Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  “How? The night Winston was arrested, the only people who knew about Celeste or you, for that matter, were...” Roy stopped dead and stared at him with sheer dread. “My deputies.”

  Chapter 25

  JOHN HELD ONTO the door handle as trees whipped passed the speeding cruiser. “Roy, I know you’re a sheriff and all, but even you shouldn’t be doing thirty miles over the speed limit.”

  “I want to get back to my office.” Roy tightened his hands around the steering wheel and clenched his jaw. “I...need to think.”

  “You need to slow down, in every sense.” Since they’d left the hospital, they’d wracked their brains trying to come up with who would have known about not only his, but Celeste’s involvement before Winston’s arrest.

  Mitchell and his CSU team had met him at the dumpsite, but Celeste had never been mentioned to any of them. The ME, Carl, and his assistant, Dean, had witnessed her performing the reading that had resulted in a sketch of Winston. They’d ruled out Carl and Dean immediately. Winston was thirty-four, which made his brother, Tobias Haney, thirty-two. Carl was in his sixties, and while Dean fit the right age bracket, he’d grown up in Wissota Falls. Roy had known Dean since he’d been in diapers.

  The reporter, Matt Boysen, had known about John’s involvement, and even Celeste’s because he’d seen her car parked outside the Sheriff’s Department the day they’d gone to the dumpsite together. Again, Boysen was a native to Wissota Falls and also in his early forties. Which left Roy’s deputies.

  “Think about it.” Roy tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “It all comes back to my men. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  John agreed. Yet after witnessing the array of emotions drifting across the sheriff’s face, the betrayal, the disbelief, the anger, the hurt, he tried to think beyond Roy’s deputies. Unfortunately, he came up empty.

  “See,” Roy said when he didn’t comment either way. “Even that logical brain of yours knows I’m right.”

  “Logically, it does make sense,” he said, “But what’s your gut telling you? You’ve worked side by side with your men. Do you honestly believe one of them could be a killer?”

  The sheriff released a deep breath. “No. I’ve known Lloyd since he was a kid.”

  John had already dismissed the Viking, knowing he’d grown up in Wissota Falls. “Okay, what about the others? Are they from the area, too?”

  “No. They’ve all been hired within the last three to ten years.”

  “Any of them from Mississippi or any of the other states we know Winston had been?”

  “No, none of them. The closest one to the Mason Dixon line is Dan. He and his wife moved here from Tennessee. But you’re right. I can’t see him or any of my deputies being involved with something like this. They’re good men.”

  Even good men and women do things for the wrong reason. John had learned this firsthand, but didn’t say as much. He needed the sheriff calm. He needed him rational and thinking straight. During the past week, he’d witnessed the camaraderie between Roy and his deputies. These men weren’t just employees, they were his friends.

  Rather than feed into Roy’s suspicions, even if he believed the sheriff might be right, he’d have him look elsewhere. In the meantime, he’d have Rachel take a look into the background of Roy’s deputies.

  “Look,” he began as Roy parked the car in front of the Sheriff’s Department. “We both suspect Haney looked at Winston as a liability, otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to have him killed. But what if Haney had been keeping an eye on Winston? He follows him, sees that he’s dumped four women—”

  “Then worried they’d be found, he goes to clean up Winston’s mess only to find us there?” Roy cut the ignition, then clutched the keys in his hand.

  The scenario made as much sense as the killer being one of Roy’s deputies. It also meant they could be looking at any local male, in his early thirties, as a suspect. And how large of an area would they look? Eau Claire was only a half hour drive, depending on traffic, to the original dump site, and there were over sixty thousand people populating that city. Or what if their killer resided in Madison or Green Bay, and Haney and Winston only used Wissota Falls as a place to dump their victims? The killer could drive to Wissota Falls from Madison in two hours, Green Bay in three.

  A needle in a haystack. A killer walking among John Q. Public, as maybe an accountant, or a salesman, with a wife and two-point-five kids.

