Pushed Too Far: A Thriller (15 page)

She frowned. She was obviously missing something. “Side trips?”

“Couple cemeteries down there. Northwest of the city. Might be fun to visit.”

She smiled as his meaning dawned. Jeff had said he’d do it, but now that he was acting chief, the plan had changed. “You know, that is a great suggestion.”

Maybe this trip would be more than a forced vacation after all.

Dale Kasdorf saw the police car through the trees along the highway before it turned into his drive.

He knew they’d be coming.

The calls from police had begun days ago, cautious words about keeping safe, warnings of dangers to come. Little did they know, the bad things had already started. The woman at the lake. Strange movements at the dairy farm next door. The car crash tonight on Sunrise Ridge. They knew bits and pieces. But only he saw all of it happening and could put the pieces together.

Or at least enough of them to be certain he didn’t want any part.

He ducked back into his house and locked the door, sliding the bolts home in three places. Immediately he made for the stairs. The wood gave a hollow thunk under his boots as he descended into the cellar. The place was cold and dank. Not a place anyone sane would stay by choice. Not a place anyone would look.

And that was the point.

He crossed to one water-stained rock wall lined with shelves of canning jars. The corn relish and tomatoes and icicle pickles had been put up by his mother, and most were still good. Every once in awhile, he’d open one as a treat. To remember her sweet face and brave smile.

The rest of his childhood, he was willing to forget.

He grabbed the right side of the wood shelves and swung them into the room and out of the way, revealing the door hidden behind.

The entrance to his bunker. To his home.

He’d set the place up to be climate controlled. The chill of winter never reached in here, nor did the basement’s humidity in summer. It had its own air, pumped in from outside and filtered until it was pure. It had its own generator, so he’d always have power, even when other electricity went out. It had its own water supply pumped out of the ground beneath.

The pressure seal made a satisfying sucking sound as he pulled the door open. He stepped inside and surveyed his space.

Weapons lined the walls, everything from knives to handguns to rifles and shotguns he’d modified himself. He shut the door safely behind him and feasted his eyes on his newest addition, a Charter Arms .44 Bulldog revolver like Son of Sam used.

Sweet.

He’d inherited the decrepit farm from his parents. Inherited a lot of money, too. And he’d sunk it all into this place. The ratty old farm house on the surface that was held together with little more than duct tape and Liquid Nails was merely a cover for his real home under the ground.

This was where he lived. Where he was safe. Where he couldn’t be watched. Not by cops or by killers.

And if either one came after him, this is where he’d make his stand.

Val found the road to the cemetery on her third try.

It was barely a road, really, not much more than a couple of tire ruts that turned off the highway near a small gravel quarry. The first two times they’d passed, Val had chalked it up to the quarry road. The third drive by, desperation had pushed her to turn in.

The tiny Focus dipped and bucked through ruts, snow over the hubcaps in some places. Val kept her foot steady on the gas, praying they didn’t get stuck.

“Is this really a road?” Grace held onto the arm rest with one hand, the other braced on the dash.

An old metal arch of the type common on gates of ranches out west straddled the non-road, proclaiming the place the White Church Cemetery, but all Val could see on the adjacent swells and valleys were the tracks of horses in snow and the top of an indoor riding arena peeking over the crest of a hill.

“The grandparents are here, right?” Grace asked, squinting at the swirling white all around them.

“Right,” Val said. “Willard and Alfreda Unger.”

Alfreda Unger had four daughters. Kelly’s mother and her three aunts. Kelly’s mother was buried in the cemetery overlooking Lake Loyal. Val and Grace had found one aunt in the first Illinois cemetery they’d visited, a Christmas wreath on the grave, likely put there by the woman’s son, to whom Olson had spoken. That left Alfreda and two aunts in this cemetery.

Here there were no wreaths, and likely no visitors, since everyone in this branch of the family was already dead. The snow was much deeper, and provided they even made it without getting stuck, it was going to take some digging.

Not that Grace cared.

As grumpy as she’d been at the prospect of leaving Lake Loyal, she seemed in her element now. Val didn’t know many teenagers who would jump at the chance to go gravestone hunting with their aunts, but then most were nothing like her Grace. She had taken on the task as if it was a grand adventure. Her enthusiasm had even spread to Val. At first.

She wasn’t so excited about conquering this remote tundra. “We’re going to need the shovel.”

“It’s in the back seat.”

Val drove under the gate and came to a stop near a large burgundy stone that resembled the one Lund had mentioned when he’d given her directions. Leaving the Ford parked smack in what appeared to be the middle of the road, they got out. Having finally located her gloves in the Focus, Val pulled them on along with a hat. Similarly bundled, Grace grabbed the shovel, and they trudged to the first stone.

The name etched on granite was Jones.

“No good,” Grace called over the wind. “How about that one?”

