Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia

Valley Forge National Park

Near Pauley’s Farm

Saturday morning

Dooley, the three-year-old beagle cadaver dog from the Philadelphia Field Office, whined softly, his body quivering, as he slinked over a low mound of bare winter earth. The sound was heartrending. His person, Special Agent Gil Payne, knelt down and hugged Dooley against him. “You did good, Dooley, you did really good. Come away now, come away.”

A disparate group of people surrounded the grave of Serena Winters as the forensics team began carefully digging.

“Agent Payne tells me Dooley’s never wrong,” Creighton’s police chief, Moseley, said.

NYPD Detective Hoolihan, a born doubter, said, “Well, he must have smelled something. There are a bunch of old graves around here from the Revolution.”

Mia stood beside Tommy, squeezing his hand tightly. “This is where Kent Harper said Serena was buried, so we’ll find her. He wouldn’t lie with death sitting on his shoulder. He was heavily drugged, but still it was obvious he regretted what happened to Serena.” She paused a moment, swallowed. “He cried.”

Tommy said calmly, “Doesn’t matter. Both he and Harrington deserve to rot in hell for what they did to Serena. I want them in a cell where they’ll have years to think about it every single day. And we’ll know they’ll never have the chance to hurt another woman in their miserable lives.” He swallowed, stopped talking. Mia squeezed his hand tighter.

Detective Hoolihan said, “Amazing Kent Harper’s still alive. His surgeon is even hopeful now he’ll make it. The D.A. actually smiled, I’m told.” He looked at Mia. “But what really surprises me is Harper believed he was talking to Serena, who called herself a gaming character, Aolith, and gave himself and his puppet master away. You must be some actress, Ms. Briscoe.”

Sherlock said, “Puppet master. That sounds right, Detective. Harrington was Kent’s Svengali, a man born without a moral compass, a classic psychopath. And he made sure he damaged Kent Harper’s compass enough to manipulate him.”

Juliet pointed. “Look!”

The circle around the grave tightened. They saw a swatch of black hair spilling out of a rotten, molding tarp. One of the forensics team looked directly at Sherlock and nodded. “I think we found her.”

Sherlock said, “Tommy, Mia, Juliet, all of you, walk away now.”

Mia choked on a sob, but she didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” She turned to Tommy, saw tears shining in his eyes, and pulled him to her. Juliet gathered them both in her arms, squeezed tight. “You found her, Tommy, Mia. You guys did it, you did it.”

Mia whispered, her voice liquid with tears, “It wasn’t a week ago Gail Ricci sent me those photos. Less than a week when it all started.”

Sherlock said quietly, “And now, because of you, it’s over, Mia.”

Mia, Tommy, and Juliet stood silent, holding one another’s hands as the tarp was lifted carefully out of the ground. Mia felt so many things at once, relief they’d found Serena, fury at the men who’d put her here, and relentless grief. Beside her, Tommy seemed frozen, no expression on his face, barely breathing. How could she comfort him when she wanted to curl up and sob? Juliet leaned into Mia and pulled her closer. Mia was grateful Juliet had asked to come, said it was important to her to see it through.

The wind had died down but the air was cold and damp. Detective Hoolihan had stood beside too many graves in his thirty-two-year career. None of them had ever been easy, some, like this one, a punch to the heart. He looked over at Mia Briscoe and Thomas Maitland, at Agent Sherlock, their anchor, their support. He had to admit he’d been lucky she’d asked to be included in his investigation.

Life, Hoolihan had found, happened in ways that always surprised you. At least for Serena Winters, there would finally be justice, even if it was seven long years in coming. He looked over at the amazing young woman, Mia Briscoe. She’d never forgotten and once she had the photos, she hadn’t stopped. He looked again at Serena Winters’s grave and wondered if there was ever any real peace at the end of a road like this.

Police Chief Moseley thought of the fat file that had sat on his desk for so long the pages were yellowed. Seven years, but he’d never had the heart to file it away. And in that thick file had been the blessed photo of Harrington’s Jaguar that would bring justice. Quietly, he said the Lord’s Prayer.