Twisted

by Cynthia Eden

  “Ah, sir?” A red-haired cop up in the front raised his hand. “I thought Jared Ricker died five years ago. The FBI task force caught him up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, right?”

  The bastard should have died. “I was on that task force.” The fact that Ricker had gotten away—that would always be on Dean’s shoulders. “I tracked Ricker to a mountain cabin. At the time, it was believed that he was holding a twenty-five-year-old female named Charlotte Brown.” Dean hesitated. “Ms. Brown . . . didn’t make it off that mountain alive.” He wouldn’t go into the grim details of her final moments, not right then.

  “Ricker’s MO is unusual,” Sarah explained in what Dean thought of as her “clinical” voice. “He likes to keep his victims, likes to weaken them through blood loss or starvation, then he . . . lets them go.”

  There were murmurs from the crowd then.

  Dean saw the furrow that appeared on Emma’s brow.

  “He lets them go?” It was Detective Landry who asked this question. The guy’s face reflected his confusion. “But I thought you just said he was a serial killer. If he doesn’t kill them, then how can—”

  “Five years ago, he took his victims to isolated locations. He left them there, injured, with no food or water. The victims died in those spots. They weren’t strong enough to survive. They couldn’t find their way out, and Ricker . . . he’d watch them die.” The bastard had confessed that to Dean. When he thought I’d be dying, too.

  “Uh, yeah, our victim last night wasn’t taken to any isolated location,” Landry said again. “So how does that match up with Ricker?”

  “When circumstances demand it, he changes his MO.” Dean paced away from the laptop. “He could have killed Lisa Nyle in an instant. He didn’t. He left the knife in her—” He saw Emma’s face blanch with pain. “And he gave her—in his mind, anyway—the opportunity to live. It wasn’t his usual hunting game, but he’s worked that way at least one other time in the past.”

  Silence.

  Dean cleared his throat. “He left a knife in my chest, too.” He didn’t look at Emma as he made that confession. “But I managed to survive. I shot Ricker—twice—and the perp went over the mountain’s edge. He was presumed dead when his body wasn’t recovered, but, obviously, he’s still out there. Still hunting.” Because Ricker’s DNA had been found on the coat that covered Lisa’s body.

  Sarah started walking around the room, passing out files, maps. “Jared Ricker is a former Marine, he is a first-class outdoorsman. A survivalist. He would spend weeks in the wild, living off the land. He liked to pit himself against Nature . . . in the harshest of circumstances and see if he was strong enough to survive.”

  He risked a glance at Emma. She seemed paler.

  “We believe that he is seeing just how strong Julia Finney is right now,” Sarah said, still with no emotion in her voice or on her face. “He took her and, we suspect he will soon be leaving Julia in the wild. If he hasn’t already.”

  Dean thought the guy had already dropped Julia off in the wilderness. If he was already targeting new prey, then didn’t it stand to reason the guy had already ditched his previous victim?

  “He will leave her there with no supplies, he will leave her injured, and, unless we find her, he will leave her to die.” She nodded toward the assembled police officers. “Based on his previous history, I’ve included locations that I think are possible drop sites for Ricker. The police chief is calling in representatives from Fish and Wildlife to be our guides in the field, and we’re going to search as many of the areas as we can.”

  But they needed more manpower. “You have pictures of Julia Finney in those files. Talk to people—head to the parks and the swamps—the places that Sarah has listed. Talk to every person you see. Maybe someone saw Julia or Ricker. A hiker. A fisherman. Maybe someone out there can help us to save that girl’s life.”

  He took more questions, only five minutes more, then Dean sent the officers out. It was barely seven a.m., and he didn’t want to waste daylight.

  He wanted eyes out there. Feet on the ground. They’d hit the state parks nearby, the swamps, the remote inlets near New Orleans. They’d search every space they could find.

  And maybe we’ll find her.

  Maybe.

  The officers went to work. Dean headed toward the back of the bullpen. He and Wade had already changed into their gear for the search, and Emma watched him with wide, worried eyes.

