Read Smoky Mountain Investigation Online
Authors: Annslee Urban
Smoky Mountain Investigation
“I’M WATCHING YOU…”
A mysterious caller taunts journalist Kylie Harper with details about a decade-old death, leading her to a new trail of murder. Who is this deranged person…and what does he want from her? Ex-Delta Force captain and Kylie’s former love Nick Bentley fled their Smoky Mountain hometown after the murder of their classmate. When family duty calls him back, Nick comes face-to-face with Kylie…and the past he’s tried to forget. Now Nick must put everything on the line to save Kylie before she becomes the next victim of a madman.
“We can’t stop looking. What if—”
“Kylie, it’s okay.” Nick slipped his strong arm around her.
Instinct warned her not to get too close to this man. Years ago she’d learned what losing him could do to her heart. She couldn’t go down that path again. Still, it felt good to be in his arms again.
A shiver skidded over her at the thought of suspending the search. The killer’s phone call had directed her here.
“Come on.” She grabbed his hand.
The flashlight cast distorted shadows over the barn. They pushed aside cobwebs and searched till they found a box.
Blood pounded in Kylie’s ears. She tried not to jump, tried not to breathe as Nick opened the flaps and withdrew a bulging folder. Dozens of roughly cut-out newspaper articles and photos scattered onto the floor.
Her body went rigid when she realized she was looking at articles she’d written, along with black-and-white prints of
herself.
Was she the next victim?
ANNSLEE URBAN
grew up watching old-time romance movies, to which she attributes her passion for sweet romance, true love and happy endings. A daydreamer at heart, Annslee began her writing journey when the youngest of her five children started school. For several years she worked as a freelance writer for newspapers in her community and has written for magazines and online publications.
Raised in the foothills of Arizona, she survived temperature shock when she moved to Western Pennsylvania, before settling in North Carolina with her husband and children. Aside from writing, Annslee works part-time as a registered nurse in the behavioral health field. She is a member of ACFW, and has served on the board of Carolina Christian Writers.
When she isn’t writing, Annslee enjoys cooking, traveling to faraway places, playing with grandbabies and all things chocolate!
You can reach Annslee at
[email protected]
,
maryurban.blogspot.com
,
facebook.com/mary.a.urban.9
.
SMOKY MOUNTAIN INVESTIGATION
Annslee Urban
Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
—Hebrews
4:16
This book is affectionately dedicated to the memory of my father, Kenneth Lee Woods, a man whose love for reading and the Lord greatly shaped my life.
Also, to my mother and stepfather, Dee and Bob Gagnon. Your love for family and each other continues to inspire and bless me.
And to my grandchildren, Cameron, Isaac, Jayce and Kylie, who keep me young, laughing and ever amazed.
And most of all to the Lord God for making this book possible.
Contents
ONE
K
ylie Harper pressed the cell phone to her ear, her heart thumping against her chest. Had she heard the man right?
Standing outside the airport terminal, she took a moment to gather her composure. Angry clouds hovered low over Asheville, quickly turning the evening into night.
She took a much-needed breath. “Who is this?”
“Murderer.” He spoke slowly this time. More precisely. “Because of you, an innocent person died.”
Kylie stiffened and swallowed. A sick joke.
Crazed folks enjoy taunting journalists,
her rational self reminded her. “I don’t know who you are, what you want or even if you have the right number—”
“Ten years ago.” The slow, mumbled drawl bled through the phone line. “I was there.”
Clutching the cell in a death grip, Kylie smashed it harder to her ear. Her battered heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. “What do you want?” She tried to sound calm.
A raspy chuckle tore at her eardrums. “Dear Kylie, you do remember what happened ten years ago?”
Silence as her heart now ceased to beat. She pulled the phone from her ear, checked the display.
Restricted number
glared back.
She pressed the phone to her other ear. “Is this about Camp Golden Rock?” The words stuck in her throat.
A bark of laughter replaced the chuckle. “How many incidents are hidden in your past, Kylie? Could I be talking about anything else?”
Kylie gasped, breath caught in her throat.
“I know I’ve been negligent,” the man continued, “not staying in touch. But for this anniversary I planned something special.”
Struggling to even breathe, Kylie blocked the memories from her thoughts. So many times she’d relived that May night, haunted by the what-ifs and if-onlys. By God’s grace, she’d finally moved on. Put that nightmare behind her.
“Why are you doing this?” she ground out.
“You know how important memories are. Especially the ones that involve death.”
Memories. Anniversaries.
Her ten-year class reunion was coming up. As cruel as it seemed, only one explanation made sense: this had to be a prank. A hidden cameraman from some shock-reality show had to be hiding somewhere. Kylie jerked her gaze around the area.
“You won’t find me, Kylie.”
She froze. She was being watched.
