The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2

by Maegan Beaumont

  She would live.

  It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. What she was smelling. Bodies. So many of them, heaped on top of each other in a gruesome tangle of mottled skin and rotting flesh. She gagged, the smell of it—spoiled meat and spent fluids—pushing her back into the hallway.

  “Did you get lost, Margaret?”

  She was spun around by the heavy hand that landed on her shoulder and she swung out with her hands and missed, throwing herself off balance. He grabbed for her but she lunged out of the way, slamming into the wall. She almost went down but she kept her feet. Kept running. Kept moving.

  Back the way she’d come. Past the room she’d been kept in. Past the room she’d been raped in. She could hear him behind her, shouting at her to stop. That he would kill her if she didn’t.

  She didn’t stop. She ran until she found stairs.

  She climbed them, faster than she thought she could, slamming into the door that topped them. Pushing it open, she launched herself through it.

  More dark. The howl of a coyote.

  Below her, she could still hear him. He wasn’t shouting anymore but he was coming. He’d warned her what would happen if she didn’t stop. He was coming and if he caught her, he would kill her.

  Maggie had made her choice the second she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. She didn’t want to die. So she ran.

  31

  Sabrina found Santos in the chapel’s small atrium, standing at the stoup just beyond the entrance. She watched him dip his fingers into the basin before making the sign of the cross. Easing the door closed as quietly as possible, she watched Santos continue up the sanctuary’s only aisle to the front of the church.

  He sat directly behind Vega.

  Vega seemed to know he was there, stiffening in his seat the second Santos slid in behind him, cutting a quick look over his shoulder before he settled back against the hardwood of the pew. The man sitting beside Vega dropped a hand on his forearm and leaned in, whispering something in his ear before giving Santos another, decidedly nastier look.

  Slipping into the last pew, Sabrina took a look around. The place was lit by what had to be hundreds of candles, the heat of them warm against her face. Father Francisco stood at the altar, a bright white robe over the dark pants and shirt he’d been wearing in the courtyard. He bowed his head and began to pray in Spanish.

  There was a slight rustle to her left and she turned to see the last thing she needed. An old woman sliding across the hard wooden bench, coming right at her. Behind her was Val’s little sister, Ellie. She’d changed her clothes—trading her pants and YPD rain jacket for a modest summer dress, her long hair caught at the nape of her neck in a low bun.

  Turning her face away, she focused on Father Francisco, pretending to listen to what he was saying. Ellie was here, sitting less than three feet away from her—and she’d brought her mother.

  Years ago, Amelia Hernandez had been a mother to her. Had pat her cheek and called her Mija. Fed her warm tortillas and watched Jason and Rylie for her while she waited tables, refusing to take a dime for any of it, even though her own need was obvious. If not for this woman, she would have lost hope long before Wade found her and locked her in the dark.

  She pushed the memories aside, forcing herself to focus on the service Father Francisco was giving. The way Vega kept sneaking looks at Santos over his shoulder. The altar boys clustered on the front pew, perched on its edge in their white robes like a dole of doves, waiting anxiously for communion. Anything to distract her from the fact that Valerie’s mother sat inches away from her, staring at her like she recognized her.

  Like she knew her.

  Which was impossible. When she’d been found, no one but the doctors who treated her, her grandmother, and Val even knew she’d survived. As much as it killed her, she’d demanded that Val keep it from her mother. As far as Amelia Hernandez was concerned, the girl she knew died twenty years ago.

  That ain’t entirely true, now is it? Thanks to that reporter of yours the whole damn world knows you survived, Darlin’.

  As if to prove Wade right, the woman reached over, pressing her softly lined palm to her cheek, turning her face so that the two of them were practically nose-to-nose. “Mija,” Amelia whispered, tears glittering in her sharp brown eyes. “You came back.”

  Before she could react, Ellie leaned over, pulling her mother’s hand away from her face. “No, Mama—” She stalled out when she realized who it was her mother had put her hands on. “My apologies, Agent Vance, my mother suffers from mid-stages Alzheimer's,” she said quietly, patting her mother’s hands into her lap. “She thinks you’re my sister.”

