Beverly Barton Bundle
Page 42
They were a family now, she and Mike and his children. Their children. She would never try to take Molly’s place. What she wanted was to carve out her own place in their hearts and in their lives.
As the foursome posed for more photographs, happiness beyond her wildest dreams swelled up inside Lorie.
Thank you, dear God, for blessing me with a second chance at happiness.
She closed her eyes and made a solemn vow to Molly Birkett. I promise that I will take care of your family for you, Molly. I’ll love Mike forever and be faithful to him until my dying day. And I will always love M.J. and Hannah as if they were truly my own.
Dear Reader,
As promised, DEAD BY MIDNIGHT tied up several loose ends from SILENT KILLER and gave Sheriff Mike Birkett and Lorie Hammonds the happily ever after they so deserved. But I’m aware of the fact that I have, once again, left you with unanswered questions about Griff and Nic Powell, as well as the antagonistic relationship between Powell agent Maleah Perdue and former FBI profiler Derek Lawrence. Plans are in the works for me to write two more DEAD BY novels, one that will reveal the identity of the person killing Powell agents and the other to reveal all the secrets from Griffin Powell’s mysterious past. The next DEAD BY book will feature Maleah and Derek in their pursuit of the elusive killer who is murdering their fellow agents. The third DEAD BY book will be the book so many of you have requested—another novel featuring Griff and Nic as the hero and heroine. If all goes as planned, you can expect Maleah and Derek’s book in 2011 and the next Griff and Nic book in 2012.
But before the next DEAD BY book, look for a new romantic suspense in September 2010, a novel not connected to the Powell Agency. I’ll be taking you to one of my favorite Southern cities—Chattanooga, Tennessee—where the authorities suspect a serial killer may be at work when two young, tall, slender, dark-haired women are brutally murdered. TBI agent, J.D. Cass heads the investigation, working with the CPD and police consultant, Dr. Audrey Sherrod, a grief counselor specializing in helping those traumatized by crime.
I always enjoy hearing from readers. You may contact me through my Web site www.beverlybarton.com or by writing to me in care of Kensington Publishing. While visiting my website, you can enter contests, sign up for my e-mail newsletter, and check out a list of all my books and my upcoming appearances at book signings, speaking engagements and conferences.
Warmest regards,
Beverly Barton
DEAD BY MORNING
“Do you think you can put together a profile with what little information we have?” Maleah asked.
“I’m going to try,” Derek said. “The Copycat Carver has gone to a great deal of trouble to copy Jerome Browning’s MO and yet he deliberately sent the pieces of flesh he removed from the victims’ bodies to you instead of hiding them away somewhere the way Browning did. Why?”
“The reason he didn’t stick to Browning’s MO was because he wanted to send me a message.”
“Very good reasoning. We’ve agreed that for some reason, it’s important to the copycat for you to be personally involved in this case. That’s why he chose Browning to emulate.”
“Because Browning killed Noah Laborde, my former boyfriend. But the question is why me? If Nic or Griff is the real target, then . . .” She paused for a full minute. “Could it really be that simple? Is he making me jump through hoops simply because he can and he wants Nic to know he can control her best friend?”
“It’s definitely what Griff thinks and it does make a crazy kind of sense. If tormenting Nic and Griff is his objective, then he’s punishing them for some reason. He’s going to strike again and again, possibly getting closer and closer to his ultimate target with each kill, eventually discarding the Carver’s MO.”
“If that’s the case, then what are the odds that he’ll try to kill me before he moves on to Nic and Griff . . .”
Books by Beverly Barton
AFTER DARK
EVERY MOVE SHE MAKES
WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW
THE FIFTH VICTIM
THE LAST TO DIE
AS GOOD AS DEAD
KILLING HER SOFTLY
CLOSE ENOUGH TO KILL
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
THE DYING GAME
THE MURDER GAME
COLD HEARTED
SILENT KILLER
DEAD BY MIDNIGHT
DON’T CRY
DEAD BY MORNING
Published by Zebra Books
DEAD By MORNING
BEVERLY BARTON
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
To Beth Bange Bynon,
in memory of her husband Colby
“I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life.”
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Prologue
With the patience and precision of a surgeon, he sliced into his victim’s upper arm and carefully lifted the triangular piece of flesh. After placing the small chunk in a cubbyhole of the sectioned plastic cooler he had brought with him, he returned to the job at hand. One by one, he cut out more triangles from the dead man’s arms and legs and then carefully stored them in the container.
“I always used a new scalpel and then tossed it afterward.”