  “I’m coming on the search,” Emma said.

  He’d figured that she’d say that. So Dean just nodded. “Then let’s get the hell out there.” Because there were so many areas to cover. Finding Julia Finney . . . hell, the odds were against them.

  It was a good thing he’d never given a shit about the odds.

  JULIA’S FINGERS SANK into the dirt, and she tried to drag her body forward. She couldn’t stand up, she’d already tried again and again, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. So she was crawling, moving so slowly, inch by desperate inch.

  She’d tried to scream for help but . . . things . . . had just screamed back. She knew she was in a swamp, all of those hulking trees, those nonstop cries from the insects . . . they were all around her.

  Mosquitoes kept swarming her, maybe drawn by her blood, and her arms were already swollen from all the bites.

  Julia pulled herself forward another inch, and when her bloody fingers tightened on the chunk of grass that she’d grabbed, a long black snake shot by her hand. She would have screamed, but she didn’t have any voice left. All she managed was a desperate gasp.

  Then the snake was gone.

  Would it come back?

  Her head turned. She stared out at the dark water, water covered by heavy green algae, and in that water, she saw the head of an alligator peeking out.

  The gator was still far out in the water. Still far away from her. But . . .

  It started swimming closer.

  Her bloody hands grabbed for another chunk of dirt and grass as Julia heaved herself forward.

  Home . . . I want to go home . . .

  Her mother was home. Her mother—her mother was all she had left.

  TWISTING TREES AND heavy moss surrounded them on the left and on the right. Emma walked forward cautiously, her gaze scanning the area. Dean was up ahead of her, marching quickly, not hesitating.

  They’d been out there for hours. Teams were searching all along the southeast tip of Louisiana, but . . . there’s too much ground to cover.

  And that was the problem.

  They were on a trail right then. A parking lot was about two miles back. Sarah had told them that she believed Ricker would look for a spot accessible by car . . . that he’d drive to the scene, then hike out with Julia. Since he’d been in the city last night, Sarah thought the man had to be close—not staying out in a cabin, but right in the city.

  Close enough to watch us.

  Sweat was making tendrils of Emma’s hair stick to her temples. Her T-shirt was sticking to her, too, and the heat was rising with the afternoon sun.

  Sarah had been talking about the killer pretty much nonstop, saying all of the things he would do.

  You don’t keep the prey in an isolated cabin, not this time. You keep her where you want to see her . . . you keep her in the city. You don’t take her out . . . you don’t take her out to the swamp until the very end. Because that’s when she has to fight.

  It was a little eerie the way Sarah was talking, all those “You’s,” but Emma figured she wasn’t exactly in a position to judge anyone. And when it came to getting into the killer’s head, well, that sure wasn’t a place Emma wanted to be. Sarah could just run with that.

  But Emma was hesitant. There were plenty of places to abandon a victim in New Orleans. The old factory district, the empty houses outside of town, the shipping sector . . . why go to the swamp? “Are you certain,” Emma asked Sarah carefully, “that he would come all the way out here?”

  Sarah glanced over at her. Like Emma, Sarah was also g
etting slick with sweat. “He’s an outdoorsman, always pitting himself against nature. So his prey has to battle out here, too. This place . . .” She looked around. “It’s savage and it’s beautiful. It’s perfect for him.”

  Okay . . .

  Emma kept walking forward. When they’d entered the parking lot, she hadn’t seen any signs of other cars. If the guy liked to watch his prey make that last-minute struggle for survival, shouldn’t they have seen a car? Something?

  The team kept walking, cops and fish and wildlife experts. So many people, now searching for a girl who’d been right there, in the city, for so long.

  Until the man named Ricker had taken her.

  Emma eased closer to Sarah. “This man . . . he really stabbed Dean?” She’d touched the scar, so she shouldn’t even be asking the question, but Emma felt as if she was missing something. When Dean had spoken about the incident, his words had been too careful. What didn’t you tell us all?

