Grave Danger Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Rachel Grant

  ISBN-10: 0-9893010-1-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9893010-1-5

  Cover art and design by Naomi Ruth Raine

  Copyediting by Faith Williams

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation with the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For Jocelyn and Cael,

  This is the only page of this book you are allowed to read. You will thank me for this rule when you are older.

  You both make me so proud every day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 2002

  Coho, Washington

  LIBBY MAITLAND’S TRUCK WAS GONE. She stood in the tiny, eight-space parking lot, gripping her keys until they dug into her palm, and wondered where the hell her truck was. The Suburban couldn’t have been towed. The lot was too small and her truck too large. Towing would have caused a commotion. It must have been stolen. A lousy end to a rotten day.

  She couldn’t care less about the truck. Old, beat-up, and rusted, the beast drank fuel like a dehydrated camel, and a tank was more maneuverable. But it was the only vehicle she had, and, even worse, the excavation notes from the archaeological dig were inside. She mentally listed everything she’d loaded in the back when she left the site an hour ago: the stratigraphic drawings, the photologs, the burial notes, and the field catalog. If she didn’t get her truck back, her career as an archaeologist could take another major nosedive.

  She turned around to go back inside the restaurant, planning to call the police, but she must have been their last customer for the night because the door was locked and the shades lowered. The windows vibrated with a loud bass beat she could hear through the glass. The cleaning crew had turned up the stereo. They would never hear her knock.

  She fished around in her purse for her cell phone, and then remembered the phone was in the damn truck. She looked up and down the street. Who would have thought her truck would be stolen in Coho, Washington, a quaint little historic sawmill town where everyone knows everyone? Maybe this was a game the locals played: mess with the city girl who moved here only two weeks ago.

  At ten p.m. on a summer night, the lengthy Pacific Northwest twilight was just starting to lose the battle with darkness, but there was enough light for her to see the police station, only a few blocks down Main Street. She headed in that direction, disconcerted to see the street was empty. Coho, a town at the edge of Discovery Bay on the lush green Olympic Peninsula, did not seem to offer an exciting nightlife.

  The police station was a prime example of 1970s civic architecture: low, long, and brown. She went in the visitor’s entrance and was greeted by a series of windows reminiscent of ticket booths. Behind the first window sat a woman in uniform. Her name badge said Eversall. “May I help you?” she asked with the smile of someone relieved to have something to do.

  “My truck was stolen.”

  The officer looked surprised. “Wow. It’s been a while since we had a GTA in Coho.”

  “GTA?”

  “Grand Theft Auto. Give me the make, model, and plate so I can radio the patrol officers, then I’ll buzz you into the interview room, and an officer will take your full statement.”

  Libby gave her the information and then went through the inner door.

  “First door on the left,” Officer Eversall said.

  The first door to the left was open. She flipped on the lights but thought the room held more promise when dark. The décor was bland industrial with a hint of municipal barren. Everything was clean, functional, made of metal, and at least twenty years old. She pulled out a chair and sat down facing the open door.

  A man in plain clothes entered the room. Tall with broad shoulders, he was masculine in a way that would have flustered her if she were still seventeen. He walked with confidence and purpose that also would have befuddled her at a younger age. Thank goodness she’d said goodbye to seventeen half a lifetime ago.

  “I’m Chief Mark Colby, ma’am. I can take your statement. I’m sorry to hear your vehicle was stolen.” His deep, warm voice held genuine concern.

  Surprised to be greeted by the police chief at this late hour, she stood and shook his hand across the table. “Thank you. I’m Libby Maitland.” His handshake was firm and solid, and, like the rest of him, contained an air of authority. He was no backwoods hick in a small sawmill town. “I can’t think of why anyone would steal a beat-up old truck like mine.”

  “What kind of vehicle is it?”

  “A 1987 Chevy Suburban Silverado four by four. Black, gray, and rusty, it’s as big as it is ugly. And it’s really big.” She noticed his slight smile and felt entirely too pleased with herself. She wanted to flirt with him as if she were in a bar with her friend Simone and they were betting to see who could collect the most phone numbers. Of course, Simone always won because she had bigger breasts and wasn’t afraid to use them.

  You are not in a bar. This is a cop.

  “I don’t care about the truck so much as what’s inside it. All my field notes are there, and—” A wave of horror rippled through her and she gripped the edge of the table. “The GPS mapping unit is in the back. It costs two thousand dollars a week just to rent it.”

  “If your truck was taken by kids on a joy ride, it’ll turn up quickly.”

  Even in her worried haze, she felt the irony and scoffed, “Believe me, driving that truck is no joy.”

  His eyes crinkled with a faint smile. “Then maybe it’ll turn up even sooner.” He grabbed a clipboard loaded with forms from the tabletop. “You had GPS mapping equipment. You’re a surveyor?”

  “I’m an archaeologist.”

  “The big dig out on the reservation road? You must be working for Jack Caruthers.”

