by Elle Kennedy
“Sorry, I was just getting ready,” she said as she opened the front door.
The officer on the porch responded with a patient smile. “No worries.” He quickly flashed her his badge. “I’m Officer Paul Benson. I’ll be escorting you to the location Agent Corwin specified.”
Benson seemed pleasant enough. His looks were on the plain side, brown hair, brown eyes, nondescript features. He was also on the thin side. The crisp, white shirt that was part of his uniform hung loosely over his chest, and his black pants seemed ill-fitting. She wondered if he’d lost some weight recently, but didn’t ask. Definitely not something you brought up during a first meeting.
“Ready to go?” Benson asked.
“Let me just set the alarm.” She didn’t know why she bothered, considering that the threat of the Rose Killer was obviously being taken care of elsewhere.
A flicker of panic hit her as she realized that Blake could very well be dealing with that threat right now. What if he got hurt? What if the Rose Killer shot Blake while trying to escape?
She quickly swallowed back the sticky fear in her throat, saying a silent prayer as she zipped up her coat and followed Benson down the porch steps.
Blake would be okay. He was a trained professional, and she had to trust that he could take care of himself.
Benson led her to the police cruiser parked in the driveway and opened the passenger door for her. With a brisk wave at the other car by the curb, he slid into the driver’s side and started the engine.
“It shouldn’t take us long to reach our destination,” Benson said conversationally as he backed out of the snow-covered driveway.
The snowplows had already cleared most of Blake’s street, but evidence of the blizzard still remained in the form of massive snowbanks and some slippery patches on the asphalt. Benson kept to the speed limit, leaving Blake’s neighborhood and heading toward Chicago’s Loop district.
Sam’s hands began to shake as her escort turned onto the highway ramp. She didn’t feel right leaving the city behind. Leaving Blake behind.
He’ll be okay.
She held on to that reassuring thought, but it was hard to relax, knowing that Blake could be in danger right at this moment.
Though she didn’t want to admit it, she suddenly understood where he’d been coming from when he’d explained why he didn’t want her in his life. He was a federal agent, and she knew that if she chose to be with him, she’d constantly worry about his safety. If he was late, she’d panic. If he took on a particularly dangerous case, she’d be scared 24/7.
And yet the worry and panic and fear didn’t seem to matter in the grand scheme of things. She could deal with it, as long as it meant waking up every morning to one of Blake Corwin’s rare smiles and falling asleep encircled by those strong arms every night.
“So how long have you been with the department?” she asked her companion, suddenly needing the contact, the diversion. There was something very familiar about him, but Sam couldn’t quite put her finger on where she’d seen him before.
Benson shot her an enigmatic smile. “Not long. I’m fairly new, actually.”
He picked up speed, cutting off a bright yellow Volkswagen Bug as he sped along the highway. Up ahead he encountered another slow driver, and, making an aggravated sound, reached up and flicked on the sirens.
The shrieking of the siren startled her and for some reason her fingers slid down to rub the scar on one of her wrists. She hadn’t rubbed the scars since the first time she and Blake had made love, and the way she’d reverted back to the old habit left her unsettled. She touched the scars when she was nervous.
But why did she have to be nervous about? Officer Benson was taking her to a safe house; Blake had found the Rose Killer. There was no reason for the sudden sense of fear gnawing at her insides.
They drove for a while, sirens still blaring, and a good twenty minutes passed before Benson finally spoke again.
His tone jovial, he turned to her with a smile and said, “Want to know my take on cops?”
She furrowed her brow in puzzlement. “Um, sure, I guess.”
“They’re stupid.”
Her head snapped up. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me. They’re stupid.” Paul Benson grinned. “All that training, the silly exercises at the academy—useless, in my opinion.”
Her throat became tight, too tight to answer. And the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Something wasn’t right here. Oh, God. Something was most definitely not right.
