1st Shock (Schock Sisters Mystery Series)

by Misty Evans

  While I work out my issues.

  Demons, really, but that sounds so melodramatic. As if I don't have a great life. Compared to what I see on any given day, I have nothing to be wrecked over.

  I climb the small hill leading to my rock and there it is, waiting for me to take my spot.

  Leaning over, I pat the top of it, feel the cold, craggy surface against my warm palm. "Hello, old friend. Miss me?"

  "I sure did."

  I whip around and find a man fifteen feet from me. Good Lord, where the hell did he come from? He's wearing a black beanie hat, one of those plaid button-down jackets over a T-shirt and what looks to be tattered Wrangler jeans. My gaze shoots to his rubber-soled boots where a hole has worn on the right toe.

  I don't recognize him, but he could be anyone. Maybe the older sibling of a schoolmate?

  "Hello," I say. "Sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here."

  He takes a step closer.

  One.

  Single.

  Step.

  My stomach burns like acid tearing through the lining and for the first time I realize how stupid I am.

  It's the middle of the day and I'm alone in the woods with a man I don't know.

  Charlie will ream me for this.

  I look at my hands where the only weapons I have are my pad and pencils. And my keys.

  Front pocket.

  I stand still, refusing to retreat or show any fear. Predators smell it and capitalize on it. And, for all I know, this could be the guy who plays Santa at the drugstore every year.

  Creepy Santa, no doubt, but still...

  I shift my pencils to my other hand and slide my now free one into my jacket pocket, wrapping my fingers around my keys. Just in case.

  He takes another step closer and I square my shoulders. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

  "I think you do," he says. "I know you. Megan Eleanor Schock."

  That acid in my gut churns.

  Over.

  And over.

  And over.

  I lift my chin, stare him right in the eye making sure he knows I'm not afraid to look straight at him and memorize the features of his face. The small mole below his eye, the veiny redness of broken capillaries on his nose. All of it, committed to memory.

  I've never liked games. Particularly ones played by creepy men roaming the woods. I spent my adolescence worrying about guys like him.

  "Ah," I say. "You know my name. Now what's yours?"

  "I'm Billy Ray. I hear you've been looking for me."

  "Billy Ray Carter?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Dixie said you wanna talk to me. How can I help you?"

  Relief takes hold. I let out a hard breath, giving my system a few seconds to unwind itself. The emotional buzz saw of the day will let me sleep for a week after this.

  Jesus, the man scared me.

  And what the hell is he doing here? Apparently my evasion skills need work because he had to have followed me. Regardless of our intent to question him, did he not think it a tad bizarre to tail me?

  "Billy Ray, how did you get here?"

  "Well, I was about to visit your office. I saw you leave so…”

  He shrugs and doesn’t bother to finish his sentence.

  This is a weird dude. That's all I can think. Cagey? Or just socially inept?

  Maybe both given his family history. Charlie would know better than me. All I know is the relative of a serial killer followed me to the woods and I'm alone with him. Excellent.

  "We're investigating a cold case. We believe there's a copycat of your stepbrother's modis operandi—mode of operation."

  "A copycat? He must be a sick fucker then."

  "It appears so. Dixie said Mickey didn't have many friends."

  A burst of chilly spring wind rattles the overhead branches, shaking the leaves and Billy Ray shoves his hands in his pockets.

  "Nobody could stand him," he says. "Mean as the day is long."

  "Do you remember anyone else who might’ve been around? Anyone he may have shared information with?"

  A slow smile reveals yellowed teeth that could use a trip to the dentist.

  Weird.

  Dude.

  He moves his right hand, drawing it, inch by inch, from his pocket. The edge of something wooden peeps out from beneath his closed hand and my ears roar.

  "Billy Ray? What do you have there?"

  He takes a step forward and I take one back, retreating as I keep my gaze on him. "What is that?"

  He stops moving. "You asked who Mickey told stuff to."

  "Yes. Do you remember anyone?"

  "Yeah," he says, his smile widening. "Me."

