(Moon 1) - Killing Moon

by Rebecca York

  That made sense. He imagined Marshall was a man much like himself. A man who had his solitary pursuits, who had discovered a rival in the area, and who was bent on eliminating that rival.

  Donald's mouth cracked into a parody of a grin. He knew where Marshall lived now. And the more he could find out about the man, the better off he'd be.

  He wanted to take the road into the woods and see what was at the end of that driveway. But he had no way of knowing whether Marshall was home.

  Considering his strategy, he decided that the best thing to do was hang around for a while. Maybe his luck would hold, and the bastard would leave. If not, he'd come back after dark with a nightscope.

  He continued up Stony Brook for several hundred yards, looking for a sheltered place to pull off the road. Finally he backed into a neighboring driveway and cut the engine. Opening the map, he laid it on the seat beside him so he could pretend he was lost if someone came down the drive behind him.

  Christ, he was burning to go up and poke around Marshall's place. The dog must be up there. If he was in a pen, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. But it was too dangerous to do it now.

  Maybe the best way to get rid of Marshall was to plant a bomb with a pressure trigger up there. He'd studied up on stuff like that. And although he'd never used one, he had every confidence that he could master the simple techniques.

  He smiled as he pictured the man and the dog being blown into such minute pieces that the police would have to scrape the two of them off the trees and nobody could tell which was which. The scenario warmed his heart. But a bomb would raise questions with the police. Why had someone picked such a dramatic way to get rid of Ross Marshall?

  Better to come up with something more subtle. Some kind of poetic justice. But what?

  He was about to start the engine and pull away when he saw a blue Grand Cherokee come sailing up the road. It braked, turned in at the drive. And he saw Marshall behind the wheel—big as life.

  Jesus. Scrunching down in his seat, he watched the SUV disappear into the woods.

  As he sat and stared after the vehicle, an elegant but simple plan started coming together for him. A way to get rid of Marshall. Using the woman.

  MEGAN found she could work through the day's tests if she concentrated on each step, keeping everything else out of her mind.

  By late in the afternoon, she was feeling numb and hoping that when she got home she could fall into bed and sleep.

  God. Not into bed. She and Ross had been in her bed. And there was no way she'd get to sleep there. Not now. Not after what she knew about him.

  A wave of emotion ripped through her. She wasn't exactly sure which emotion. Fear? Was she afraid of him? Afraid of a man who could turn himself into a wolf? She should be.

  But that wasn't what she was feeling.

  It was more like longing. Did she still want him? Or was she aching for what she knew could never be?

  That was probably it.

  As she stood in front of the lab table, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out last night and everything after that. When she opened them, she found Walter standing in the doorway, watching her with unnerving intensity. She'd been so preoccupied with her own problems that she hadn't taken a good look at him in days. Now she saw that he'd lost weight. His face was thinner and his collar gaped away from his pale flesh.

  "How are you doing?" he asked, watching her carefully.

  The scrutiny made her skin prickle. But she answered "Fine" automatically.

  "You're sure? You don't look so good," he pressed.

  "Boyfriend trouble," she replied.

  He stared at her for another few seconds as if trying to ascertain whether she was telling the truth, then turned away. And it was then that she saw what she hadn't noticed before, because his collar had been tighter. Now, where it gaped away from his flesh, she could see a narrow bandage on the back of his neck.

  A gasp rose in her throat. But she managed to choke it back, managed to keep standing there as if the world hadn't turned upside down. Once again she remembered being thrown to the wet pavement, remembered raking her nails across a man's neck.

  Frozen in place, she watched her boss stride down the hall and vanish into his office.

  Stunned, her head spinning, she grasped the edge of the desk, reliving the attack. She'd thought there was something familiar about the man who'd knocked her to the ground, ripped at her clothing.

  Until now she hadn't figured out who he was.

  Now here were the scratches on Walter's neck. Scratches she'd put there.

