by Lisa Jackson
“Who’s Chloe?”
“My sister! Where have you been? Under a rock?” Without any assistance she grabbed hold of the interior handle and, with a squeal of pain, hauled herself onto the passenger seat. Automatically, from years of being warned about the evils of peering up a girl’s skirt, he turned his head so that he wouldn’t see her privates as she hoisted herself up.
This is crazy, he told himself, but slammed the door shut behind her and hurried around the truck. How the hell did he know she wouldn’t manage to climb into the driver’s seat and take off? He’d left the keys in the ignition, engine running. And even if she wasn’t going to take off and drive, there was his rifle, in its rack. It was secured, yes, but not locked. She could grab it and point it at him and—
Oh, shit!
He hauled himself inside, settled behind the wheel, wondered how hopped up she was.
Biting her lip, she peered out the open window and scanned the horizon. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
“Okay, okay. Just calm down.”
She whipped her head around and stared at him. “I am not calming down. There’s a murdering psycho out there, and he’s coming. So what the hell are you waiting for?”
Something had scared her. To her core.
What, he didn’t know.
But he yanked his door closed. An announcer on the radio was trying to sell him a new car. He snapped off the squawk box. “There’s . . . there’s a jacket in the back,” he said, keeping his eyes averted. Jesus, her tits were right there. Streaked with mud. Skin flaming around her nipples, burned, he guessed, as that part of her hadn’t ever seen the sun. Where the hell were her clothes? Why was she running naked? How’d she hurt herself? And Christ-A’mighty, was there really a homicidal maniac chasing her, or was she just completely out of her mind? For the love of God, her sunburned breasts were so close he could touch them. But he didn’t even look, just stared straight ahead and tried to figure out what kind of crap he’d just stepped into. Was she a psycho? Or on the run? Maybe from a bad home life?
“You want to go to a hospital?” he asked as she reached around and slipped Barb’s plus-sized jacket over her small frame. Then, probably because the Silverado’s insistent alarm system was dinging, she strapped on the seat belt. He did the same, keeping one hand on the wheel.
“No, not the hospital. The police. Or my mother’s. I . . . I don’t know. But we have to get the hell out of here.” She looked over at him, then at the console. “That yours?” she asked, pointing at the half-drunk bottle of Diet Coke that was still in one of the cup holders from the last time Barb had driven the truck.
“No, it’s my wife’s. Been there a couple o’—”
“Good enough.” She twisted off the cap and brought it to her parched lips. Then she swallowed, draining the whole dang bottle of what had to be flat, warm syrup. As she did, she kept her gaze in the side-view mirror, as if she really thought someone was following.
He checked his mirror. Nothing on the road behind. Not even a jackrabbit. What kind of a lulu was she?
“You’re going to New Orleans, right?”
“Close. I’m picking up some hay about five miles out.”
“Take me to the city.” Some of the bristle had left her, and she blinked against a sudden wash of tears. “Now, for God’s sake!”
Oh, Jesus. He hated it when a woman cried. Barb could just start to well up and it was all over for him.
She slapped at her eyes.
“Sure. Sure.” But he hadn’t engaged the gears yet, wasn’t certain if hauling her anywhere was the right thing to do.
“Then please hurry. He’s out there. I saw him.” She sniffed, some of the starch returning to her. “I think he has a rifle.”
The muscles in the back of Rand’s neck bunched. “A rifle?”
“Yeah, a rifle and a dog. Don’t you get it? He’s hunting me.” She was starting to freak out again. “You have to take me to the police or to my mom or . . .” She spied his cell on the dash, connected to the charger in his cigarette lighter. Without asking, she picked it up and dialed.
“Hey, wait a sec—”
“Please. Just drive!” she ordered, jamming the phone to her ear. “Oh, come on, pick up. Mom, for God’s sake!” she said into the phone, all the while looking in the mirror. “He’ll shoot us both, you know,” she told Rand. “The dog was on my scent, and he won’t let me get away. He won’t kill me right away, but he’ll kill you. After he shoots out your tires or somehow disables your truck.” Then into the phone, she moaned, “Oh, Mom, answer the damned phone, for Christ’s sake!” Then, more calmly. “Mom, it’s Zoe. I’m okay. Coming to New Orleans. Your house, okay? But then we have to go to the police. I . . . I think he’s still got Chloe. Call me back. I’m at—” She looked at him again and he rattled off his phone number, which she repeated. “I’m on my way. Be there in—?” Again she pierced him with a glare.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty, depending—”
“Twenty minutes.” She hung up and cradling her phone in her hands said to him, “So, are you going to drive or what?”
Still he hesitated, unsure.
She went ballistic. “What? You don’t believe me?” she demanded, frantic. “Why the hell do you think I’m running around out here naked? For the love of God, don’t you know that people are looking for me? Isn’t it all over the freakin’ news?” When he didn’t respond, didn’t admit that he only watched sports, she said, “My name’s Zoe. Zoe Denning.”
From somewhere nearby the dog started baying again.
“Oh, God! He’s here! I told you! Shit!”