  Amelia frowned at her, her eyes suddenly dry and dull, any hint of recognition lost in a sea of confusion. “It’s okay,” Sabrina said, smiling, first at the woman sitting next to her and then her daughter. “It’s okay,” she said again, nodding at Ellie who returned the nod with a relieved smile.

  The rest of mass passed in silence. Around them, people stood and sat, knelt and prayed. Through it all, Ellie never moved, her hand anchored in her mother’s, staring straight ahead while Amelia hummed softly to herself. Sabrina recognized the tune as one she used to sing to Jason and Rylie when they were babies.

  A la roro niño

  A lo roro ya

  Duérmete mi niño

  Duérmete mi amor.

  When Father Francisco finally called for communion, Amelia stood, reaching down to take her hand. “Ven conmigo, Mija,” she said, pulling her out of her seat and Sabrina followed because it was easier than trying to extricate herself from her grip.

  Standing in the church’s center aisle, with Amelia’s arm looped through hers, Sabrina listened to her jabber on in Spanish about her garden and how much she enjoyed riding her horse, Chula. As far as she knew, Amelia never had a horse—or a garden, for that matter. Casting a look behind her, she caught sight of Ellie. She was standing near the stoup, talking on her cell phone and looking right at her.

  “… Ni siquierasépor qué vinoaquí. Padre Franciscono le darálacomunión. No después de loque le hizo aesa chica.”

  Amelia’s sing-song voice snagged at her, pulling at her attention. “What girl?” She looked down at the older woman standing beside her. “Amelia, ¿qué chica,” she said, switching to Spanish in hopes that it might trigger an answer.

  “She was Ellie’s friend.” Amelia frowned like she wasn’t sure of what she was saying. “I never liked her much—I guess I should feel bad about that now.”

  Rachel Meeks. Amelia had to be talking about Rachel Meeks. “Who hurt her?” she said, drawing more than a few looks. “What was his name?” She finished in a whispered rush, hoping to beat the clouds she could see rolling across Amelia’s mind. “Who hurt Rachel?”

  “Who’s Rachel?” Amelia asked, confusion and something that looked very close to fear casting shadows across her face. “Where’s Ellie?”

  Sabrina forced herself to smile, feeling grief and disappointment in equal measure. “Ellie’s here—she had to take a phone call, Mrs. Hernandez.”

  “Okay.” Amelia visibly relaxed, returning her smile. “Are we waiting for communion?”

  “Yes,” she said, the word getting stuck in her throat. Looking behind her, she could see Ellie, still standing by the stoup. She was still talking on the phone but she was staring at them. Giving her a small smile, Sabrina redirected her attention to the line in front of her.

  Ahead of them, people received their communion wafers and Father Francisco’s blessing before exiting the chapel through the door that led out into the prayer garden. Suddenly, there was a commotion, people murmuring to themselves as the moved aside for someone pushing their way up the aisle.

  It was Paul Vega and the man who’d been sitting beside him, Santos following in their wake. None of them looked happy. Vega looked right at her as he passed by before averting his gaze completely.

  “I’m glad you came home, Mija.” Amelia patted h
er arm and smiled, oblivious to the commotion. “I’ve missed you.”

  As distracted as she was, Sabrina felt the words tug at her. Even if they were nothing more than confused nonsense. “I’ve missed you,” she said, playing along because she wanted to keep Amelia calm and because it was true.

  “Do you remember how I’d make fresh tortillas every morning?” Amelia chuckled before she released the rest of the memory. “Valerie would never eat them because she was afraid of getting fat so you ate her share as well. One of the thousand things I loved about you.”

  The tumble of emotion nearly turned her upside down. Panic. Joy. A sadness so keen it choked her into the sort of stunned silence that turned the edges of her vision gray. Amelia wasn’t confused. She wasn’t lost inside her own mind.