  Then he lifts his hand, showing me exactly what he'd been hiding. A garrote hangs from his fingertips.

  Him.

  Shit.

  I focus on the cord, on his other hand gripping the end. "It's you," I blurt.

  All this time, Mickey has been in jail and his stepbrother has taken up the effort.

  "It's me," he says.

  And then he's on me, moving so fast I barely have time for it to register. I throw my art supplies at him and use the measly second of his stunned shock to sprint left, back toward the dirt path.

  I grip my keys, yanking them from my pocket and I hear Charlie's voice. Go for the eyes. The throat. The knee.

  The crotch he'll expect. Go there second.

  Behind me, the humph-humph of heavy breathing closes in and heat bores through me. No. Please. Not now. I focus on the she-shed—right there—while battling my rising panic.

  No lock. It won't help me. And the last thing I want is to be trapped inside with a psycho kicking in the rotting door.

  I pump my legs, running harder, but Billy Ray has a good twelve inches on me. His strides cover more ground and the humph-humph closes in, surrounds me. My ears whoosh and blood stretches my veins to bursting.

  Breathe.

  I have to or I'll pass out, fall to the ground in front of a serial killer. Charlie comes to me again.

  Fight hard. Let him know you won't make it easy.

  A scream leaves me. A raging, howl that shreds my throat as I run.

  Oooff. Something hard smacks against the back of my head and pain spreads like a web in my skull.

  "Bitch," he says.

  My eyes blur and I blink, once, twice, three times. It's coming. The blackness.

  "Goodnight, Megan Eleanor Schock.

  22

  Charlie

  My heart feels like it's turning inside out with fear, my pulse pumping so hard it's in a loudness contest with the helicopter’s blades. Thumpthumpthump. Everything in me is triple-timing it, my right knee bobbing up and down, my hands sweating.

  Billy Ray isn't at the cabin. He's hunting Meg. I know these two facts like I do my own birth date. JJ has tried to convince me otherwise—that Meg is fine, that Billy Ray is not in D.C—but I know better.

  God help me, she might already be dead. The thought makes my guts turn over, and I clench my jaw at the threat of my empty stomach revolting once more. My sister, my friend, my partner.

  How could I have let this happen? I'm trained to get inside the head of criminals, to dissect serial killers and understand them better than they do themselves. Anger pounds away alongside the fear. Anger at myself, anger at Billy Ray, anger at everyone.

  JJ called in the local police and FBI to gather evidence at Billy Ray's cabin before we left. I insisted we take off before they arrived, threatening to leave him behind when he said he needed to stay and give everyone background on Billy Ray and Mickey. No way was I wasting time waiting for him when Meg's life was in danger. He acquiesced and a state trooper met us at the base of the mountain and escorted us with lights flashing to the airfield. On the way, JJ called the D.C. police, instructing them to put out an APB on Billy Ray's vehicle, and to be on the lookout for Meg's van as well.

  Too slow. Everything is taking too much time. I've called Meg a dozen times, all going straight to voicemail. She has her p
hone turned off, I'm sure of it, which means I can't trace it. I've called everyone I can think of to ask if they've seen her, even Dr. Gentry. No luck.

  Matt is out of town on a case, but I called him anyway, and he's on his way back to the office. I saw on the security system app that Meg left, but. I instruct Matt to go there anyway. Maybe she left a note.

  Matt, too, has tried to convince me she’s fine. "Meg is smart. She's not going to let a killer sneak up on her."

  She is smart, but I can't reach her. I know when my sister's in trouble, and she is in big trouble right now.

  Matt put in a call to Taylor and her FBI cohorts are also looking for Billy Ray. I called my parents, but they aren't home. Mom owns a cell phone but rarely turns it on. I keep praying Meg simply took my advice and went home for a nap.

  Please let her be sleeping safely in her bed.

  The fear screaming through my system tells me that's a pipe dream.

  I will kill him. If Billy Ray lays one hand on my sister, I will kill him.

  I'm usually rational in a crisis, levelheaded. It's one of my skills. Nothing rattles me. But right now? I'm a basket case. This is my fault for not seeing what was right in front of my eyes.

