Tangled Threat (Mills & Boon Heroes) Read online

“The curse!” he said, stepping in with a tremor in his voice. “It’s true that while being dragged to the tree—which you’ll see soon on our walk—the poor woman cried out that she was innocent of any cruel deed, innocent of murder. And she said that those who so viciously killed her would die in agony and despair. The very woods here would be haunted for eternity, and the evil they perpetrated on her would live forever. They had brought the devil into the woods, and there he would abide.”

  He smiled, innately charming when he spoke to a group, and continued, “I think that storytellers have added in the choking-on-blood part. Very dramatic and compelling, but...there are records of the occasion of the poor woman’s demise available at the resort library.” He set his flashlight beneath his chin, creating an eerie look.

  “And,” Maura said, “what is also documented is that bad things continued to happen on the ranch—under the same tree, the condemned killer, Marston Riggs, tortured and killed his victims in the early 1900s, and as late as 1970, the man known as the Red Tie Killer made use of the tree as well, killing five men and women at the History Tree and leaving their bones to fall to the ground. But, of course, we don’t believe in curses. The History Tree and the ranch are perfectly safe nowadays...” She looked at Brock. “Shall we?” she asked.

  “Indeed, we shall,” he said, and the sound of his voice and the look that he gave her made her long for it to be later, when they had completed the nighttime forest tour—and were alone together.

  They walked by the grove, where there was a charming little pond rumored to invigorate life—a handsomely written plaque commemorating the Spaniard Reynaldo Montenegro and his exploration of Florida.

  Brock said to the tour group, “Here we are at the famous grove where Reynaldo Montenegro claimed to have found the Pond of Eternal Youth.”

  It was as great tour; even the adolescents continued to ask questions as they walked.

  “I’m happy to have been the tour guide tonight,” Maura murmured to Brock. “But I can’t believe that Francine just didn’t show up.”

  “If I know Francine, she’ll make a grand entrance somewhere along the line, with a perfect reason for not being on time. She’ll have some mammoth surprise for everyone—something way more important than speaking to the guests. Hey, what do you want to bet that we see her somewhere before this tour is over? Here, folks,” Brock announced, “you’ll see the plaque—an inquisition did come to the New World!”

  The copse, illuminated only by the sparkling lights that lit the trail, offered a sadder message—that of tortures carried out by an invading society on the native population it encountered.

  They passed the ruins of an old Spanish farm and then they neared the tree.

  The infamous History Tree.

  The tree—or trees—older than anyone could remember, stood dead center in the small clearing, as if nothing else would dare to grow near. Gnarled and twisted together, palm and oak suggested a mess of human limbs, coiled together in agony.

  Maura stopped dead, hearing a long, terrified scream, then realizing that she’d made the sound herself.

  From one large oaken branch, a body was hanging, swaying just slightly in the night breeze.

  She didn’t need to wonder why Francine Renault had been derelict in her duty.

  She was there...part of the tour, just not as she should have been.

  Head askew, neck broken. She was hanging there, in the place where others had been hanged through the years, again and again, where they had decayed, where their bones had dotted the earth beneath them.

  Brock had been right.

  Francine Renault had indeed shown up before the tour was over.

  * * *

  THE POLICE FLOODED the ranch with personnel, the medical examiner and crime scene technicians.

  The rich forest of pines and oaks and ferns and earth became alive with artificial light, and still, where the moss sagged low, the bright beams just made the night and the macabre situation eerier.

  Detective Michael Flannery had been put in charge of the case. Employees and guests had been separated and then separated again, and eventually, Maura sat at the edge of the parking lot, shivering although it wasn’t cold, waiting for the officer who would speak with her.

  When he got there, he wanted to know the last time she had seen Francine. She told him it had been the night before.

  Where she had been all day? In the office, in the yard with the older teen boys and at the campfire.

  Had she heard anyone threaten Francine?

  At least half of the resort’s employees. In aggravation or jest.

  The night seemed to wear on forever.

  When she was released at last, she was sent back to her own room and ordered to stay there until morning.

  When morning came, her parents were there, ready to take her home.

  She desperately wanted to see Brock.

  Her parents were quiet and then they looked at each other. Her father shook his head slightly, and her mother said softly, “Maura, you can’t see Brock.”

  “What?” she demanded. “Why not? Mom, Dad—I’m about to leave home. Go to college, really be on my own. I love you. I’m going to come home. But...I’m almost eighteen. I won’t go without seeing Brock.”

  Her father, a gentle giant with broad shoulders and a mane of white hair, spoke to her softly. “Sweetheart, we didn’t say that we wouldn’t let you see Brock. We’re saying that you can’t see Brock.” He hesitated, looking over at her mother, and then he continued with, “I’m so sorry. Brock was arrested last night. He was charged with the murder of Francine Renault.”

  And with those words, it seemed that her world fell apart, that what she had known, that what she had believed in, all just exploded into a sea of red and then disappeared into smoke and fog.

