by Burton, Mary
He gripped the phone, clinging to the reins of his temper. “One more time.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it this time.”
Sucking in a breath, Brooke suddenly awoke. Her hands and feet were bound, making it awkward for her to push into a sitting position. She searched the darkness broken only by a light filtering under the cracks of a now-closed door.
She raised her bound hands to her throat and swallowed. The insides of her chest and throat burned as if they had been scraped raw. She tilted her head back against the wall to open her airway. She drew in deep breaths until she could think clearly.
She reached for the button on her waistband, decided whoever this guy was, he’d not raped her. Yet.
He’d taken her shoes, belt, and all the decorative pins she could have used as a weapon.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she could make out that she was in the same small room. The last time, she had barely had time to study it before he had arrived, but now she had a chance to assess.
It was not a basement, but a room. She searched the perimeter for a window, a grate, or a sharp edge to cut her bindings. When she found nothing that appeared to be of help, she reached for the bindings around her ankles and pulled hard, but the knots were locked down tight. She kept wedging her fingers into the bindings and pulling until a small section of rope gave way and she was able to unknot her ankles. Her heart pounding, she bit into the bindings around her wrists, trying to loosen them. She lost track of the time as she pulled at the knots and worked her hands back and forth until they came free.
When the red rope fell to the floor, she rubbed her raw wrists and wiggled her numb fingers until some of the circulation returned.
Outside, approaching footsteps stopped her cold. She closed her eyes and lay very still. All she needed was to place one strike to his knee or midsection. She had a chance of disabling him. Maybe then she could punch his throat or nose. She wanted to inflict the maximum damage. All this was assuming that her aim was true. If she missed, she’d just piss him off, and when he played his strangulation game, he could take it too far and kill her.
Holding her breath, she readied to kick. Floorboards shifted. But he never entered the room. Her heart beat in her throat as she waited for him. But the footsteps retreated.
Brooke quietly stood, her fists raised and body poised to fight. The muffled sounds of angry male voices reached the room. She strained to hear what the men were saying, but couldn’t make out the words. Hoping her jailer was distracted, she unclenched her fingers and twisted the doorknob. To her surprise, it turned, and the door opened. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she thought about the possibility of getting free. Then she hesitated. This was a trap. It had to be. What was he luring her toward?
However, she made the decision to go, knowing that staying assured her death. She opened the door and peered down the hallway. Slowly she moved, one careful step at a time, and made her way into a small living room. She looked around, ready to see him watching or lunging toward her. But she was alone in the room that was now bathed in shadows. She heard only silence. Flexing her fingers, waiting for an attack, she hurried toward the front door.
Outside she heard two men arguing.
“What the fuck have you done?” She recognized the voice. It was Bruce Shaw.
Whoever he was talking to spoke in low, deep tones, and it was impossible to hear his response or to identify him. Who was here with him? God help her if there were two.
“You’re talking about killing a cop this time. Her disappearance is all over the news. It’s a matter of time before the cops figure all this out.”
For a beat, there was only silence. And then a gunshot fired and she flinched. She stepped back from the door, searching the simple living room for something she could use as a weapon. Her heart pounded in her chest. Think, Brooke, think!
Outside, she heard one of the men mumble a curse. She peered out the window and saw a dark figure dragging another man, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell who was who. She waited, listened until the figures vanished around the side of the house.
If she could get out the door and make it to the woods, she had a chance. Gritting her teeth, she stepped out onto the front stoop. Her toes curled.
The half moon hung over her, and cold air whipped through the trees. Ahead were woods. And somewhere in the distance she heard running water.
But as she took a step, a shadow lunged from the darkness and grabbed her by the back of the neck. He slammed her hard against the house.
“Crow thinks I’m inferior. Do you?”
Fury, not fear, rolled inside her. She should try to calm him. She should find a way to talk him down. Instead, she simply said, “Yes.”
Her head hit the siding, and she was so stunned she could barely stand. He dragged her back into the house, forcing her to stumble forward into the living room. He slammed the front door and then dragged her back to her prison room. He was on top of her again, squeezing her throat.
“I am in control,” he said. “Me. Not you. Not him. Not her. Me!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Thursday, November 21, 11:00 p.m.
The air in the car was thick with frustration and anger as Macy and Nevada drove down the back road furrowed with potholes. Nevada’s jaw was clenched, and when he rounded a final bend, he said, “Speaking to the press like that was stupid. You’ve now made yourself a target.”
“Maybe if I make him mad enough, it will take his mind off Bennett.”
“We’ve already excluded Younger’s DNA. We have Shaw’s DNA, but no results yet. And I will get a sample from Kevin Wyatt.”
“Wyatt is still not answering his phone.”
“You should not have baited this killer.” He pressed the accelerator. The engine roared and the tires spun faster. “The house Younger mentioned should be around the next turn.”
“Let’s park here and walk in so no one hears us coming.”
He pulled to the side and shut off the engine. Macy got out of the car, quietly closing the door before checking her weapon. They moved side by side for the last few hundred yards. Her leg and hip were tightening up the entire way, but she pushed through, knowing Bennett was running out of time.