He had purchased disposable scalpels online. They came ten to a pack, with plastic handles and individually wrapped and sterilized high carbon steel blades. Cost didn’t matter. He always spent whatever necessary to accomplish the job. But the scalpels were one of the least expensive tools he had ever used—less than a dollar each. And the little blades did double duty, first to slit the neck and then to make the intricate carvings.
He hummed as he worked, a mundane little ditty that he had heard somewhere years ago.
He took pride in his kills. He never did less than his best.
“I wanted the kill to be clean, quick, and relatively painless. The sweetest pleasure is in those few seconds of initial horror they experience. I prefer psychological torture to physical torture.”
Whether or not the death was quick and painless didn’t matter to him one way or the other. He was not opposed to making a victim suffer and had on occasion used both physical and psychological torture, but not with these particular people.
“It’s such a quiet way to kill a person. With their trachea severed, they can’t scream.”
His preference was not the up-close-and-personal. He preferred killing from a distance. A quick, clean shot to the head, if death was the only agenda. However, he always did whatever was necessary to accomplish his goals. That’s why this kill, like the three before it and the ones that would come after it, required him to get his hands dirty.
With his task completed and the four triangles carved from each arm and each leg now stored neatly in the cooler, he lifted the old man by his broad shoulders and drag
ged him along the bank of the river.
“I never left them where I killed them. I would move the body, usually near a river or lake or stream. I even dragged a woman from her bedroom outside to her pool. There is something peaceful about water, don’t you think?”
He had been forced to leave the first body in her apartment, but he had taken her into the bathroom and filled the tub. Not exactly a river or even a pool, but under the circumstances, it had been as close as he could get her to water. As luck would have it, he had been able to drag the second victim from the back porch, where he had slit her throat, to the river nearby. He had dumped the third victim in a shallow streambed located on the man’s property.
“I always struck after midnight. Never before. I wanted the body to be found in the morning. There is something beautiful about the morning sunlight caressing a corpse.”
In his opinion, there was nothing beautiful about a corpse, neither in the dark nor in the full light of day. As a general rule, the time of day—or night—was inconsequential, unless there was a reason for specific timing. But he was following a sequence of events with these murders, somewhat like following a road map to reach a specific destination. Each step in the procedure was a necessity. The exact time of death was not important—as long as the person was dead by morning.
“I had a special upright freezer where I kept my carvings.”
He never kept trophies. He didn’t want or need any.
The souvenirs from these kills were not for him. They were for someone else. Someone who would appreciate their significance.
Chapter 1
Maleah hated weddings and wedding receptions.
So why am I here?
She was at the Dunmore Country Club out of a sense of obligation. After all, the bride, Lorie Hammonds, was her sister-in-law’s best friend and the groom, Mike Birkett, was her brother’s best friend. Lorie and Mike had gone through hell to earn their second chance at love. Their reunion was like something out of a fairy tale, albeit an adult fairy tale. Against all odds, they had fallen in love again, nearly twenty years after their teenage love affair had left them both broken hearted. Maleah certainly would have bet against their ever making it to the altar.
Okay, so maybe happy endings were possible. For other people. Not for her.
“Come on.” Her sister-in-law Cathy motioned to her. “They’re leaving. Did you get your little bag of birdseed?”
Groaning inside, Maleah forced a smile and held up the tiny net bag tied with a narrow yellow ribbon. Following the other wedding guests, she went outside and took her place in the crowd awaiting the bride and groom’s departure. The groomsmen had attached tin cans to long streamers that they had tied to the bumper of the groom’s restored antique Mustang. A handpainted sign announcing JUST MARRIED hung precariously from the same streamers.
A roar of excitement heralded the couple’s exit through the double doors that opened to the front lawn of the country club. Lorie wore a pale peach tailored suit with matching heels. Mike had changed from his tux into a sport coat and dress slacks. Arm-in-arm, huge smiles lighting their faces, they hurried along the pathway. They laughed as handfuls of birdseed sailed through the air and rained down on them.
Maleah glanced across the brick sidewalk at her brother Jackson, who stood behind his wife, his arm draped around her and one big hand resting possessively over her belly. Cathy was three and half months pregnant.
When the bride and groom drove away, the crowd dispersed, many returning to the ballroom where the band still played. Maleah felt someone beside her and knew exactly who it was, even before she saw his face.
Derek Lawrence!
She turned, glanced at him, and did her best to maintain a pleasant expression. Despite his devastating good looks and undeniable charm, Derek Lawrence was pure poison as far as Maleah was concerned. From the moment they met several years ago, she had intensely disliked him. But she had to admit that after working with him on the Midnight Killer case for the Powell Agency earlier this year, she now disliked him less. And much to her dismay, she couldn’t deny that she found him attractive.
What woman wouldn’t?