  We’re nearing D.C. when JJ reaches over and pulls my shaking hand into his. I'm praying by the time we land, one of us will receive a call that the police or FBI have found Billy Ray—and Meg—safe and alive.

  No such luck.

  The updates from everyone are the same-–both in the wind. I call Dixie, but there is no answer. Did she lie to us? Is she in on it too? JJ orders another police unit to go to her apartment and workplace to find her.

  My mind circles in ever tightening loops. Where would Billy Ray take Meg?

  I place a call to Grey as JJ drives us to meet Matt at the duplex. Grey is silent as I give him the scoop. "Is there any way Teeg can track her phone's GPS with it turned off?" I ask, pleading inside that he'll be able to work a miracle.

  He assures me there is not. When JJ and I arrive the van isn’t there. I unlock the door on her side, anyway, calling her name as I rush through the place, leaving Grey on hold. Matt arrives seconds later, and I shake my head as he comes barreling inside, JJ on his heels.

  "Charlie?" Grey asks, his voice sounding a million miles away even though I have him on speaker. "Is she there?"

  The panic threatens to cut off my voice. "No," I answer barely above a whisper. I've lost her.

  I never cry, but a wave of heat rises in my face, hot tears pushing against my eyes.

  "She doesn't have OnStar or LoJack on her van?" Grey asks, checking off boxes.

  "The thing doesn't even have power locks." I'm still shaking but talking to Grey takes the edge off. I blink away the tears, worthless in their appearance. Matt's presence, too, helps me take a deep breath. JJ rubs my back, supportive and protective. After another breath, I look at Matt and JJ as I say to Grey, "I need some fucking suggestions."

  "You know your sister better than anyone," Grey answers. "If she's not at the office or home, where would she go? Is there a grocery store? A favorite coffee shop? An art supply store or a gallery she likes to visit?"

  Our parents' home. "She goes to see our mom and dad, but I've already called them multiple times and left messages on their machine. They're not home"—a horrible thought hits—

  "oh shit."

  What if they are? What if Billy Ray has...

  "What?" All three men—JJ, Matt, and Grey—shout in unison.

  I swallow the rough pit lodged in my throat, my hand holding the cell falling to my side. I'm shaking so hard, I don't know how my legs are holding me up, but inside I've gone very still. "What if Billy Ray has all three of them?"

  JJ grabs my free hand and yanks me toward the door. "Let's go. I'll send a black and white over there. Matt, follow us."

  I hear Grey's voice coming from the phone. "I'll meet you there!"

  It takes twelve minutes, JJ breaking all speed limits on the way. We pull down the long drive. No van.

  I curse under my breath, and in the next, pray again to whatever power might be listening.

  The house is empty, the answering machine blinking with the messages I left my parents.

  All the way there, I kept going over Grey's words. Where would she go if not here?

  An art supply store or a gallery... I grasp my phone, open the security system app again and study her going out the back exit to get in her van. "She has her sketchpad!"

  JJ and Matt look at me with confusion.

  "She's gone to her happy place. In the woods!"

  Relief swamps me first—she's okay. She's at the boulder, sketching. Then comes irritation—why the hell would she go off alone when a serial killer is running loose?

  Panic hits again.

  Meg–my sweet, gentle sister who loves nature–is alone there near our family home.

  With Billy Ray hunting her.

  I tear past Matt and JJ, those goddamn tears threatening once more. They follow, yelling questions in my wake.

  I see the van a few steps later, partially hidden from the drive in a small clearing.

  I keep running, start screaming. "Meg!"

  The others join in. "Meg! Meg! Meg!" Our voices echo through the trees.

  The shaking resumes when I find the big boulder–her favorite spot–empty. The sketchpad lies in the dirt. Matt picks it up, brushes if off.

  "He took her into the woods." I can barely breathe. "We'll find her. We have to!"

  Footprints. I see footprints then JJ is marching past the path, following them. He points to an area where the grass is matted down. "She fell." There's a spot of blood in the grass.