  Could it really be true? Walter?

  She glanced in the direction in which he'd disappeared, feeling the walls of the lab pressing in around her. It was hard to draw a full breath as she tiptoed down the hall to her office and closed the door.

  Fumbling in her purse, she found the number of the police detective who had interviewed her, Jack Thornton.

  With shaky fingers, keeping one eye on the office door in case Walter came back, she dialed his number.

  The phone rang three times, four, five. Finally a woman said, "Montgomery County Police, Detective Division."

  "I'd like to speak to Detective Jack Thornton, please."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Could you speak up? I can't hear you."

  "Is Detective Thornton there?"

  "I'm sorry, he's left for the day. Do you want me to page him and have him call you back?"

  Megan felt her throat clog. "Okay." She gave her home number because there was no way she was staying at the lab.

  But leaving a message wasn't enough. She wanted to talk to him now. She wanted help now.

  Grabbing her coat, she ran down the hall, past Walter's office, seeing him in the corner of her vision. He was at his desk. Looking normal. Looking like everything was okay, when everything was all wrong.

  The reception area was empty. Betty must have left for the day. Thank God. Because Megan wasn't planning to blurt anything to her.

  Stepping into the twilight, she crossed the blacktop at a run. Reaching the safety of her car, she pulled the phone from the cradle and dialed the only other person she could think of who could help her.

  Ross.

  Oh, God, Ross. Please. Please answer your damn phone. Please be there.

  One ring. Two. Three. She waited with the blood roaring in her ears, silently begging him to be there.

  But he didn't pick up. And when she got his answering machine, she wanted to scream.

  When she'd called the police and hadn't gotten Thornton, she'd left her number. Now that wasn't good enough. She had to tell somebody what she knew. "Ross, I figured it out," she gasped. "I tried to call Detective Thornton, but he wasn't in. It was Walter. The man who attacked me was Walter. He was just in my lab and I saw a bandage on his neck. And I—"

  She gasped as somebody flung the car door open.

  "No," she screamed, the phone dropping from her fingers as she was yanked from the car. "No—"

  His hand clamped over her mouth as he wrestled her to a big white SUV parked a few cars away. He opened the door, and she tried to brace her arms, clawing at the opening with her fingernails to keep him from shoving her inside. But he was too strong.

  "No, you don't," he panted, tearing her nails as he flung her into the back. The seats had been folded down, making a flat cargo area.

  Breathing hard, he hovered over her, blocking the view of anyone who might walk by.

  He took his hand away from her mouth, pulled off a piece of duct tape that had been dangling from the far door, and slapped it into place.

  Next she heard metal clink, felt cold bracelets circle her wrists. Handcuffs.

  He pulled her arms up and attached the cuffs to a metal ring that was fixed to the flat surface of the seat back.

  Terrified, arms stretched above her head, she stared up at him as he loomed over her, a frightening look of satisfaction playing over his thin lips.

  "Well, now I've got you," he said
with a smirk. "I've rescued you from that Ross Marshall guy. I know what he is. I know what he's up to. Stalking me. Him and his damn trained dog. Only I've got you now. And you've got the honor of helping me get him. They'll find your grave on his property and they'll think he's the one who did it. But first we're going to have a good time together. Well, at least I am."

  He reached out, covered one breast with his hand. She tried to shrink away, tried to kick at him. But he only slapped her hard across the face, then brought his hand back to her breast, finding her nipple through the fabric of her blouse and twisting so hard that she screamed, the sound a choked gurgle behind the gag.

  His muddy brown eyes bored into hers. "Don't worry," he said. "When I get you to my place, I'll pull the tape off. Then you can make all the noise you want. I like to hear my women scream. And you'll scream plenty. Because that's just a little taste of what you're going to get from me. And this."

  Pulling out a penknife, he opened the blade and pressed it against her cheek, pressed into her flesh, drawing the blade up along her skin, not deeply but enough to leave a trail of fire that brought tears to her eyes.

