Kill Without Mercy

by Alexandra Ivy

  Rafe arched a brow. “And you just decided to break into my house?”

  “I didn’t want to wander around town terrifying the natives.”

  Rafe gave a short laugh at the thought of the large male with his buzz cut and tattoos strolling down the streets of Newton.

  He definitely would have caused a panic.

  “Good choice,” he said dryly, planting his fists on his hips. “But you wouldn’t have to worry about the natives if you’d stayed in Houston.”

  “You asked me to get you info, didn’t you?”

  The faux reasonable tone did nothing to ease the spike in Rafe’s temper.

  He loved his partners like brothers. He truly did. But sometimes they could be worse than mother hens.

  “I didn’t say you had to personally deliver it,” he pointed out. “This might be the boonies, but I do have Internet access.”

  The golden eyes narrowed. “You know I always go above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Yeah, and you’re as nosy as an old woman.”

  Teagan smiled, smart enough not to try and deny his reason for traveling to Newton. “You can’t blame me for being curious why you’re suddenly interested in a serial killer.”

  True. If the positions were reversed, he wouldn’t be able to stay away. Not until he was certain his friend hadn’t lost his mind.

  “Where are the files?” he asked.

  Teagan nodded toward the low, arched doorway across the room. “In the kitchen. Along with a few bottles from your favorite microbrewery.”

  “Damn.” The mention of the beer had Rafe instantly on the move. He’d been enduring cheap on-tap beer for the past week. “If you weren’t so ugly I’d kiss you,” he said.

  Teagan strolled behind him. “You’re so not my type.”

  “Thank God.” Rafe opened the fridge to pull out two beers, using the edge of the counter to pop off the caps. “I’ve seen your type,” he told his friend, handing him one of the bottles.

  “Harsh,” Teagan muttered with a smile. They both knew he always chose drop-dead gorgeous females. Then, moving to the center of the cramped room, he tapped the files stacked on the dining table. “Here’s the info on Don White.”

  Rafe pulled out a seat, flipping open the top folder and spreading the contents across the table.

  “It’s kind of sketchy,” he muttered.

  There was a black-and-white mug shot, a dozen newspaper clippings that screamed the headline NEWTON SLAYER, a copy of White’s driver’s license, the mortgage on his farm, and the insurance policy on a silver Taurus.

  “Sketchy is the right word,” Teagan growled, gingerly taking a seat across the table.

  There was a creak of protest as his weight threatened to turn the hand-carved piece of furniture into firewood. They both sucked in a breath, waiting to make sure his ass wasn’t going to hit the linoleum floor, before Teagan leaned forward to plant his elbows on the table.

  “What do you mean?” Rafe asked.

  “I can’t find any info on him before he moved to Newton.”

  “That’s weird.” Rafe pointed toward the top newspaper clipping. “It says here that he was born in Fairbanks and moved to Bahrain with his family. After his wife and son died in a car accident, he moved with his daughter to Newton.”

  “Bogus.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Dude. It’s me.”

  Rafe grimaced. If Teagan said it was bogus, it was bogus.

  End of story.

  “That’s crazy,” he muttered. “Granted, the police in this town are closer to Barney Fife than Sherlock Holmes, but the federal authorities had to have been involved once they realized they had a serial killer on the loose.”

  “The I.D. was good enough to pass most background checks,” Teagan said. “Especially since they were no doubt in a hurry to close the book on the man. Once he was dead there was no reason to look any closer. Most of the evidence was boxed up and stored in the local courthouse, which burned to the ground just a few days later.”

  Rafe tapped his finger on the mug shot. Why would Don White have an alias?

  The obvious reason was that he was on the run.

  But from what?

  The cops? A previous victim who could I.D. him?

  At this point it was impossible to say.

  He lifted his head to meet Teagan’s steady gaze. “You’re still digging?”

  “Yep, but it’ll take a few days.”

