Page 43 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Doug hunched over his keyboards, pulling up databases and cross-referencing information with the methodical precision of someone who lived for complex puzzles.

Derby stood by the communications equipment, coordinating backup units and emergency services.

The controlled energy that came with an active manhunt thrummed through the room.

Jack paced behind his desk, cell phone pressed to his ear as he coordinated resources with surrounding counties.

The office door opened and Sheldon appeared in the doorway, wearing his white T-shirt and boxers with a bathrobe hastily thrown over them. He held an empty coffee mug and paused when he saw the room full of people, his expression mildly curious behind his thick glasses.

“Sorry,” he said, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. “Didn’t realize you had company. I was just going to grab some coffee.” His gaze swept the room, taking in the laptops, maps, and general tension. “This looks official.”

“It is,” Jack said simply. “Help yourself to coffee. We might be here a while.”

Sheldon nodded and headed toward the small coffee station. “Did you know that the average law enforcement officer consumes approximately three times more caffeine than the general population? It’s a statistical anomaly that correlates with shift work and high-stress environments.”

“Fascinating,” Derby said without looking up from his communications equipment.

Sheldon poured his coffee, then turned back toward the group. “Margot, are you monitoring the situation?”

“I am providing analytical support as requested,” Margot replied smoothly. “Hello, Sheldon.”

“Hello back,” he said, a small smile crossing his face. “I don’t suppose you have any opinions on the boss fight mechanics in Elden Ring ? I’ve been stuck on this one encounter for three hours.”

“I have access to gaming databases and strategy guides,” Margot said, and there was something almost pleased in her electronic tone. “Which boss encounter is proving problematic?”

“Margaery the Fell Omen,” Sheldon said, settling into one of the extra chairs. “I keep getting caught in her AOE attack pattern.”

“Area of effect attacks require precise timing and positioning,” Margot replied. “I could analyze your combat approach and suggest tactical adjustments.”

Martinez glanced up from his notes. “The AI’s giving gaming advice now. She really does have better social skills than most people.”

“I heard that,” Chen called from where she was checking her radio.

“Did you know,” Sheldon said, “that artificial intelligence was first theorized in 1950 by Alan Turing? He created the Turing Test to determine if a machine could exhibit intelligent behavior equivalent to a human.”

“Fascinating,” Derby said dryly. “Can we focus on the current crisis?”

“Sorry,” Sheldon said, munching his crackers. “I get excited about learning new things. Margot, do you think you could pass the Turing Test?”

“I believe the more relevant question,” Margot replied, “is whether humans could pass a test designed by artificial intelligence.”

Cole looked up from his equipment. “That’s either really profound or really disturbing.”

“Both,” Doug said without looking away from his screens.

That’s when Jack’s phone buzzed against the desk with sharp insistence. The unknown number on the screen made every person in the room go still.

Sheldon stopped mid-chew, cracker crumbs frozen on his lips.

Jack hit speaker, and the electronically distorted voice that emerged carried the satisfaction of someone who’d been planning this moment for years.

“Sheriff Lawson. Your parents are running out of time.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change—fifteen years of tactical operations had trained that response out of him—but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. The only tell he allowed himself.

“Potts.”

“Finally figured it out. Took you long enough.” The mechanical voice held layers of mockery. “Every crime scene, every piece of evidence, every moment you trusted me with your investigation—I was three steps ahead of you.”

“Where are they?” Jack’s tone was flat, professional. The voice of a negotiator, not a son.

“Where Bridget Ashworth grew her healing herbs. Where her blood first touched Virginia soil. The stones have been waiting three centuries for justice, Sheriff. Tonight they’ll finally witness it.”

I felt the pieces shift into place—Evangeline’s property. The stone circle on the survey maps.

“You have until eleven thirty,” Potts continued. “One hour and fifteen minutes should be plenty of time to suit up and find your way through the marsh. Unless you get lost. That would be unfortunate for everyone involved.”

The line went dead before Jack could respond.

Sheldon sat frozen with his mouth slightly open, cracker crumbs scattered across his pajama top. “Was that the bad guy?”

“That was the bad guy,” I confirmed.

“She sounded really scary,” he whispered.

The room stayed silent for exactly three seconds after that. Then Jack was moving with the controlled efficiency of someone who’d done this too many times.

