by Alexa Grace
Deadly Relations
Book Three of the Deadly Trilogy
By Alexa Grace
This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Alexa Grace
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Christy Carlyle of Gilded Heart Design
ISBN-10: 098559392X
ISBN-13: 978-0-9855939-2-6
DEDICATION
For my amazing, loyal readers
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thank you to Sgt. Adrian Youngblood of the Seminole County Sheriff's Office, Major Crimes Unit, who patiently answered my questions and reviewed each chapter for accuracy as I wrote this book.
I am also grateful to Lieutenant Patrick J. Flannelly of the Lafayette Police Department for answering my questions specific to Indiana.
Thank you also to the wonderful experts at Crime Scene Writers.
Any mistakes here are entirely mine.
Thank you to my editor, Vicki Braun, who painstakingly edited this book.
Much appreciation goes to the Beta Reader Team who devoted their personal time to review each page of this book: Karen Golden-Dible, Carolyn Ingham-Duncan, Gail Goodenough, Melody McAllister Novellino, Kelsey Summer, Barrie MacLauchlin, Rhonda Dennis, Kelly Struth, Nate Kitts, and Cindy Lawyer.
Thanks also to Melissa McGee, Megan Golden, Nancy Carlson and Karen Golden-Dible for their help and support.
I want to express my appreciation to my family and friends. Without their love, encouragement and support, this book would not have been possible.
Chapter One
He hid his car in the woods and hiked back to the house. He’d been planning what he was about to do for a long, long time. The first seed of the plan was planted when he was seven years old: Mama locked him out of the house for wetting the bed, just as the school bus arrived with his classmates hanging from the bus windows, laughing and taunting him, as he stood outside in his soiled pajamas. The plan strengthened with each beating with the long, black, leather belt Daddy left behind after the divorce. The beatings grew more frequent, and just about anything could inspire one, whether it was a stolen snack before dinner, or because she had another one of her headaches.
His was a plan that had been honed and perfected over the years. He’d put in time for practice, too, unfortunately for the five women he’d killed over the years. What surprised him was how much he enjoyed killing the women. It was anger that motivated him, but each killing gave him a sexual release like he’d never had. He’d become proficient at murder. Three of the women had not even been discovered, he’d hidden them so well. The other two would become cold cases soon. As Mama always said, practice made perfect.
He entered the old farm house and laid the jug of kerosene he’d carried from his car down on the linoleum floor.
He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket. Then he stood back and took a good look at the woman, lying on her stomach, strapped to the kitchen table with duct tape. He’d removed her panties and flung her dress up so he could reenact a scene that was repeated throughout his childhood, up until the time he’d grown big enough to fight back. It was a scene that played in brilliant Technicolor in his nightmares every night.
“Good choice livin’ in the country, Mama. A good five miles between farms makes things that much easier for me. No one’s going to notice the fire until it’s too late,” he said, laughing as he walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, what is it you’re trying to say? Hard to talk with duct tape stretched across your face, isn’t it?” he asked as his mouth pulled into a sour grin.
When she noticed he had Daddy’s long, black, leather belt in his hand, she started to whimper. Mama knew what was about to come. Hadn’t she done it to him a million times before?
“I even remember the chant, Mama,” he told her. “You repeated it with every beating, so how could I not remember it?”
He popped the belt, the crack echoing through the small house. Mama flinched as he moved closer.
“Little girls are pure and go to heaven. But little boys are dirty and go to hell.” His voice grew husky, changing back from the imitated falsetto. “Isn’t that what you would say, Mama?”
He pulled the belt over his shoulder, whipped it down across her buttocks, and laughed at her muffled screams. “Oh, Mama. Does that hurt?” He pummeled her with the belt until her flesh was so bloody it looked like raw hamburger. He checked her pulse. The bitch was still alive. But that would be remedied soon.
He strode into the living room to a vintage red kerosene lantern Mama owned, in case the house lost electricity during a storm. He slammed it to the floor. Rivulets of the oil ran over fragments of red shattered glass, sinking into the old carpet covering the floor.
Going into the kitchen, he pulled a hypodermic needle out of his pocket and jabbed it into his mother’s neck. “This will make you too drugged to move, Mama. Got to get you off this table and into a living room chair. It’d be a little suspicious if somehow enough of you was left after the fire, and it was discovered you were duct-taped to your table.”
He watched her a few minutes until she lost consciousness, and he was sure the drug had taken effect. He then carried her into the living room and deposited her in her favorite easy chair. For good measure, he found a book nearby, opened it and placed it on her lap, so that it would appear Mama was enjoying her book when the “accident” happened.