  Rafe pointed to the rest of the files. “What are those?”

  “The victims.” Teagan grabbed a folder and handed it to Rafe. “Number one. Connie Matthews.” He waited for Rafe to pull out a picture of the woman with short, brown hair and a narrow, weary face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. “Twenty-seven years old,” Teagan continued. “She had one son in sixth grade. She went to the local convenience store one night for cigarettes and never came home. She was married to an alcoholic prick who regularly sent her to the hospital, so people assumed he’d finally killed her and dumped her in a ditch.”

  Rafe swallowed a sigh, not surprised that his companion’s face looked like it’d been carved from granite.

  Teagan’s father had nearly beaten his mother to death before Teagan got big and mean enough to run the bastard off.

  Rafe motioned with his hand. “Number two?”

  Teagan handed him the second file. “Vicky Price. Taken two days later. A high school dropout and single mom.”

  Rafe flinched as he opened the folder to see a picture of a blond-haired girl who looked like she should be cheering for the local football team.

  “She was only seventeen?” he rasped.

  “Yeah. She’d just completed her GED and was about to start work at a local grocery store.” Teagan grabbed the next file. “Number three was Teresa Hunt.”

  Rafe frowned as he pulled out the picture of an overweight, middle-aged woman with gray hair and a round face. “Forty-seven,” he read from the bio that Teagan had pulled together. “Married for twenty-five years with six kids, most of them grown.”

  “Number four is Joyce Remington.” Teagan added the next file to his growing pile. “A thirty-year-old divorced mother of three boys. She worked as a janitor at the local school.”

  Rafe barely had time to glance at the grainy picture of an anemic-looking woman with faded red hair and pale skin before there was another file in front of him. “Lori Menard,” he read the name on the tab.

  “The trophy wife of the local banker,” Teagan said as Rafe flipped the folder open to study the professional headshot of a bottle blonde with wide blue eyes and Cupid lips. A traditional Midwest beauty queen. “It was his third marriage. She’d just had their first baby when she was taken.” The sixth folder was shoved in front of Rafe. “Kathy Benson. The church organist and grandmother.” File seven landed on top. “And last, but not least, Sharon Brock, the wife of the current sheriff.” Teagan pulled out the photo of a young woman with dark blond hair carefully styled to look windblown and a pretty, petulant face. “She was pregnant when she disappeared.”

  “Holy shit.” Rafe spread out the pictures, pushing aside his horror at the knowledge each of the women had been gruesomely murdered. He wasn’t a trained professional, but it seemed weird he couldn’t make a connection between them. “I thought serial killers had a pattern.”

  “So did I.” Teagan tapped an impatient finger on the table. “I ran a dozen different algorithms, and all I could come up with was the fact they were all women, they were all from Newton, and they all had children, except for the last, and she was pregnant.”

  “It’s thin.”

  Teagan reached to gather up the files, putting them back in a pile before he placed his hands flat on the table. “Now.” He had on his don’t screw with me expression. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Knowing the stubborn bastard wasn’t going to leave until Rafe had shared at least a part of his interest in a long-dead serial killer, Rafe drained h
is beer and rose to his feet.

  “Come with me.”

  Leaving the kitchen, Rafe led his friend across the living room and out the front door. Then, reaching into the bag he’d left on the porch swing, he pulled out the poster he’d taken off the window of the grocery store.

  “Here.”

  Teagan tilted the paper to catch the light spilling through the open door. “Shit,” he growled as he read the information about the missing Jenny. “Did someone hire you to find her?”

  “No.” Rafe hesitated. He didn’t want to share his unexpected fascination with Annie White. Not because he worried about Teagan busting his balls—that was a given—but he didn’t want his friends questioning his sanity. “Let’s just say I’ve taken a personal interest in the case.”

  Teagan tossed the poster back in his bag. “Do you suspect this missing girl has something to do with the dead serial killer?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Does it have anything to do with your grandfather?”

