They’d have to be prepared for when the guy got there. But he thought they could do it.
He put the tracker on the counter and knelt in front of the fireplace, piling logs inside that someone had been nice enough to leave behind. Abigail groaned behind him as she jostled her injuries jumping onto the floor. She came over, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re ending this.”
“How? You hoping he’ll crawl down the chimney?”
“No. But I think the smoke will attract him, and when he sees you sitting in here by yourself, he’ll come close enough for me to grab him.”
“You’re joking, right? He’s got a massive rifle. You want to face off with him alone?”
“I can handle it, Abbie. That’s kind of my job.”
“But Axel, if he—”
Axel stood up and pushed her back, aware of the flinch of pain on her face when he forced her to move her injured leg. But he wanted her to remember how much pain she was in so that she would understand why they had to do this.
“You need medical attention. There’s a bullet in your thigh that has to come out soon or you’ll get a serious infection. Do you understand that?”
She turned her head slightly, looking away from him in something like shame. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m supposed to protect you, and I can’t do that if we’re still running from this lunatic. This has to end.”
“But what if it goes bad? What if he hurts you?”
“He won’t hurt me. I’ve got this under control.”
“Axel—”
“I know you’re afraid,” he said, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “But this is what needs to happen. It’s the only way to end this.”
He could see the hesitance still in her eyes. He moved around her and searched through the rotting kitchen for something he could write on. He finally found a pencil, but not paper. But there was plenty of rotted wood. He snapped off a small, thin piece from the cabinets and wrote a number on the back of it.
“If something happens to me, you get out of here and run as fast as you can. Find the nearest neighbor and use their phone to call this number. Tell them what happened and that you need extraction. They’ll send someone right away.”
She refused to take the piece of wood. She crossed her arms over her chest, holding herself around the waist like it was the only comfort she could find.
“Abigail,” he said as patiently as he could, “you have to trust me. Tell me you trust me.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Of course I trust you. We couldn’t have gotten this far if I didn’t.”
“Then believe me when I say this is the only way.”
She nodded slowly, her arms dropping as she moved closer to him. She pressed her body up against his, her hands slipping into the pockets of his borrowed jacket. He brushed her long hair away from her face and lifted her chin, kissing her like it was the first time he’d ever kissed her. Her lips were familiar to him now, but they still felt new. He drew her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling at it the way he’d seen her do dozens of times. Her lip was soft, delicious.
He wished there was time to find a clean spot in this nasty house . . . but there wasn’t.
“I’m going to light this fire, then I’m going outside to set some things up. You try to stay off that leg.”
She nodded.
“You’re going to be okay, Abbie,” he said softly, drawing his thumb across her chin. “I promise.”
Axel returned to the fireplace, feeling the weight of her stare on his back. It took everything he had to ignore her and finish what he was doing. Once the fire was going strong, he slipped out the door, leaving her staring into the flames alone.
They were in the middle of five or six acres of unplowed farmland. The house sat half a mile from the road—the snow clotted, empty road—with nothing obstructing the view. The same was true about the back of the house. There was nothing for acres and acres but more fields. No houses were in sight, no trees, nothing that the killer could hide behind. If he’d chosen the location, Axel couldn’t have done better than this.
He walked around the house, looking for a good place to watch the road without being seen. There really wasn’t anything on the outside. The roof was pitched high, so if he climbed up there, he’d be visible for miles around. The porch supports were so decayed that they had been whittled down to nothing more than toothpicks. The walls were smooth, straight, providing no cover along the sides of the house. He might be able to dig himself a hole in the snow, but his clothing was dark. He’d be a contrast that would be visible even if the killer couldn’t tell exactly what the dark shape was.
He could go back to the truck and hide there while he waited for the killer to come up the road. The only problem with that was he couldn’t guarantee which way the killer would be coming. He had a tracker on her, he could come from almost any direction. Being in the truck would leave Abigail more vulnerable than necessary.
He had to get her out of here. He had to get her to a hospital before that leg wound became an issue doctors couldn’t fix.
This place, it was perfect, yet it had so many flaws he couldn’t count them all. His best choice, he decided, was to take up a position outside where he could watch every avenue of approach. Somewhere on the ground. There was some cover in the shadows thrown by the side of the house if he could . . . he didn’t have many options.
He could do this. He’d get her out of this and to a hospital.
God, help him get her out of this.
Chapter 24
Springfield, Illinois
Durango drove up to the apartment complex and slammed his car into park, rushing toward the yellow police tape that was hanging all around the outside of Kyle’s building. He didn’t give a fuck about what that detective was doing back at his place. He needed to see for himself, needed to see if the bullshit he was feeding him was really true.
A uniformed cop grabbed him just as he slipped passed the first set of tape, yanking him up against the wall and jerking his arms behind his back in preparation for the cuffs.