  Somehow, Amelia knew exactly who she was.

  32

  Margaret was gone.

  She’d disappeared into the desert. More afraid of what lay behind her then what lay in wait for her in the dark. She charged into the open, stumbling across loose dirt and rocks. Her breath escaping her lungs in panicked little bleats. Crying and flailing into the desert, bound hands outstretched in front of her, she disappeared.

  He let her go. Let her run. Instead of chasing blindly, he followed patiently. There was no need to hurry. No need to worry. Where could she go? There was nowhere to hide. Not out here.

  He stopped for a moment and listened, remembering what his mentor had told him once about why he liked to chase his prey. Why he turned them loose and ran them down.

  It gives ‘em hope. It ain’t fun if they don’t have hope.

  He hadn’t understood what he’d meant at the time but he did now. He could feel it—exhilaration. Anticipation, coupled with an almost crippling sense of inevitability. He would find her and he would kill her. Nothing she did would stop that now. The power of it was intoxicating. A drug he could quickly come to crave if every step he took didn’t cause him pain.

  Fun, ain’t it, boy?

  “Margret?” He called out to her, his voice calm and steady while he clipped the bolt gun he carried to the belt on his pants. “I know you’re out here,” he said loudly, dangling hope and then ripping it away. “There’s nowhere for you to go. No one out here to help you.”

  He fell quiet. Listening. Waiting.

  Around him, the desert was a living thing. Moving and breathing. Skittering and crawling. The flap of wings. A rustling burrow. But that was it. The frantic bleat had gone silent. The desperate scramble of bare feet across sharp rocks had stopped.

  She’d gone to ground. Margret was listening and waiting too.

  Visualizing the wide, flat expanse of land that surrounded him, he could see it—a shallow ravine about fifty yards to the west. Carved into the desert by flash floods, lined by Palo Verde and Brittle Brush. To someone who didn’t know better, it would seem like the perfect place to hide.

  He stooped, running his hand over the ground, sifting dirt between his fingers, quickly finding what he was looking for. A rock—roughly the size of an orange. Standing, he walked toward the ravine, making no attempt to hide his approach. Each footfall sending smaller desert creatures scurrying for safety.

  Fight or flight. All animals possessed it. The instinct to either run or stand their ground. It was in their nature—who they were. A pre-programmed response they were unable to deny. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable. Marking them as predator or prey from the moment they were born.

  He’d known what Margret would do—what she was—even before she did.

  Stopping a few feet from the edge of the ravine, he scuffed his shoes in the dirt, sending loose rocks and clumps of dead grass tumbling into the chasm. It had been a raging torrent of water only hours ago, a flash flood, fed by the storm cell that’d ripped across the desert. A few inches of water slowly soaking into the bottom of the ravine was all that was left of it but it made the earth soft and unpredictable beneath his feet.

  There she is. In the bush, right in front of you.

  “I see you,” he whispered loudly and like he’d fired a starting pistol, she popped up from the bush she’d been crouching behind, no more than six feet below him. She tumbled down the slope of the ravine, terror knotting her feet together, making it impossible for her to find them until she reached the bottom. Rolling herself up onto her hands and knees she forced them beneath her, those panicked bleats pumping out of her lungs with every scrambling footstep. He was close enough to hear the words they formed, over and over.

  Please, God. Please…

  He let her run. Let her think she was going to get away. Let her believe that her prayers would be answered. That miracles were real.

  Gave her hope. Then he took it away.

  Lifting the rock to chest level, he held it tight, splitting his fingers around it while he curved his thumb around its base. Taking aim, he lifted his knee, letting it kiss his elbow for just a moment before he lowered it, planting it firmly in the dirt. His shoulder snapped forward, turning his arm into a rocket as it exploded away from his chest. The rock left his grip, missiling toward its target in a blur of speed and accuracy.

  It struck her just where he knew it would—where he meant it to—in the space where her ear joined her head and she fell instantly. Face down in the mud, hands still bound and pinned awkwardly beneath her.