  “Anything’s possible.” John stepped out of the car, and met Roy at the front end of the cruiser. “I’ve got some calls to make. In the meantime, do you think you could get a search party together to look for the third victim?”

  “Right.” The sheriff nodded. “With everything that happened, I’d almost forgotten. I’ll let my...men know.” He cleared his throat and looked away. When Roy faced him again, he appeared to have aged ten years. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper, his face pale, gaunt, his eyes bleak and watery. “I’ll see if I can get any extra bodies from Highway Patrol, too.”

  John lifted the keys to his rental from his pocket. “Good. Let me know what time.”

  “Before you leave, I’d like to hear Celeste’s trance. I know this area. Any clues she might have missed will help when we set up a search perimeter.”

  He masked his disappointment and shoved the keys back in his pocket. He’d already heard the trance. Twice. And didn’t want to relive the painful memories he’d witnessed last night.

  What he wanted was to call Rachel and have her run background checks on Roy’s deputies. Ruling them out as suspects would help keep the sheriff focused, and help them take their search in a different direction.

  But what he really wanted was to see Celeste. Even if it was the start of the dinner rush and she’d be too busy to talk to him. Being near her was all he needed. She was all he needed.

  * * *

  He disconnected the call, then slipped his cell phone in his pocket. Removing the mechanic’s suit he’d worn earlier from a hook on the wall, he dressed, then paced his garage.

  In a good way, that call had changed everything, except he’d kidnapped Ugly Evie for nothing. Even though they knew his real name, Garrett still hadn’t given him away, and was once again heavily sedated. While he still wanted him dead, sending Evie to do the job had now become an unnecessary risk. Especially because by this time tomorrow, he’d be gone, and all his loose ends neatly tied.

  Still, what to do about Evie?

  He shrugged and pulled the ski mask over his head.

  Kill her, of course.

  What to do with her body though, he wondered as he unlocked the door to his workshop. He wouldn’t have time to dispose of her today. Then again no one would be by until tomorrow. Even if someone were to check inside his workshop, he’d already be long gone.

  He couldn’t have planned the entire situation any better himself, he thought, smiling beneath the ski mask. He’d been given time to rehearse his fantasy, and the opportunity for the real deal with Celeste. By the time they found Celeste, if they found her, he’d be drinking Coronas on a beach somewhere in Brazil.

  Flipping the light switch, he closed the door behind him, then locked the deadbolt. Ugly Evie lay on the cement floor, still duct taped to the chair, eyes blinking rapidly as he stood beneath the lone bulb.

  “Did you really think you were going to escape?” he asked as he righted the chair.

  She shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. She should be afraid. Very afraid. He now had hours to play with her before he had to make last minute preparations for tomorrow. He had hours to practice, and he planned to use every single minute to draw out the pleasure.

  Kicking her legs apart, he rubbed his dick and set his booted foot between her thighs. A scrawny little thing, he’d have to caution himself not lose control too fast on her in the beginning. He didn’t want to break her yet, he wanted her kicking and screaming. Fighting him until she understood the absolute power he held over her.

>   “Today’s your lucky day,” he said, still stroking himself over the mechanic’s suit. “I’ve changed my mind. You don’t have to kill Garrett Winston for me.”

  The relief in her eyes would be short lived. Grinning, he removed his foot from the chair. Unsheathing the hunting knife, he slipped the serrated edge beneath the elastic waistband of her polyester uniform. “But there’s something I still want from you.”

  He tore the knife into the polyester, splitting the pants in half, then ripped them from her legs. She screamed against the rag in her mouth.

  “What’s that?” he asked, mocking her cries, her tears. “Can’t hear you, Evie. Something wrong?”

  He swung the blade, slicing the air in front of her face, then laughed when her eyes bulged with shock and horror. “Oh yeah.” He swiped the flat end of the knife along her skinny thigh, then up between her legs. “You and me are gonna have us a little fun.”

  Her breathing grew rapid, as she tried to inch away from the knife. The duct tape around her arms and legs gave her no leeway. The rag in her mouth kept her screams muffled as he used the serrated edge to cut the front of her shirt.