She closed her eyes for a moment. No, nothing was wrong. Everything was fine. Benson was obviously just a little wacky.
“And the lack of instinct!” he continued, eyeing her with wonderment. “Someone calls you up, gives you a fancy detective title, and you say, ‘Yes, sir, I’m on my way.’ You tell them to roll around in the snow and squeal like a pig, and they’ll do it. No questions.”
Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Those had been Perkins’s words. He’d said them on the phone when the senior detective had called…fancy detective title…Oh, God.
“Ah, so I knew I didn’t marry an idiot,” Benson said. He chuckled loudly. “Finally put it together, did you, Annie?”
I didn’t marry…? Annie? Who was Annie? And why was he looking at her as if—
He chuckled again and every ghastly puzzle piece snapped into place.
She knew that chuckle.
She’d heard it before. Six months ago. In her bedroom. When a man had tied her to her own bed and carved into her skin and sliced her wrists with a knife so sharp she could still feel its blade and—
“Don’t look at me like that,” Benson chided. “You brought this on yourself, sweetheart.”
Terror, thick and hot and raw, pummeled into her like merciless fists. With a strangled gasp, she fumbled with her seat belt, desperately trying to unbuckle it. She managed to snap it off just as a hand sliced through the air and connected with her cheek.
Pain stung at her skin. “Don’t touch me!” She wanted to scream but the words came out in a squeak. She could barely breathe, couldn’t think, but she forced herself to move. Her hand clawed at the door handle while the monster sitting beside her simply laughed again. They were speeding along the interstate but she didn’t care. She would jump out and risk getting hit by another car—if it meant escaping this maniac.
She gripped the handle. Tugged. The door didn’t open. Oh, God. Locked. It was locked.
Her fingers had just found the unlock button when she saw a flash of black steel in the corner of her eye. The butt of Benson’s gun slammed into the side of her head.
White-hot pain sizzled her nerve endings. Her skull throbbed. Her vision became hazy and her pulse roared in her ears like the engine of a plane during takeoff. She fought the fog in her head, the blackness threatening to crash over her. No. No, no, no! She couldn’t lose consciousness. Couldn’t make herself vulnerable—
Another blow.
Harder this time.
God, it hurt. She blinked, forced her eyes to stay open but the damn things wouldn’t comply. The strange, distant buzzing in her brain lulled her eyelids closed and she was floating away on a black cloud…sinking down…into nothingness.
Darkness.
Hell.
That was the last thought that found its way to the surface.
She was in hell.
And then everything faded away.
Blake was on his way home when his cell phone rang. He saw Rick’s number and quickly flipped the phone open. “What’s up?”
“We might have a motive.”
Excitement rose inside him. “I’m listening.”
“Hodges was right. Grant’s wife committed suicide. And, we tracked down her sister, who very candidly told us that Anne had been cheating on Francis Grant before she died. She apparently decided to end her life after her lover ran out on her.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure Grant didn’t do her in?” Blake asked warily.
“It’s unlikely. He was out of town when she died, and according to the sister, Anne left a very long note addressed not to her husband but to her lover.”
“Ouch.”
“Hodges got access to Anne’s medical records, and he also spoke with the family doctor.” Rick paused, probably more for effect, Blake suspected. “The doc says Francis Grant has been on and off antidepressants for years now. Apparently he came home from Iraq suffering from depression and rage. Tried enrolling in the Chicago Police Academy but didn’t pass the psychological exam. In fact, after Anne’s death the doctor wrote Grant a prescription for more antidepressants. According to the pharmacy, it wasn’t filled.”
“Anything else?”
“A couple things actually. I just looked at a picture of Anne Grant. She bears an eerie resemblance to all our vics, Sam in particular. Oh, and the manager of Grant’s flower shop mentioned that his boss owns a greenhouse.”
Blake lifted a brow. “A greenhouse? Where?”
“Not sure yet. We haven’t been able to find any more property under Grant’s name. We’re still looking, though. But apparently he uses the greenhouse to grow roses.”
