Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Nick studied her a moment longer than he needed to, then turned away to face the scene. "Yep—Sandi."

  Sam let the breath she'd been holding out through her teeth as she started to relax. At least it wasn't the girl. "She O.D.?"

  Nick didn't answer, his eyes evasive.

  Sam looked over his shoulder. A flashbulb shot off in the distance, and Sam caught a glimpse of skin against the dark ground. Not healthy, glowing skin but skin infused with the whitish-blue tint that came with death. She looked back at Nick. "Why call me up here?"

  "Remember the serial killer you had as your last case in homicide—the one they got a conviction on right about the time when I finally got the balls to ask you out?"

  "Nick," she started to protest. "If this is some sort of sick fantasy, calling me out here with cases that remind you of how we—"

  "Slow down and listen," he retorted. "What do you remember about the victimology?"

  She shook her head and reviewed her mental notes. "Six victims—all Caucasian females from the Berkeley Hills, all between the ages of thirty-five and forty-seven with blond or light brown hair and light eyes. Two were prostitutes, three were all-night-diner employees, and one was a convenience store clerk.

  "Killed by manual ligature, a eucalyptus branch with six leaves tucked over each ear. Charlie Sloan, a San Francisco stockbroker and local swim coach, was arrested and charged; convicted almost three years ago and went to the chair for the murder of the six women."

  "And all that without your notes," Nick added.

  "So what's the point?"

  "He's dead, right?"

  She ground her teeth. "Killed on death row, Nick—February 5 of last year."

  "You're sure?"

  Sam turned to get back in the car. She was too tired for this shit.

  "I'm not joking around," Nick said.

  She glanced back and the look in his eyes confirmed that there was nothing humorous about what was going on.

  He nodded toward the scene and started walking back.

  Sam zipped up her coat beneath her chin and shoved her hands in her pockets, heading after him. Nick carved a path through the police officers. As she stepped closer, the flash of cameras glared in her eyes and she blinked hard to clear the black spots from her vision.

  When her eyesight sharpened again, she took two steps forward and gazed into the vacant stare of a stick-thin woman in her forties. In life Sandi Walters had never looked so calm. Simple white briefs were all she wore. Her straight bottle-blond hair hung limply over her shoulders, the twig of a eucalyptus tree tucked behind each ear. She was propped against a tree, one knee up and her salon-tanned arms flung to her sides. Her legs were parted slightly, like she'd passed out. Sam could see why Nick had called her. It was familiar.

  Cheap bracelets lined her right wrist. A thin silver ring with a knot, the kind sold at street fairs, circled her thumb. Track marks still showed blue in the creases of her elbow.

  Sam blinked hard and forced back the pictures that entered her head. Death always brought a litany of snapshots of her own youth. She saw her father with a cigarette hanging off his lip, her mother nursing a third G&T that was mostly G, her sister cowering in a corner, trying to stay out of the way.

  Sam stepped forward and inspected the twig tucked behind Walters' left ear.

  "Maybe Molly's father killed her in a moment of rage and made it look like a copycat."

  "How could it be copycat? No one ever had the information on the eucalyptus. It was never released to the media."

  "It was during the trial."

  "Not the detail about how many leaves."

  She shook her head. "That we know of. It's probably in some new serial killer book by now. That stuff just leaks. I say you look at the dad."

  "Dad's got an airtight alibi."

  Sam shook her head. "They always have an airtight alibi."

  "He's been in county on a DUI for the past twenty-four hours. According to our guy's estimate, Sandi here's been dead around five."

  "Who else is in the household? Just Molly, Sandi, and Sandi's mother, right?"

  "Molly's grandma uses a walker. No way she got the body up here by herself."

  Sam nodded, remembering.

  "Plus, look at those twigs. Recognize them?" Nick asked.

  Without looking away from the body, Sam nodded noncommittally. "I agree it's familiar."

  "It's more than that."

  She raised an eyebrow at Nick. "It's a couple of twigs, Nick, not a tattoo. It could be a coincidence."

  He raised an eyebrow back at her. He had an angular jaw and large brown eyes with flecks of green and gold. His mother was black and his father was white, and Nick had the warmest color skin Sam had ever seen. It contrasted with his broad shoulders and lean frame to keep him from looking too hard.

  She knew cops weren't supposed to believe in coincidences, but Sloan was dead. She looked at the twig again. Six leaves, just like the others.

  Sam shook her head. "It's got to be a coincidence. Sloan's dead. This is something else. Maybe the eucalyptus symbolizes something else."

  Nick nodded. "There's the c-word again. It worries me."

  Fighting off the chill, Sam turned and peered over at the other twig. "Damn. You're saying Sloan wasn't our killer? The wrong guy was executed?"

  Nick shrugged. "Maybe he had a partner."

  Sam surveyed the area. It wasn't possible. Sloan had been alone. They'd worked eighteen months to nail him and almost six years to get him convicted and sentenced to death row. He'd never confessed, but he'd done it. The evidence had proved it. She could not accept that the system had killed the wrong man. "What else have you got?"

  "Signs of sexual intercourse," Nick added.

  Sam frowned. "Semen?"

