by Burton, Mary
KILLING PATTERN
“I just can’t imagine Craig as a killer,” Adrianna said.
“Who do you think could have killed those women other than him?” Gage asked.
“I don’t know.
“Have you received any more cards or phone calls?”
“After you left my shop, someone sent me flowers.”
“Anything else?”
“The other night I got a postcard in the mail. Just a plain advertisement for aftershave—Craig’s old aftershave.”
“I don’t like this one damn bit.”
“I’ve got to admit, each incident has really spooked me.”
“Never ignore a gut feeling, Adrianna. If you sense danger, then get the hell out of wherever you are and call me…”
Books by Mary Burton
I’M WATCHING YOU
DEAD RINGER
DYING SCREAM
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Dying Scream
MARY BURTON
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Prologue
Sunday, September 24, 10:00 p.m.
Time had degraded the videotaped image of the cowering woman.
A line skimmed down the center screen now peppered with electronic snow, and a sallow haze paled the image’s once vibrant colors.
As he’d made his movies over the last twelve years, he’d expected them to last forever. He’d never realized excessive viewing coupled with time would degrade the tapes of his three actresses and their final performances. The first tape wasn’t a great loss. He didn’t understand lighting, costumes, or camera angles. He’d been rushed and nervous. But as time passed, he’d gained experience and confidence and by the last tape, he’d honed his moviemaking talent.
Remote in hand, he leaned forward and directed his attention to the most recent tape in his collection. He tuned out the annoying technical distractions and focused on the woman.
A pale satin slip, the shade of forget-me-nots, skimmed her full breasts and slim body and pooled over long legs tucked under her round bottom. A blond wig covered chestnut hair and accentuated a pale face and listless brown eyes underscored by smudged mascara. Blue-black bruises darkened her cheeks. She stared sightlessly toward the ceiling, cradling the hand he’d broken the last time she’d resisted.
Off-screen a door opened and closed. Keys jangled. The woman straightened and tried to stand, but a waist-hugging chain forced her to remain on her knees. “Hello?”
He’d never stepped in view of the camera lens. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”
The woman’s chest started to rise and fall in rapid, short breaths. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
He’d been gone eighteen hours. “I couldn’t leave you forever.”
Over the last two weeks, he’d left her intermittently. Each time he made his exit, he threatened never to return as he shut the door. Then from a closed circuit television he watched as she begged him not to leave and yanked at her tether. Then after three, five, or ten hours, he’d return. Each time she wept, her expressive features reflected relief, horror, and flickers of anger. Slowly he’d been breaking her down, teaching her that her world revolved around him alone.
Now as she glanced up, she offered a smile both pleasing and desperate. “Now are you going to let me go?”
“Not just yet.”
Her smile faltered. “You said next time when you came back I could leave.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” He zoomed in the video image. “I’ve enjoyed your performance so much I find I can’t say good-bye.”
The close-up vividly captured expressive eyes that mirrored disappointment and a terrifying understanding. “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”
“Didn’t I promise?” He sounded defensive.
Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Her lips quivered. She seemed to sense that this was the end. Game over.
Hysterically she started to yank the chain. Her breasts bounced delightfully as she struggled. “Let me go! Why are you doing this to me!”
“I love you, Adrianna.”
“Let me go!” She all but howled the words.
“I told you that I loved you. What are you supposed to say?” The words dripped with annoyance. How many lessons would it take for her to play her part correctly?
“No, no, no! My name is Rhonda.” The silk under the chain had frayed and turned brown from the iron in the links. “My name is Rhonda!”
“You are not Rhonda!” He snapped his fingers. “Say the words like I taught you. Or I will get the cattle prod.”
Mention of the prod drained the fight from her eyes. “Please. Please. Please.” The plea wound down to a hoarse whisper.
“Say it.” This would be their final scene together. And he couldn’t hide the desperate anticipation from his voice.
The woman closed her eyes. “I love you.” The faint whisper, void of feeling, tumbled out like rubbish from a bin. All the spirit and fight she’d had in the beginning was gone.
The words left him wanting. “Say it again. And look at me when you speak.”
The woman looked directly at him. “I love you.”
Better.
Nervously, she picked at the chipped red nail polish on her toenails. A ladybug tattoo framed her right ankle. “Can I leave now?”
He ignored her question. “Why do you have a ladybug tattoo?” These last two weeks he’d loved touching it. Kissing it.
Tears streamed down her face as if she realized her words had no effect on him. “I told you a million times.”