Opening the kerosene jug he’d brought, he poured it over his mother and around the living room. As he headed for the front door, he pulled a book of matches out of his jeans back pocket. He struck a match, and when it lit, tossed it near his mother. He stood back as the room exploded with flames. He dashed through the door and watched from the driveway as the inferno engulfed the small house. Aroused, his hand flew to his member and massaged it as ripples of heat became a tidal wave. He moaned aloud with the erotic pleasure he always got when he’d slain his prey.
In no particular hurry, he walked to his vehicle, turning to watch the fire occasionally as he went. When he reached the woods, he spotted his car a short distance away. It was stuffed with moving boxes. He’d accomplished the one thing he wanted to do since childhood. He’d destroyed evil.
He’d leave Ohio for his new job in Indiana. It was time for a fresh start.
Chapter Two
A tear slid unchecked down Jennifer Brennan’s cheek as she stared at the casket of her baby’s father, while the minister spoke words of support. She didn’t hear a word.
The end of the long Indiana summer was nowhere in sight. A September breeze rustled leaves in the tall oak trees surrounding the cemetery, cooling her skin, which was heated by the bright sunlight and rising temperature. The humidity was thick, temperature at least eighty degrees, and no shade near the gravesite. Wiping moisture from her forehead with the back of her hand, Jennifer thought about her baby.
Had he lived, her baby boy would have been five years old. Once Jennifer had learned she was carrying a boy, she’d named him after her father, Tim. She was eight months pregnant and shopping for a baby crib with her mom, Megan. Feeling bigger than a barn, she waddled instead of walked. They’d found the perfect baby bedding set called “Stars at Night,” with stars and prints in shades of warm blues, yellows and browns. It mat
ched the light yellow walls they’d painted the week before in baby Timmy’s room.
They only needed a crib. They were in Foster’s Furniture on Main Street when the pain started radiating from her back to her belly button. She used the breathing techniques she’d learned in childbirth class and thought she might be having false labor pains. It was too soon. She and her mom were following a saleswoman to the back of the store to see a vintage-looking oak crib when a wave of pain slammed into her like a freight train. Jennifer had moaned and leaned against a dresser for support, her legs feeling like they might give out. Her panties became wet, and she felt something trickling down her leg, into her shoes. She looked down to see blood. Jennifer remembered screaming before she lost consciousness. She’d lost her baby.
Paul Vance, Timmy’s father, had been her world for two years when they both attended Indiana University in Bloomington. There was a time when she thought she loved Paul more than life itself. Christ, she used to think he was her soul mate. All that evaporated the night she told him she was pregnant with his child.
Jennifer grieved for what could have been if things had been different between Paul and her. It was the unanswered questions and doubts that made it hard. Could things have been different if Paul’s reaction to her pregnancy had been joy instead of anger and fear? Was she wrong to have expected delight when they were both juniors in college, with Paul on a football scholarship, a professional football contract hanging like a bright star in his future? Was she wrong to refuse his marriage proposal?
Right or wrong, she’d associated Paul Vance with the living nightmare that ensued after that night. Had it not been for Paul’s abandonment when she’d needed him the most, she would never have had thought about giving her baby away, nor would she have gotten involved with an illegal adoption agency that resulted in her abduction — and probable murder, had she not escaped.
It wasn’t just that she couldn’t forgive Paul. She couldn’t trust that in the future, when things went wrong, he would stand by her — and do the right thing. In the two years immediately following their son’s death, they’d tried to recapture the love they once had. She blamed herself for each failed attempt to get back together. He’d destroyed her trust and she couldn’t get past it — no matter how many times Paul begged her.
Jennifer remembered the last time she’d seen Paul. He’d arrived for a visit as handsome as ever, and happier than she had seen him for a while — since before the Indianapolis Colts had benched him for a knee injury. He’d been picked up by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and was ecstatic. He was in such a good mood; he took her to Deer Run State Park, where they hiked and had a picnic. They’d spent hours together hiking and swimming.
When they returned, Paul showed no signs of leaving until the society page fell out of the Sunday newspaper they were reading. Paul was on the front page, photographed with his model girlfriend of the moment. Paul made a beeline for the door and the visit ended. Jennifer knew their relationship was over, and probably had been for some time. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but it was time for both of them to move on.
The next day, the first of September, the small private plane he was taking to Tampa had engine trouble. The plane went down thirty minutes after takeoff, thus ending Paul’s young life.
She felt her father’s arm around her shoulders as the minister handed her a long-stemmed red rose. Shakily, she moved to the casket and placed it on top. “Good-bye, Paul.”
Jennifer followed her father as he led her mother and her to the awaiting black limousine. Her cousin, Frankie Hansen — who was more like a sister than a cousin — followed them, along with her husband. Lane Hansen carried their three-year-old daughter, Ashley.
Jennifer had already heard from Paul’s attorney, who announced that Paul had left a great deal of money for her in a trust. That’s what men like Paul did, Jennifer thought, they spent money and set up trusts to relieve their guilt. Did that mean Paul had finally felt responsibility for abandoning her when she needed him most? It didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t want his money.
