by Rita Herron
“Runninghorse mentioned him, too,” Mason said. “Sounds as though he has a grudge.” And if he did, Mason would find him and put him in jail.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Cara and Mason drove back to town. But Cara kept reliving the shooting, her terror for her baby making her edgy.
“You should go into protective custody until this case is solved,” Mason said as he wound toward the sheriff’s office. “I’m meeting an FBI agent now and we’ll arrange a safe house.”
Cara tensed. Part of her wanted to run and hide and take care of herself. But her patients depended on her. “Mason, I can’t do that. If I run, he wins.”
Mason parked the car and turned to her, a gruffness in his eyes that made her throat close. “This is not a game, Cara. Your life—our son’s life—is in danger.”
“I realize that,” Cara said, barely resisting a shiver. “But I also know that you’ll protect us.”
Mason’s eyes darkened with fear. “I will. But what if it’s not enough?”
Cara’s heart melted. As tough and strong as this cowboy cop was, he had a heart of gold and a soft spot for women and kids.
Still, it didn’t mean he wanted to marry her or that he loved her.
Just that he felt responsible, and he lived to do his job. To protect people from maniacs like the one who’d killed two of her patients.
A shudder coursed through her. For all she knew, the killer was stalking his next victim now.
She reached out and laid her hand over Mason’s. “I trust you, Mason. But I’ve done nothing wrong and neither have these women. If this man wants me, then I have to show him he can’t stop me from doing my job. Or from helping my patients.”
“Cara—”
“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips, desperately wanting to press her mouth there. “I told you, I trust you to protect me and our baby. Now let’s find this guy before he kills again.”
That statement took the fight from him.
“Come on, I want to hear what this agent has to say.” Cara reached for the door handle but Mason caught her hand.
“Cara, promise me you’ll stay with me. That you won’t go off on your own and do something to piss this guy off even more.”
“I promise.” Cara offered him an encouraging smile although she hadn’t meant to tick the killer off in the first place. And if he was as irrational as they believed, he was delusional, living in his own world, inventing his own reasons to justify his actions, and it had nothing to do with her.
* * *
MASON HAD TO REIGN in his caveman instincts or else he’d hog-tie Cara and lock her up in a room himself.
God help him. No one would hurt her or his son.
He’d die first.
They entered the sheriff’s office together, and McRae showed them to a small conference room off his office. He made the introductions and Julie Whitehead, a blonde, blue-eyed woman who looked as if she should be a model instead of special agent, shook their hands.
“Thanks for coming, Detective Blackpaw, Dr. Winchester.”
They seated themselves around a table where she’d laid out photographs of both crime scenes, the history of the victims, information on the Winchester Clinic as well as the suspects they’d interviewed.
“I see you’ve done your homework,” Mason said.
Special Agent Whitehead nodded. “I want to get this profile out to the press and other law enforcement agencies ASAP.”
“It’s time to warn the women, don’t you think?” Cara asked.
“We’ll issue a general warning,” Agent Whitehead said. “But we only have two victims so far, so it’s too soon to say for certain that all the victims are patients of yours. Also, technically we need three victims to call this a serial killer.”
“I feel responsible,” Cara said.
“It’s not your fault,” Agent Whitehead said. “Timing, the suspect’s mental condition, some circumstance or trigger that we don’t even know about yet—they’re all factors beyond your control.”
“Are you ready to talk to the press?” Mason asked.
She nodded. “I’ve prepared the profile, and Sheriff McRae has agreed to stand with me.” She gestured toward a file. “I’ve also compiled the information on the two men you asked me to check into, Detective.”
“And?”
“Reverend Parch looks good on paper. Too good. But we’re still digging into his background.”
“And Morningside?”
“I have an address. You were right. Morningside sustained serious injuries in Afghanistan and received a medical discharge. He’s supposed to be on medication to treat his psychological condition, but he doesn’t like taking meds, so he’s a loose cannon.”
He also had a grudge against Cara, had lived on the res, had easy access to a buffalo skinner, and could have known he and Cara were at the res today and taken that shot.
Mason heaved a breath. “I’ll check out his place tonight.”
Agent Whitehead nodded. “Let me do the press conference and I’ll go with you.”
He brought Cara some tea and himself some coffee while the sheriff greeted reporters from the local paper, the local TV stations and lawmen from adjoining counties. Two reporters from news stations in Houston and El Paso also showed up.
Special Agent Whitehead looked poised and confident in her dark suit as she stepped in front of the cameras.
Sheriff McRae relayed the fact that they had had two murders targeted to women, specifically single mothers, but held back details regarding the navel fetish and blood notes the killer had left behind. Then he introduced Agent Whitehead.