In his mirror, he caught sight of the dog, closer now, bounding through the grass and weeds, running straight at them. Worse yet, not fifty yards behind, a tall man was cutting across the field. Dressed head to toe in camouflage, sunglasses shielding his eyes, a rifle gripped in his hands, he was moving with a steady if ungainly gait.
Shit! The girl was telling the damned truth.
In the mirror, he saw the hunter stop, hoist the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, and take aim.
“Get down!” Rand ordered, and hit the gas.
For the love of God, what the hell was this?
His pickup lurched forward, tires chirping.
Craaaack!
The sharp report of a rifle split the summer air.
The first bullet pinged off a fender.
“Faster!” she yelled as he tromped on the gas.
Then the hunter took aim again.
The Silverado’s engine whined as it sped forward, accelerating, faster and faster, from a dead stop, forty, then forty-five.
“Who is that guy?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“And he’s chasing you?”
They were going sixty now.
God, what was this?
And how the hell could he take the next corner at seventy miles an hour? Shit . . . he had to slow or they’d never make it.
“Don’t slow down, you moron!” she ordered. “He’s coming! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving your damned skin.”
Blam!
The rifle fired again.
CHAPTER 27
Brianna was stunned. And shocked. And devastated. And mad that she’d heard the news after it had started to run rampant over the Internet. Donovan Caldwell was dead. How had it happened? Had he been murdered in his sleep? Had some kind of heart attack or stroke . . . Geez, he was way too young for that. Maybe he’d fallen and hit his head. Suicide? Oh, God, please no . . . but what?
With no answers, she headed out the door only to hear her phone ring when she was on the porch.
She stopped dead in her tracks and dug her phone from her purse. Expecting the call to be from Rick Bentz or Jase or anyone associated with the 21 Killer case, she glanced down at caller ID.
Milo Tillman.
She was disappointed; didn’t want to deal with whatever Milo was going
through. She had more than enough on her plate already. She considered not answering as she was too emotional, her thoughts wrapped around Donovan, her heart heavy, but she gave herself a quick mental shake. As upset as she was about Donovan Caldwell’s death, she could spare a few minutes for Milo.
“Hello?” She held her bag and keys with one hand and pressed the phone to her ear with the other.
“Hi. Uh, Brianna.” He sounded a little out of breath, as if he’d been running, though it could have been breathless anxiety. She’d always gotten an awkward sense when she was near him; that her presence was unnerving to him, and coping in a group was especially difficult for him. “It’s Milo. Tillman.”
Of course she knew that, but she let him go on as she locked her door, then spied St. Ives stalking a chipmunk through the azaleas. No, you don’t, she thought, and set her bag down to grab the cat before he pounced. Not that he would have much of a chance of catching the chipmunk, which darted into a crack between the rocks on her path.
“What can I do for you, Milo?” she asked as she retraced her steps, unlocked the door again, and deposited the tabby inside. Be good, she mentally ordered the cat, who wandered off in search of a patch of sunlight.
“I, uh, just needed to talk. I was hoping we could meet.”
“Today?” Again she locked her door and headed to her car.
He cleared his throat, still sounded as if he needed to catch his breath. “Yeah, it’s . . . it’s important.”
But so were a million other things.
“I’d hire you,” he said quickly, as if he understood she was going to decline. “You know, so you’d be my counselor. That’s what you offered, right? To everyone in the group? Back when we started up.”
She had. But now was just not a good time. “Well, yes. Sure,” she heard herself saying as she bent down to pick up her bag again. The chipmunk, or one just like him, scampered over the rocks to the edge of her garden. “I’d be glad to have you as a client,” she said, checking her watch.
“I could come over now, to your house. That’s where you have your office, right?”
“One of them, yes. But now won’t work,” she said. “I’m already booked this afternoon.”
“But . . . well, I just need to talk to you.” His anxiety was taking over.
“How about tomorrow? I’m not near my calendar, but I think—”
“No, I, um, I’m busy. I need to see you today,” he insisted. And then, as if hearing the desperation in his voice, he added, “Sorry. I mean, if it would work for you. It’s really important.”
She managed to unlock her car with her remote. It beeped in response. “What’s going on, Milo?” She opened the car door and tossed her bags onto the passenger seat, then slid into the warm interior.
He hesitated for a beat.
She waited.
Finally, he went on in a raspy voice. “It’s about my twin.” He was nearly panting now. “There’s something you need to know about her.”
Bentz rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck and heard his stomach grumble from lack of food. Upon returning to the station, he’d checked on Samantha Wheeler and made certain she was safe. It was time to double up on surveillance of her place. If Father John was back, he would eventually go after her, and she was aware of that fact. Dr. Sam had agreed to take some time off, allowing some of her older shows that had been taped to be aired until she could set up shop remotely at a secure location. She’d already worked things out with the radio station.
One problem dealt with, if not solved. Who knew who would be Father John’s next victim, if not Samantha Wheeler? Another prostitute? It was likely, if the killer kept with his MO of years before. Today, at a press conference, the public would be informed that the serial killer was at large again. Already, the FBI was sending agents, which, this time around, Bentz welcomed. He could use the bureau’s intelligence and resources in tracking down the sick bastard he’d thought would never be a problem again.
