Crimson Summer by Heather Graham
New York Times
bestselling author, Heather Graham’s latest novel, Crimson Summer is coming out tomorrow. Thank you to MIRA Books for
inviting me on the tour for this book. I listen to First Chapter Fun, a group
that reads the first chapter of a book every Tuesday and Thursday. In honor of
this group, I’m going to share the first chapter of Crimson Summer. I hope you enjoy!
Blurb:
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. An 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.
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.
Author Bio:
Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime
Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.
Website: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com
Twitter: @HeatherGraham
Instagram: @TheOriginalHeatherGraham
Facebook: @HeatherGrahamAuthor
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