Blake’s throat tightened with frustration. He liked everything he was hearing, liked how the pieces of this sick puzzle were slowly fitting together, but Rick was leaving out one very important thing.
“Where the hell is he then?” Blake snapped into the receiver.
“We still can’t locate him. Apparently he dropped by the flower store yesterday and told the manager to mind the shop for a few days. Said he was going deer hunting.”
“It’s not open season,” Blake muttered, an ill feeling creeping through him.
“I know.” Rick’s voice rang with a dark note of urgency. “Sounds like he’s hunting for another victim.”
“Or…” He suddenly felt physically ill. “He could be getting ready to come after Sam.”
“That, too.”
“So what the hell are we doing about all this?”
“The CPD is staking out Grant’s brownstone and shop in case he shows up. I’ve been talking with some of the profilers, feeding them the new details and seeing if they have any ideas what this guy’s next move might be. And the boys at the station are still trying to dig up the address of this greenhouse. There’s a good chance he might be hiding out there.”
Blake nodded. “Keep me posted. I’m on my way home to Sam.”
“Don’t leave her side, man.”
“I won’t.”
He hung up the phone and stepped on the gas, his pulse accelerating as fast as the vehicle.
He’d been hunting this bastard for so many months that he’d almost given up hope. That the Rose Killer might have a name, a face, hands you could slap cuffs on, was enough to bring a triumphant grin to Blake’s face.
He turned onto his street and steered toward the house. The second he pulled into the driveway, his entire body froze.
Something was wrong.
He hopped out of the SUV and examined his surroundings. He glanced at the unmarked cop car parked at the curb, but even the brief nod he received from Officer Daniels didn’t ease his paranoia. He stared at the house. It looked like it always did. The front door was shut, the drapes over the window were closed, and yet his senses prickled with cold, shaky dread.
His gaze lowered to his feet and that’s when he saw the footsteps in the snow. Two sets, both leading to the driveway. One was smaller, looked like a women’s shoe, size seven maybe. Sam was a size seven. With urgent strides he hurried to the police car at the curb and tapped on the window.
“Who was here?” he demanded after Daniels rolled down the window.
The enormous bald man looked bewildered. “What? Nobody was here except the cop you sent over to pick up Miss Dawson.”
An involuntary tremor crawled up his spine. “What are you talking about?”
“Detective Hodges called me and Perkins, said Miss Dawson was being taken to a safe house. Your orders.”
His heart nearly jabbed through his rib cage and tore out of his chest. “Hodges was with me for the last hour. He didn’t make that call.”
“Are you sure?” Daniels’s thick brows drew together in a frown. “We both got the call, and sure enough, an officer came to get Miss Dawson.”
He felt sick. “When did they leave?”
“About an hour ago. Why? Did something happ—”
Blake bounded off without answering.
He climbed the porch and found the front door locked. Fumbling for his keys, he let himself into the house and deactivated the alarm. He called Sam’s name. No answer. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Daniels, but he’d had to see for himself.
His heart thumping in his chest, he pulled out his cell phone and was about to dial when he caught sight of the paper on the credenza. The note was written in a feminine scrawl. He snatched it up.
Blake, Officer Benson is here so I’ll be quick. We need to talk when it’s all over. Don’t even think of avoiding me!
She’d signed her name simply as S.
Oh, Jesus. He didn’t know who the hell this Benson was, but it was becoming sickeningly obvious that it wasn’t a police officer who’d taken Sam away.
Nausea scraped at his intestines.
She was gone. The son of a bitch had been here, and now Sam was gone.
As sirens shrieked inside his head, Blake raced out the front door. He fumbled with his cell phone and violently punched in Rick’s numbers. He must have stopped breathing at some point because when Rick finally answered the phone, Blake’s lungs burned and his vision had blurred.