But he’d been wrong.
Just as he feared, he’d been wrong about Donovan Caldwell, the poor son of a bitch. Jonas Hayes had sent pictures of Caldwell’s cell, complete with a dark pool of blood on the floor and bed, and the eerie crimson message written on the wall opposite his bunk: I’M INNOCENT
Was he?
And was the real 21 Killer now stalking the streets of New Orleans?
Bentz turned back to his computer monitor and clicked on the Play arrow. He was viewing the security footage shot at the parking lot near Bourbon Street, where a camera had caught a tall man, his face hidden, arguing, then subduing a shorter female and forcing her into the back of his van, a white Dodge it looked like. The lab had enhanced the videotape and printed individual photographs from its frame. Although the man’s face was turned away, Bentz could have sworn he looked familiar. As for the victim, he had only to view the last picture taken of Zoe and Chloe Denning to know that the girl on the video was one of the twins. Which one, he couldn’t be certain, but since the tape was in black-and-white, he guessed that he was looking at Chloe, as the victim’s dress didn’t appear to be dark enough to be black.
The edge of the license plate was visible. Louisiana plate. A bit of a pelican and the starting letters KF, but that was all.
Not much, but something. He’d already called the DMV and was searching records. Once he had a list of potential vehicles, he’d double-check to make certain the girls didn’t know any of the registered owners. A long shot. But, again, better than nothing.
When his phone rang, he picked up without checking caller ID. “Detective Bentz.”
“This is Detective Phillipa Osgoode from the Phoenix PD.” The woman’s voice was all business. “You called the other day about the missing Reeves twins, Garrett and Gavin.”
“That’s right,” he said, reaching for the sheaf of papers. “We’ve got a situation where twin girls have gone missing on the eve of their twenty-first birthdays.” He explained about the ongoing investigation and how Brianna Hayward, Donovan Caldwell’s cousin, had come up with a theory she thought might exonerate him. Unfortunately, Caldwell had died earlier this morning in his jail cell in California.
Osgoode told him that she was aware of the 21 Killer. “The Reeves investigation is still open,” she said, “but I just don’t think our missing twins fit your guy’s MO, what with them both being male.”
“That was my thought,” Bentz admitted. Osgoode promised to keep him informed of any developments, and they ended the call. He took one last look at the photos of the brothers who went missing in Arizona, then shoved the file to the bottom of the stack of papers. He didn’t think the Reeves brothers were victims of 21.
Unfortunately he couldn’t say the same for the Denning twins, now days past their joint twenty-first birthday and still missing.
Not a good sign.
Not a good sign at all.
Jase drove to his apartment at the speed of light. His rage, temporarily abated while dealing with Brianna, had returned to a low, seething burn. Now rather than going off half-cocked, he was calmer but still angry as hell.
Forced to ease up on the accelerator as traffic slowed near the St. Louis Cathedral with its three spires knifing upward into the hazy sky, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. A throng of tourists had spilled onto the streets around Jackson Square, walking and talking throughout the musicians, mimes, and dancers positioned on corners and steps and sidewalks. Jase usually enjoyed watching the street performers, cases open, and hats on the ground for tip collection, but today, the scene was lost on him.
He told himself to calm down, try to think rationally and deal with his father in a civilized, adult manner.
But that probably wasn’t going to happen.
Not the way he felt, not knowing his whole damned life had been a lie.
The sluggish traffic started moving again. He flipped down his visor and felt his jaw clamp tight, his fingers clench the wheel in a death grip. Who the hell did Edward Bridge
s think he was, manipulating his kids, lying to his family and playing the victim? What kind of piss-poor excuse of a man would keep the truth from his own sons?
The same kind of man who would bury a body and keep his mouth shut for years. A man who would lie to protect his own son, to protect you.
Jase cursed as the guilt that he’d never been able to outrun wrapped a little tighter around his lungs, so tight, he had trouble drawing a breath. For so many years he’d lived his own lie, and yet he was willing to tear his father limb from limb for doing the same.
But it had to end.
Today.
Another five minutes and he was pulling into his assigned space in the apartment’s parking lot. A wayward thought crossed his mind as he cut the engine. Maybe he’d luck out and the old man would be gone.
No damned way.
He was through with lies.
Even his own.
He jogged across the dusty lot and startled a lizard sunning himself. As Jase passed, it scuttled beneath the fronds of a fat fern near the staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, Jase was up the two flights to the third floor in no time flat. As he stepped out of the stairwell, he found his father leaning over the porch railing, smoking a cigarette as he watched the traffic roll past.
The door to his unit was open wide and Ed, who had obviously showered and shaved sometime during the day, nodded as he spied his son.
As if nothing was wrong.
As if he hadn’t turned Jase’s life inside out.
“We need to talk,” Jase said without preamble, then looked down the long walkway and spied a woman pushing twins in a stroller two doors down. “Not out here.” He headed inside.
“Figured as much.” Ed snuffed out his cigarette before following.
The living room was tidy. The blanket Ed had used the night before had been folded and stacked neatly on the end of the couch, the pillow resting on top.
