CRIMSON
SUMMER
Author:
Heather Graham
ISBN: 9780778311829
Publication
Date: April 5, 2022
Publisher:
MIRA Books
Book
Summary:
From New
York Times bestselling author Heather Graham, suspense following
agents from the FBI and Florida Department of Law Enforcement as they
investigate a series of murders linked to conspiracy theorists and doomsday
cults.
Just when FDLE agent
Amy Larson thought she'd wrapped up her most chilling case, she was delivered a
red toy horse--a not-so-subtle taunt from a Doomsday cult that she and FBI
agent Hunter Forrest hoped they'd taken down. A apparent turf war in Seminole
territory in North Florida is the scene of a bloody massacre, and the blame
seems to lie with drug cartels out of South America. The trail will take the
pair on a cross-country hunt, and deep into a world of conspiracy theories,
greed and privilege, where a powerful, hidden group is trying to create civil
unrest through violence.
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Prologue
The sun was out, inching its way up in the
sky, casting golden rays and creating a beautiful display of color over the
shading mangroves and cypress growing richly in the area. The sunlight touched
on the streams running throughout the Everglades, the great “River of Grass”
stretching over two hundred acres in southern and central portions of Florida,
creating a glittering glow of nature.
The sky was gold and
red at the horizon, and brilliantly blue above, with only a few soft puffs of clouds
littered about. Diamonds and crystals seemed to float on the water.
Such beauty. Such
peace.
Then there was the
crime scene.
The bodies lay strewn
and drenched with blood. The rich, natural earth hues of the Everglades were
caught in a surreal image, greens and browns spattered liberally with the color
red as if an angry child had swung a sopping paint-brush around.
Aidan Cypress had
never understood why the mocking-bird had been made Florida’s state bird—not
when it seemed that vultures ruled the skies overhead. Never more so than
today.
Now, as he stood
overlooking the scene with his crew and special agents from the FDLE, trying to
control the crime scene against the circling vultures, Aidan couldn’t help but
wonder just what had happened and why it had happened this way—and grit his
teeth knowing there would be speculation.
Stooping down by the
body of a man Aidan believed to be in his midthirties—with dark hair, olive
complexion, possibly six feet in height, medium build—he noted the shaft of an
arrow protruding from the man’s gut.
All the dead had been
killed with arrows, hatchets, axes and knives. Because whoever had done this
had apparently tried to make it look like a historical Native American rampage.
Except the killers
hadn’t begun to understand there were differences in the weaponry and customs
between the nations and tribes of the indigenous peoples across the country.
In South Florida, the
dead man’s coloring could mean many things; Aidan himself was a member of the
Seminole tribe of Florida, though somewhere in his lineage, some-one had been
white—most probably from northern Europe originally. He had a bronze
complexion, thick, straight hair that was almost ebony…and green eyes.
South
Florida was home to those who had come from Cuba, Central and South America and
probably every island out there. The area was truly a giant melting pot. That’s
how his family had begun. In a way, history had created the Seminole tribe
because there had been a time when settlers had called any indigenous person in
Florida a Seminole.
But while the killers
had tried to make this look like a massacre of old, the dead men were not
Seminole. They were, Aidan believed, Latino. He could see tattoos on the lower
arms of a few of the dead who had been wearing T-shirts; a single word was
visible in the artwork on the man in front of him—Hermandad.
Spanish for
“Brotherhood.”
“What the hell
happened here, Aidan?”
Aidan looked up to
see that John Schultz—Special Agent John Schultz, Florida Department of Law
Enforcement—was standing by his side.
John went on. “It’s
like a scene out of an old cowboys and Indians movie!”
Aidan stared at John
as he rose, bristling—and yet he knew what it looked like at first glance.
“Quaking aspen,”
Aidan said.
“Quaking aspen?” John
repeated blankly.
“It’s not native to
this area. Look at the arrow. That wasn’t made by any Seminole, Miccosukee or
other Florida Native American. That is a western wood.”
“Yeah, well, things
travel these days.”
Aidan shook his head.
He liked John and respected him. The older agent was experienced, a few years
shy of retirement. The tall, gray-haired man had recently suffered a heart
attack, had taken the prescribed time off and come back to the field. They’d
worked together dozens of times before. He could be abrasive—he had a
sometimes-unhappy tendency to say what he thought, before thinking it through.
A few years back John
had been partnered with a young woman named Amy Larson. It had taken John a
long time to accept her age—and the fact she was female. Once he’d realized her
value, though, he’d become her strongest supporter.
But Amy wasn’t here
today.
And Aidan missed her.
She softened John’s rough edges.
