by Joanna Wayne
“Desirable. Alive.” She trailed her lips down his chest. “And hungry. For something from the kitchen.”
“Okay.” He opened his arms and released her. “I guess I have to let you eat, as long as you promise to come right back.”
“I will.”
She left his arms reluctantly, but she was hungry. It was a good sign. She hadn’t eaten anything but the few bites of salad at Bon Appetit all day. And then John had hit her with the tabloid.
Her problems weren’t over. Making love with Sam couldn’t solve everything. She’d probably still lose her job. And the killer was still out there. He could be stalking her tonight, might even know that she was with Sam. Or he might be out with his next victim.
A shiver rode her spine as she sliced the cheese. Neither she nor Sam had mentioned the killings tonight, but she knew they were never far from Sam’s mind. Still, the lovemaking had been incredible.
They hadn’t talked of feelings or commitment. She knew he wasn’t ready for that yet, but he’d been here for her, made her feel loved when she’d never felt more like the trash her parents had believed her to be. No matter what happened between her and Sam, no matter what the rest of her life was like, tonight would live in her memory forever, one glowing moment to counteract the secrets that hid in the dark crevices of her mind.
But she wanted more. She wanted Sam again—tonight. She was already feeling the surge of desire by the time she got back to the drawing room with the cheese and crackers. But not Sam. He was lying on his back, his head falling off one pillow, his arm thrown across the other—and he was snoring softly.
She sighed and poked a cheese-laden cracker into her mouth. The first time she’d had a man stay over since she’d moved into the house, and he was sleeping.
Taking the chenille throw from the couch, she spread it over his naked body. She started to go back to her bedroom, but changed her mind. Her world might be falling apart at the seams, but she’d sleep in Sam’s arms tonight.
SAM AWOKE from the soundest sleep he’d had in years to the smell of bacon and coffee. He stretched and looked around, confused for a minute about where he was. But when he slipped from under the light throw and saw his naked body, it all came back to him, accompanied by a quick stirring in the groin.
And a bit of apprehension.
The memory rushed back into his head, hitting him with a new wave of desire. Last night had been perfect. Being with Caroline had been perfect. But now it was morning.
Time for the next step in the relationship dance, but he wasn’t sure what that should be. Fast or slow or somewhere in between. And even if he knew what the step was supposed to be, he wasn’t sure he could make it.
He stretched and looked around for his pants. They were draped neatly across the back of the sofa. He was certain he hadn’t put them there. His mind went back to Caroline as he pulled on the jeans and zipped them. He didn’t bother to close the snap. He needed coffee. Needed it bad.
He needed it worse when he caught sight of Caroline. She wasn’t naked anymore, but she was wearing a frothy little purple cover-up that stopped short of her knees. Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted a shimmering pink.
He didn’t know what she was cooking, but she looked good enough to eat.
“Good morning, Detective. I wasn’t sure if I should wake you or let you sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. I’m an early riser.”
“I normally am, too. I usually wake up a dozen times during the night—the nights I actually get to sleep.”
“Hmm. And you slept all night long when you were with me. Doesn’t say too much for the excitement level I generate.”
“Guess you’ll have to work at keeping me better entertained,” he said, tying to keep the mood light, though he knew he wasn’t doing a great job of it. One part of him wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her again. The other part was on the verge of turning tail and running. Neither seemed appropriate.
“How do you like your eggs?” she asked.
“Over easy, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. Coffee’s in the pot. There’s a mug on the counter. Help yourself.”
He did, then leaned against the counter and watched her break two eggs and slide them into a layer of hot grease. Bacon and eggs cooking. Her in her froth. Him in his jeans and no shirt. Both of them barefoot. Like lovers.
“I’ve been thinking about the killer’s MO, Sam.”
End of the lover routine. Back to the macabre. He hated this for her. Murder was his job, but she’d been thrown into it without even getting a chance to prepare for it—not only as a reporter, but as a target of a stalker. “What about his MO?”
“The way he smears blood on the breasts as if he’s X-ing them out. I think that could be his way of striking back at his mother. I mean, you suckle at the breast when you’re a baby. It’s the first bond.”
“So you think he wasn’t nurtured.”
“He could have been deserted the way I was, or maybe abused. At any rate, maybe he hates the idea of motherhood. I know I’m not any kind of expert at this, but that’s the way I see it.”
“You make a good point.”
“And the other thing I keep thinking about is the way he never seems to get caught. He shows up here with a cookie. He leaves a note on my car. He follows me to the Catfish Shack, or at least knows I’ve been there. But no one ever notices anyone hanging around who doesn’t fit in.”
“I know. It’s almost like he’s invisible,” Sam agreed.
“Could he be a cop or an ex-cop? Or at least someone who’s been in the military or some area of law enforcement? He seems to know too much about getting information to be just an ordinary citizen.”
“Maybe you should train as a profiler. You sound exactly like one.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of this.”
“I know. I’ve gone over the same things you have, but all we have are assumptions that don’t lead to a suspect. It’s not unusual for serial killers to be hard to apprehend, though. If they weren’t, they’d get arrested before they became serial killers.
“But the main reason most of them are so elusive is that they choose their victims randomly. Since they have no connection to the victim before the murder, there’s no way to know they’re suspects, not even in a town like Prentice where everyone knows everyone else and most of their business.”