He was tall, dark and dangerously handsome. And he possessed the kind of striking looks attributed to matinee idols of her grandmother’s generation. If Derek had one flaw, it was his physical perfection. He was too damn good looking.
Being attracted to Derek—the last man on earth she should be attracted to—was why she thought of him as pure poison.
“Nice wedding,” he said.
“Yes, it was a very nice wedding,” Maleah replied. “Lorie and Mike seem happy, don’t they?”
“They say that marriage agrees with some people.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
She shrugged.
“Jack and Cathy seem blissfully happy,” Derek said.
“Okay, I concede that a small percentage of couples somehow manage to get their happily-ever-after, but most don’t.”
“Not willing to risk it yourself, are you?”
She looked at him, slightly puzzled by his question. “It’s a moot point. I’m not even dating anyone right now.”
“I wasn’t aware that you ever dated. I’ve known you for quite a while and—”
“I date,” she told him emphatically. Too emphatically. “I’m simply selective about whom I date.” She gave him a condescending glance. “Unlike you, my tastes are more discriminating.”
His oh-so-perfect lips lifted at the corners in an amused smile. “Are you implying that I’m some sort of Romeo who romances every woman I meet?”
“Oh, I’m not implying anything. I simply stated a fact.”
Before Derek could respond, Jack and Cathy joined them. He still wore his best man tux and she wore her matron of honor gown, a floor-length creation in light aqua silk.
“You two aren’t arguing again, are you?” Cathy looked pleadingly from Maleah to Derek.
“No, of course not,” Maleah assured her sister-in-law. “We were just discussing dating.”
Lifting his brow inquisitively, Jack grinned. “So, who finally asked who?”
“Huh?” Maleah said.
“What?” Derek asked.
Cathy draped her arm around Jack’s. “I don’t think they were discussing dating each other.”
“God, no!” Maleah said.
Derek chuckled. “You thought I asked Maleah for a date or that she asked me? Where would you have gotten such a far-fetched idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe the fact that—”
When Cathy gently punched him in the ribs, Jack grunted and instantly shut up.
“We’re heading out,” Cathy said. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a wonderful day, but a very long one.”
“I’ll see y’all at home in a little while,” Maleah said.
“Stay as long as you’d like,” Cathy told her. “The band will be here until midnight and there’s still a ton of food.”
Maleah felt Derek’s body heat as he moved in closer. When he slipped his arm around her waist, she tried not to gasp at the unexpectedness of his touch.
“Come on, Ms. Perdue, let’s dance the night away.” Derek’s black eyes sparkled with a definite challenge. “Since neither of us brought a date tonight . . .”
“You two have fun,” Jack told them as he led Cathy away and herded her toward their car.
As soon as Jack and Cathy were out of earshot, Maleah jerked away from Derek. “It’s late. I’m tired. I have to get up early and drive back to Knoxville in the morning.”
“Excuses, excuses.” His grin widened. “What are you afraid of, Maleah?”
He’s goading you. Don’t let him get to you.
“I’m certainly not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re implying. You should know by now that I’m immune to your charm.”
He held out his hand. “I don’t doubt that you are. So . . . ?”
F
rom the first moment they met several years ago, Derek had seen Maleah Perdue as a challenge. She had disliked him on sight, a reaction he was unaccustomed to getting from women. In the beginning, he had tried to charm her, and when that hadn’t worked, he had ignored her. They had managed to steer clear of each other for the most part, more or less ships passing in the night, although they were both employed by the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency. Maleah was a Powell agent. He was a consultant. His background as a former FBI profiler had proved to be a valuable asset to the agency. Three months ago when they had been assigned to work together on the Midnight Killer case, they had entered into the partnership reluctantly. Oddly enough, they had made a great team.
When she slid her small, soft hand into his large hand, he felt as if he had won a prize. The lady was not an easy conquest and because of that fact, he found her all the more appealing. Common sense cautioned him to keep their relationship strictly professional and not dip a toe into personal waters. But Derek had never been able to walk away from a challenge—or from a beautiful woman.
As he led her into the country club and straight into the ballroom where dozens of wedding guests remained, he subtly scanned her, out of the corner of his eye, from blond head to pale pink toes. Maleah had the type of wholesome blond beauty that once would have won her the title of All-American Girl. Five-four. Trim, nicely rounded figure. Peaches and cream complexion that tanned to a golden hue. Sun-streaked, shoulderlength blond hair. And topaz brown eyes that changed color depending on the color she wore and on her mood, alternating from a smoky yellowish hazel to a fine, golden bourbon.
When he put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him, he felt her stiffen. “It’s just a dance,” he reminded her. “You’re not committing yourself to spend the night with me.”