  "Meg!" I scream at the top of my lungs, and then Matt is beside me.

  "Is there another entrance where Billy Ray could’ve parked?" He asks. I can see the panic grabbing him now. See how he's also tamping it down, trying to think logically.

  We haven't seen Billy Ray's truck or any other vehicle. I hang onto that last thread of hope. Meg might’ve fallen, sprained her ankle, bumped her head. She couldn't make it back to the house, that's all. She's probably sitting under a tree. I spin in a circle.

  "The only other entrance is through these woods from the opposite side, but..."

  The playhouse! I didn't even notice it when I ran down here, so intent on getting to the boulder. Maybe she went to the she-shed, as she calls it.

  I run back down the path, both men trailing after me. Sure enough, I pick up footprints again, veering off the path and...

  My blood turns cold.

  Something was dragged through the grass toward the shed.

  Not something. Someone.

  JJ and Matt see it too. The three of us slip behind trees to follow the matted grass but stay out of sight of the shed.

  JJ touches my arm. I look over to see him pointing to a truck behind a copse of trees. The license plates are Tennessee. We glance at each other, then Matt whistles softly to get our attention. Grey is coming down the barely-there path.

  By the time he joins us, all my training kicks in. I'm cool, calm, the fire inside me burning fierce, but honed and ready. The woods around us are too quiet, but we pick up the sound of a man's voice coming from the shed.

  Billy Ray.

  JJ takes out his phone. "I'll have a hostage rescue team here in twenty," he murmurs.

  Too long. "I'm not waiting." Grey, Matt, and I are armed. I hand my weapon to JJ. "Here's what we're going to do," I tell the three of them.

  Billy Ray wants me, as well as my sister, right?

  Well, he's about to get me, and I pray I'm not too late.

  23

  Meg

  My sister's screaming from outside has rattled my captor.

  Not a good thing when the psychotic maniac wants to kill me. I mean, seriously, I don't need this wacko amped-up any more than he already is.

  I'm seated on the floor, legs splayed in front of me, my pulse slamming. The seat of my jeans is damp from the mildew
and wood rot underneath me and a chill shoots straight up my spine. I can't think too hard about that. I know how this goes. Mom always tells me what I focus on grows. I'll think, and think and think, and then I'll feel it, that idling panic waiting for its moment to take over. To steal my air and any ounce of sense in my head.

  I glance at the broken window, currently the only light source illuminating the she-shed. As petite as I am I won't fit through it. The door, barely ten feet away, is my only option but with my hands tied behind my back I'll need Billy Ray distracted for at least a few seconds so I can maneuver to my feet. He's left them free. Why, I'm not sure, but he’s far from stupid. He has a plan. One that requires them to be of use and I don't like it.

  I also don't like the knife sheathed at his waist.

  Another shout from outside spins him toward the entrance—move—and I bend my knees, readying myself to roll and hop to my feet. At least until Billy Ray angles sideways, his squirrelly gaze shooting between me and the door.

  He points to said door with a trembling finger. Right now, Billy Ray is not the cold, methodical killer we anticipated. He's nervous.

  Unprepared.

  Anxious.

  In this moment, he's more dangerous than ever.

  He jabs that finger again. Jab, jab, jab. "Who's out there?"

  I shrug. I need every mental advantage so I'm not about to tell him it's Charlie. If I know my sister, she's brought plenty of reinforcements. I just need to hope they get in here before he slices my throat open.

  My chest seizes. The panic, that evil bitch inside me, is coming awake, ready to strike. I force out a slow, steady breath, then another. I'm okay. Once I get out of this, I can fall apart.

  I peer up at Billy Ray. He's watching me, his eyes lit with smug dominance that fires something inside me. I push my shoulders back and meet his haunting gaze. Sorry, ace. He may have my hands tied, but I refuse to give in.

  Not happening.

  “Billy Ray, stop this. Whoever is out there will check the shed. Everyone knows this is my quiet place. My van is parked in its usual spot, so they know I'm here somewhere. No one will leave until they find me. You know it."

  "Shut up."