  "Oh, yeah. First guess is postmortem."

  "Charlie Sloan never had sex with his victims."

  Nick met her gaze. "Okay, not identical."

  Sam found herself coming back to someone Sandi knew. "What about other relatives in the area? A new boyfriend?"

  "The girl was staying with her grandmother. Dad and Grandma are it."

  Sam noticed an odd pattern in the dirt by Sandi's foot. It was the faintest rectangular shape, and Sam wondered what had caused it. On her knees, she searched for evidence. She found it on the instep of Sandi's left foot. "You see this?"

  Nick knelt beside her. Using his pen, he pushed on the woman's toes, shining his light on the bottom of her foot.

  A gum wrapper was stuck to the arch of Sandi's foot. It was silver and Sam recognized it as Extra. She put her nose to it. Spearmint. Her favorite.

  Sam studied the wrapper. "Someone left you a clue." She stood up and brushed off her jeans. "Looks like you've got a new killer on your hands—one with some inside info on our old cases."

  Nick shook his head. "Not me, Sam. We. You're working this one, too."

  Chasing Darkness

  by

  Danielle Girard

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  Chasing Darkness

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  SAVAGE ART

  A Chilling Suspense Novel

  Excerpt from

  Savage Art

  A Chilling Suspense Novel

  by

  Danielle Girard

  Award-winning Author

  Prologue

  April 1999

  Crouched in the closet, he waited for the sounds of her arrival. Sweat pooled beneath the black gloves, but his face and neck were cool. The red light on the bedside clock read 11:47. She was never earlier than 11:36 and never later than 12:04. She would arrive momentarily. Anticipation ran like a blade across his skin, aro
using each part of his anatomy.

  From his pocket, he found the patch of pink satin he had cut from the first one's panties, and rubbed it across his lips. Nearly three months had passed since that first time. Almost five years since his mother and sister, but he didn't count them with the others.

  For nearly five years, he'd been content, working in the morgue. Late at night, when he was there alone, he would do a bit of dissection, practice his skills. He was always sure to work on a victim who was headed out to a closed-casket funeral or to the crematorium so no one would wonder about his handiwork. It had been a satisfying experience.

  And then the idiot manager had caught him with one of the cadavers, a young woman, and had fired him. He'd felt himself explode at that moment, the trigger firing. He'd gotten into his car and driven it so fast, he'd gone right off the road. It had been a momentary release, to be free and flying.

  The doctors had told him that he was fortunate to be alive, but he knew it was more than that. He was chosen. Once he had healed, with a new face thanks to the accident, he'd found himself hunting for another patient.

  That was three months ago. He could still see the first one's body writhing for him, with him, against him. The satin caressed his neck, then his chest. He felt himself grow harder at the thought of her.

  Lucy, she had called herself. Lucy was a whore just like his mother. "Lucy," he whispered, pressing the cloth against himself.

  He smelled the satin, the scent of his own sweat and her blood and tears. The small triangle was the only thing he had allowed himself to keep. Soon, he would need to be rid of it, too. He gathered himself and returned the satin to his pocket.

  He let his body cool, using his mind to control its fierce desire, concentrating on his next work. For the one he'd just finished, he had fixated on the face, the center of pain. She had been a model. The face had seemed appropriate for her.

  As long as he could remember, he had dreamt of pulling the body apart, of cutting the skin from the organs, of seeing the body in pieces. Originally, he had also dreamed of putting it back together.

  But fixing was his sister Karen's job. You're not good enough—not smart enough, not motivated, not clever. He'd heard that often from their mother—the man-hating bitch. Not clever—he had shown them who was the most clever.

  Being a doctor was just like being an artist, and he had shown he was a wonderful artist. It took skill, and practice. And each time, he only got better. Soon, he would make the perfect doctor. They wouldn't deny him again.

  The metal tink of the key in the lock renewed his arousal. His fingers tingled with the closeness of her. FBI Agent Casey McKinley. No victim would be more enticing than she.

  Cincinnati rarely captured such high-profile visitors. She had come because of him. His art had drawn her. How he had longed to share his next work with her. Now he would. McKinley would be the next piece, perhaps his first masterpiece.

  The light shifted in the front hall as the rented apartment door swung open. The muscles in his stomach tightened, adrenaline rushing like hot oil in his veins. His ears alert, he waited for the sounds of voices. None came. She was alone. It couldn't be more perfect.

  Rising slowly, he watched through the crack of the closet door as she staggered inside. Her shoulders slightly hunched, her step heavier than usual, he could tell she was tired. He would change that. Within moments, she would quicken with energy.

  He watched her drop her bag to the floor, knowing that her gun was secured in a holster under her left arm. He would have to wait until she put it down. The gun would ruin his plans. Pressing his back to the wall of the closet, he hid himself behind the clothes. He trained his ear to the door. She might pick up the phone or turn on the TV. But eventually, she would come to bed.

  Within minutes, he saw her shadow cast against the bedroom wall. The overhead light went on, and Casey took her jacket off and dropped it on a chair. He was so close. He held himself from leaning forward to watch her. It was too risky. Any movement at all was too risky. He needed to catch her completely by surprise.

