Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Read online

  “I will.” Chelsea rested her chin on her knees. “Thank you. For everything.”

  Tim showed them to the door. “I hope she sleeps tonight. Last night, in the hospital, she was up all night. Every noise . . .”

  “It’s going to take time,” Morgan said.

  Tim nodded and opened the door for them.

  “What does the brand look like?” Lance asked in a low voice.

  Tim paled. “It’s an infinity symbol.”

  Forever . . .

  Morgan and Lance went back to the Jeep and climbed inside.

  “Well, that was disappointing,” Lance said. “Though we confirmed that it’s unlikely the kidnapping is related to her client files.”

  “He drugged her, so that likely affected her recall.” Morgan couldn’t imagine. Not only did Chelsea have to deal with the horrifying events she remembered, but she would no doubt wonder and fear what she’d forgotten. Would other memories continue to return? And for how long?

  Lance started the engine. “This feels like a personal crime. No one tortures and psychologically conditions a woman to avoid being caught cheating on his taxes.”

  “No,” Morgan agreed. “This was personal, sick, and twisted. Now what?”

  He pulled out of the driveway. “Can you call Sharp and let him know what we found out? He and my mom can stop reviewing financial statements and concentrate on getting background info on Chelsea’s clients. It’s still possible one of them fixated on her.”

  “Someone did.” Morgan made the call. Sharp was relieved to give up the financial statement review.

  “Where do you want to go? No matter what we do, we need to get some food in you.” Lance declared after she’d put her phone away.

  “You’re going to think this is nuts.”

  And he wasn’t going to like it one bit.

  “What?” His voice turned suspicious as he drove away from the Clarks’ house.

  “I want to snoop around Harold Burns’s house.”

  Lance frowned. “Not nuts, risky.”

  “All our other leads have run dry. Burns is all we have left. And Chelsea mentioned that oily smell, though she said it didn’t smell like motor oil.”

  Lance shrugged. “Mechanics use different kinds of oil.”

  Morgan stared through the windshield. Despite her exhaustion, seeing what Chelsea had endured made her more determined to catch the man responsible. “What if he has that girl, and no one can save her? What if he wants more time to kill her and dispose of her body?”

  “That’s a lot of speculation.”

  “It is,” Morgan said. “But hear me out. The police think that the woman found in the state park had been held captive for eight months. She’d have to be kept somewhere that no one would hear her scream. Burns’s house is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “So is the auto shop.”

  “Yes, but the auto shop has too much foot traffic to hold a woman captive.”

  “It’s a big piece of property, and there were outbuildings. It would be a great place to hide a storage container,” Lance said. “The woods behind the junkyard connect to the state park.”

  “True,” Morgan agreed. “But the police did a compliance check on Burns’s house three months ago. If he was holding a woman in his house, they would have heard or seen something.”

  “Probably. His house is small,” Lance said. “We don’t know that she was kept in the same place for the entire eight months.”

  Morgan pictured Harold Burns’s property. “Remember that huge detached garage behind Burns’s house?”

  “I do.” Lance turned on the heat. “That was big enough to house all sorts of illegal activity.”

  Morgan spread her fingers in front of the vents. “If we find anything, we’ll make an anonymous phone call to the police and report that we heard a woman screaming.”

  “We’ll need to wait until later. We want Burns to be asleep.” Lance turned onto the main road. “We’ll need to gear up too. We should call Stella or Brody and let them know what we’re planning.”

  “No.” Morgan wouldn’t ruin her sister’s career over a hunch. “That wouldn’t be fair to them. What we’re going to do is completely illegal.”

  Not to mention dangerous.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  A few minutes before midnight, Lance drove past Harold Burns’s one-story house. A quarter mile down the road, he steered the Jeep off the side of the road and parked behind a few evergreens. If Burns had slipped out of his house while the SFPD was watching him, he would have gone through the woods to the auto shop. What was good for the goose, in this case, could also be used for the goose hunters.

  “You ready?”

  In the passenger seat, Morgan checked the weapon in her holster and zipped her black jacket closed over it. “Yes.”

  Lance slid some extra ammunition into the thick pocket of his dark cargos. Though he wasn’t cold, he tugged a black knit cap over his bright-blond hair. Morgan’s hat was for warmth. She tucked a flashlight into her pocket. He did the same, then loaded the rest of his equipment, including a pair of night vision binoculars, into a small backpack.

  They got out of the Jeep and walked along the edge of the woods so they could duck into the trees if a car approached. Thick clouds drifted overhead, and snow flurries floated in the chilled air. His breath fogged in front of him. The ground was dark, but he wanted to preserve his natural night vision and didn’t want to risk using a flashlight. There wasn’t much out here. Burns would be able to see a light from far away.

  Next to him, Morgan tripped.

  Lance steadied her by the elbow. “You OK?”

  “Just a rock. I’m fine.” She got her feet back under herself. “I don’t know how Chelsea went miles and miles through the dark woods.”

  “She was literally running for her life. I doubt she was even thinking at that point. She kept moving on instinct. The fact that she’s an avid hiker and runner probably saved her life.”

  “Remind me to start exercising,” Morgan said. “I doubt if I could run two miles without collapsing.”

