Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel)

by Maegan Beaumont

  He took a quick look around. It was a small space; the kitchen/living room combo separated from the bedroom by nothing more than a low-slung archway. He opened the fridge. A carton of eggs sat alongside a half-empty container of orange juice, a slice of sausage and onion pizza that looked a bit fuzzy, and a soggy-looking sub sandwich—breakfast of champions.

  Shutting the door, he moved through the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and drawers on his way toward the living area. He had no idea what he was looking for—something that would clue him into whatever agenda Croft was working. And he was working one, of that Michael had no doubt.

  He’d been thinking about it since he’d left Miss Ettie’s. No matter what the movies would have you believe, a story as big as his—an internationally wanted hitman found in the employ of Uncle Sam’s number-one defense contractor—wasn’t one a lone reporter chased after blindly for the sake of nothing but the truth. Something was driving Croft. There was a reason he was so hell-bent on bringing him down. As soon as he found out he’d been involved in Sabrina’s rescue, Croft had gone off the reservation—quitting his job, dropping his other assignments—and Michael needed to find out why.

  The living room consisted of a lumpy-looking couch, a scarred coffee table, and what probably amounted to a small fortune in books. Faded paperbacks shared shelf space with rare first editions—everything from true crime to classic literature. Resisting the urge to pull one off the shelf, he kept looking, circling the room until he was right back where he started … and on the coffee table right in front of him was what looked to be a large photo album.

  Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Michael pulled the album onto his lap and flipped it open. The first page held a picture of Sabrina, her hand held out to the camera, trying to shield her face as she walked up the steps of Central Station. The headline read:

  VAUGHN RETURNS TO WORK

  AS SFPD INSPECTOR DESPITE

  MURDER ALLEGATIONS.

  He flipped a few pages. Another picture and article about Sabrina—this one showed her outside Good Shepherd, leaning heavily against Nickels’s broad shoulder, her leg in a brace from hip to knee. The cop had his arms slung protectively around her shoulder, pulling her close against his chest while a sullen-looking orderly stood behind them both with a wheelchair. This time the headline read:

  LONE SURVIVOR RELEASED

  FROM HOSPITAL. BIBLE BELT BUTCHER’S SEVENTH VICTIM FOUND IN WOODS.

  There were dozens of them, all set in chronological order, going back to the day he’d loaded her onto that chopper and watched her fly away.

  Settling in, he read her story in reverse, each article more invasive and sensationalized than the last. Each one clenching the grip anger had on his gut tighter and tighter. Croft had been hounding her for months, and he wasn’t alone. In almost every picture, Sabrina was surrounded by what Nickels had called her groupies—reporters and civilians who refused to leave her alone.

  The cop’s words came back to him. Thanks to you, she’s the pin-up girl for every whack job, wingnut, and loony tune in the Western Hemisphere … He’d thought Nickels was exaggerating, but he could see now just how accurate the cop’s assessment had been.

  Eight months ago, he rode into town on a mission to find Frankie’s killer by any means necessary, and he’d accomplished that mission in spectacular fashion … and then waltzed away, leaving her to pay the price.

  Michael flipped the page with enough force to loosen it from its binding and he looked down to see the first picture in nearly a hundred pages that didn’t chronicle some aspect of Sabrina’s life. In fact, this article had nothing to do with her at all.

  The picture was of Croft, taken nearly a decade ago. Standing next to him was a pretty, dark-haired woman in fatigues. Michael recognized her instantly, causing the muscles on his neck to tighten like a fist around his spine.

  Her name was Marisol Ramos, and he was suddenly sure that she was the reason Jaxon Croft was so determined to find him.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Floor wax and formaldehyde. The two separate smells mingled together to create their own distinct odor—county morgue.

  Sabrina moved down the hall. It was Saturday, meaning the place was all but deserted, every step a noisy clatter dropped in the quiet, a struggle to remain upright that both angered and embarrassed her. She’d pushed herself too hard, too soon. If Weber could see her now, he’d probably give her that smug look he was so fond of tossing at her, I told you so plastered all over his prissy face.