“You not see the yellow tape, asshole?” the guy hissed in his ear.
“That’s my partner’s place you people are tearing all to hell!”
“Too bad for you.”
“Hey!” someone called from the top of the stairs.
Durango felt the cop turn away, and he took the second of distraction to slam his foot into the cop’s kneecap. The cop cried out, crumpling to his knees. Durango ran for the stairs, rushing up to Kyle’s apartment.
“Hey,” the same voice said, grabbing his arm before he could just rush inside. But Durango was done fighting, the sight of the crime scene investigators moving around her living room enough to make it all real.
It was too much like the morning he returned home after the call about Sarah.
The air left his lungs and he fell to his knees, not sure he could do this again. Not with Kyle.
Fuck, Kyle!
“Mr. Masters.”
The cop who’d stopped him was a petite woman about thirty, dressed in a more expensive suit than her counterpart back at his apartment, her blond hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun. She wore no makeup, no adornments of any kind, including a wedding ring. But she had a kind smile that offered comfort despite the circumstances.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Masters.”
It was a long few minutes before he could regain his feet. He saw her wave away someone behind him—probably the cop he’d kicked—keeping him shielded from what was happening until he was ready to deal with it. He had to keep telling himself this wasn’t Sarah, this wasn’t five years ago, this wasn’t the Harrison Strangler.
He finally pulled himself to his feet, carefully avoiding the view inside Kyle’s apartment.
“What happened?”
&n
bsp; The cop held out her tiny hand. “I’m Detective Donna Hyde.”
Durango hesitated, frustration burning on the tip of his tongue with unkind words. “Durango Masters,” he said grudgingly, accepting her offer of a handshake.
“I understand you used to be on the job.”
“I was. And I’m sure you know why my career ended.”
“I’ve heard rumors. Detective Fedor had the opinion that this case might follow the same modus operandi as the crime you were accused of. But I’m not as convinced.”
“She was strangled.”
It was a statement, not a question. Durango had suspected as much the moment that other detective told him that it was Kyle’s death they were investigating.
“She was.” She gestured for him to move up on the landing and stand with her outside a neighbor’s door. She pulled out her notebook and began reading to him. “A call came into nine-one-one just after seven this morning, an anonymous male caller reporting a dead body in this apartment. Patrol officers arrived ten minutes later and broke the door open after receiving no response to their knocks. They found Ms. Peters in the bedroom.”
She looked up at Durango as though to gauge his readiness for the next part. He worked hard to keep his expression neutral.
“She was lying across the bed,” she continued, “her hands resting on her chest, her legs crossed at the ankles. She was dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of white men’s boxers. And there was a green t-shirt wrapped around her neck.”
Durango nodded, the image she was describing too vivid in his mind’s eye.
The shirt around Sarah’s neck had been white.
“Time of death has been tentatively set at somewhere between midnight and four in the morning.”
“Were there signs of a break-in?”
“No. We believe she knew her killer and let him, or her, into the apartment.”
Durango nodded again as he ran his hands over his head. He had the worst fucking headache of his life! He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think of all the things he needed to know.
“Her parents—”
“An officer has been dispatched to inform them.”
“I should go and be with them.”
“That would probably be a good idea.” She touched his arm lightly to keep him from leaving. “Fedor is convinced you did this, and he has friends in high places, that’s how he was able to get a warrant so quickly. He’s going to come after you hard.”
“I’ve been there before.”
“If there’s anything I need to know, anything that could cause you trouble in this thing . . .?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t do it. I was out drinking all night last night. There’s a girl at my condo right now who can testify to that.”
“What was your relationship like with Ms. Peters?”
“It was good,” Durango said too quickly, his thoughts playing over the argument they’d had before she left the office last night. “We were friends as well as coworkers.”
“She was a part owner in your business?”
“Her father provided most of the capital we used to open our doors. But we’ve more than paid him back, and the business has been self-sufficient for more than eighteen months.” He dragged his hands over his head again. “Kyle’s title was officially vice-president of operations. But I considered her my equal partner.”
The detective tilted her head. “She wasn’t your partner?”
Durango sighed. “It was complicated. The contract we had says that she’s to earn a percentage of the profits the firm makes over the course of the next fifteen years and that she has a thirty-five percent say in any decisions that affect the running of the business. It also guarantees her a job for life.”
“But she wasn’t a partner?”
“No, not really. But she did most of the public relations work, most the of advertising. The business wouldn’t exist if not for her.”
Detective Hyde nodded. “What happens to her contract now? Does her father step into her place, or someone else?”
“No. It all reverts to me.”
There was a spark in her eye that Durango knew. She thought she’d just heard a motive.