  “Yes. He hired my company, Evergreen Archaeological Consultants, to excavate the site on the proposed Cultural Center property.”

  “Ever since hearing about your dig, I’ve wondered why you have to excavate before they can build the Center.”

  She smiled. This, at least, was familiar territory, a question she was frequently asked about her job. “Archaeological sites are protected by law, just like endangered species. Construction, road building—these things destroy archaeological sites, and information about past human culture is lost forever unless we can recover it first. Jack Caruthers applied for a permit from the US Army Corps of Engineers to begin construction on the Cultural Center. The Corps won’t give him that permit until after I’ve done my job, which is to recover as much archaeological data as possible. No excavation, no permit. No permit, no Cultural Center.” What she didn’t say was: no Cultural Center, no new jobs for Coho, something the town desperately needed considering Coho’s primary employer, Thorpe Log & Lumber, had closed its doors two years ago.

  “That makes sense.” He returned to his clipboard. “Is your vehicle company owned?”

  “No, but I use it for project work a lot.”

  “Are you the registered owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a local address?”

  “We’ve moved here permanently. As part of my contract, I’m living in one of the Thorpe Log & Lumber houses in the historic district, the Shelby house,” she said, aware that most of the townspeople knew the mill houses by name rather than address.


  The police chief wrote on the form, and then looked up. “You said ‘we.’ Are you married?”

  “No. I was referring to my business and employees.” She wondered whether she should be flattered until he checked a box on his form. Oh, yeah, marital status would indicate joint ownership of the stolen property. Apparently her brain had been stolen along with her vehicle. She shook her head and cast about for something to say. “What an end to a stressful day.” She rubbed her temples. “You know, I lived in Seattle for more than ten years and never had anything stolen. I’ve been in sweet, idyllic Coho all of two weeks.”

  “Coho’s appearance can be deceiving—perfect on the outside but we have problems like any other place.” He flashed her a full smile, which brought out the wrinkles around his deep blue eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. “That said, car theft is unusual.”

  He probably gets whatever he wants with that smile. Combine his smile with his easy good looks, the smooth, deep voice, and his air of assurance, and he was one dangerous male. She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Perhaps Coho wouldn’t be a bad place to live after all. And because her project had just gone to hell, she couldn’t afford to move again anyway.

  He slid the clipboard across the table. “Here’s an inventory sheet. Please list the equipment that was inside the vehicle.”

  She began to write. She was almost done when Officer Eversall stepped in the doorway. “I’ve got good news, Chief. Ms. Maitland’s vehicle has been found—it’s on the street—near the restaurant.”

  “You’re kidding,” Libby said. “Is everything in it?”

  “The officer on patrol said it looks fine.”

  The police chief rose. “Let’s go check it out. You can tell me if anything’s missing.”

  Together, they walked at a brisk pace down the street. The Suburban was parked in the shadows a block past the restaurant where she’d had dinner. She walked straight to the rear and looked inside. The field equipment was there. She rested her hand on the back window to steady herself and took several deep, calming breaths.

  The police chief conferred with an officer inside a patrol car. She was eager to open the back and check the equipment, but worried she would ruin fingerprint evidence if she touched the door handle. After a moment, the chief stepped back, and the police car drove away.

  Darkness had descended and the only sound to break the stillness of the night was the distant hum of the moving vehicle. Libby stood alone with the police chief. He studied her, and she wondered what he and the other officer had spoken about. Had his friendly manner really disappeared? Or was it just the effect of the dim streetlight and deep night shadows, which reduced his handsome face to only the sharpest angles: prominent squared jaw, forbidding brow. His deep blue eyes, warm cobalt in the fluorescent light of the police station, were now black.

  She had the feeling he was waiting for her to speak. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Is this where you parked?”

  “No. I parked in front of the restaurant.”

  His shoulders dropped, giving her the impression she’d disappointed him. “Let’s see if everything’s here.” He opened the back of the Suburban. “Was this locked?”

  “Yes. I always lock it when there’s field equipment inside.”

  “Any chance you forgot tonight?”

  She paused for a moment to consider her answer. “No,” she said firmly and scanned the contents of the back of the truck. “It looks like everything is here. The burial notes.” She flipped through a binder. “The field catalog, the photologs, the excavation notes.” She pulled out a bucket, revealing a bright orange case. “That’s the GPS mapping unit.”

  He pulled out the case and opened it. The expensive survey equipment was nestled in gray foam padding. Relief rushed through her. She’d live to dig another day.

  Leaving the equipment, the police chief walked a complete circle around the SUV, scanning each surface. He opened the driver’s door. Curious, she walked to the passenger side and peered through the window. He used his flashlight to inspect the interior, and then pulled the latch to release the hood. His gaze met hers briefly across the seat, and she felt a strange foreboding. He left the cab to raise the hood. She followed.

  He rested a hand on the radiator and then touched the spark plugs, followed by the engine block. He straightened and studied her. He wasn’t happy. “Ms. Maitland, I’ll ask again. Is this where you parked your truck?”

