Even in the dark, with only the light of a half moon, Angie could tell that the woman was badly beaten. Her face was horribly swollen and smeared with something black which Angie assumed was blood. The victim lay on her side at the edge of the road, curled into a fetal position.
“It’s okay,” the teenager told her, assuming the role of mother/comforter. “You’re going to be okay now.”
Angie wasn’t wearing a coat, only a thin sweater with her new pusher-upper bra underneath. But she quickly determined that this poor woman needed the garment more than she did. She peeled it off and tried to put it on the shivering woman, but she thrashed her arms and hit Angie in the mouth.
Even though the blow smarted and Angie could taste blood from a cut inside her lip, she knew the woman was too traumatized to know what she was doing.
“That’s all right,” Angie said. “You don’t have to wear it. But let me wrap it around you; you’re freezing.”
The victim quieted down a bit, submitting to being wrapped.
“What happened to you?” Angie asked, casting a few furtive glances at the dark grove behind them. “Who did this to you? Is he still around?”
The woman tried to answer, but her teeth were chattering so hard that Angie couldn’t understand her. All she could make out was something that didn’t make any sense . . . something about Santa.
Then, it did make sense.
Perfect sense.
Angie Perez began to shiver, too, and it had nothing to do with the citrus-scented, cold night air on her bare skin.
This woman was the Santa Rapist’s latest victim. And for all Angie knew, the guy was still there in those dark trees, watching, listening. For all she knew, he wasn’t finished for the night. And she was here on this lonely road, shivering in her bra, with his shattered victim at her feet.
For all Angie knew, Brett had been right, after all, and she was stupid, putting herself in a position like this.
The woman on the pavement groaned and tried to mouth some words through her swollen, bleeding lips.
Angie bent closer and stroked her hair. She could feel dirt embedded in her scalp and something wet and sticky . . . probably more blood. “What is it?” she asked her. “What are you trying to say?”
“Th- . . . thank . . . you.”
Tears sprang to Angie’s eyes and, although she was still fully aware of her dangerous situation, she wouldn’t have chosen be anywhere else at that moment.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “You’re very, very welcome.”
She looked right, then left, up and down the empty road and whispered a prayer of thanks that God had brought her here tonight and allowed her to help one of His children who was so badly in need. Then she quickly added a request that stupid, asshole Brett had found an ounce of compassion in his heart and made that phone call.
10:14 P.M.
“How about all the registered S.O.s in the area?” Savannah asked, knowing what Dirk would say. He was a good cop who knew the basics, like checking out any local sex offenders. Most rapes were committed by repeat offenders. And law enforcement figured that the average rapist attacked at least fourteen victims before getting caught.
A very nasty habit.
“We’ve got a couple of possibles,” Dirk said, munching the last piece of cold pizza. “But they’re both chicken hawks, and kiddie pervs don’t usually cross over to attacking full-grown women.”
“True. What have you got from the victims? Any common acquaintances?”
“Nope. No link, except that they were all snatched out of the mall parking lot.”
“That’s got to be bad for mall business. It’s probably a downtown merchant trying to divert some of the Christmas sales.”
“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I was kidding. Sorry, a bad joke.” Savannah thought about the victims and their families for whom Christmas would never be the same. For years, the city of San Carmelita would be different; fear changed everything. Soberly, she said, “You’re looking for a guy who’s probably in his late teens to mid-thirties, attractive and—”
“Attractive?”
“Sure. Haven’t you noticed? Most rapists are good-looking dudes who wouldn’t have any problem picking up a woman. But I suppose having the woman’s consent would ruin the fun.”
“I never understood rape mentality.” Dirk shook his head thoughtfully. “When a woman says, ‘No! Oh, God, no!’ it’s a real turnoff for me.”
Savannah stared at him for a moment. “I’m so glad to hear that, Dirk.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying . . . an attractive young man, above average intelligence and a decent job and his neighbors think he’s a great guy.”
“Gee, that narrows it down.”
“Oh, yeah . . . and he likes to dress up like Santa.”
“Mmmm . . . if he got off by dressing like Mrs. Santa or the elves . . . then we’d have something.”
10:28 P.M.
Through a haze of semi-consciousness and pain, Charlene Yardley could hear the male voice . . . his voice. He was back.
“Don’t move. Lie still,” he was saying.
Large hands . . . a man’s hands gripped her shoulders, holding her down. She fought against him as she swam her way to the surface of full consciousness. “Do you hear me? Be still,” he told her as he pinned her to the cold wet ground.
Not again! She wouldn’t let him do it again. She would die first. “No!” she screamed, but her own voice sounded weak, barely a croak in her throat. “Get away . . . away . . . from me.”
The fingers tightened, pinching her flesh that was already bruised. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said. “Don’t move.”
Another voice in the darkness. Softer, like an angel’s. A woman. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe now. He’s just trying to help you.”
Charlene tried to open her eyes. But one was so swollen she couldn’t see out of it, and the other felt as though it were on fire.
The man over her looked different from her attacker. This man wasn’t wearing a beard or red hat. He was young and clean shaven, and his hat was dark. She was dimly aware of lights flashing over him, over them—red lights, blue lights.