Gulping in oxygen, he gripped the phone so tightly he heard the sound of plastic cracking. “She’s gone,” he burst out. “He took her.”
Rick sounded flabbergasted. “What?”
“Francis Grant, or whoever the hell he is. He took her, goddammit!”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s gone, dammit!”
He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d hung up the phone, or what he’d said to Rick before he did, but the next thing he knew he was in his SUV. Peeling out of the driveway and nearly skidding into a snowbank. He broke every traffic law on his way to the police station. Was he meeting Rick? Had they arranged to meet there? He had no freaking clue.
All he saw and heard and breathed was Sam. Terror lined his throat, his hands were shaking over the steering wheel, and whenever he swallowed, he tasted nothing but raw, clammy fear.
Blake slammed on the brakes when the police station came into view. The SUV slid two yards before it came to an abrupt stop, one tire over the curb.
When he stormed into the task force conference room, his partner wasn’t there, but Superintendent Fantana and Burt Hodges were.
“Did Rick give you the details?” Blake barked, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
Fantana nodded gravely. “How long has she been missing?”
“Officer Daniels said the ‘cop’ came to the door about an hour ago. The son of a bitch waltzed right up to the door and picked her up.” Blake swallowed hard. “See if you can locate an officer named Benson. That’s the name he used. He had a uniform, must have had a badge, too, because she—” his voice cracked “—she wouldn’t have gone anywhere without being sure it was safe.”
“I’m on it,” Fantana said, already pulling out his walkie-talkie to get in touch with the dispatcher and track down Benson.
Blake stumbled backward, sagging against the cold wall behind him and forcing himself to regain his equilibrium. Dear God.
He needed to find her.
No, he needed to find her alive.
Because if he had to carry on his conscience the death of another woman he loved, he wasn’t sure he’d ever survive.
The woman you love?
Even if he’d been in his right mind, that realization would have taken hours to examine, and he didn’t have hours. Or minutes. Or seconds, for that matter.
The longer he stood u
selessly in this police station, the longer Sam spent in the clutches of a maniac.
And the less chance he had of saving her before the bastard finished what he’d started and left her for dead.
Chapter 14
“Does he make you happy?”
The voice pulled Sam from her dreamless sleep. A quiet voice, but to her throbbing temples it sounded like a foghorn. As a searing pain sliced through her head, she whimpered and tried to lift one hand so she could rub away the ache. Her hands wouldn’t move.
“Does he make you happy?”
Fighting back another sharp pain, Sam managed to crack open one eye. She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Hoped she was just imagining all this, that her mind had conjured it up for some sick reason or another.
No such luck.
As her vision focused and her head cleared, she knew she wasn’t imagining a thing. She was lying on a small cot, her hands and feet were bound and the silhouette of a man loomed over her. Wherever she was, it was dark. Dark and cold, and it smelled like flowers.
Oh, God.
“Stop playing games, Anne, and answer the question,” the voice said softly.
Sam tested the ropes binding her hands together. She tugged and twisted, but the knots stayed in place. She heard footsteps, and the silhouette moved closer, causing her pulse to quicken. No. No. Not again. This wouldn’t happen to her again. She wouldn’t let it.
As she lay on the cot fighting with the rope, the footsteps stopped and suddenly a humorless laugh filled the damp air. “It’s no use. You’re not going anywhere.” Benson sounded annoyed. No, she had to remind herself. Not Benson.
By no means had she given up, but Sam knew there was no point struggling with the knots. She’d need to figure out another means of escape.
Blinking again, she turned her head and stared at the Rose Killer. A tiny window somewhere above her brought a gust of icy November wind into the room, along with a thin shaft of light that, as if on command, illuminated his face. He didn’t look pleasant anymore, as he had in the car. Now his face was hard, his nondescript features twisted in anger.
The friendly “cop” from the car was gone. He’d become the monster from her nightmares. Flashing red eyes. That repulsive smirk she’d always imagined.