  “Dean was the one who figured out where the guy was hiding. Dean thought . . .” Sarah’s gaze was on Dean, and, for an instant, sadness whispered through her words. “He thought that he’d find the girl in time. But there was so much red tape. His superiors were worried about going in too strong and spooking Ricker, so they kept holding back the approach, and the girl—”

  “She died,” Emma said softly.

  “Her neck had been broken. She’d fallen over the edge of the mountain and landed on a ledge.”

  Emma tensed.

  “I-I read that in the report,” Sarah said. “Dean didn’t tell me. In case you haven’t noticed, the guy isn’t exactly big on sharing his secrets.”

  Emma’s gaze slanted toward Sarah.

  “I’ve consulted with the FBI many times. I have a . . . skill set that they find useful.” Sarah’s lips curved downward. “The FBI is very good at using people.”

  Those words held the note of a warning. Emma filed that away for future reference.

  “He found her”—Sarah kept walking forward, her stare sweeping from the left to the right—“and when he was trying to help her, Ricker found him.”

  Trying to help her? “I thought you just said the victim had a broken neck.”

  Sarah stopped walking. “She did, but she didn’t die instantly.”

  Oh, dear God.

  “She couldn’t move on that ledge. She could only call out for help. Dean was leaning over, talking to her, trying to figure out a way to save her, when Ricker attacked him. Dean was distracted because his focus was on Charlotte, and Ricker came in hard and fast. They fought, and Ricker shoved his knife into Dean’s chest.”

  “And he left the knife there,” Emma said. And she had a flash of Lisa. The handle of that knife sticking from her chest. She’d reached for the weapon, and Dean’s voice had cracked with a deep rage that she hadn’t understood, not at the time.

  “Ricker underestimated him. Because Dean wasn’t ready to die, at least, not without taking Ricker out, too.”

  Emma brushed aside a hanging tree branch as she went forward. Her mind was filled with images right then. Dean, his chest bloody, fury twisting his face. Fighting for his survival.

  “He had tried to get the FBI to do a full raid on the area, but they wouldn’t give him the backup. If they had, then maybe Charlotte would have gotten out, or maybe Ricker would have been captured.”

  And maybe Dean wouldn’t bottle so much of himself up inside.

  “This . . . this didn’t make it to the papers, but Charlotte Brown worked with the FBI. She’d been one of their informants, and when she first went missing, I think Dean’s boss just thought the woman had cut out on them. He delayed the search for her. And, too late, they realized that she’d fallen into Ricker’s hands.”

  Her gaze slid to Dean once more. Too late. Emma could understand all about the pain of being too late. She and her father had been too late to help those girls in Texas—they’d been too late for anything but death.

  As she watched him, Emma saw Dean yank a phone from his pocket. He spoke quickly, his body tensing. She hurried toward him.

  “Where? Yeah, yeah, that’s about ten miles away. And you say a witness spotted a black car there this morning?” He seemed to listen intently, then he said, “Hell, yes, that could be him. Get the teams to focus there, now.” Dean shoved the phone back into his pocket, then he looked toward Sarah and Emma. “That was Wade. A fisherman out last night thought he saw a man carrying something through the swamp. The cops there just talked to someone else in the same area who swore he saw a long black car pull out after dawn.”

  A long black car . . . just like the one that “Stan” had described to them.

  Dean was already running back toward his rental car, and Emma and Sarah followed closely behind. Hope was growing inside Emma, a wild, desperate hope.

  Maybe this time, they’d get there in time.

  DEAN JUMPED FROM his car and raced ahead. The narrow parking lot near the little pier was packed with cop cars. Emma rushed to his side, and they made their way straight to Wade.

  “The search team is fanning out,” Wade told them as he motioned to the swamp and woods that surrounded them. “There’s a ton of space here, and we’ve got the K-9 unit to help us cover ground.”

  The sound of barking dogs drew Dean’s attention. Hell, yes, it was about time the dogs arrived.

  “We gave them the coat to use for tracking,” one of the canine handlers told him. “The dogs have a damn sight better chance of finding the girl than we do.”

