Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

Hathaway was missed. She was popular and the faculty had assumed she would attend. The charges against Daniel Jennings were on everyone’s lips, each with a different opinion, but the most common was that the Green Beret was framed, whispered so the host wouldn’t overhear.

Dean Gordon was three drinks in and he’d forgotten his embarrassment from last year when he’d asked Hathaway to dance and she politely declined. Where was she? Should he try again? One more drink and he might, if he could break away from the awful conversation with Angela Pierce.

Coach Murray’s wife Eden was in her element, drink in hand, chatting with friends. Murray kept to himself, in no mood to celebrate. By coming, he’d betrayed his friends, especially Craig Lewis. He was a hypocrite, demanding his players be warriors when he was a coward. His assistant coaches tried to talk but he was worthless and they drifted away. He kept to himself and his glass of Cruzan 151, a strong rum, remaining by the roaring fireplace.

Across the room, Peter Lynch was in high cotton, circulating among the guests with greater spirit than normal. No one noticed but Murray, but Lynch’s eyes kept darting to the stairs.

The small room Jennings found was lit by one naked overhead bulb. The floor gradually sloped to a drain at the center. Saline bags hung from a pole on wheels. A medical kit sat open on a work bench, next to other supplies that didn’t make sense in Jennings’ brain—a red silicone ball, red ribbons, leather straps, tourniquets, unmarked bottles. A framed picture smiled at him from the bench. It was Daisy posing with the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a photo he knew he’d seen on her fridge. In the corner, red jerry cans that smelled like gasoline.

A thick chain stretched across the room near the ceiling, bolted into opposing walls. Dangling from the thick chain were big silver hooks.

Jennings’ attorney, Josh Dixon, hung limp from the hooks. Two pierced Dixon’s armpits and one went through his chin, tilting his head back. He’d been dead for hours. Dixon’s arms were forced wide by the pressure, a cruciform in a white button-down shirt. The shirt had been white, now dark with blood—his heart had still been pumping as the hooks entered.

I’ll put your hooks through your armpits. And a third under your jaw, through the fleshy part, the sharp point into your mouth like a fish. String you up that way.

Dixon had gone to the field without him. Jennings had warned the man to stay way. He’d felt the attorney’s ambition gnawing, whispering reckless ideas and looking for headlines.

He got them, the hard way.

One of Dixon’s shoes was missing, the other caked with dirt. Toes six inches off the floor, near the cans of gasoline. Jennings was putting clues together, guessing Lynch burned his corpses and buried what was left over.

His stomach threatened again. He forced himself to look away.

WHERE was Daisy?

Hathaway stood in front of the mirror and admitted Lynch had picked out a spectacular dress. A crimson evening gown with an asymmetrical, off-the-shoulder neckline and mermaid silhouette. She’d never worn anything by Valentino. Lynch had guessed her height wrong by an inch—too much of the train draped the floor—but otherwise it was uncomfortably accurate.

She would not be wearing those absurd stiletto heels, though.

She’d go barefoot. She’d run until she saw a friendly face and borrow a phone. She had to, had to get out of this house right now.

Hathaway stepped back into the bedroom on wobbly legs and her vision lurched. Whatever cocktail Lynch drugged her with was slow to wear off.

“You look beautiful.” The girl was back, standing next to the tall man. The man squeezed his eyes shut.

“Thank you,” said Hathaway. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

“I’m not allowed.” She pointed at the man. “Neither is he.”

Of course not. I’m not either, inside this house.

“I understand. How do I…” Get out of here! “How do I get downstairs?”

“I’ll show you,” said the girl.

Jennings was still nauseated as he peered into the short hallway on the main level. A phone, all he needed was a phone. A phone and Hathaway. He had to get her out now.

He estimated over a hundred people were in the great room. In the hallway one of the basketball coaches and the dean’s secretary were whispering and laughing, standing under mistletoe.

Jennings had a direct view into the kitchen, where caterers were plating hors d’oeuvres and servers scraped off their trays.

He spotted a landline phone on the wall beyond them. One phone call, 911, that’s all he needed.

Coach Murray saw her first.

Hathaway slowly coming down, gripping the rail with both hands. Her face looked pale, her eyes wide and searching.

“Ah shit,” Coach Murray said to himself and he spilled half his drink. The golden liquor splashed and puddled on the stone of the hearth.

The bastard Lynch had kidnapped her.

But then, why was Hathaway dressed so good? What the hell was going on?

Murray looked at his phone again. Still no messages or calls from Jennings. He had to talk to Hathaway right now, right fucking now.

He set his drink down next to the fire. So confused and upset, he knocked the glass sideways, spilling the rest.

Whatever, he’d clean it up later. Right now he needed to fight through the crowds and reach the stairs.

What Murray didn’t know was, vapor from alcohol caught fire, not the liquid. The hotter the alcohol, the more vapor was produced. His puddle near the fireplace, seventy-five percent alcohol, heated quickly.

Something else Murray didn’t know—his puddle was spreading, tentacles reaching toward the stockings hung on the legs of the mantel.

As he entered the fray, pushing past partiers, whispers began to circulate…

It was true! Peter Lynch was about to propose and here she came down the stairs. The whispers spread like wildfire.

The phone. Fifteen steps away.

Jennings ducked his head and stepped into the hallway.Go go go.

Police Chief Gibbs uncoiled from