  “And again, no. I parked in front of the restaurant.”

  “What time did you enter the restaurant?”

  “A little before nine. I think they were just getting ready to close the kitchen.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Just after ten. When I realized my truck was stolen, I walked straight to the police station.”

  “Ms. Maitland, have you been drinking?”

  She felt blood drain from her face as his meaning sunk in. He thought she was so drunk she hadn’t seen her beast of a truck on an empty street. “I had a glass of wine with dinner, yes. One glass.” She reached into her purse. “Here’s the receipt.” The contempt in her voice adequately conveyed her outrage at his question, but inside, she could teach Jell-O to quiver.

  “It doesn’t look like your vehicle’s been stolen. There’s no forced entry on any of the doors and no sign of how the engine was started. Is there any chance you parked here, then forgot, and didn’t see it when you left the restaurant?”

  “How on earth is that possible? I’d have to be blind or crazy!”

  His look was pointed. “You don’t appear to be blind.”

  She took a startled step backward and then gathered herself enough to say, “I’m not crazy.”

  “The engine is barely warm. It isn’t hot enough to have been driven on a joyride. It couldn’t have been driven more than a block, if at all. Don’t waste my time here. If you forgot where you parked, say so now. We’ll have a good laugh and you can go home.”

  “When I left the restaurant, my truck wasn’t here.” She touched the engine herself, desperately seeking something hot, something to prove him wrong, but she couldn’t.

  He studied her intently, evaluating and judging her.

  “My truck was stolen,” she said with a firmness she no longer felt.

  “Is there anyone you know who could be playing a joke on you? Or anyone who might have borrowed it?”

  “If one of my employees wanted to borrow it, they would have come into the restaurant and asked. Besides, I’m the only one with keys.”

  “Do you have a key hidden in the undercarriage?”

  “My only spare is in my desk at the Shelby house.”

  “Look for it when you get home. Maybe you gave it to an employee and forgot.”

  “I wouldn’t forget something like that.”

  “Do you know how much gas you had in the tank?”

  Hope blossomed. She could prove she wasn’t crazy. “The tank was full. I filled it this morning.” She could show him the receipt.

  With her key, he started the engine. She watched anxiously. Hope fled when the needle rose to the full line.

  Chief Colby cut the engine. “Okay. You’re free to go.”

  “Aren’t you going to dust for prints?” she asked. He could at least pretend to investigate.

  “No reason to. Be grateful you won’t have black powder everywhere. This isn’t a GTA—the vehicle’s here, undamaged, and no gas burned. No crime.”

  “So this was a total waste of your time.”

  “Pretty much,” he said, heading toward the police station.

  “Is there anything else you need from me?”

  “Believe me, I’m done,” he said as he walked away. “Goodnight, Ms. Maitland.”

  Libby stood next to her vehicle. The hood was up, the driver’s door and the rear doors open. Strewn on the ground was the field equipment she’d removed to check on the mapping equipment.

  What had just happened?


  Unsure of herself, she stared at the parking lot in front of the restaurant, and tried to remember how her truck had looked when she’d parked it there, but now she began to question her own memory.

  She collected the equipment and closed the doors. The police chief’s reaction shook her. As she slammed down the hood, she glanced in the direction of the police station. He was gone. He must have run the last blocks to the station. She looked up and down the empty street. The only movement came from insects flying in the dim cones of light cast by streetlamps some distance away. Standing in front of her truck, centered in the long stretch of darkness between two streetlamps, a chill ran through her.

  Her truck had been left in the darkest stretch of Main Street on a nearly moonless night. She hadn’t made a mistake. She didn’t imagine this. She pressed her palms flat against the cold hood of the Suburban and took a long, slow breath. Her heart began to race. Cold sweat broke out on her face and neck. Someone was out there, watching.

  Oh, God. It was happening again.

  MARK COLBY STOOD IN THE SHADOWS, watching the archaeologist as she gathered her equipment and reloaded her truck. He wanted to see her reaction. She slammed the hood and glanced up and down the empty street. She looked afraid and the cop in him felt a trace of guilt for letting her believe she was alone in the darkness.

  He waited until she was safely in her vehicle and driving away before he headed toward the station. As far as he could tell, she really did believe her truck had been stolen. But still, she could be just another flake who’d forgotten where she parked and refused to admit it.

  He stopped and glanced back at the empty street. Coho was quiet as usual, the fire station the only other Main Street building with lights on. He considered stopping in to have a cup of coffee with whoever was on duty. Short-staffed all week, he still had eight hours to go on this double shift, and the ten minutes he’d just spent on the street with Libby Maitland were likely to be the most interesting of the night.

  He should be grateful the paperwork on this was minimal and file his report and be done, but her insistence her truck had been stolen troubled him. He wanted to believe the only reason he listened to her was because he was a sucker for tall women with deep green eyes, and he was tired from working doubles since Monday, but the truth was, something about her story bothered him.