“We now believe we’re dealing with a serial offender,” she said. “Police, law enforcement agencies and citizens should be vigilant. We believe the killer is a male in his twenties, possibly Native American or mixed heritage. Judging from his M.O., he has strong ties to the Native American culture and most likely suffered some kind of traumatic loss recently. Since he appears to be targeting single mothers, more specifically in the case of our two victims, women who have offered their children for adoption, we believe the adoption angle is his trigger, that he was most likely abandoned as a child. Quite possibly, he grew up in an orphanage or foster home, but he could have been adopted yet never fit into that family. He is educated but due to his social inadequacies, may not be able to hold a job or feels demeaned by his current one.” She paused. “He also may have obsessive compulsive tendencies with cleanliness and may be suffering from delusions that he is serving God by committing these crimes. If you know of anyone who fits the profile, please call your local police or the FBI.”
As soon as she finished her speech, hands flew up, questions coming.
“So what is this guy’s M.O.?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal specific details of the crimes at this point for fear of interfering with the investigation,” Agent Whitehead said.
“Was the break-in at the Winchester Clinic related to the murders?” another reporter asked.
Agent Whitehead remained calm. “We can’t confirm that at this time.”
“Do you have any suspects?” another one asked.
Agent Whitehead continued to dodge questions for the next few minutes, and Mason grew antsy.
Finally Agent Whitehead turned the microphone over to Sheriff McRae. “As Agent Whitehead asked, please contact the police if you have any information regarding this case.”
McRae answered more questions while Mason herded Cara through the back door, ushering the agent to join them so they could sneak out the back.
Cara remained quiet as they drove toward Morningside’s apartment, a hole-in-the-wall on the outside of town that had seen better days. Scrub brush and dried grass dotted the forgotten property, the sagging buildings attesting to the age and the low-income renters that lived there.
“If Morningside is our man,” Special Agent Whitehead said, “we need to tread carefully, Detective Blackpaw. With PTSD sufferers, he
may be so delusional he won’t even know who we are.”
Mason bit back a curse. She might feel sorry for the guy because of his condition, but if he had butchered two woman and tried to hurt Cara, no excuse was going to get him off.
* * *
THAT DAMN BLACKPAW had called in a stupid agent. Dumb bitch.
She thought he was socially inadequate.
Fool. She had no idea what she was talking about. Or what he was capable of.
He shut off the TV with a curse, then checked his list.
Angelica Mansfield. Her friends called her Angel.
But she was no angel. The devil had gotten into her soul.
He traced a finger over the edges of the bow on his wall, pleased with the strands of hair that he’d woven into it. It wasn’t finished yet, far from it.
Angel’s long red strands would go next.
Chapter Thirteen
Cara followed Mason and the special agent up the sidewalk to Morningside’s apartment door. A few beat-up cars were scattered across the parking lot, the building weathered and dark. The lights that should have illuminated the sidewalks were burned out, the deserted buildings a place for criminals and those who didn’t want to be found to hide out.
“Stay behind me and Agent Whitehead, Cara,” Mason said. “And if there’s any sign of trouble run to the car.”
Cara clenched her hands into fists. She hated to be treated like the weakling, but she was smart enough to know that he was right. He and the FBI agent were armed.
She was pregnant and the focus of this man’s rage.
They made their way to the corner unit, bugs buzzing around the doorway. Mason knocked and they waited, but no one answered. Mason pressed his ear to the door to listen for someone inside, then shook his head.
“I don’t hear anyone.”
Agent Whitehead arched a brow, her hand on her gun as she faked a smile. “I don’t know, I think I heard something. Maybe someone’s in trouble in there.”
Cara understood her underlying meaning. They had to have probable cause to enter, and they had none. Unless they invented a reason, and they all seemed fine with that.
Mason used a lockpicking tool to open the door then gently nudged her into the corner of the foyer. “Stay here while we clear the place.”
She nodded, her lungs squeezing for air as she waited for them to search the apartment.
What if Morningside was hiding upstairs? What if he ambushed Mason and hurt him?
* * *
MASON RUSHED THROUGH the second floor of the apartment to clear it. There was only one bedroom and bath, both dingy and dark rooms with minimalistic furnishings. A chair, ratty dresser, an unmade bed.
Agent Whitehead stepped into the bathroom to examine the contents while he checked the closet. He found a couple pairs of jeans and a few T-shirts, a pair of military issued boots, fatigues, an army duffel bag and a dress uniform.
A button was missing on the sleeve.
A button that looked like the one he’d found at the landfill.
He’d have to bag it for analysis though to be sure.
“Looks like he’s been staying here,” Agent Whitehead said. “Toothbrush was still damp.”
“Confiscate it for DNA,” Mason said. “I’m going to take this uniform in to compare it to the button we found at the second crime scene.”
Downstairs he thought he heard footsteps, then a scream, and remembered Cara. Dammit. Had Morningside returned?
His heart pounding, he raced down the steps. The front door was wide open and Cara was sprawled on the floor.
“He came to the door and saw me,” Cara gasped. “Then he shoved me and ran. Go after him, Mason!”
Agent Whitehead followed on his heels. “Stay with Cara,” he shouted.
He jogged outside, searching the property. He didn’t see movement in the parking lot, so he inched around the bushes to the right. Darkness shrouded the exterior, the wooded area nearby thick with trees and brush.
Braced for an ambush, he crept around the side of the building, keeping close to the edge, his eyes scanning the area. A car engine rumbled in the distance, sputtering as it careened away from the complex.