  He looked at the blood on the blade, pulled out a tissue, and smiled as he wiped it off. "That's just skimming the surface. Before I've finished with you, there won't be any part of your body I haven't invaded."

  Slamming the back door shut, he moved to the front and climbed in behind the wheel. Moments later the vehicle lurched forward, twisting Megan's arms as the man drove out of the parking lot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  « ^ »

  THE CAR ROCKED, and pain jolted through Megan's arms. If she stayed in this position, her bones were going to snap.

  Using her feet, she pushed herself up so there was less pressure on her arms. Then, carefully, she maneuvered to the side, working her wrists in the cuffs so that her hands were in front of her. It wasn't an ideal way to travel, but it was less agonizing.

  Cautiously she twisted her head and looked at the man behind the wheel, trying to contain the bolt of fear that shot through her. She could feel her mind shutting down as she stared at him. All she wanted was to disappear into some deep, dark, buried part of her brain where he couldn't reach her.

  Hide.

  But he was probably counting on that. He wanted her scared, powerless, unable to fight him.

  So he could get her in his house and kill her.

  Kill her slowly, she thought, feeling the sting on her cheek where he'd cut her.

  Fear clawed inside her belly. Behind the gag, she felt her breath choking off, felt her brain filling with fog. He didn't need to kill her. She would suffocate in the back of his car if she didn't control her panic.

  Deliberately she bit down on her lower lip, the self-inflicted pain jolting through her, bringing the danger into sharp focus.

  Don't lose control. Don't hide. Keep functioning, she ordered herself as she tried to breathe slowly and evenly through her nose.

  When she had some control of the fear, she went to the next step—thinking. What did she know already? she asked herself, forcing her mind to focus.

  Ross had told her a security guard from the mall was the killer who had shot him. Somehow the killer had figured out who Ross was—who she was. He was going to kill her and pin it on Ross, she realized with a jolt.

  God, no.

  Again her breath threatened to choke off. Again she kept air moving in and out through her nose.

  He'd killed more than one woman. She knew that from Ross. And he was going to kill her, too—unless she could stop him.

  But how?

  As the car jounced along, she fought a wave of nausea. Ross had said he'd found women's graves on this guy's property. He hadn't told her the man got a thrill from killing.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Not just killing. Terror. Torture.

  How long did he keep his victims around? Hours? Days?

  A white-hot jolt of terror threatened to overwhelm her. But she managed to contain it.

  Nobody was coming to her rescue. Nobody knew where she was. If she was going to escape, she had to do it herself.

  She was on her own. She had to get away from him or die trying. Because she had no doubt that a quick bullet in the back was better than what he had planned for her.

  ROSS was in his office when he remembered he'd turned off the phone before he'd gone into Megan's house.

  Dialing his message number, he leaned back in his chair.

  The chair bounced when he heard her voice.

  "Ross, I figured it out," she gasped. "I tried to call Detective Thornton, but he wasn't in. It was Walter. The man who attacked me was Walter. He was just in my lab and I saw a bandage on his neck. And I—"

  Her voice cut off in a choked gasp. Then she screamed, "No!" as the phone apparently clattered to the floor.

  "Jesus! No. Oh, God, Megan," he shouted, even as his mind tried to process what he'd just heard.

  It was her boss, Walter. The guy who had attacked her was her boss. And now the bastard had her.

  Playing the message back, he listened for details. She'd said he was just in her lab. Praying that they were still there, that the bastard hadn't taken her anywhere else, he jumped back into his car and sped back toward Bethesda.

  The trip should have taken an hour. He made it in forty minutes.

  Teeth clenched, hands fused to the wheel, he spun into the Bio Gen parking lot.

  It was dark when he arrived but he could see Megan's car was still there, thank God. And one other. The Mercedes.

  Son of a bitch.