  If she was there.

  And, hell, if this was their lucky fucking day, they’d catch Ricker, too.

  In seconds, the dogs were bounding away, moving with a quick, determined pace as the handlers rushed to keep up with them, and Dean was running right after them. He wasn’t going to miss this. If Julia was out there, he was bringing her home.

  The image of her mother flashed through his mind. She’d been so desperate when she walked into the LOST offices. The tears hadn’t stopped flowing down her cheeks. She’d kept saying that it was her fault Julia was gone, that she’d made the wrong choice.

  Her fault.

  And she just wanted her daughter to come home.

  THEY’D BROUGHT THE dogs. His head jerked when he heard the sound of their barking. Well, well . . . it looked as if someone had stepped up his game this time.

  Dean Bannon hadn’t come after him alone.

  Learned your lesson?

  It wouldn’t matter, though. Bannon wasn’t going to get him. He’d prepared too well.

  So even as the dogs barked and snarled, he was backing away. Heading deeper into the swamp. Leaving his prey.

  How much longer do you have, Julia?

  He’d already moved his car—after he’d dumped Julia in the swamp, that had been his first order of business. He’d come back in via boat, and the old, wooden boat that he’d hidden after his arrival was just steps away. He pulled the boat from behind the bushes. Silently pushed it into the water. The boat tilted a bit when he climbed inside, but he steadied it easily, then reached for the wooden oars.

  The oars didn’t make a sound as they cut through the water. His grip was steady, his strokes sure. If he rushed, he’d make a mistake. Maybe give away his location. That couldn’t happen.

  He wasn’t going to be caught by Bannon or anyone else. He was meant to be free. To hunt.

  His choice.

  The barking grew louder.

  He kept paddling. In moments, he’d be long gone. He knew this area so very well. He would be out of there in plenty of time for the real fun to begin.

  Because it’s time for the next step. Time for Bannon to see that he’s out of his league and headed straight to hell.

  THE PATH AHEAD branched. As Dean bounded forward, he saw one of the dogs strain to the left.

  The other surged to the right.

  What the hell?

  Their handlers were pulling the dogs back with sharp commands.

  Two paths. Th
e same scent on each path?

  “Where do we go?” Emma asked as she reached them, breath heaving. Sarah and Wade were with her.

  “We split up.” He pointed to the left. He knew the water was heavier that way. An escape path for Ricker? “Half of us go this way. Half go right.” Because they needed to cover as much ground as possible.

  Wade and Sarah took off, with the cops going right.

  Emma stuck with Dean. Two other officers came with him as they raced ahead. Running deeper and deeper into the swamp.

  I’m coming, bastard. I’m coming for you.

  SARAH RAN BEHIND the canine handler, a stitch in her side because it seemed like they were flying over the dank earth. She had to do some fast footwork to avoid tripping on the twisting roots that littered the ground, then she did her best to dodge the moss that hung heavily from the trees.

  “Julia!” One of the cops called out, his voice seeming to echo back to them. “We’re here to help you! Julia!”

  But there was no answer. Maybe Julia couldn’t answer. Maybe the dogs were confused—they’d tried to take them down two different paths, after all.

  Only—

  “I see her!”

  Her head whipped to the left. The K-9 handler pulled his dog back, and Wade rushed forward. He fell to his knees beside a figure on the ground. A figure lying facedown and not moving at all.

  Sarah staggered to a stop beside him.

  She saw that Wade’s fingers were trembling a bit as he reached out to the girl—a girl with damp, dirty blond hair. He was almost touching her—

  The girl suddenly jerked away from him. She let out a long, hoarse cry and tried to kick out, to punch.

  Wade didn’t even attempt to deflect her attacks. He let her hit him. Again and again. “It’s okay.” His voice was low, soothing. “We’re here to help you, Julia. We’re here to take you home.”

  And she cried out again, another of those nearly soundless cries that still seemed to tear into Sarah’s heart because it was so desperate and full of pain.