  “Prick,” she muttered under her breath as she shouldered her way through the swinging door, entering a small antechamber. She stabbed her finger at the buzzer and waited for the electronic lock to disengage. Pushing the door open, she left the smell of floor wax behind, picking up the fainter, more delicate scent of raw meat.

  She hated autopsies. Hated looking at what had been a human being and knowing that the life that had once lived inside it was gone for good.

  Mandy’s autopsy tech, Dean, sat at the sign-in desk with a clipboard and a clear plastic shoebox. “Dr. Black’s already started,” he said, nudging the box in her direction as he tossed his mop of dyed black hair out of his kohl-rimmed eyes. Despite his ridiculous appearance, Mandy’s intern took his job seriously.

  Reluctantly, Sabrina lifted her SIG off her hip and ejected the magazine before dropping it into the box. “Strickland here?” she said while she scribbled her name and reason for being there onto the sign-in sheet. Making sure that it was sufficiently illegible, she handed it back with a smile.

  “He got here about fifteen minutes ago. Noxzema?” He jerked his metal-studded chin toward a large open jar on the desk while he fit the lid on the box and stashed it in one of the locking filing cabinets.

  “No thanks,” she said, even though her stomach roiled at the thought of what was waiting for her behind the door.

  “Suite D,” he said to her before plugging his earbuds back into his ears and turning back to the filing she’d interrupted.

  “Thanks,” she said, though he couldn’t hear her. Suite D was the last autopsy room, at the end of a very long hall. She sighed and started walking.

  A few feet from the door, it popped open. “You’re late.” Strickland’s eyes narrowed a bit, when he caught her purposely straightening her gait. “Weber really put it to you this time, huh?” he said while he unwrapped a piece of gum—his only concession to the smell of death that followed him through the open door—and popped it into his mouth.

  She gave him a non-committal shrug. “My fault for being such an ass about my PT,” she said as she shouldered her way past him and into the room. The smell of raw meat intensified, mingling with the astringent odors of disinfectant and body fluids. She stopped short, giving herself time to acclimate her senses while she fought for air. It felt like she was breathing underwater. Her lungs heavy and wet with panic, she was unable to draw a full breath.

  A young woman she’d never seen before lay stretched out on a gurney. Her smooth, dark skin was cast a bloodless gray beneath the high wattage cans Mandy had trained on her. Her hair, tight, springy corkscrews several shades lighter than her skin, lay limp against the table. Crawling out of her open chest, like legless spiders, were rose petals the same coral-orange as the one from the envelope he’d left for her beneath Sheila’s body. Mandy stood over her, removing each of them, one by one, with a pair of long tweezers.

  Urania is waiting …

  She was too late. She’d never had a chance at saving this girl—not really. The note left behind, nothing more than a taunt. Proof that she would forever be a step behind. That he was coming for her, drawing closer and closer with each girl he took, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

  FIFTY-SIX

  “I got the call early this morning. Same MO as the Edwards girl, so it was automatically turfed to me,” Strickland said behind her.

&
nbsp; “Where’s Evans?” she said, the words sounding close and flat against her ears, like she had cotton stuffed into them. “Why isn’t he here?”

  “Mathews split us up. He’s taking lead on the Denton investigation while I do this,” Strickland said. “He didn’t say, but I think he’s getting pressure from Trent Edwards to call in the FBI.”

  It made sense. Bethany Edwards had serial written all over her, and the appearance of a second body proved it. By Monday, this investigation would belong to someone else.

  She took a step forward, close enough to see the ghosts of the letters and symbols that’d been written on her skin. “Where was she found?”

  “Couple kids found her on the roof of the observatory at SFSU. Head of their astrology and physics department identified her as his TA, Jemma Barrows.”

  Another college girl, same as Bethany Edwards.

  It hit her all at once. Girls were dead. Strickland’s life was on a collision course he couldn’t even see. Her fault. All her fault.