  He strode to the door, tried the knob. It was locked. Without bothering to knock and give the bastard any warning, he went back for the picks that were still in his bag, found the right one, and manipulated the lock until he heard it click.

  Once inside he sped past the darkened reception room and down the hall, then surged through the door of a plush-looking office where a slender man in a tweed sport coat was taking handfuls of files from a cabinet.

  "Walter Galveston?"

  The man whirled, goggled at him as he strode forward.

  "Galveston! Where the hell is Megan? What have you done with her?"

  Utter confusion suffused the man's features. "Megan? I haven't done anything with her."

  Ross grabbed the man by the shoulder with one hand. With the other, he yanked the collar away from Galveston's neck, exposing the bandage.

  "Stop that! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Ignoring the protest, Ross pulled the bastard's arms from his sport coat, tossing the garment on the floor before yanking his shirttails from his pants and ripping the fabric up the middle of the back.

  As he'd anticipated, Galveston's back was covered with claw marks. "The wolf did that to you," Ross spat. "Now tell me what you've done with Megan or I'll have the wolf rip out your throat." The words were half human, half animal growl.

  "Please. I beg you. I don't know where Megan is. She went home."

  "Sure."

  "That's the truth. I swear."

  Ignoring the words, Ross raised a hand, wrapped it around the scrawny throat, squeezed.

  The man's eyes bulged; his face turned red.

  Ross eased up the pressure. "Where is Megan?"

  "I swear I don't know," he gasped.

  "You were at her house the other morning. And this afternoon. You saw me at the window."

  "I… please…"

  "Convince me you haven't got her now. Tell me why you attacked her in the first place."

  A desperate flow of words poured out of the man. "The lab is in financial trouble. I'm going bankrupt. But I've got money stashed in a safe place. Not the bank. I've been making it look like bad things were happening around here. The car accident. The break-in. When Megan was there that night, I got the idea that attacking her would add to the pattern of bad stuff happening at the lab. It would make it look like I didn't have any option besides killing myself when I staged my own death. Please. I wen
t to her house that morning looking for my lapel pin. It's missing. I thought it might have gotten stuck to her clothes or something. You've got to believe that."

  Ross peered into the wide, pleading eyes. And he did believe. Oh, Christ, he did believe. But then where was Megan?

  "When did you see her last?" he spat out.

  "She was here an hour ago. I think that's right. I saw her go past my door. She was in a hurry."

  "You bastard." Ross tossed the frightened man against the wall like a sack of trash and ran back the way he'd come.

  Reaching her car, he realized that the door wasn't quite shut And when he pulled it open, he almost choked on a smell that had been burned into his consciousness. Arnott.

  Arnott had been in Megan's car.

  In the dim light of the overhead bulb he looked wildly around the interior, saw the phone on the floor. Her purse.

  One of her shoes.

  "God, no!" he roared. God, no. Somehow Arnott had found her—and taken her away. Somehow—

  A sick dread gathered in the pit of his stomach. Had Arnott seen them together at the mall? And somehow figured out who was stalking him?

  But how? How in the hell had he done it? Not because he'd recognized the wolf.

  It didn't matter how he'd figured it out. All that mattered was getting Megan out of the bastard's clutches.

  He was back in his car, heading into the country as he dialed the police.

  "Jack Thornton, please."

  "He's gone home for the day. I can have him paged."

  "Yes. Tell him to call Ross Marshall at 301-555-9876. Tell him it's urgent. Tell him Arnott has Megan. Tell him I'm on my way out there."

  "Spell that name, please."

  "A-R-N-O-T-T."

  Hanging up, he dialed information and got Jack Thornton's home number.

  An older-sounding woman answered. "Hello?"

  "Is Thornton there?" he asked, hearing the panic in his own voice.

  "He's out. May I take a message?"

  "This is Ross Marshall."

  "Oh. Yes. Ross Marshall, the PI. He's spoken about you. This is his housekeeper, Mrs. Anderson."