“The baggage claim, Kylie. My gift is there. And remember, sweet girl, I’ll never be more than a heartbeat away,” the man calmly whispered. The phone went dead.
Panic jolted every nerve ending in Kylie’s body. Turning on her heel, she rushed back into the terminal and started down the concourse, praying this was a bad joke, but somehow knowing it wasn’t.
Leaving caution behind, she bounded down the escalator two steps at a time, her bulky purse banging against her side. On the bottom level and out of breath, she dashed around the corner and into the main baggage claim. She quickly scanned the area. Empty except for the two rental-car agents chatting behind a counter at the opposite end of the building.
She shifted her attention to the flight-status monitor on the wall. Her nerves settled a bit. The last plane for the evening had landed, but the carousel number had yet to be listed. She breathed easier. Nothing.
Thank You, Lord.
She’d seen this before. Some lonely person fascinated with unsolved murders and too much time on their hands. Why not rouse speculation and gain a little notoriety at the same time? And who better to harass than someone who’d been at the camp, a journalist no less? She shook her head.
A screech, thud and a chime resounded, then carousel A’s conveyor belt churned to life.
Kylie turned just in time to see a limp male figure roll down the chute and onto the moving belt.
No, dear Lord, not again.
Instantly, the chill returned. Her extremities turned icy about a second before a curdling cry tore from her throat.
* * *
Former Delta Force captain Nick Bentley barely roused as the aircraft’s front wheels made contact with the runway. The plane bounced, rose in the air and touched down hard again. The final jolt of the impact sent ripples along his spine.
Nick’s eyes flew open. He gripped the metal armrests.
Lights flickered on overhead. The thunder of the outside engines assailed his ears.
As he stiffened against the seat back, Nick’s adrenaline surged, his mind stumbling to keep up.
What mission are we on? What destination?
“Welcome to Asheville. The local time is seven thirty-eight,” crackled through the commuter’s speakers.
North Carolina.
Nick exhaled heavily as relief swept over him. The nightmare was over.
No more watching over his shoulder.
No more blistering desert heat.
No more death.
Or?
Tension grabbed at his gut. Was another nightmare about to begin? He was coming home—something he’d vowed he’d never do.
He glanced out the oval window to his left. Runway lights lent an eerie glow against the passing landscape. An outline of rugged mountains. The evergreen beauty was lost in the darkness and fog, but he could picture it still. Lofty hardwoods and bristly pines. Dense forest he used to love.
The plane rolled to a stop. He hung back, waiting for the few other passengers to deplane, then hefted his army-issued duffel bag onto his shoulder and stepped down the steep aircraft stairs and onto the tarmac. The terminal in front of him was lit brightly, surprisingly welcoming. Small and quaint. No bustling crowds to contend with.
Nothing had changed. That was what he was afraid of.
Three back-to-back tours of Afghanistan and Iraq should have prepared him for anything. So why was his gut twisted in knots?
Temporary assignment,
he reminded himself. Once his brother was back on his feet, he’d shake the dust off his shoes and move on. Find someplace to call home.
He repositioned his duffel and headed for the terminal doors. He inhaled deeply, pulling in a lungful of Blue Ridge air. Cool and clean, yet tainted with memories.
* * *
On the ground floor of the main terminal, Kylie stepped aside, allowing a wave of airport security officers a clear path to the baggage-claim conveyor belt and the body sprawled across it.
Two of the officers halted about a yard from the victim and exchanged glances. The older man, shorter and robust, shook his head. His grave expression said it all. The other officer, tall and lanky, craned his neck a bit for a better look but didn’t move any closer.
Nausea spiraled through Kylie’s abdomen. She struggled to breathe as flashes of another crime erupted in her mind. One just as gruesome. The night her classmate and friend Conrad Miller was killed.
“Late twenties, early thirties is my guess,” the tallest officer mumbled after a moment. “Anyone know who he is?” He glanced back at Kylie.
She shook her head. “Not that I can tell.”
Approaching sirens blazed to life behind her. The few onlookers, stragglers from earlier flights, were quickly herded out of the way as paramedics and sheriff’s deputies rushed in.
There was a cacophony of noise. Questions flying, voices escalating around her. The medics gave a quick assessment of the limp male figure lying in a pool of blood, then pulled a sheet from the gurney and covered him. No other measures were needed.
Kylie backed farther away from the scene and leaned against a nearby column. Coolness from the metal trim penetrated her thin jacket, adding to her chill. Fortunately, she’d gathered sufficient facts for a story, along with an elusive phone call. Nothing conclusive, but enough to satisfy her boss, chief news editor Max Dawson. And after a cliffhanger article for the morning paper, she planned to hand the story over to another colleague. Being at the wrong place at the right time—even worse, being the perpetrator’s contact person—didn’t make her the best fit for the story. Hopefully, Max would agree.