She was still lying on the ground, and he was kneeling over her. Behind him was the girl with the angel’s face, the girl who had come to her first . . . was it hours ago?
“I’m a police officer, ma’am,” he was saying in a gentle, consoling tone. “My name is Officer Dunn. I’ve called an ambulance for you. It’s on its way.”
Charlene started to cry as she realized her rapist hadn’t come back to kill her after all. Help had come. The help she had prayed for.
“My arm,” she said. “I think he broke my arm.” Every word, every movement of her mouth brought stabs of new miseries.
“I’m sorry, but that’s why you need to lie still,” he said, “or you might make it worse. We’ll get you to a hospital right away, and they’ll give you something for the pain.”
The girl moved to Charlene’s other side and knelt in the dirt. Her dark hair spilled around her pretty face as she bent over and took Charlene’s hand in hers.
“Here. Hold my hand,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see.” The girl’s fingers were warm and comforting, and the touch went straight to Charlene’s heart.
“He . . . he hurt me,” she said between sobs.
“I know. There, there . . . it’s okay.” The girl stroked her hair as she had before, and even though the teenager was only a few years older than her own kids, Charlene felt as vulnerable as a child.
“I . . . I thought he killed me, but then I woke up.”
The police officer released his hold on her and peeled off his jacket. He handed it to the girl. “Here,” he said, “put this on. We don’t want our Good Samaritan freezing to death.”
As the girl slipped into the coat, he turned back to Charlene. “I hate to have to ask you questions at a time like this, ma’am, b
ut I need to know: Did you get a good look at the man who attacked you?”
Charlene forced herself to speak in spite of the pain. “No, wore a beard . . . red hat, like Santa.”
The policeman nodded. “Was he a white guy, black . . . latino?”
“White, I think. Was dark and . . .”
“About what size?”
“Wh- . . . what?”
“Was he tall or short?”
“Don’t know. Bigger . . . than me. Can’t talk now . . . hurts to breathe.”
“That’s okay. We’ll take your statement later.” He patted her shoulder, but his eyes were scanning the scene. Standing, he pulled a flashlight from his belt and began playing the powerful beam back and forth across the ground in ever-widening swaths. “You just rest,” he said. “It’s all over now.”
“No,” Charlene whispered. “Not over.”
The girl leaned closer, placing her ear near Charlene’s mouth. “What did you say?” she asked.
An emotional abyss swallowed Charlene Yardley and she felt herself falling, tumbling headfirst into an ever-darkening blackness. “This . . . will never . . . never be over.”
CHAPTER FIVE
11:05 P.M.
“Paranoia over the Santa Claus Rapist reached new heights this evening,” the channel seven newscaster announced as blithely as if she were hawking corn dogs at a ball game, “when a local shopping mall Santa was viciously attacked by an overzealous member of mall security.”
Savannah’s eyes bugged and her jaw dropped as she stared at the screen. “Oh, man . . . tell me this isn’t happening.”
“It’s happening,” Dirk replied with a sniff and a snort, then he took a long last chug from his beer bottle.
“You’re a lot of help.” Savannah covered her eyes with her hands, but peeked through her fingers. “Tell me when it’s over.”
The anchor’s far-too-cheery account continued over footage of the mall’s front lot where the incident had occurred. “In a display of true holiday spirit, Henry Wilcox, a.k.a. Kris Kringle, was attempting to aid a young woman in the parking lot, when an unidentified—”
“Unidentified,” Savannah whispered, “thank God.”
“—mall guard administered a swift kick to Mr. Wilcox’s groin. Wilcox’s doctor says that, due to the delicate nature of his injuries, Mr. Wilcox will be unable to perform his duties as Santa for the remainder of the holiday season.”
Dirk nodded solemnly. “Yeah, with nuts the size of basketballs, you wouldn’t want kids squirming around on your lap.”
“Shut up, Coulter,” she snapped, glaring at him through her fingers. “You don’t need to state the obvious.”
“It’s over.”
She dropped her hands. “Gee, thanks.”
“I told you, that dude’s gonna sue you. You can’t mess with a man’s gonads like that. You hit a guy where he lives and he’ll come after you, one way or the other.”
The phone rang and Savannah groaned. “That’s probably him now.” She stepped into the kitchen and plucked the receiver from the wall. “Hello. Yes, this is Savannah Reid.” She listened, frowning. “No, no comment.”
She hung up and trudged back to the living room where she plopped into her chair. Dirk gave her a questioning look. “A reporter from the Star,” she said, “wanting to know if I’m the unidentified guard. I’ll be front page headline by morning.”
He smirked. “It won’t be the first time.”
“I know. It’s getting harder and harder to remain a private detective in this town.” She heard something vibrating and jumped up from her chair. “What the hell’s that?”
“You’re sure strung tight. It’s just my butt buzzing.” He reached down to his belt and unsnapped his pager. Peering at the display, he muttered, “Shit.”
“Who is it?”
“Captain Bloss. And he’s used the 666 code.”
“Mmmm . . . 666.” She raised one eyebrow. “Those are some pretty ominous digits. What do they mean?”