  “Not a damned thing.”

  Teagan folded his arms over his chest, his muscles bulging. “I’m going to figure it out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out.” Rafe pointedly glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven. “Don’t you have someplace else to be?”

  “Not really. Hauk isn’t coming to pick me up until I give him a call.” Teagan flashed a smile. “We can have a slumber party and braid each other’s hair.”

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “Even if you had hair, I . . .”

  He forgot what he was saying as headlights flashed over the porch and he instinctively moved to disappear into the shadows. Since the house was the last on the block it was rare to have any traffic, and never at this time of night.

  Watching the car pass, his vague curiosity sharpened to disbelief as he recognized the yellow Jeep pass by.

  He muttered a curse, digging in his pocket for the keys to his truck.

  “Rafe?” Teagan grabbed his shoulder, turning him to meet his puzzled gaze. “What’s going on?”

  “Come on.” Jerking free of his friend’s grasp, Rafe vaulted over the low banister that framed the porch and jogged across the yard to jump into his truck.

  Five seconds later he’d fired up the engine and shoved the truck into gear. With a muttered curse, Teagan jumped into the seat beside him, barely managing to slam his door shut before they were jolting down the graveled road at a speed that threatened to snap his spine.

  “Slow down, dude,” Teagan growled. “Where are we going?”

  Rafe kept his gaze locked on the vehicle ahead of him, keeping his lights off as they traveled past empty fields and clusters of trees. “I don’t know.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.” Teagan leaned down to pull a handgun from the holster he kept hidden at his ankle.

  They traveled in silence, Rafe slowing the truck to keep space between himself and the vehicle ahead. Then, as the Jeep turned onto a narrow drive and halted in front of an abandoned house, he pulled to a stop at the side of the road.

  “What the hell?” He watched as a shadowy figure climbed out of the Jeep and headed around the edge of the two-story farmhouse.

  “Wait,” Teagan muttered, pulling out his phone and tapping on the screen. “I recognize this place.” He turned the phone so Rafe could see the black-and-white image of a house with a large headline above it. “Here.”

  “Home of the Newton Slayer,” Rafe read out loud.

  It took a mere glance to recognize the picture was of the same house that stood just ahead of them.

  Granted, the roof was now sagging and half the covered porch had fallen in, but the stained-glass dormer window and distinctive weathervane shaped like an owl were unmistakable.

  Which helped to explain the late-night visit.

  “So who are we following?” Teagan demanded, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

  Rafe scanned the overgrown fields that surrounded the house, searching for any sign of movement.

  “Annie White,” he admitted, accepting that Teagan deserved the truth if he was going to be put in danger.

  “White?” Teagan made a sound of shock. “The daughter of the serial killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn, Rafe,” his companion breathed.

  Rafe shoved his door open as he watched Annie return from the side of the yard, climbing onto the porch and entering the house. “Look, we can discuss this later. I’m going after her.” He pulled out his gun, glancing toward his friend as the large man climbed out of the truck. “I need you to do a sweep of the area to make sure we’re alone.”

  Teagan scowled, blatantly unimpressed with Rafe’s choice of midnight activities. But with a short nod, he jogged down the road, clearly intent on starting his search at the edge of the distant field.

  Rafe chose the more direct route.

  Crossing the yard that had been overtaken by weeds, he cautiously stepped onto the porch that had become a minefield for the unwary—missing boards, rusty tools, and an angry opossum that hissed at him as he passed.

  Not that inside was any better.

  Stepping into a front room filled with furniture covered with dust and spiderwebs, he shuddered. The walls were decorated with garish graffiti that proclaimed the Newton Slayer a “Devil” and wished for him to rot in hell. And someone had dressed up a mannequin in women’s clothing and smeared it with red paint, leaving it in the center of the threadbare carpet.

  Christ.

  The entire place would be greatly improved with a lit match and a splash of gasoline.