Was he wrong? Had Morningside headed to the parking lot to make his escape?
Or was he in the woods?
He detected movement a few feet away, a bush rustling. A tree branch cracked then leaves fluttered down. He jogged toward the woods, eyes peeled, ears in tune to the sounds of nature to weed out the animals from the sound of footsteps.
Or a man breathing.
Forcing himself to stay focused, he crept between the mesquites, then chased the shadow. He raced over a tree stump and group of logs, speeding up as he darted past a clump of brush. Another engine fired up, and just as he made it through the clearing, an SUV peeled down the road.
Dammit, he’d lost him.
Frustrated, he strode back through the woods, anxious to see Cara. By the time he reached the apartment, he was cursing himself.
He stomped up to the door and stepped inside. “Cara? Agent Whitehead?”
The agent met him at the door. “She’s fine,” the agent said as if she sensed his concern. “But you have to see this.”
Mason followed her through the entryway to a den, then into a small alcove.
Cara stood at the edge of the space, her face pale.
He pressed a hand to her back. “Are you okay, Cara?”
“Yes.” But when she angled her head toward him, she didn’t look okay at all.
Then he saw what had upset her.
On the wall above the metal desk a bulletin board was filled with photographs of her. Pictures of her as she left the clinic in town, other shots of her on the reservation walking a patient outside, then photos of her cabin on BBL property.
Other disturbing items covered the board, as well. Articles on the opening of the women’s pavilion, other news clippings about conspiracy theories, about the downfall of society and the family unit, Bible verses written on note cards, and other printouts of Native American customs and beliefs.
There were also news clippings of the Thompson and Farraday murders.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Cara asked in a strained voice.
Mason swallowed hard. “Judging from this, it looks that way.”
He knotted his hands into fists. And he had just let the sick bastard escape.
* * *
A CHILL ENGULFED Cara as she studied the articles and photos on Morningside’s wall. He definitely seemed to fit the profile Agent Whitehead had described.
He was obsessed with conspiracy theories, Native American beliefs, and with her.
Knowing he had watched her from a distance, had photographed her and kept tabs on her whereabouts, made her feel violated all over.
Agent Whitehead retrieved her phone from her belt. “I’ll call Sheriff McRae and have him send someone out here ASAP.”
“Tell him to issue an APB on Morningside, as well. This guy is dangerous and has to be stopped.”
“I’ll call my office and see what else they can find out about Morningside’s background. His military career could tell us a lot.”
She stepped outside the apartment on the stoop to make the call, and Mason turned to her. “Cara, are you all right?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “I can’t believe he’s so fixated on me. All I did was try to counsel his wife. But he blames me for their break-up.”
“You did what you had to do for her,” Mason said. “This man obviously has psychological problems, so encouraging her to leave him was the right thing to do.”
Cara frowned. “But why would he take out his rage on those other women?”
Mason contemplated the question. “His thinking is skewed. Now he’s venting his anger against them, but he may eventually go after the real source, his wife.”
“I have to warn her,” Cara said.
“Yes, call her,” Mason said. “I’ll phone Runninghorse and alert the tri
bal police.”
Cara nodded, grateful to be given a task. She needed to focus, to do something to help stop Morningside, not just dwell on her guilt and fear. She slipped back to the living area, seated herself in a corner chair and punched in Isabella’s number. When she didn’t answer, Cara left a message then phoned Sadie.
“You think Morningside is the serial killer?” Sadie asked.
Cara hesitated. She hated to accuse him of such a serious crime, but judging from the wall and the fact that he’d run, it was possible. “I don’t know, but he’s definitely dangerous.” Cara explained about their findings. “Just be careful, Sadie.”
“Don’t worry, Carter hasn’t left me alone a second since the first murder occurred,” Sadie said with a laugh.
Cara smiled. She was so glad to see Sadie happy and in love. Carter, who had been falsely imprisoned for five years, deserved happiness, as well.
Still, she was nervous as she hung up. What if Morningside was so panicked that he went after his ex-wife now?
She found Mason photographing the disturbing wall and relayed her concerns.
“Runninghorse is going to guard Isabella’s place tonight. We’ll put her under protective custody until her ex is caught.”
The crime unit arrived moments later, and Mason put them to work scouring the man’s apartment.
“Look for specific evidence regarding the two women he murdered so far,” Mason said. He showed them the uniform he’d found and asked them to log it into evidence.
Cara remembered the button they’d found at the dump site and realized Mason thought it was probably a match.
“What about the murder weapon?” she asked.
Mason shook his head. “I searched while you were on the phone and didn’t find it.”
Cara shivered. That could mean that the man had it with him and that he was hunting down another victim now.
* * *
MASON SEARCHED Morningside’s browser history on his computer. Articles similar to the ones posted on the bulletin board had been reviewed, and he had definitely Googled Cara.
Anger tasted bitter on his tongue. The man had found out everything he could about Cara, including her family history, where she’d attended school, photos of the honors she’d received in medical school, where she lived.