She was still on
holiday somewhere with Hunter Forrest, the FBI agent she’d started dating. They
were off on an island enjoying exotic breezes and one another’s company minus
all the blood and mayhem.
Aidan stopped
lamenting the absence of his favorite FDLE agent and waved away a giant vulture
trying to hone in on a nearby body.
Half of the corpses
were already missing eyes and bits and pieces of skin and soft tissue.
Aidan sighed and
looked around. There were twenty bodies, all of them male, between the ages of
twenty and forty, he estimated.
Because he’d noted
the tattoos on a few of them, and using his own years of experience, he
theorized the dead were members of a gang. Florida had many such gangs. Most
were recruits from the various drug cartels, resolved to hold dominion over
their territories.
He looked at John,
trying to be patient, understanding and professional enough to control his
temper. “You know, you may be the special agent, but I’m the forensics expert,
and this was not something perpetrated by any of the Florida tribes—or any
tribe anywhere. I can guarantee you no one sent out a war party to slaughter
some gang members. Someone tried—ridiculously—to make this look like some
Natives did this.”
“Hey, sorry, you’re
right. Forgive me—just…look around!” John said quickly and sincerely. “It’s
just at first sight…well, I mean—wow. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The apology was
earnest. “Okay. Let’s figure out what really happened.”
The corpses were in
something of a clearing right by a natural stream making its way through
hammocks thick with cypress trees and mangroves and all kinds of underbrush.
While the area was
customarily filled with many birds—herons, cranes, falcons, hawks and more—it
was the vultures who had staked out a claim. The bodies lay with arrows and
axes protruding from their heads, guts or chests, as if they’d fought in a
bloody battle. And now they succumbed to decay on the damp and redolent earth.
John followed Aidan’s
gaze and winced. “It’s a mess. Okay, well…all right. I’m going to go over and
interview the man who found this.”
“Jimmy Osceola,”
Aidan said. “He’s been fishing this little area all his life, and he does
tours. Two birds with one stone. Members of his family work with him and all of
them fish and take tourists out here. He has a great little place right off
I-75. It’s called Fresh Catch, and his catch is about as fresh as it gets.
Catfish. He’s a good guy, John.”
“I believe you. But
we’re going to need a break here—you and your team have to find something for
me to go on.”
Aidan stared at him,
gloved hands unclenching at his sides. John was rough around the edges and said
whatever came to mind, but he was a good cop.
He’d be hell-bent on
finding out just what had gone on here.
Aidan told him what
he’d heard. “Jimmy was out with a boatload of tourists—they’re right over
there. See—two couples, a kid who just started at FIU and two middle-aged
women. The first officers on the scene made sure they all stayed. Go talk to
them. They look like they came upon a bloodbath—oh, wait, they did.”
John arched a brow to
him and said, “Yeah. I got it.”
He headed off to talk
to Jimmy Osceola and the group with him.
Aidan studied the
crime scene again, as a whole.
First, what the hell
had all these men been doing out here? A few of them looked to have been
wearing suits; most were in T-shirts and jeans.
The few bodies he had
noted—not touching any of them, that was the medical examiner’s purview—seemed
to bear that same tattoo. Hermandad.
That meant a gang of
enforcers in his mind, and he was sure it was a good guess.
Had a big drug deal
been planned?
They were on state
land, but it was state land traveled only by the local tribes who knew it. The
park service rangers also came through, and the occasional tourist who arranged
for a special excursion into the wilds.
Bird-watchers, often
enough.
All they’d see today,
however, would be the vultures.
“Aidan.”
He heard his name
spoken by a quiet female voice and he swung around.
Amy Larson was not
enjoying an exotic island vacation.
She was standing just
feet from him, having carefully avoided stepping on any of the bodies, pools of
blood or possible evidence. She was in a navy pantsuit, white cotton shirt and
serviceable black sneakers—obviously back to work.
No matter how
all-business her wardrobe, Amy had blue-crystal eyes that displayed empathy and
caring. She was great at both assuring witnesses and staring down suspects.
“What are you doing
here, Amy?” Aidan asked her. “You’re supposed to be sunbathing somewhere,
playing in the surf with Hunter.”
“I was.”
“So what happened?”
“It was great.
Champagne, chocolates, sun, surf, sand…” She sighed.
“And?”
“And a little red
horse—like the one from last month’s crime scene—delivered right to the room,”
she said.
Excerpted
from Crimson Summer by Heather Graham, Copyright © 2022 by Heather Graham
Pozzessere. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
Social Links:
Twitter: @HeatherGraham
Instagram: @TheOriginalHeatherGraham
Facebook: @HeatherGrahamAuthor
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