  Moving to grab the mannequin and toss it in a distant corner, Rafe was prepared for the sound of Annie’s frightened voice coming from deeper in the house.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Rafe,” he immediately called out. “Rafe Vargas.”

  There was a short pause, as if the woman was considering the possibility of slipping out the back door. Then, smart enough to know he would track her down, she slowly returned to the front room.

  Rafe’s gut twisted at the sight of her small body covered in a pair of flannel shorts and a tiny top with spaghetti straps. Her hair was tangled as if she’d just crawled out of bed, and her face was pale in the moonlight that poured through the busted windows.

  She looked young and fragile and utterly lost.

  Still, she didn’t cower.

  Oh no. Not Annie White.

  Instead she tilted her chin and glared at him like a kitten preparing to hiss at a cat twice her size. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I saw your Jeep drive past my grandfather’s house and I followed you.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I was worried.” He moved forward. God, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and carry her away from the evil in this place. “It’s late for you to be out alone.”

  Her eyes widened as she abruptly pressed herself against the far wall. “No,” she rasped, her gaze locked on the gun in his hand. “Stay back.”

  Damn. He’d forgotten he was holding the weapon. Now he turned the weapon in his hand, angling the handle of the pistol toward her as he continued forward. “Easy.”

  “Please . . .” A frantic pulse beat at the base of her throat. “No.”

  Rafe grimaced. He could feel the force of her panic as he carefully placed the gun in her hand and wrapped her fingers around the grip.

  Goddamn her psycho father.

  He’d terrorized this poor woman until it was a wonder she was capable of functioning.

  Of course, he wryly acknowledged, any woman would be spooked to be alone in this house with a virtual stranger.

  “The safety is on, but it’s loaded, so try not to shoot me unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he warned her, slowly releasing her hand and backing away. “Okay?”

  She stared at the gun for a long second before lifting her hand and pointing the weapon at his heart with a surprisingly fluid motion.

  “I went hunting
with my foster father, so I know how to shoot,” she warned.

  He cocked a brow, his lips twitched.

  Her father had tried to destroy her, but she still had plenty of spirit.

  Thank God.

  “Good.” He met her challenging gaze with a nod of approval. “Now tell me what you’re doing here dressed in your . . .” His brain searched for the words women used for the strange things they slept in. “Jammies.”

  She glanced around the shadowed room. “I used to live here.”

  “It’s kind of late for a homecoming, isn’t it?”

  “I—”

  Her words broke off with a violent shiver, and jerking down the zipper of his hoodie, Rafe pulled it off and moved to wrap it around the half-dressed woman. “Dammit, you’re freezing,” he growled, briefly taking the weapon so he could tuck her arms into the sleeves of the jacket. Once it was zipped, he returned the weapon to her trembling hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  She glanced up, her eyes dark pools of misery. “I had to come,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  “I was worried.”

  He studied her with growing concern. There was some dark, haunting emotion that threatened to consume her.

  More than just fear.

  He gently grasped her shoulders. “Annie?” he prompted in soft tones.

  She licked her lips, but she made no effort to pull from his touch. “I saw a woman being taken,” she at last said, her voice harsh. “I was afraid she was here.”

  His brows snapped together, his hand automatically reaching for his phone. “You witnessed a woman being kidnapped?”

  “No. I mean it was . . .” She hesitated, then with an obvious effort forced the words past her stiff lips. “It was a dream.”

  Rafe abruptly recalled the waitress’s revelation that Annie had been institutionalized for claiming to have witnessed the murders. “A dream or a vision?”

  She ducked her head as if preparing for his ridicule. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Annie, look at me.” He hooked a finger beneath her chin, gently urging her to meet his gaze. “My mother came from a long line of psychics,” he said, hoping his sincerity was unmistakable. He’d taken a lot of shit over the years for his beliefs, but he never apologized. He knew the truth. “She died when I was too young to truly understand what that meant, but I know that I’ve inherited some of her gift.”