Tangled Threat. Heather Graham

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,