already on him.”

  The deputy nodded and Mark hurried back up the steps, Red on his heels.

  “Which way, boy?” Mark asked.

  Red ran to the left; Mark followed.

  They were in a quiet suburban neighborhood an hour out from DC, a bedroom community for many who worked in the city. The houses were large here, with nice yards—probably costing about the same as a small apartment close in. That was the way it was. Mark was glad; neighbors were at work or in their houses. It was too early for kids to be playing outside.

  Carver didn’t seem to know how to shoot very well, and the last thing they wanted was a civilian casualty.

  Red suddenly veered to the right, heading into an adjacent yard. Mark took off after him. As he raced around the side of the house, he heard a shot. Then Ragnar’s voice.

  “Drop it, Carver. You have nowhere to go. It’s over.”

  “I’ll kill the kid or the damned stupid dog!” Carver raged.

  Mark slowed his gait, sliding against the side wall of the house, edging against it until he could see exactly what was going on.