  He waited. Watched her crumpled frame from the edge of the ravine. She didn’t move. Didn’t try to get up. He wanted to leave her there. It could be days—possibly weeks—before someone found her and that was after the coyotes made a meal of her. They were miles from where they’d started. He could leave her here without fear of leading the authorities to their secret place.

  Don’t get sloppy now, boy—that ain’t how I taught you.

  The voice in his head came through loud and clear. He ground his teeth together to keep from arguing. “Yes, sir,” he said instead, even though the mere thought of it made his knee ache. Stepping off the lip of the ravine to pick his way down its crumbling side. The moon was high and bright. Full enough to show him the dark splotch of blood matted against her hair, its glossy fingers sliding along her cheek, the rock he’d thrown at his feet like it was waiting for him. He bent and picked it up, jamming it into his front pocket. A few inches from his shoe, Margret’s hands clenched in the mud, her fingers digging in it like she was trying to push herself up.

  You ain’t got all night, boy. Get to work.

  Unclipping the bolt gun from his belt he crouched down, brushing his hand over the back of her head, moving her tangled hair to the side, exposing the base of her skull. She turned her head under his hand, trying to shake him loose. Knotting his fingers in her hair, he yanked her back, forcing her face into the mud. Her hands were no longer scrambling in the mud, they were shoving against it. Trying to push herself up. He stepped on them, flattening them until they sunk into the sodden dirt beneath them.

  “Robert is dead.” He pulled back on the bolt, pressing the barrel of it to the back of her head. “You failed to save him, Margret,” he whispered, his voice carried on the warm desert air that surrounded them. “He needed you and you let him die.”

  She was trying to talk, her mouth open and full of mud. Eyes squeezed shut against the sight of him. He used his free hand to grip her chin and turn her head to the side. “I tried…” the words were muddled and sluggish. “I did what you said. I did everything…”

  “Shhh,” The hand on her face went gentle, stroking her cheek softly. “Yes you did… that’s why I’m willing to make you a deal. Tell me the truth and I’ll let you live.” He pushed the barrel of the bolt gun against the base of her skull. “Can you do that, Margaret? Can you tell me the truth?”

  She nodded blindly, the blood from where he’d struck her with the rock skating around his fingers, pulled by gravity along the curve of her jaw. “Yes.”

  “Do you still believe in miracles?” He brushed his fingertips against her mouth, staining it red. “Do you think you’re worthy of w
hat he gave you?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No…” her tongue peeked out, brushing against her lower lip and she recoiled slightly from the taste of her own blood.

  “Do you still think God saved you for a reason?”

  She shook her head again, too frightened to say the word out loud.

  “You’re wrong, Margret. God saved you for a reason.” he told her, fisting the hand he’d used to soothe her in the bloody thatch of hair at her crown so he could re-position the bolt gun he still held against her skull. “He saved you for this. For me.”

  Forcing her face back into the mud, he cut off the scream she let loose at his words. He pulled the trigger, releasing the bolt. The force of it made a loud snapping sound, punching a quarter-sized hole in the base of her skull.

  Beneath his shoe, her hands stopped digging in the mud.

  “Now what?” he said, watching blood and brain ooze from the hole in Margret’s head. The heat of the hunt and the kill that followed had cooled in his veins. He knew Wade was right. His DNA was all over her. Inside her. He couldn’t just leave her here.

  The voice inside his head chuckled softly.

  Don’t worry—just trust me, boy. I’ll take care of everything.

  33

  After standing by while Amelia received communion, Sabrina piloted her through the doors leading to the prayer garden. It was nearly deserted, most people hurrying off for a quick meal and to change clothes for their shift in the fields. All that was left were a few old women chatting quietly by the gate and Ellie, sitting on the bench, the angle statue looming over her.

  When she saw her daughter, Amelia frowned. “There you are, Elena,” she said, clucking her tongue while she held out her hand like she was a child. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you—come on, let’s get home so I can get dinner started. Your father will be home soon.”