“Tell me again.”
“It’s a sign of good luck.”
His laughter rumbled rich and genuine. “For me, it’s good luck. Not such good luck for you.”
Her eyes flashed with sudden hot anger. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”
“Doing what?”
“Playing games. Why don’t you let me go? I’ve sworn that I’ll keep this secret. I just want to go home. I want to forget. I want to live.” The camera zoomed and caught the beads of sweat on her forehead. “I have done everything you asked.”
She tipped her head back and he could see her dark hair peeking out from under the wig. She was ruining the moment.
“Say it again.” His voice projected the annoyance he’d felt that day. “And say it like you mean it!”
The woman dropped her gaze and fisted the fingers on her left hand so tightly her nails drew blood. For several long seconds, she remained silent.
The snap of the prod had her meeting his gaze. “I love you.”
“What is my name?”
“Craig. Your name is Craig. I love you, Craig.”
“Again.”
>
This time she looked directly at the camera and nearly screamed the words. “I love you, Craig!”
His erection hardened and finally he was able to take her. Though he’d been driven by powerful emotions, he was mindful of the all-seeing lens and careful to keep his face turned away from the camera.
She’d lain under him, the slip bunched around her waist, her body as still and cold as a lake in winter. His climax had come quickly, violently. He’d never felt so alive, so in the moment, and for those fleeting seconds the voices that always stalked him—told him he wasn’t good enough—went silent.
Now as Craig viewed the tape for the hundredth time, the exquisite feelings he’d once enjoyed, like the tape, had faded.
The indefinable hunger that had tracked him for so many years had returned and the heavy weight of anticipation bore down on his chest. Lately, no matter how much he watched the tape, his darkest appetites clawed at his insides, begging to be satisfied.
“Damn.” He hit REWIND and replayed the last few seconds, his thirst desperate to be quenched. “I love you, Craig. I love you, Craig. I love you, Craig.”
Craig leaned toward the television and touched the image of her face. He traced her eyes and then her lips.
From the edge of the screen, the camera captured the tip of a gun barrel. The woman shrank back, trying to press herself through the wall.
Crying, she tried to crawl away, but the chain stopped her as he grabbed the wig and tossed it aside. He wrenched her upward. Her fingers clawed at his hand as she screamed and struggled to get free. He held on tight and raised the .38 to her temple.
He whispered, “I love you, Adrianna.”
The revolver’s bullet tore through her brain. Blood splattered his face. She slumped forward, dead. His heart raged in his chest like a tornado.
Then he released her, stepped back, and watched as she crumpled to the floor. A second passed before the recording ended and the image turned to static snow.
Now Craig understood how much he’d fed off her terror. Her panic and those of the other two had invigorated his blood like a narcotic.
“I shouldn’t have listened. I never should have let you go.” He could have kept her tucked away down here for years.
If he’d known three years would pass until the next kill he’d have stowed her away and savored her all the more.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Frustrated, he shut off the television and turned his attention to the new digital camcorder he’d bought last week. It fit in the palm of his hand and had cost him a fortune but the kid in the electronics store had promised it would produce crystal-clear images guaranteed to last a lifetime.
“So clear you can see the pores on a face,” the kid had said.
Craig palmed the camera, amazed at its compact size. Technology was a wonderful thing.
Pointing the camera toward the empty basement corner with the wood panel and loosely coiled chain, he hit RECORD. The red light clicked on. He taped for a few seconds before stopping and replaying the image on the camera’s view screen. The kid had been right. The clear picture caught the grains in the faux wood and the threads in the brown carpet.
Craig glanced at the newly purchased pink silk slip and blond wig. He set the camera down and picked up the wig. He stroked the strands of real human hair dyed just the right shade of blond.
Imagine what detail he would capture when he filmed the next one. This camera wouldn’t miss anything, and the images would surely satisfy him for years.
This time, this time, he’d not be in such a rush. The next one, he’d savor.
Craig glanced at the pocket calendar taped to the side of his filing cabinet. Twenty-four red X’s marked through most of September. Anticipation burned like fire.
In just three days, it would be time again for hunting season.
In just three days, center stage would host a new actress to play his sweet Adrianna.
Chapter One
Tuesday, September 26, 7:15 a.m.
Adrianna Barrington ran down the center hallway of her house, keys clenched in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, as she wedged her feet in black leather flats and slid on a jean jacket. Fatigue-strained eyes had refused contacts, so she’d settled for tortoiseshell glasses. Breakfast was a banana muffin shoved in her purse. Make-up was simply mascara and lipstick.