“I wouldn’t kill her over thirty-five percent. Christ! I took in more than three million last year because of the firm. Why would I quibble with her over a measly million?”
“Every little bit counts, you know? Especially when someone’s in debt because of a long, drawn out trial.”
Durango clenched his fists at his side, turning away from her as he fought back his frustration. “Look at my financials! You’ll see that I have no debts left over from the trial or anything else. My mother left me a trust fund that was pretty much depleted by the trail, but it paid all my legal bills. And I lived on fucking ramen for a year when we first opened the firm to put my earnings back into the business.”
He shook his head, this whole thing feeling too familiar. He didn’t want to go down this road again.
“All right,” she said softly. “Is there anything else I need to know? I don’t want there to be any surprises down the road.”
“Nothing. Kyle and I were good, we were friends. I have no reason to want her dead.”
“Okay.”
He gestured toward the apartment. “Can I go in? I want to see her . . . the bedroom.”
Detective Hyde hesitated, but then she shrugged. “It looks like they’re about done. I don’t think it’ll hurt anything.”
He didn’t wait for her to escort him. He charged across the narrow landing and stepped over the threshold, a knife turning in his back as Kyle’s familiar belongings struck a chord inside of him. He’d been to this apartment a dozen times over, sitting in the small living room going over the books, making dinner while they talked about the way they managed operations. He teased her multiple times over the last year for still living here, telling her she should take her cut of the profits and go buy herself a nice house somewhere. But she always insisted that this place was more suited to her personality. She’d spent years decorating it. She didn’t want to have to start over somewhere else.
He wondered if she had, would she still be alive today.
Cops stopped and stared as he made his way slowly into the apartment. The kitchen was immediately in front of the main door. He turned right and walked into the teeny living room. His expert eyes moving over the familiar objects, looking for anything that might be out of place. It seemed perfectly kept, the way Kyle kept her home. But there were several framed photographs on a shelf that had been laid face down. None of the cops seemed to have noticed, but Durango did. And he knew what was in those photos.
They were pictures of him and Kyle. One was on the day they opened their doors at Mastiff Security. One was of them with Kyle’s father in the lobby of their new office building—they’d only moved into their current building seven months ago, having worked out of a much smaller space in another building downtown—and the last was the two of them at a charity gala a few months ago. Kyle was proud of those pictures, the driving force behind having them taken. She was the one who was big on making memories and documenting everything.
Why would she lay them down that way? Or was it her at all? Was it the killer? If so, why?
The rest of the living room looked as it had the last time Durango was there except for the fingerprint powder that was on everything.
He hesitated before going down the narrow hall that led to the bedroom. He knew her body wasn’t there anymore, but knowing she died there made him sick to his stomach. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, running his hands over the top of his head one more time before he pushed himself forward.
Like the rest of the apartment, there didn’t seem to be anything missing or out of place. The quilt was on the floor and the sheets were mussed on the bed, but that could have happened from a restless night’s sleep. But he knew that wasn’t the truth.
He moved into the room, his stomach in his shoes. He ached all
over, his head pounding. He’d never felt quite this close to what it must be like to be on death’s door. He felt as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders, as though he was trying to run underwater. He’d never been in this room, but he’d been in other rooms like it. Too many. There were similarities between this room and those others, similarities that he’d been hoping he wouldn’t see.
The way the shade on the lamp was tilted upward.
The way the pictures on the walls had all been taken down and stacked against the wall.
The way the mirrors were covered with blankets, jackets, whatever he could find.
Durango turned and rushed from the room, barely making it to the kitchen before losing the last of the booze from last night in the sink.
He knew it would never end. He’d known he would come back. But he stupidly thought he could out run it. He thought if he left Chicago, he would leave that nightmare behind him. He should have known better.
This was the Harrison Strangler. He was back.
Chapter 25
Outside Springfield, Illinois
Abigail thought that if her heart kept beating so hard she would have a heart attack. All weekend she’d been frightened. It seemed like she’d lived the height of pleasure and the pit of despair over and over again in the past twenty-four hours.
Right now was one of those pit of despair moments.
Axel was outside somewhere; she couldn’t see him. He’d set her down in a three-legged chair, balancing in front of the fire. He told her to look broken.
That wasn’t hard.
She stared into the flames, praying harder than she had ever done in her entire life.
What was to stop the killer from firing at her from some distant spot that Axel couldn’t reach in time? Or what if he got the drop on Axel before he even knew he was there? What if he killed Axel and came into the house with nothing between him and her? What would he do to her?
She didn’t want to be selfish, didn’t want to think only of her own safety. But Axel was the only thing between her and this killer, and he was letting him walk right up to this house. There were too many variables, too many things that could go wrong with this plan. All the what-ifs rushed around in her head, making it impossible for her to concentrate on anything but her fear.
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