The thought occurred to Savannah that, all of a sudden, Dirk looked even more tired than she felt. No easy feat.
“They mean,” he said, “you’re going to get bumped from tomorrow morning’s headline. That son of a bitch has raped another one.”
11:27 P.M.
When Savannah and Dirk arrived at the crime scene, the orange grove looked as though it had been invaded by a flock of alien spacecraft—a dozen squad cars lining the sides of the road, blue and red lights flashing eerily.
Savannah pulled Dirk’s old Buick onto the shoulder near the center of the hubbub. As they climbed out of the car, she saw Patrolman Mike Farnon and his partner Jake McMurtry, two of her favorite ex-compatriots.
Mike’s round face glowed when he spotted her. “Hey, Savannah!” he shouted. “Haven’t seen you since the Fourth of July barbecue. You’re looking good.”
She gave him a dimpled grin and a wink. “Ah . . . you silken-tongued laddie, you’re just sayin’ that because it’s true.”
Jake slapped her shoulder, hard enough to hurt. She accepted the gesture as a compliment, establishing her as “one of the boys.” “What are you doing here?” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re this old fart’s date.” He pointed at Dirk, who was still strolling around, checking out the scene.
“No, but he was the designated drunk at our late-night beer and pizza orgy,” she said. “Somebody had to drive him here.”
Dirk joined them, wearing his “I Mean Business, Suckers” scowl. “So, guys . . . what’ve we got?”
Jake nodded to the nearest radio car and a teenage girl who sat, shivering, in the backseat. The door was open and her feet were hanging out. A large jacket—a cop’s uniform coat—was draped around her shoulders. “The girl over there . . .” he said, “. . . the pretty Latina. She and her boyfriend were driving by about 2200 hours and spotted the victim crawling, naked, by the side of the road. The girl got out to help her. The boyfriend drove on . . . didn’t want to get involved.”
“Nice guy,” Savannah muttered.
“Yeah, right. But he did call it in when he got home.”
Dirk gave an unimpressed grunt. “So, the mayor will pin a rose on his nose.”
“Is the victim at the hospital?” Savannah asked.
“Yeah, the ambulance just left.”
“How is she?”
Jake looked like he might be feeling a bit queasy. “Not great. Her arm’s broken, maybe some ribs.”
“And her face is pretty mashed up,” Mike added, looking equally sick.
“Were you two the first to respond?” Dirk asked.
“Not the first. We were on a possible liquor store burglary over by the high school. Titus got here first. He’d just come on duty.”
“Where’s he?”
“He’s been searching the grove since we got here.” Mike pointed into the orchard where a tone figure was combing the ground with a flashlight beam.
“Did he string the tape?”
“Yeah. He had the perimeter set up when we arrived.”
“Good man.” Dirk waved a hand toward the teenager in the backseat of the patrol car. “Has anyone questioned the girl?”
“I think Titus talked to her, but we told her you’d want to speak to her, so she’s been waiting around.” “Whose jacket is she wearing?” Savannah asked.
“Titus gave her his. Seems she put her sweater on the victim. The kid was freezing when he got here.”
“Thanks guys,” Dirk said. “Keep these people back behind the line, especially the reporters, and let me know when Bloss gets here.”
Dirk headed toward the unit and Savannah followed.
“What makes you think the captain’s coming?” Jake called after them.
“Are you kidding?” Savannah replied over her shoulder. “We’ve got television cameras here, and Bloss is still working on his fifteen seconds of fame.”
Savannah felt a mini-surge of affection for Dirk as she watched him drop to one knee beside the o
pen car door to talk to Angie Perez. His street-worn face softened, and he dropped the brusque, tough guy tone of voice when he interviewed victims or traumatized witnesses.
After being his partner for seven years and his friend for ten, Savannah knew all his secrets . . . like that he would get teary-eyed over an abandoned puppy. And the guy couldn’t be all bad if he liked cats.
She leaned over the open car door and listened as he spoke to the distraught teenager. “Your name is Angie, right?” he said.
The girl nodded.
“I hear you did a good thing, helping the victim,” he said as he fished a tattered tissue out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“I don’t know how much I helped,” the girl replied between sniffs. “I hope she’s going to be okay. Have you heard how she is?”
“No, I haven’t,” Dirk said. “But I’ll call the hospital in a little while and I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“And how about you?” Savannah asked her, touched by the teenager’s concern for the victim. Who said kids didn’t have a heart these days? “Are you going to be okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Angie dabbed at her eyes and the dark streaks of mascara dripping down her cheeks. “I mean . . . I don’t know why I’m crying. I wasn’t the one who . . . That poor lady.”
Savannah reached over and stroked the girl’s hair as though she were one of her younger sisters. “You’re crying because you have a heart, kiddo, and it hurts to see something like that.”
“I guess you guys get used to it,” she said, hiccuping, “but that’s the first time I’ve ever . . .”
Dirk looked down and brushed some dirt off the knee of his jeans. “We don’t get used to it either,” he said quietly, “if that makes you feel any better.”
He waited while Angie blew her nose and composed herself, then he said, “Do you feel up to telling me what happened?”
“I already told the policeman, the one who got here first and helped me with the lady.”
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