The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,86

was out of it. He’d done enough, discovering the bodies and calling the damned cops, reporting what he’d stumbled upon. And now his name was being leaked.

Shit.

So far no one had shown up on his doorstep, not that the NO TRESPASSING and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED signs he’d nailed to the fence posts at the end of the lane would stop any member of the press.

Fender was whining at the back door, so Bronco made his way through the kitchen again and opened the door before unlatching the screen. “Go on now. Git out there and do yer business,” he said, as the heeler shot out of the house and into the night, where crickets were singing and frogs croaking. Bronco stepped onto the porch and stared at the line of trees separating the house from the river and from the old Beaumont place. This whole area had been owned by the Beaumonts. All the way up the river to the Marianne Inn, which had been named for Arthur Beaumont’s first wife, Marianne, the one before crazy Beulah, and then the land on both sides of the river, including this place, which his grandfather had managed to buy from the old lady before she died, before Arthur’s son, Baxter, had inherited it and made it into another one of his damned subdivisions.

Another swallow of beer as a gust of wind rattled some of the new-fallen leaves, scattering them across the dirt and patchy grass of the yard.

He lit a cigarette and wondered where the hell the damned jewels and money and whatever the hell else Beulah Beaumont had hidden were. Had he missed them, not seen a hiding spot because he got the shit scared out of him? What was it his grandfather had said? What were the old man’s words?

“I tell ya, boy, I’ve never seen the likes of it. Never in all my born days. A fortune, right there in that velvet bag of hers.”

That was it. Talk of a velvet bag.

Bronco took a long drag from his Winston, the tip glowing red.

He was certain Gramps had said he’d helped Beulah hide it in the basement, in a niche of some kind. Could he have missed it? Maybe. When he was scared out of his mind, he could have run away before finding the treasure, but the cops, with all their man power and technology, they would have located anything of value. They wouldn’t have missed it.

Would they?

Could it have been found?

Moved?

But by whom?

And when?

His eyes narrowed through the cloud of smoke he exhaled. That was his big chance and he’d blown it. He whistled to the dog, his thoughts returning to the basement of that huge monster of a house. Damn it all to hell. Gazing up at the stars, he cursed his luck—all of it bad.

He heard a rustle to the side of the house.

Fender.

Nosing around for a raccoon or possum or squirrel. “Come on in, then,” he said, and dropped the butt of his cigarette and stubbed it out, grinding it beneath the heel of his boot.

But the dog didn’t appear.

“Fender?” he yelled, a little louder, with more authority. “Come!” Peering into the darkness, he saw nothing. And the rustling at the corner of the house had silenced. The wind had died. Even the frogs and crickets had stilled.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

It wasn’t like the dog not to obey.

From inside the house, he heard a sound. The soft scrape of a boot on the old linoleum.

Or was it the TV that he’d left on in the living room, the volume low, the bluish light flickering behind him?

He strained to listen.

A floorboard creaked.

But he was alone.

All the spit in his mouth dried.

He licked his lips.

Just inside the door was his hunting rifle. A Winchester .30-30 lever action that Gramps had left him.

The screen door scraped open and he reached for the gun.

But he came up empty. His fingers brushing the kitchen wall near the doorjamb.

What the hell?

The rifle was always there.

Loaded.

Ready.

Just in case.

His heart began to knock and he peeked inside. Heard nothing, but saw in the flickering half-light that the gun was definitely gone. Had he put it in his truck? Or . . . ?

Or what? You know you left it there. It’s always there unless you go hunting. And someone’s in the fuckin’ house. With your damned weapon. What the fuck are you gonna do?

His keys were by the front door, which he realized belatedly he’d left open.