  Chapter One

  “I’m assigned to go back to Florida. To stay at the Frampton Ranch and Resort—and investigate what we believe to be three kidnappings and a murder. And the kidnappings may have nothing to do with the resort, nor may the murder?” Brock McGovern asked, a small note of incredulity slipping into his voice, which was surprising to him—he was always careful to keep an even tone.

  FBI Assistant Director Richard Egan had brought him into his office, and Brock had known he was going on assignment—he just hadn’t expected this.

  “Yes, not what you’d want, but, hey, maybe it’ll be good for you—and perhaps necessary now, when time is of the essence and there is no one out there who could know the place or the circumstances with the same scope and experience you have,” Egan told him. “Three young women have disappeared from the area. Two of them were guests of the Frampton Ranch and Resort shortly before their disappearances—the third had left St. Augustine and was on her way there. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement has naturally been there already. They asked for federal help on this. Shades of the past haunt them—they don’t want any more unsolved murders—and everyone is hoping against hope that Lily Sylvester, Amy Bonham and Lydia Merkel might be found.”

  “These are Florida missing persons cases,” Brock said. “And it’s sad but true that young people go to Florida and get caught up in the beach life and the club scene. And regrettable but true once again—there’s a drug and alcohol culture that does exist and people get caught up in it. Not just in Florida, of course, but...everywhere.” He smiled grimly. “I go where I’m told, but I’m curious—how is this an FBI affair? And forgive me, but FBI out of New York?”

  “Not out of New York. FDLE asked for you. Specifically.”

  “I see.”

  Egan didn’t often dwell on the emotional or psychological, but the assistant director hesitated and then said, “You could put your past to rest.”

  Brock shrugged. “You know, one of the cooks committed suicide not long after the murder. Peter Moore. He stabbed himself with
a butcher knife. He’d had a lot of fights with Francine Renault—the victim found at the tree. They suspected he might have killed himself out of remorse.”

  Egan offered him a dry grimace. “I know about the cook, of course. You know me—I knew everything about you on paper before I took you into this unit. I’m not sure anyone would have made a case against him in court. That’s all beside the point—the past may well be the past. But there’s the now, as well. They’re afraid of a serial killer, Brock,” Egan said. And he continued with, “The badly decomposed remains—mostly bones—of another young woman who went missing several months ago were recently found in a bizarre way—they were dumped in with sheets from several hotels and resorts at an industrial laundry that accepted linens from dozens of places—Frampton Ranch and Resort being one of them.”

  “I see,” Brock said.

  He didn’t really see.

  That didn’t matter; Egan would be thorough.

  “Yes, this may be a bit hard on you, but you’re the one in the know. To come close to a knowledge of the area and people that you already have might take someone else hours or days that may cost a life... You’re the best man for this. Especially because you were once falsely accused. And, I believe, you may just solve something of the mystery of the past. And quit hating your own home.”

  “I don’t hate my own home. Ah, come on, sir, I don’t want to play any cure-me psychological games with this,” Brock said.

  Egan shook his head and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed—indicating a rise in his temper, something always kept in check. “If I thought you needed to be cured, you wouldn’t be in my unit. Women are missing. They might be dead already,” he said curtly. “And then again, they might have a chance. You’re the agent with a real sense for the place, the people and the surrounding landscape. And you’re a good agent, period. I trust in your ability to get this sorted.”

  Brock greatly admired Egan. He had a nose for sending the right agent or agents in for a job. Usually.

  But Brock was sitting across from Egan in Egan’s office—in New York City. He, Brock, was an NYC agent.

  And while Brock really didn’t dislike where he came from—he still loved Florida, especially his family home in the Keys—he had opted to apply to the New York office of the Bureau specifically because it was far, far away from the state of his birth.

  The New York City office didn’t usually handle events in Florida, unless a criminal had traveled from New York down to the southern state. Florida had several field offices—including a multimillion-dollar state-of-the-art facility in Broward County. That was south—but Orlando had an exceptional office, close enough to the Frampton place. And there were more offices, as well.

  Even if the Frampton Ranch and Resort was in a relatively isolated part of the state, a problem there would generally be handled by a more local office.

  “Frampton Ranch and Resort,” he heard himself say. And this time, years of training and experience kicked in—his voice was perfectly level and emotionless.

  It was true: he sure as hell knew it and the area. The resort was just a bit off from—or maybe part of—what people considered to be the northern Ocala region, where prime acreage was still available at reasonable prices, where horse ranches were common upon the ever-so-slightly rolling hills and life tended to be slow and easy.

  There were vast tracts of grazing ground and great live-oak forests and trails laden with pines where the sun seemed to drip down through great strands of weeping moss that hung from many a branch. It could be considered horse country, farm country and ranch county. There were marshes and forests, sinkholes and all manner of places where a body might just disappear.

  The Frampton ranch was north of Ocala, east of Gainesville and about forty-five minutes south of Olustee, Florida, where every year, a battle reenactment took place, drawing tourists and historians from near and far. The Battle of Olustee, won by forces in the state; the war had been heading toward its final inevitable conclusion, and then time proved that victory had been necessary for human rights and the strength and growth of the fledgling nation, however purposeless the sad loss of lives always seemed.