“Everyone back to your vehicles. Full tactical gear—night vision, waterproofs, extra ammunition.” He was already pulling his own equipment from a gun safe in the corner.

“Martinez, Daniels—meet at the boat launch in thirty minutes. Cole, take your team to the front entrance. Coordinate through Derby.”

The room emptied quickly. I could hear vehicles starting outside, radios crackling as they coordinated equipment pickup.

“Doug, I need satellite feeds on both approach routes.” Jack’s voice remained steady as he checked his sidearm. “Derby, keep comms clean. Heavy tree cover will interfere with signals.”

His gaze shifted to me as I laced up waterproof boots. “You’re staying here with command.”

“Your parents might need immediate medical attention. Smoke inhalation, drug overdose—an ambulance will have to take the long route.” I met his eyes steadily. “I might be the difference between them walking out or being carried out.”

Jack went still, and I could see him weighing tactical necessity against personal risk. His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to my stomach—acknowledging the secret we shared without words.

“You stay with me. No heroics.”

“Understood.”

The boat launch sat wrapped in pre-dawn darkness, the Rappahannock a black mirror reflecting pinpricks of starlight. Fish and Wildlife had delivered two jon boats as requested—aluminum hulls that would move silently through shallow water.

Martinez and Daniels were already in position, their movements efficient despite bulky gear. Both wore tactical vests over waterproof clothing, night vision goggles flipped up on their foreheads, weapons secured in waterproof cases.

“Comms check,” Doug’s voice crackled through our earpieces.

“Copy,” Jack responded, settling into the lead boat.

Plank took the oars in our boat, pulling us through black water without a sound.

Behind us, Martinez matched the rhythm perfectly.

The marsh closed around us—ancient cypress trees rising from dark water, their gnarled roots creating a maze of obstacles.

Spanish moss hung in gray curtains that brushed our faces as we passed.

The night vision goggles turned everything into eerie green shapes, but at least we could navigate safely. Every shadow could hide danger, every sound might signal discovery. An owl’s hunting cry made everyone tense. The splash of something large in the water had weapons swinging toward the sound.

“Visual on the dock,” Plank whispered.

We secured the boats in absolute silence. Jack was out first, moving with the fluid precision of someone who’d learned that speed and stealth weren’t mutually exclusive. The path wound through cypress stands, over rotting planks that groaned softly under our weight.

Then we saw it.

Seven weathered stones formed a rough circle about fifteen feet across—Bridget Ashworth’s boundary markers, where she’d grown her herbs three centuries ago. Ancient oaks formed a natural amphitheater around the circle, their branches blocking out most of the sky.

In the center stood a pyre of old wood and fresh kindling, rising six feet high. Jeri and Richard Lawson were tied to a central pole, their heads lolling forward with unconsciousness.

Two figures in dark robes stood at opposite points around the circle. Potts at the north, weapon ready. Evangeline at the east, holding an unlit torch like some medieval executioner.

Something felt wrong about the setup, but I couldn’t identify what.

That’s when someone stepped from the shadows behind us.

“Hello, Sheriff.”

I spun, weapon drawn, and felt reality shift sideways.

Judith Hughes stood twenty feet away, no longer the terrified victim who’d cowered in a barn. This woman held herself with calm purpose, a knife glinting in her hand, her eyes clear and focused.

“Surprised?” Her smile held sharp edges.

“I’m a much better actress than anyone gave me credit for.

Did you wonder how Thomas was poisoned? He was pathetically easy to manipulate.

Promise a man sex and new information about his obsession, and he’ll drink anything you put in front of him.

” Her smile turned predatory. “We never got to the sex part. Pity. He was quite skilled at it.”

Jack’s weapon tracked to her, but she was positioned where any shot risked hitting his parents. Professional calculation, not emotion.

“Welcome to the reckoning,” Potts called out, finally turning to face us. “You’re just in time to witness justice being served.”

Evangeline touched her torch to the base of the pyre. The kindling caught immediately, flames racing upward through dry wood with hungry intensity.

“Let them go,” Jack said. His voice carried absolute authority—the tone that made hardened criminals surrender without a fight.

“After the truth is heard.” Potts gestured toward the tree line. “Richard Blackwood owes us a debt.”