  They’d stopped for takeout earlier. Energized by the thought of taking action, Morgan had polished off every fry in her bag. Lance was glad to see her eat.

  The greasy burger and fries might be unhealthy in the long run, but his body had appreciated the calories as well. He didn’t remember the last time he’d had a Coke, but the sweet, fizzy drink had hit the spot. The sugar practically vibrated in his system.

  Just before Burns’s house, the woods cut away. They followed the edge of the forest, arcing around the back of the property. Ahead, the detached garage and house lay dark.

  Lance removed his night vision binoculars from his bag and scanned the backs of the buildings. “No windows on the garage and I don’t see his truck.” He also didn’t spot any security cameras.

  “Maybe he’s not home.”

  “Or his truck is in the garage.”

  There was only one way to find out. They were going to have to break in to the garage.

  They jogged across the open space, keeping the garage between them and the line of sight of the house. Even so, Lance was glad for the absence of the moon and the exceptionally dark night. Unfortunately, the entry door was on the side of the garage that faced the house. They crept around the corner of the building. Despite the sharp chill in the air, sweat dripped between his shoulder blades. Approaching a building with unknown occupants felt much more dangerous since he’d been shot and nearly died in such a situation. And fear for Morgan’s safety drove his apprehension levels through the roof.

  He motioned her to wait in the shadows as he drew his lock picks from his pocket. The lock was surprisingly simple, and a slight tingle of doubt crept into Lance’s gut. If he were keeping a woman prisoner, he’d use a complex security system.

  Stepping into the open, Lance inserted the two thin blades into the lock. In less than twenty seconds, he felt the gentle click of tumblers sliding into posit
ion. He turned the knob and opened the door, slipping inside. For a few seconds, he listened for a chirp that would indicate an alarm system, but he heard nothing. Morgan’s body bumped him as she entered the garage behind him. She closed the door and absolute blackness fell over them.

  Though his eyes had adjusted to the night, inside was far darker. There were no windows in the building. His night vision binoculars required at least scant light to function. They’d be useless in the pitch black of the garage’s interior. Lance risked the flashlight. He clicked it on, aiming a narrow beam of light on the floor. The garage was one large open space filled with junk. Disappointment welled inside him as he surveyed the clusters of discarded furniture and boxes. Even before they’d made a complete circuit, he knew the missing woman wasn’t here and that Chelsea hadn’t been held there either. There wasn’t enough security. No setup for even keeping a captive.

  Morgan led the way back outside. Lance carefully locked the door as they left, and they retraced their steps back to the woods. The sound of an engine floated on the cold air.

  “I hear a car.” He tugged Morgan behind a few trees. They crouched and waited as headlights approached then taillights faded before resuming their trek. Burns’s house and the auto shop were only a quarter mile apart. They passed the place where the Jeep was hidden and continued along the edge of the woods until the forest ended and the cleared space of the auto shop and salvage yard began.

  They stood at the edge of the woods and surveyed the landscape, all dirt and shadows in the darkness. Ahead, a soft light shone from the exterior of the auto shop and one office window glowed pale yellow.

  “Did he leave a light on or is someone there?” Morgan asked.

  “Impossible to say without getting closer.” Which might give them away.

  “Do you see Burns’s red truck?”

  “No.” Lance used the binoculars to search the darkness behind the shop. “But it could be inside.”

  The auto shop had multiple bays and overhead rolling doors. But there was no need to search it. Creeps did not usually keep prisoners in buildings frequented by customers. Holding a woman for eight months required privacy.

  “Then we’d better be quiet and quick.” Morgan turned away from the office and toward the scrap yard. They skirted the forest until they reached the rear of the property.

  “I don’t see any cameras back here.”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  They entered the scrap yard. Most of the land was open. Rusted vehicle carcasses were piled and clustered seemingly at random. Dirt-and-weed tracks large enough to drive on meandered around them. A small area was enclosed by a six-foot-tall chain-link fence. The vehicles inside looked like later models, some heavily damaged by accidents but likely still worth money for parts.

  No moon lit the way, but Lance couldn’t risk using the flashlight out in the open.

  “We’ll take it slow. Watch where you step.” He steered Morgan around a rusted fender.

  Passing the severed front half of a crushed and rusty Volkswagen Beetle, she tapped her scarred forearm. “Good thing I’ve had a tetanus shot recently.”

  They stopped at the chain-link fence. Most of the vehicles within its enclosure were intact and organized into rows, more like a parking lot than a junkyard. In the center, stood a large metal shed.

  “You wait here. I’ll climb in and check out the shed,” Lance whispered. “The gate is around front, behind the shop. I don’t want to go in that way.”

  “I don’t like splitting up,” Morgan said. “But I’d just slow you down.”

  Lance removed his lock pick from the backpack and tucked it into a pocket. Then he handed the bag to Morgan. “I’ll be quick. Back before you know it.”

  He scaled the fence and dropped off the other side. Adrenaline hummed in his bloodstream as he glanced back at Morgan, standing alone in the dark. Her dark clothes had blended well in the woods, but out in the open, she was a clear human shape. He didn’t like to leave her alone.