  Reenactors and historians arrived in good numbers, and those who loved bringing history to life also loved bringing in crowds and many came for the campgrounds. The reenactment took place in February, when temperatures in the state tended to be beautiful and mosquito repellent wasn’t as much a requirement as usual. During the winter season—often spring break for other regions—the area was exceptionally popular.

  The area was beautiful.

  And the large areas of isolation, which included the Frampton property, could conceal any number of dark deeds.

  He’d just never thought he’d go back to it.

  Certainly, time—and the path he had chosen to take in life—had helped erase the horror of the night they had come upon the body of Francine Renault hanging from the History Tree and his own subsequent arrest. He’d been so young then, so assured that truth spoke for itself. In the end, his parents—bless them—had leaped to the fore, flying into action, and their attorney had made quick work of getting him out of jail after only one night and seeing that his record was returned to spotless. It was ludicrous that they had arrested him; he’d been able to prove that it would have been impossible for him to have carried out the deed. Dozens of witnesses had attested to the fact that he couldn’t have been the killer, he’d been seen by so many people during the hours in which the murder must have taken place. He could remember, though, sitting in the cell—cold, stark, barren—and wondering why in God’s name they had arrested him.

  He discovered that there had been an anonymous call to the station—someone stating that they had seen him dragging Francine Renault into the woods. The tipster had sworn that he would appear at a trial as a witness for the prosecution, but the witness had not come to the station. Others had signed formal protests, and the McGoverns’ attorney had taken over.

  So many people had come forward, indignant, furious over his arrest.

  But not Maura. She had been gone. Just gone. He couldn’t think of the Frampton Ranch and Resort without a twinge of pain. He had never been sure which had broken him more at the time—the arrest or the fact that Maura had disappeared as cleanly from his life as any hint of daylight once night had fallen.

  They had been so young. It had been natural that her parents whisked her away, and maybe even natural that neither had since tried to reach the other.

  But there were times when he could still close his eyes and see her smile and be certain that he breathed in the subtle scent of her. Twelve years had gone by; he wasn’t even the same person.

  Egan was unaware of his reflections.

  “Detective Michael Flannery is lead investigator now. He was on the case when you were arrested for the crime, but he wasn’t lead.”

  “I know Flannery. We’ve communicated through the years, believe it or not. I almost feel bad—he suffered a lot of guilt about jumping the gun with me.”

  “He’s with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement now, with some seniority and juice, so it seems,” Egan informed him. “Years ago, when the murder took place, the federal government wasn’t involved. Flannery doesn’t want this crime going unsolved. He knows you’re in this office now. His commander told me that he keeps in touch with you.” Egan paused. “It doesn’t sound as if you have a problem with him—you don’t, right?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  Even as a stunned kid—what he had been back then—Brock had never hated Detective Flannery for being one of the men who had come and arrested him.

  Flannery had been just as quick to listen to the arguments that eventually cleared Brock completely of any wrongdoing. While Brock knew that Flannery was furious that he had been taken and certain that there had been an underlying and devious conspiracy to lead him and his superiors so tho
roughly in the wrong direction, he had to agree that, at the time, Brock had appeared to be a ready suspect.

  He’d had a fight with Francine that day, and it had been witnessed by many people. He hadn’t gotten physical in any way, but his poor opinion of her, and his anger with her, had probably been more than evident—enough for him to be brought in for questioning and to be held for twenty-four hours at any rate.

  “I’m curious how something that happened so long ago can relate to the cases happening now,” Brock said.

  “It may not. The remains of the dead girl found in the laundry might have been the work of one crazed individual or an acquaintance seeking vengeance, acting out of jealousy—a solitary motive. It might be coincidence the way she was found—or maybe a killer was trying to throw suspicion upon a particular place or person. But...a lot of the same individuals are still there now who were there when Francine Renault was killed.”

  “Donald Glass—he’s around a lot, though he does spend time at his other properties. Fred Bentley—I imagine he’s still running the works. Who else is still there?” Brock asked.

  Egan handed him a pile of folders. “All this is coming to your email, as well. There you have those who are in residence—and dossiers on the victims. Yes, Glass and Bentley are still on the property. There are other staff members who never left—Millie Cranston, head of Housekeeping. Vinnie Marshall, upgraded to chef—after Peter Moore’s death, I might add. And then...” He paused, tapping the folders. “You have some old guests who are now employees.”

  “Who?”

  “Mark and Nils Hartford,” Egan told him. “Both of them report directly to Fred Bentley. Mark has taken over as the social director. Nils is managing the restaurants—the sit-down Ranch Roost and the Java Bar.”

  Brock hadn’t known that the Hartford brothers—who’d seemed so above the working class when they’d been guests—were now employed at the very place where they had once loved to make hell for others.

  “Flannery said this is something he hadn’t mentioned to you. One of your old friends—or acquaintances—Rachel Lawrence is now with FDLE. She’s been working the murder and the disappearances with him.”