From the car, she glanced back at the crowd of people leaving the gravesite. County prosecutor Michael Brandt and his wife, Anne, each held the hand of one of their five-year-old twins, Melissa and Michael, Jr., and headed toward their car.
The entire county sheriff’s department attended the ceremony in force and stood near a line of trees nearby. Each of the deputies was wearing his or her dress uniform out of respect for Jennifer Brennan, who was now a detective on their team, and for their sheriff, Tim Brennan. A black band stretched across their badges. Like most law enforcement agencies, they were a family who supported their own.
<><><>
Blake Stone stood in the distance and gazed at Jennifer as she lingered near the casket. Watching Jennifer was not a new thing for Blake, he’d been watching her from a distance since the first moment he saw her five years before. Jennifer had been missing. Her father, his sheriff, beside himself with worry and fear, had summoned Blake and his scuba-diving team to search Monroe Lake near Bloomington. Monroe Lake was the cell tower area where Jennifer’s cell phone had pinged for the last time. They’d hoped to find evidence of what had happened to her in the lake.
Blake remembered gazing at Jennifer’s photo and praying they would not find the beautiful young woman at the bottom of the lake. His prayers were answered. Her car was discovered, but there were no signs of Jennifer. He was telling a teammate how glad he was she was not in the lake when he heard a woman’s voice behind him. He’d turned to find himself face-to-face with one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. A blast of desire had hit him so strong it nearly knocked him off his feet. Jennifer Brennan stood before him, in the flesh, very pregnant and very much alive. Though he’d never acted on it, he’d fallen hard for Jennifer that day.
He watched as Jennifer, her hand shaking, slowly laid a rose on the casket. Even from a distance, Blake could see the tears that stained her pale face. It was all he could do to just stand there and not run to her. He wanted to enclose her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot any pain Paul Vance had ever caused her.
But that was the last thing he could do. Jennifer was a detective on the sheriff’s investigations team, as was he. He couldn’t have a relationship with a peer, especially if the peer was his sheriff’s daughter.
He clenched his jaw as he thought about Paul Vance. If there were ever a man who did not appreciate what he had, it was Paul Fucking Vance. How in the hell could the bastard have allowed Jennifer to go through her pregnancy alone? The prick was nowhere to be found when they’d buried Timmy. Big football star, Paul Vance, had plenty of time for the many women it was rumored he was involved with, but he was too busy to attend the burial of his baby? Though he’d never met the man, Blake hated Paul Vance.
<><><>
Seven Months Later
Sweat beaded on Jennifer’s forehead as she tossed and turned. The nightmare had returned. She was locked in a small room, walls lined with royal-blue foam soundproofing. She jumped to reach the window, but it was too high. Trying the door again, Jennifer discovered it was locked. Icy fear twisted around her heart as she began to shake. The walls were moving in closer; the room shrinking so small it was suffocating her. There wasn’t enough air and her lungs squeezed with pain.
Suddenly there was the sound of a key turning in the lock of the door. The doctor monster was coming to take her baby. She couldn’t let that happen. He entered the room with a scalpel in his hand. It was her own scream that jolted her from sleep.
Jennifer awoke, panting in terror with the sheets bunched in her hands. It had happened again. The damn nightmare was back. Turning on the lamp on her bedside table, she looked around the room. No blue foam covered the walls. She wasn’t abducted. Jennifer was in her own bedroom that she’d decorated in pale yellow and white. Everything was okay. At least that’s what Jennifer told her family. Her kidnapping had happened a long time ago, so why did the nightmares continu
e? Why couldn’t she let it go? She got out of bed and opened a window. A surge of freezing March air filled the room and she slammed the window down.
Jennifer looked at her alarm clock. It was almost four in the morning. She didn’t have to be at work at the sheriff’s office for hours, but she got out of bed and headed for the shower. She didn’t want to risk having another nightmare.
<><><>
Because she didn’t feel like making breakfast, Jennifer grabbed her coat to ward off the chill of the March morning and headed for the Sugar Creek Cafe. The place was a favorite for the police and firefighter crowd, and was so packed, she was lucky to find a table. After a few minutes, she noticed her favorite waitress, Catherine Thomas, bearing down on her with a full pot of hot coffee.
“Catherine, you’re a lifesaver. I need my caffeine fix.”
“I hear ya,” the waitress said as she filled Jennifer’s cup to the brim. “Are you eating alone this morning?”
“Yes, and I’m starved. I’ll have your “Country Special” with the eggs scrambled, along with a glass of orange juice. And keep the coffee coming.”
Catherine nodded and took off for the kitchen, as Jennifer unfolded her newspaper. She’d barely finished the front page when Blake Stone plopped down in the chair across from her, making himself at home at her table.