  Still wearing her gun, Casey passed the closet and went into the bathroom. With slow even breaths, he made no sound. He could hear the water running as he imagined what she was doing. Washing her face, trying to rinse the dirt of a serial killer from under her nails? He was anxious to see her expression when she found out the serial killer she had been out chasing was here, in her own closet. The thought held him silent. He could wait.

  It didn't take long. Casey came out of the bathroom. She wore an FBI T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts. Her thin, muscular legs strode across the room. Perhaps he would start with her legs. She was a good runner, strong and fast. He'd watched her many times. Setting her gun on the bedside table, she reached over and started to turn the light off. Halting, she turned toward where he was crouched.

  His heart pounded as she approached him without her gun. The gun still sat on the bedside table. Her hands were bunched in fists. She liked to box in her spare time. He had seen her a few times in the local gym. She was quite good. She opened and closed her fists as he had seen her do when she was thinking. No, not her legs. He would have to sculpt her hands.

  Within a foot of him, Casey stopped and turned back as though she was looking for something. He felt himself tighten as she moved toward the gun. He couldn't risk letting her reach it. Without pausing, he attacked, pushing through the pant suits hanging in her closet and knocking the door open. With a swift arc, he landed the cattle prod on her shoulder.

  She screamed, but the shock dropped her easily, giving him a chance to gag her. He took the first handkerchief and balled it, stuffing it in her mouth.

  Her fight returning, she landed an elbow to his midriff.

  He had prepared for that. His muscles were tight and strong. He took her hand and twisted it back, pushing her to the floor. She tried to look up at him, but he held her face to the ground. Never let them see your face. It made them too powerful. He drew the needle from the holster on his leg and jammed it into her arm.

  She fought against him, but he held her down. Within minutes, she would be silent, complacent. It would give him time to prepare his work. He wouldn't let her go unconscious.

  "Hello, Mac," he said as her fight started to weaken. He drew a blindfold from his pocket and tied it across her eyes.

  She tried to make a noise but couldn't.

  He would give the drug another minute and then he would remove the gag.

  Pulling her to her feet, he pushed her toward the chair.

  With a quick turn, she swung her leg, connecting with a hard blow to his chin. She reached for the blindfold, but he caught her arm and hit her hard with the cattle prod until he almost felt the burning flesh.

  She tried to scream as she fell over, collapsing from the shock. From his medical studies, he knew that the stun gun drove the muscles to work at a pace that outstripped the metabolism, forcing the body to convert sugars to lactic acid and making the muscles nonfunctional. Basically, it caused a transient yet polarizing acidosis. It had worked perfectly.

  Rubbing his face, he could feel the tenderness in his jaw. Her kick would leave a mark, he knew.

  At the small desk chair, he pushed her down. He drew a roll of duct tape from his pocket and taped her body against the chair, leaving her arms free. Next, he taped each wrist to an arm of the chair.

  As he finished, she started to talk again. Pulling down the handkerchief he had made into a gag, he leaned down and whispered in her ear. "I'll let you talk, Agent McKinley, but only if you behave."

  "The Cincinnati Butcher."

  He cackled. "I'm disappointed in you, Mac. I thought we understood each other. This isn't butchering—this is art."

  "Art?" she scoffed, trying to sound strong and brave. But he could hear the vibration of fear in her voice. "You're a basic killer—abused as a child. There's nothing special about you," she added, her voice steadier.

  He tightened his jaw, forcing himself to control
his anger. She wanted him to react. He was in control here, not her. "Oh, but there is. I'm going to show you how special. The great masters didn't do the kind of work I do. Leonardo da Vinci wasn't as good."

  "You're going to compare yourself to da Vinci? And here I hoped you might be one of the brighter ones. But it sounds like you're just crazy."

  He tensed his jaw. "I am not crazy."

  "Your mother told you that, didn't she? Called you crazy? And stupid, too, I bet. That wasn't very nice of her, was it? Did you become a killer to get back at your mother, Mr. Butcher? That would certainly make sense. Sometimes even parents do hurtful things. I'd like to hear what she did. I'd like to know how she hurt you."

  She took a breath, her spine straightening, and he knew she was stalling. It was all a bluff. She knew nothing about him.

  "I'm guessing your father wasn't around much," she continued when he still didn't answer. "He left when you were little, didn't he? Did your mother blame you? Let me guess, you've never had a normal relationship with a woman, have you? Women scare you a little, don't they? Your mother certainly did. She was tough, wasn't she? You thought she didn't love you. So, now you can't relate to anyone, am I right? Pretty much a loner?"

  He shook his head, fighting to keep her words from penetrating. "No," he whispered to himself, his hands pressed against his ears. She was trying to fuck with him, just like they were always trying to fuck with him. He wasn't listening.

  "Did you light fires to get back at her? How many things did you light on fire? Lots of things? Did you ever burn down anything big?"

  He felt his arms shake against his head. "No," he said, more strongly. Keep the words out. "No fire."

  "How about animals? How many animals did you kill? Did you chop them up, too? Did you wet your bed, Mr. Butcher?"