  He stared at her naked torso, the quick rise and fall of her thin chest, then looked to her face when she let out a deep grunt. Her eyes were still wide, not with fear, but pain. He hadn’t even touched her yet. Not so much as a nick to her pale flesh and still she screwed her face as if he’d already stabbed her in the heart.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, and gripped her face with his hand.

  Her lips moved over the rag as she dragged in deep breaths and tried to speak. Rolling his eyes out of frustration, he tore the rag from her mouth.

  “I...” she whispered, then grimaced, and sucked in a deep breath.

  “You what?” He laughed at the pained expression on her ugly face. “Can’t wait for me to fuck you? Ram my shiny toy into your bony body?”

  His laughter died, when the corners of her mouth lifted into a slow, triumphant grin.

  “Fuck you,” she snapped, then her torso seized up, her arms and legs pulling against the duct tape as she cried out again.

  He slapped his hand over her mouth as she released a hiss of air. “Shut up.” He looked to the ground for where he’d dropped the rag. “Shut the fuck up.”

  She smiled against his palm.

  He moved his gloved hand away, then reached for the rag. “What the hell are you grinning about? You like the idea of me killing you?”

  “Can’t...kill...me,” she said, between short, gasping breaths. “Already dead.”

  “What are you—?”

  Her body went taut again as her words sank in and penetrated his brain. Already dead. She was dying. Holy shit, she was dying right in front of him. Dying before he had a chance to kill her.

  Dropping the rag and knife, he grabbed her purse. He ripped it open and spilled the contents on the cement. He quickly picked up two pill bottles and read the labels. Nitroglycerin and Coumadin. Both medications were used on people with heart conditions, and neither would do him any good now. The Coumadin was a blood thinner and the nitroglycerin worked to prevent heart attacks, not as treatment.

  As her breathing grew shallow, he rushed to her and knocked the chair back. She thudded to the floor without a grunt. Worried he might be too late, he began pounding on her chest, over and over, hoping to jumpstart her heart. Sweat soaked his body. The ski mask grew damp from his exertions and made his face itchy. He stopped to check her pulse, then didn’t bother.

  Her head rested against the cement, her eyes wide, lifeless, her mouth gaping open without a sound or a single breath released. He sagged next to her in defeat and tried to calm his own racing heart.

  The bitch had won. She’d died before he had a chance to kill her.

  He caught the glimmer from the knife across the room and the anger inside of him swelled to the point he couldn’t see straight. Without rising, he crawled toward the shiny blade, picked it up, then closed his eyes. Every fantasy that should have taken place flashed in his mind and only added to his outrage.

  Tearing off the suffocating ski mask, he scrambled over to the scrawny, half-naked, lifeless body lying on the cement and still duct taped to the chair. He raised the knife high over his head. “This is what I should have done from the start,” he shouted, and sent the blade straight through her dead heart.

  The utter disappointment, the memory of Ugly Evie’s mocking smile fragmented his mind into shards of raw fury. He stabbed her again, then again, and again. Rage consuming him, filling him and unleashing his hatred for her, for the bitch living under his roof. For Garrett. God, for Garrett.

  As the image of his brother’s lust-filled eyes permeated his brain, he sagged to the floor and wept. When he tasted a salty tear, he moved to wipe his face dry, but noticed the blood coating his gloves. He looked to Evie, to the knife sticking out of her chest, and laughed. Laughed and then cried some more. Over the irony of the situation, the loss of the only person he’d ever loved. While Garrett wouldn’t die tonight, he was still dead to him. As dead as Ugly Evie. Figuratively, of course, he chuckled again as he peeled off his gloves and looked around the room.

  He sighed, and realized that while Evie had robbed him of the prelude to the fantasy he’d play out with Celeste tomorrow, she gave him a different kind of release. With her death, he’d let loose his control. Something he’d done only once, twelve years ago when he and Garrett had first killed together. The memory of that whore still lingered. He might not remember the faces of the others that he’d killed, but he’d always remember hers.

