Smoky Mountain Investigation. Annslee Urban

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       ONE

      Kylie 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.

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