As the small gray house came into view, she thought about the house in Texas where she’d found the unmarked graves. On the heels of that memory was the sound of a revving truck engine seconds before it plowed into her body. She flinched but shoved the surge of fear aside.
She put one foot in front of the other. She needed to focus and provide cover for Nevada.
As they approached the small house, they detected activity. There were fresh tire treads and footprints. The prints appeared to have been made by a man’s athletic shoe.
Nevada raised his finger to his lips as he moved past her. As much as she wanted to be the one to take this guy down, she had to be practical. They would be most effective if she provided cover while he took point.
He tried the front door and discovered it was locked. She always carried a lockpick set in her kit. Not wasting a moment, she identified the lock as a pin tumbler. After pulling out a wrench and pick, she worked the pair into the lock until all the pins were set and the lock clicked open.
Nevada arched an amused brow before saying, “Stay behind me.”
She nodded, and the two moved into the central living room of the house. Her gaze swept the room, searching each of the closed doors that fed into it. A padlock noticeably secured one door.
While she watched the door, Nevada swept the one-story house for signs of anyone else. When he gave the all clear sign, she moved to the padlock, holstered her weapon, and picked it faster than the first lock. She quickly removed it, flipped open the latch, and pushed open the door.
The room was dark, and the cold air was heavy with the scent of sweat. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she tightened her hold on the grip of her weapon. She listened for the sound
of breathing or movement, but couldn’t hear over her own quick breath.
Nevada cast his light into the room until it rested on Bennett’s body. “Shit.”
Macy holstered her weapon, ran toward her, and knelt beside her. Carefully, she rolled her on her back and pressed her fingertips to the black-and-blue skin of her neck. For a moment, there was only stillness, so she repositioned her fingers and prayed. And then she felt the faint pulse. Tears burned in her eyes.
“She’s alive,” she said.
Nevada was already dialing for assistance.
Macy rode to the hospital with Bennett in the back of the ambulance. The wail of the siren and the rocking rhythm of the ride reminded Macy of her own ordeal as paramedics shouted Brooke’s name and tried to get her to open her eyes. Macy knew Bennett would have a long road ahead of her if she survived this.
They rolled into the university hospital’s parking lot, and personnel were on hand to admit Bennett. As staff quickly pushed the gurney toward the emergency room, the paramedics recited Bennett’s vital signs to the doctors.
Macy hustled behind, following as far as the swinging doors. A nurse dressed in scrubs blocked Macy and informed her she would have to wait in the lobby.
“I need to know who did this to her.” Macy hadn’t been able to stop shaking since they’d found Bennett.
“And I need to save her,” the nurse retorted before she vanished.
Running her hand over her head, Macy turned to a lobby crowded with people filling out forms, reading magazines, and watching televisions mounted on the walls. She replayed her actions since she’d arrived in town. Why hadn’t she been more aggressive with Kevin about the swabs? Could she have pushed Greene even harder?
Unable to sit, she paced, and when her phone rang, she reached for it, thinking it was Nevada. She was surprised to see Faith’s name on the display.
She walked to the window overlooking the parking lot and faced away from the people in the lobby. “How did you know something was wrong? Is this some kind of twin symbiotic thing?”
“Damn right, sis.”
That coaxed a small smile as she watched an ambulance drive off. “I’m standing in the emergency room. Another cop was injured.”
A door clicked closed in the background. “Who?”
“She’s one of the deputies in the county. She was attacked by a guy we’re chasing.” She pressed her fingers to her closed eyes, willing tears to stay in check. “I’m trying, but it might be too little, too late.”
“You’re a good cop, Macy.”
“But was I good enough? If it were another agent in my shoes, would they have gotten to Deputy Bennett sooner? I was so hell bent on getting back to work I didn’t stop to really consider if I should. Maybe I don’t belong in this job.”
“That’s bullshit,” Faith said. “You’re one of the best.”
Images of the bruises ringing Bennett’s pale neck rose to the front of her thoughts. “Jesus, Faith, this guy strangled her multiple times.”
“She’s a cop, Macy. She accepted the risks of the job. It could just as easily have been you.”
“She’s a deputy in a small town. She’s never seen a case like this.”
“Do you think she’d appreciate the fact that you’re underestimating her? Do you think she’d like hearing she’s just Barney Fife from Mayberry?”
Macy pictured Bennett’s stoic expression. “She’d probably kick my ass.”
“Would she want you blaming yourself or going after this guy?”
Macy drew in a breath. “She’d want me to nail him to the wall.”
“Then why are you still on the phone yammering with me? Go kick somebody’s ass and be quick about it. Call me when it’s done.”
Click.
She stared at the phone in disbelief. No goodbye, no good luck. Faith understood her better than she realized. Nevada strode in. The tightly woven coil inside her eased a fraction.
“How is she?” Nevada asked.
“She’s still unconscious.”
“All right,” he said. “We’ll wait for a little bit.”
“I hate waiting.”
“Macy, it sucks being on the outside, but sometimes that’s all you have,” Nevada said.