They moved down the row, reading stone after stone. The wind kicked up, skimming a sparkle of fine ice crystals over the hills like sand in a desert. Val’s feet grew dank in her boots. Her cheeks stung with the cold, then settled into numbness.

She was about to give up when she spotted another burgundy stone peeking through a drift near the far corner of the cemetery. This one was smaller than the first, but wide, the kind that was used to mark more than one grave. “That could be it.”

She wallowed through one drift after another, Grace right at her side. There wasn’t just a little more snow here than in Lake Loyal, there was a lot. A little ironic since they were many miles to the south. It was at least fifteen degrees colder, too. By the time they reached the headstone, snow filled their boots and clung to their jeans up to their knees.

The marker itself was buried, and Grace half-wiped, half dug to clear the engraving. The names Willard and Alfreda Unger etched the granite, Kelly Ann’s grandparents on her mother’s side.

“We found it,” Grace shouted, as if discovering gold.

Val dug the shovel into the snow in front of the stone. The drift was packed hard, and by the time she’d cleared a spot of brown grass two feet square, she could feel the exertion in her back and legs, and her hand—which had been improving a little—could no longer grip the wooden handle.

The earth in front of the stone hadn’t been disturbed.

Grace held out her hand while eyeing Val’s. “I’ll dig.”

She stuffed her hand in her pocket. “My fingers are cold. Aren’t yours?”

“No, I’m good. Give me the shovel.”

Grace continued down the line. One aunt had died when she was a child, and Grace found her grave next to that of her parents. She cleared off the square of earth where a body would have been buried, and they found nothing but undisturbed grass, brown and frozen.

The days were growing short. That coupled with clouds moving in brought darkness earlier than Val had anticipated. With the night, the temperature dropped even further.

To think they were missing the warming trend in Lake Loyal for this.

Val hitched her coat tighter around her neck and followed Grace to the next stone. Hollywell. Then the next. Johnston.

“Here it is,” Grace called. “Another Unger.”

The stone was small and gray, its carving hard to make out in the snow and dimming light.

She dipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out the small flashlight she insisted Grace keep in her glove box and directed it at the marker, revealing the name Elizabeth Unger, the woman who was once married to Jeff Schneider.

Grace cleared more of the stone with her mitten. Liz’s birthdate, the dash, and … nothing. “No death date?”

She spun around, focusing wide eyes on Val. “Elizabeth Unger is still alive?”

O
f course, it wasn’t that simple.

“Just because a date isn’t entered on Liz Unger’s tombstone doesn’t mean she isn’t buried here.” Val explained to her niece. “All it means is someone failed to have the date carved into the stone.”

Grace cleared the snow in front of the grave marker, as she had with the others, and as with the others, the earth was undisturbed. “But it’s weird, right? Why wouldn’t someone make sure she has a death date?”

Val could think of a lot of reasons. “She might be buried somewhere else. She could have remarried before she died and was interred with her husband. She could have had children and is buried near them. For all we know, she could have retired to Florida and was buried down there.”

“So this doesn’t tell us anything?”

Val gave her niece an encouraging smile. “Actually, it does. It tells us we have some investigating to do. Elizabeth Unger died in a car crash, and as luck would have it, governments all over the country keep track of a lot of things, and fatal car accidents are one of them.”

They climbed back into the car. Possibilities whirled in Val’s head like the whipping wind and left her just as cold. Heater switched to blast furnace, she pulled out her phone and found Harlan Runk’s cell number in her directory.

He answered on the third ring. “Yup.”

“Harlan? It’s Val Ryker.”

“Hiya, sweet cheeks. What can I do ya for?” His words slurred and soft music, voices and clattering tableware sounded in the background.

No doubt the coroner was imbibing his favorite brandy old fashioned sweets at the supper club. She hoped he was sober enough to remember what she was about to tell him. And act on it. “I need you to do something for me.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“I’m not in Lake Loyal, Harlan, and this has to do with work.”

“You’re breaking my heart, honey pot. But I can’t deny you anything. What do you need?”

“I need you to request some medical records and compare them to what’s left of Jane Doe.”

“Jane Doe’s got no teeth. Without teeth, it’s a long shot.”

“Actually the whole thing is a long shot, Harlan. But I’m desperate.”

“I like the sound of that.”

She stifled a groan. “The bones have a fracture that matched a broken wrist Kelly had. Can you use that to compare?”

“I seem to remember that. Yup.”

“So you’ll do the comparison?”

“First thing in the morning. You’ve got my word, princess. Now to whom am I comparing?”

“Elizabeth Unger. She’s Kelly Lund’s aunt on her mother’s side. If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.” She thanked him and hung up.

Exiting the cemetery was easier, thanks to the tire ruts they made going in and the fact that they were now headed downhill. Val took Highway 14 Southeast to Palatine, then joined 53 and blended into Interstate 290.