Last night she’d planned to go to bed early. She wanted to be rested and ready to face this day. But an eleven p.m. call from the hospital emergency room derailed those plans. Her mother had arrived by ambulance and feared she was having a heart attack. Adrianna had dressed quickly and rushed to the hospital.
Over the last few years, Adrianna had seen the inside of too many hospitals. She’d grown to hate antiseptic smells, beeping monitors, and panicked visitors who endured endless waits for test results. She’d found Margaret Barrington in a back cubicle arguing with a nurse.
“Mom.”
Margaret Barrington’s anger dissolved into tears. Adrianna glanced at the nurse, who’d made a quick retreat.
“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t worry.”
And so they’d spent the night, Adrianna sitting next to her mother’s bed on a round hard stool while her mother slept. And the unanswered question that they had argued about just two days ago remained wedged between them as it had these last nine months.
Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted?
I don’t know. I’m sorry.
At five a.m. the doctors had pronounced Margaret healthy and fit to go home. She’d simply had a panic attack.
Adrianna had taken her mother home where the waiting home nurse had put her to bed. By the time Adrianna arrived home and showered the grime and smells of the hospital from her skin and hair, it was nearly seven.
And now she was late.
She scooped up her oversized Coach bag from the entryway table and yanked her black lacquered front door open. Temperatures for this Indian summer morning already nudged seventy degrees, and humidity left the air thick and sticky. Browns and golds were slowly replacing summer’s green leaves on the one-hundred-year old oak in her yard.
Adrianna closed the door with unintentional force that made the brass lion-head knocker clank. She dropped her keys into her free hand and dashed down the front steps to her Land Rover, sloshing coffee. She had a little over forty-five minutes to make a fifty-minute drive in rush-hour traffic.
Always late. Always overscheduled. Always looking for the next project to keep the bills paid.
Adrianna rushed past the FOR SALE sign in her front yard to her car parked by the curb. She opened the door, tossed in her purse, and slid behind the wheel. As she raised her cup to her lips for a quick sip, she noticed the card under her windshield.
Groaning, Adrianna set her cup in the holder, got out, and plucked the rich linen envelope free. Her name was written in a bold, thick handwriting. Adrianna Thornton. Her married name, a name she’d not used in two years. She ripped open the back flap and pulled out the card.
Happy Third Anniversary. Adrianna, you are mine forever.
Love,
Craig
Craig.
Her husband.
The unexpected endearment sent a bolt of fear and pain through her body. Her heart pounded.
You are mine forever. Craig.
Time stopped. Remorse broadsided Adrianna as she traced a thumb over the embossed CRT at the top of the card. The initials stood for Craig Robert Thornton.
Good God, she’d forgotten today was her third anniversary. How could she forget?
This was the kind of note Craig would have written her. Simple. Endearing. Heartfelt. He’d always been writing her notes. Love you, babe. You’re the best. Always yours.
But her husband couldn’t have written this endearment.
Craig Thornton was dead.
Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at the bold script. Her hand slid to her stomach, hollow and empty.
Who could have left her this?
She glanced around at the University Drive neighborhood’s neat brick one-level homes and well-manicured lawns half-expecting—even hoping—to catch someone staring. In this moment, she’d dearly have loved to channel her pain into a fight.
A Prada-clad neighbor dragging a green recycling bin to the curb; an older man juggling a coffee cup and briefcase as he lowered into his Lexus; and a thirtysomething mom hustling elementary age kids into a van for the morning trip to private school. It was business as usual. Painfully predictable. Nothing out of place.
There could be only one explanation for the card. It was a coward’s attempt to frighten her and throw her off balance because she was selling the Thornton land and estate she’d inherited from her husband. The Thornton estate, called the Colonies, was a brick antebellum home in eastern Henrico County that sat on twenty acres of prime riverfront property. It predated the Civil War and was revered by historians. Selling the Colonies would drag this forgotten pocket of land into the twenty-first century. And there were some who didn’t like the changes on the horizon.
Today not only was it her wedding anniversary, it was the day contractors were scheduled to move the eleven Thornton family graves from the estate. The land had been sold, and all that was left was to move the graves. By day’s end her ties to the Thorntons would be forever severed.
When she’d filed permits with the state to remove the graves, she’d expected and braced for angry words, protests, and even lawsuits. But she’d expected nothing like this.