  “According to him, 2014 is the end of an eleven-year cycle they call the solarmax, where the sun starts throwing off all types of activity. Solar storms, flares, radiation spikes … ” Strickland cleared his throat, stepping around her and into the room. “He said Barrows scheduled telescope time last night. She’d been researching solar flares leading up to the summer solstice,” he said, making those last two words sound heavy somehow. Like they mattered. She looked up at him to ask but couldn’t make her mouth push the words out.

  The walls were closing in again. Each pound of her heart pulled them closer, their proximity pushing the air from her lungs, battering her down like fists. The room took a spin, a fast whoosh inside a slow roll, nearly dumping her on her ass. Someone grabbed her and she yanked back, eyes spinning around before landing on her partner.

  No. Not her partner. Not anymore.

  “Wouldn’t do that. Take it from me, she doesn’t like it,” said a voice beyond the merry-go-round blur she stood in. It was familiar, she recognized it—hearing it tightened the ratchet straps across her chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

  “Shut up,” Strickland said into the blur. Catching her arm again, he peered down at her, holding her in place, giving her a short, rough shake. “Look at me,” he demanded and suddenly it wasn’t Strickland she heard, it was Wade. Wade, no longer trapped inside her head. Wade, free and here. Wade commanding her … Look at me, Melissa.

  Lashing out, she swung wildly, her fist catching Strickland square in the eye, his head rocked back as she slipped out of his grip on her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut, breath coming in hurried gasps, each gulp slamming into the one before it, dog-piling her locked lungs, squeezing them flat as they tried to force their way in.

  “Goddamn it,” he shouted at her, more surprised than angry but he kept his distance, glaring at her. “What the hell, Vaughn?”

  “Told you so,” said the blur.

  Suddenly Mandy was in front of her, pushing Strickland back. Close enough to touch but not, delicate face tipped up, bright green eyes rubbed flat by concern. “Sabrina,” she said in a calm voice, catching and holding her attention. “Sabrina, you’re hyperventilating.” She shot a glance over her shoulder and nodded. “Chris is going to take your jacket off so you can breathe better,” Mandy said, confusing her. Who was Chris? She remembered before the question had a chance to bottle neck itself into her throat. Strickland’s first name was Christopher. She’d only called him by his first name once—Christopher—and never Chris. Why would Mandy call him that?

  From behind, hands reached over her shoulders, pulling the heavy weight of her jacket off her chest, freeing her, bit by bit from the rubble the past had buried her under.

  Strickland. Not Wade. Strickland. Not Wade …

  “I need you to sit down now, Sabrina. I can’t help you if you don’t sit down.” Mandy in her face again, snagging her with those flat green eyes, like old pennies, patinaed with worry.

  Big hands pressed against her shoulders again, this time forcing her down until her ass hit something solid. A chair.

  Strickland. Not Wade. Strickland. Not Wade …

  You sure about that? You sure it ain’t me? Me standing over you, hands around your throat? Maybe I infected him, like a sickness, just like I infected you …

  “Strickland. Not Wade.” She wheezed the words, letting them rattle past her lips because giving them sound would somehow make them true. “Strickland. Not Wade.” The hands on her shoulders were yanked away as if touching her burned.

  Embarrassment flared hot, flushing her face, bathing it in cold sweat. “I’m sorry. I hit—” The words rode on the catch and wheeze of each breath. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m fine.” Strickland’s voice was rough with something she didn’t want to put a name to. Something that would plunge the embarrassment headlong into shame if she did. Salt stung her eyes. More sweat. Just more sweat. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t. The urge to run was so strong she felt it surge down her spine and seize the spent muscles of her thighs, adrenaline charged with sheer panic.