  “Watch your back,” he said.

  “I’ll watch yours too.” She pivoted to put her back to the fence.

  Turned back to his task, Lance crept through the rows of vehicles. There were too many places to hide in and around the cars. He strained for sounds in the darkness but heard nothing unusual.

  He approached the shed. It was longer than it had appeared. A few snowflakes drifted down to the dirt, but the ground had not yet frozen, and they melted on contact. The only entrance to the building was a set of metal rolling doors secured with a chain and padlock. Lance could probably pick the lock. If not, he had a set of bolt cutters in his backpack, but he’d prefer not to leave evidence of their search or damage any property.

  Broken windows were spaced out along the side of the shed, but they were two feet above Lance’s head. He looked for something to climb on. Spotting a cluster of barrels near the back of the building, he climbed on one and peered through the filthy, spider-cracked glass.

  All he could see was darkness.

  He lifted the binoculars from his chest and used them to scan the interior. The space was full of vehicles and engines. A few long workbenches were stacked with car parts. There were no rooms inside in which Burns could have kept a woman captive.

  Lance jumped down from the barrel and retreated to the fence. Morgan crouched where he’d left her. He scaled the fence in a few swift motions and landed softly next to her.

  “Anything?” she asked in a low voice.

  He shook his head.

  They resumed their search. Lance’s pulse thudded in a steady, highly tuned beat as they crept around piles of junked vehicles. Near the back center of the scrap yard, they came upon a single trailer set on cinder blocks. The rectangular structure was rusted and dented. Instead of steps, a single cinder block stood just below the narrow door, which was secured by a heavy-duty padlock. A dim yellow bulb glowed next to the door.

  The hair on the back of Lance’s neck quivered. “I wonder what they’re keeping in there.”

  “That’s an awfully big padlock,” Morgan said. “Is that a camera above the door?”

  Lance nodded. “I see a motion detector too.”

  “So how do we get a look inside?”

  Lance scanned the structure. “The windows are covered.”

  They circled around to view the trailer from the other side. Boards were nailed over both windows on this side as well.

  “This doesn’t look anything like Chelsea’s description of where she was held,” Morgan said. “Do you see a hole in the roof?”

  “Not from here.” But the trailer was setting off all Lance’s alarms. The trailer was more secure than the office and auto shop. “I’m going to get closer. Wait here.”

  “I don’t want to wait here.”

  “Someone needs to call the police if I get caught,” Lance argued. “Harold Burns is a violent man. If I’ve found his next victim, he’s not going to call the police on me. He’s going to bury me in a shallow grave in the state park.”

  Morgan blew a hard breath out through her nose. “All right.”

  Lance handed her the binoculars. “Watch my back?”

  “Always.”

  Lance jogged across the dirt. When he reached the trailer, he checked the padlock. It could be picked, but not quickly, and he’d rather not stand out in the open for any length of time. He’d look for an easier way in first. Then he went from window to window looking for a weakness but found none. The boards were nailed or screwed from the inside. He dropped to the ground and slid under the trailer but found no easy points of entry.

  He was going to have to do this the hard way.

  His options were to pick the lock or cut it off with the bolt cutters. Did he want to leave evidence of entry? Not really. He slid along the ground to get out from under the trailer. Bits of gravel rolled under his back, making more noise than he intended.

  A scratching sound came from inside the trailer. He froze, straining his hearing.


  There it was again. Scratching. Tapping. Crying?

  And holy shit. Was that a sob?

  “Is someone in there?” he called out.

  “Yes,” a woman’s voice cried out. “Please help me.”

  There was someone in the trailer, and they weren’t happy about it.

  Lance scooted out from under the trailer. He’d get the bolt cutters from Morgan and be inside in a few seconds. He climbed to his feet. A long shadow fell over him. As he turned to confront the dark figure, a board swung toward his head.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A scream sounded from the trailer. Morgan dialed 911 and gave the salvage yard address. She shoved the phone into her pocket and searched the clearing for Lance.

  A man swung a board at Lance. He spun and ducked to evade it. The board struck him across the back of the shoulders. He fell to the ground, stunned, and lay still. His attacker dropped the board and jumped on top of him.

  No!

  Morgan pulled her gun from its holster and ran forward.

  The attacker straddled Lance’s chest and threw a punch at his face. Lance wrapped his arm around his head to block the incoming fist.

  Morgan stopped ten feet away and aimed the gun at the fighting men. “Freeze!”

  The attacker ignored her and punched Lance in the ribs; Lance recoiled from the blow.

  The man reached for the gun in Lance’s holster. Lance clamped both hands over his opponent’s, keeping the gun secure. They struggled for control of the weapon. Lance bucked and rolled.

  And Morgan had no clear shot.

  She changed her angle but still couldn’t shoot.

  Damn it!

  She had to do something. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Lance get hurt. Heart hammering, she scanned the ground, looking for a weapon.

  The two-by-four!

  Holstering her weapon, she raced forward and snatched it off the ground. The fighting men came to a stop, the attacker on top. Morgan rushed forward, desperation lending her strength. Two-handing it, she swung it like a baseball bat and hit him across the back.