  She’d woken something inside of him, something he’d denied since the night he’d killed his mother. Something he’d sought to control ever since. Allowing emotions to play into any part of what he and Garrett had done led to loss of control, which led to sloppiness.

  He shrugged out of the bloodied mechanic’s suit, then dropped it into the steel barrel in the corner, along with the gloves — no amount of bleach would remove the stains. Sloppiness was what had led to Garrett’s arrest. That and arrogance. Garrett had always considered himself the one who held the power. He’d considered himself unstoppable, uncatchable.

  Dousing the suit and gloves with lighter fluid, he reached for a pack of matches. He lit the match, tossed it into the barrel, along with the entire matchbook. As flames swept over the clothing, he shook his head. Garrett used to laugh every time he wore the mechanic’s suit, ski mask and gloves. How he’d spend hours washing the suit and gloves in bleach. He’d made fun of his numerous cell phones. The reminder of them had him moving to his tool chest, then dumping them into the burn barrel.

  Garrett had been a stupid fool. Leaving evidence of what he’d done behind, because he was arrogant, because he thought he was unstoppable. Not him, though. He watched the flames lick at the clothes, the phones, let the heat from the small fire warm his naked body.

  As he stood there, waiting for the fire to consume the evidence, he ran through what he had to do tonight to prepare for tomorrow. While making a short, mental list, his thoughts strayed to Celeste. To the fantasy that would become a reality. He began stroking himself, then stopped. He needed a release, but not here. Not where they might find traces of his semen. The shower would have to do. Again.

  He used the fire extinguisher on the barrel. Once satisfied that the embers wouldn’t reignite, he locked the room, without giving Ugly Evie’s dead body a final glance.

  Dead is dead.

  In the closed garage he quickly dressed. As he buttoned his shirt, he grinned when he caught the scars on his fingertips. The pain he’d endured when he’d taken battery acid to his fingertips the day he’d decided to kill Tobias Haney, and resurrect himself as someone else, had been well worth it. They had none of his DNA, or a usable fingerprint.

  They’d never catch him, he assured himself, not with arrogance, but with something Garrett had always lacked. Confidence.

  And he was more than confident th
at by this time tomorrow, Celeste would be dead. By the time they found her, he’d be long gone.

  Sipping a Corona and seducing senoritas.

  * * *

  Celeste finished filling the salt and pepper shakers, then placed them on the tray, while Rick and Karen wrapped up the rest of their closing duties. The rain that had been forecasted for Sunday had hit early, and had been more like a torrential downpour. Due to the weather they’d been slow for a Friday night, and since they hadn’t had a customer in over an hour, she’d decided to close early.

  Will had already left, Rick and Karen were looking forward to an early night, and she wasn’t sure how to feel. Glancing at the clock, her stomach twisted into a knot.

  Lack of customers had given her too much time to think. John had called earlier, briefed her about what had happened at the hospital, then went on to tell her Roy had managed to gather a search party for tomorrow morning. She still worried that she was sending them on a wild goose chase, but as John had assured her, they’d rather make the attempt to find the third victim than do nothing at all.

  Shortly after she’d spoken with John, Dan had called. She’d figured he was looking for another order of kalachkis for his sick wife. Instead, he’d asked if she wouldn’t mind staying at his house until the hospice nurse arrived around noon while he helped with the search.

  She didn’t mind, but the thought of sitting in Dan’s home with his terminally ill wife didn’t settle well. Although it had been three years since her mom had died, being near someone knocking on Death’s door still hit too close to home. Will promised to open the diner in the morning after she’d let him leave early tonight, and if she couldn’t be part of the search, at least she was still helping.

  Thoughts of her mom had lingered after Dan’s call, which had led her to spend the next few hours thinking about Ian and what they’d talk about tonight. Last night’s trance? Most definitely. Maybe he could shed some light as to how it had happened, and better yet, give her suggestions on how to control them in the future. They’d likely spend no more than an hour together tonight. The trance would hopefully take up most of that time. But what if he wanted to discuss other things?