  Where you gonna run off to? Me in here. Him out there …

  “Shutthefuckup,” she said, one word, over and over, her hands closing around her thigh, thumbs digging in, pushing hard against the shrapnel buried there. For a moment she had a picture of it moving through the meat of her leg, chewing through muscle until it found her femoral artery. She pictured it chewing through that too and pushed a bit harder. The merry-go-round jerked to a stop, everything went still and bright. Clear. Everything was clear now …

  “Sabrina, what are you doing?” Mandy was back, in her face again, hands on top of hers, trying to pry them loose. “For Christ’s sake, stop it!” she shouted as she pulled, but there was no stopping her. She was going to push until she hit bone. Maybe then Wade would shut up for good. Maybe then she’d finally find some peace.

  Her gaze slid over Mandy, dismissing her, and landed squarely on Croft, sitting on a rollaway stool, in the corner behind the door. She hadn’t seen him when she came in, wasn’t really sure she was seeing him now, but it made sense. Of course Croft would be here to witness this, her flipping the fuck out while he took notes—

  The blow took her by surprise, a rabbit-punch that snapped her head back, sent blood trickling from her nose. She looked up to see Mandy standing over her, face pale with shock, fist cocked back to do it again. “You keep pushing, I keep punching. I’ll either knock you out or you’ll finally let go to hit me back. Either way, I win.”

  Something about the way Mandy was looking at her, like she understood, loosened her grip, turned her rigid arms to spaghetti, hands tangled between her knees.

  “Take this.” Mandy pressing something on her—a paper bag. She tried to push it away, her head shaking a refusal even as her lungs flopped and squeezed inside her chest.

  Mandy pushed harder, pulling her fingers apart to force the bag between them. “It’s either the bag or you pass out. That’s never a cute look for anyone.”

  She took the bag. Let her head drop between her shoulders, wheezing into it, each gasp smoothing out the next until she was able to take a breath without feeling like someone was driving railroad spikes into her chest with a sledgehammer.

  They were talking about her. Mandy and Strickland standing no more than six feet away, heads leaned close together and whispering about what to do with her, like she was a problem to be dealt with. Mandy wanted to call the paramedics and have her checked out. Strickland wanted to take her home and figure out a way to make her stay there. Neither of them were going to get what they wanted.

  She looked up through her lashes, not lifting her head, and found Croft, still in his corner. Still watching her with the vague, dispassionate stare of someone who was trying hard not to feel responsible for what he was seeing. She cut her gaze over to the other
two. Still talking. No, arguing now—quietly, the way parents do late at night behind closed door because they don’t want to wake the children.

  She took another breath, this one outside the bag. The banded weight of her lungs had loosened and they filled with oxygen, cold and sweet. She held onto it for a moment, reveling in the feel of it trapped inside her lungs before she pushed it into the bag and twisted it shut, trapping the air inside.

  BANG!

  She slammed the flat of her palm into the bottom of the bag, a transient smile coasting across her face when Mandy and Strickland actually knocked heads when they jumped at the sound. Croft laughed, making it hard to stay mad at him, but she was going to all the same.

  “Enjoy the show?” she said to him, killing the laughter, murdering it ruthlessly, her tone and glare as sharp as a blade. “You oughta be able to squeeze a story or two out of that, right?”

  “I’m not the bad guy here, Sabrina.” Croft cocked his head, giving her quiet warning. Not in front of the children.

  “Here … yeah, let’s talk about here.” She looked up at Strickland, who was staring down at her like she was some kind of animal he was worried he’d have to put down. “What’s he doing here?” She wadded up the busted bag and tossed it at Croft.

  “What? You think you got the market cornered on rule-breaking?” Strickland dug his hands in his pockets, sounding guilty and relieved. “I asked him here—put some of that bullshit education of his to good use.”

  Mandy was back, armed with a stethoscope and pen light. “He can’t be here,” she said around her, squinting when she shined the light in her eye. “Can’t be trusted—said so yourself. Quit it.” Sabrina pushed the light away, not at all surprised when it bounced right back. She pushed it away again. “I’d knock it off if I were you. I owe you a bloody nose, and I’m not above hitting a woman.”

  Mandy rocked back on her heels, light aimed at her chin. “Okay. I’ll just go call 911 and tell them I have a possible stroke victim in need—”