“Who are we talking about now?” she asked.
“Me, after your accident.” He laid his hand on hers. “I never want to go through that again.”
She had been focused on herself after the accident. All she had wanted to do was get better. She had thought about him. Several times she had felt so alone it was all she could do not to call him, but she had been afraid of showing any kind of weakness. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”
“I could have dealt with it,” he said. “You didn’t have to fight your way back alone.”
A doctor dressed in green scrubs approached them. “You’re FBI?”
They both stood and she said, “Yes. We brought in Brooke Bennett. Is she awake?”
“Not yet.”
Once Nevada and Macy had spoken to the doctor and learned Bennett wouldn’t likely wake until morning, they returned to the house where they’d found her. Surrounding the house were state and federal officers who were sweeping the structure and grounds for evidence.
Sullivan met them outside. “We were able to locate the clerk from the county land records office. He was not happy to be pulled away from his evening show until I told him about Deputy Bennett.”
“And?” Nevada demanded.
“The clerk ran right into the office and started digging. The land passed through three hands in the last twenty years. It had a reputation for being a party site for the kids at one point. Long story short, a limited partnership called Pocket Inc. purchased the house. I called the attorney of record, and he told me his client was Bruce Shaw.”
“What’s the status of the crime scene?” Nevada asked.
“The technicians are going over the room where they found Deputy Bennett. It’s mostly hair and fiber samples in that room, but in the other bedroom there are journals,” he said.
“What kind of journals?” Nevada asked.
“Apparently this guy liked to make sketches and notes of the women he stalked. There’re notes on hundreds of women from up and down the East Coast.”
“What about Baltimore, Atlanta, and Bluefield, West Virginia?” Macy asked.
“I haven’t been in the room to see,” he said.
“Good work,” Nevada said. “We’ll take it from here.”
“How is Deputy Bennett?” Sullivan asked.
“She’s going to recover with time,” Macy said.
“Thank God for that.”
“Agent Crow, about that Beacon cologne,” Sullivan said. “It’s been bugging me all day.”
“What about it?” she asked.
“Wyatt wore it.”
“You are sure? Rebecca Kennedy said her attacker wore Beacon cologne.”
“Yeah. The guys used to tease Wyatt about it. They were always taking the bottle and tossing it in the trash. They said it made him smell like a pretty boy. I saw the bottle more than a few times.”
Kevin had not given DNA, and now she had a witness who said he wore the rapist’s scent. “Wyatt would have been under a lot of pressure during the Dream Team years.”
“He’s always had a lot on his shoulders,” Sullivan said. “Father wasn’t around much, and his mother isn’t wrapped real tight.”
“Deputy Sullivan, go by Wyatt’s house again,” Nevada said. “If he’s there, bring him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Macy and Nevada each donned latex gloves and booties, gave their names to the officer standing watch at the crime scene tape, and then entered.
Now that she really had time to look at the room, Macy could see it was freshly painted and the floors had been refinished in the last couple of years. There was a stone fireplace, with freshly stacked wood on the grate.
The furniture was new, though nothing fancy, and the flat
-screen television wasn’t connected to cable. Beside it was a DVD player and a stack of movies. Macy perused the titles, which featured older heroes who were former athletic stars and were trying to make a comeback. Blackout curtains were installed over all the windows.
“Sheriff Nevada.”
They both turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a state police forensic jacket. His hair was neatly trimmed, and he had a clean-cut look that was reminiscent of a Boy Scout. “I’m David Holland from Roanoke. I was called in to run this crime scene.”
Nevada shook hands with him. “Appreciate you coming in. This is Special Agent Macy Crow. What do you have?”
“I’d like to show you the journals we found in the second bedroom,” Holland said.
The three entered the small bedroom, which was equipped with floor-to-ceiling shelves on the far wall. The shelves were filled with hundreds of black-and-white marble composition notebooks. Along the thin spine of each were dates: June 2004. September 2007. November 2019.
“How far do the journals date back?” Macy asked.
“Sixteen years. The first, from what we can tell, was written in April of 2003. The author of the books was making notes on Cindy Shaw.”
“What does he say about her?” Macy asked.
“Rather intimate details of her daily routine. He’s also drawn sketches of her, and in many of the pictures she appears to be dead.”
Macy moved to one shelf with an array of small trinkets lined up in a neat row. Many were single earrings, necklaces, panties, and single high heels. She spotted the princess pepper shaker missing from Beth Watson’s home.
“Are there journals from Baltimore or Atlanta?”
“It appears so. And several other cities.”
Nevada drew in a breath. “Are names listed?”
“Yes. He not only lists his target’s name, address, and phone number, but also a detailed description of likes, dislikes, schedules, and pictures.”
“Any containing Deputy Bennett?”
Holland lowered his voice. “Yes. And some of it dates back to when she was a teenager.”
Eventually, the evidence of Bennett’s rape would come out. “She’s going to need time to heal,” she said. “Give her a chance to regain some of her strength before she has to publicly deal with this. Keep a tight lid on what you can.”