“Maybe he’s not from Prentice.”
“That’s my guess,” Sam said. “But that’s still an assumption. We need something solid.”
“I’d like to see Trudy again,” Caroline said. “I may stop by the hospital this afternoon. I’m meeting my friend Becky for lunch. She’s worried about me and feels a little guilty, I think.”
“Why would she feel guilty?”
“She most likely provided some of the information about me that was in the tabloid article. Not meaning to, of course. She thought she was talking to a legitimate magazine that wanted to give me positive attention. Needless to say, they twisted every word she said.”
It was the first mention of the article since she’d left his office yesterday, but they couldn’t keep avoiding it. Caroline served the eggs, along with bacon and crisp whole-wheat toast. They kept talking while they ate, the awkwardness disappearing as they spoke.
“What’s up with the job?” Sam asked. “Are you going to get fired over those ridiculous tabloid insinuations that you interfered with the case, or is your boss going to be reasonable?”
“I’ll find out this morning. I’m meeting with John at ten. He wanted time to consider the situation and its impact on the newspaper before he made a final decision.”
“He’d be a fool to let you go.”
“I was a grunt reporter until a couple of weeks ago. I’m sure he doesn’t think I’m irreplaceable.”
“What’s a grunt reporter?”
“Someone who does the boring stuff,
the articles the more experienced reporters don’t want to bother with.”
Sam’s phone rang. Probably Matt wondering why he wasn’t already at the precinct—he usually was by this time of the morning. He excused himself and made a run to the drawing room to catch it before it stopped ringing.
“Detective Sam Turner.”
The caller wasn’t Matt. It was someone at the hospital. There’d been a change in Trudy Mitchell’s condition. She’d said she wanted to talk.
He went back to the kitchen and gave Caroline the news. She was in this deep enough to deserve to know.
“I’m going with you to the hospital, Sam.”
“As a reporter.”
“As Trudy’s friend. And because I want the killer caught.”
“Can you be ready in ten minutes?”
“You know it.”
She was ready in eight. No froth and no makeup, but she was the same spunky Caroline he was used to. The woman she’d been before the tabloid had shot a hole the size of Georgia in her self-confidence and brought back all the painful memories from her past. He knew she wasn’t past it all, but she was coping again, and she’d get there in time.
Now if Trudy had only recovered that well.
TRUDY WAS SITTING UP in bed drinking a glass of orange juice when they walked into the hospital room. Her hair was combed and she was wearing light makeup. Even the hospital gown had been exchanged for a blue-printed pajama top and a pair of loose shorts, stretchy enough to fit over the cast on her right leg.
“Hi, Trudy,” Caroline said. “You look great.”
“I’m better.”
“Looks like you’re taking good care of the patient,” Sam said to Mrs. Mitchell.
“I’m doing my best. My daughter’s a remarkable young woman.”
“That she is,” Sam agreed.
“I’m lucky to be alive,” Trudy said. “Luckier than Sally or that other girl who was killed.”
“Yes, you are.” Sam stepped to the edge of the hospital bed. “We need to find the guy who killed them.”
“I know.” Trudy turned to her mother. “I have to tell them what I know, Mom. If I don’t, he’s going to kill someone else.”
Mrs. Mitchell’s face twitched repeatedly just above her left eye. It didn’t stop twitching until she’d moved to the side of Trudy’s bed and placed a hand on her arm. “You know how I feel about this.”
“I know you want to protect me. I want that, too, but I have to do this.”
“Trudy’s protection will be top priority, Mrs. Mitchell,” Sam assured her. “We’ll make sure she’s safe until this guy is behind bars.”
“Yes, the way the police protected Sally and Ruby.” Mrs. Mitchell clutched the bedside railing so hard that her knuckles turned white and the blue veins on the back of her hands stood out like ropes.
She turned to Caroline. “This is all your fault. You got my daughter into this just like the article said. Now you get her out. Tell her she doesn’t have to talk. Tell her this isn’t her duty.”
Caroline swallowed hard. She understood Mrs. Mitchell’s agony, was even, in fact, amazed by it. Some mothers did love their daughters so much that they’d do anything to keep them safe. It was nice to know.
Still, they needed Trudy to talk. Other lives could depend on it. But then, how could she push her when she had no way of knowing if Sam could make good on his promise? The killer still seemed to hold all the aces.
“Trudy’s very brave, Mrs. Mitchell,” Caroline said. “You should be proud of her for having the courage to do what she thinks is right.”
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” Trudy said. “You’ll see. It will be okay.”
Mrs. Mitchell ran the back of her hand across her eyes, catching the tear that had wet her lashes. “I’d like to be here while you tell them what you know.”
“We’ve already talked about this, Mom. It’s better for me if you’re not.”
“Okay. I don’t understand why you can’t say what you have to say with me in the room, but I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Trudy reached out her hand and her mother took it. “I love you, Mom.”
Mrs. Mitchell bent and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Love you, too, sweetie. Love you, too.”
Mrs. Mitchell didn’t look at Caroline or Sam as she left the room. In her mind, doubtless, they were the villains who were dragging her daughter into danger. Sam wouldn’t buy that. He’d make certain the police kept Trudy safe. It was a cop thing.
Caroline had her doubts. Hope for the best but always be prepared for the worst. It was an orphan thing.
TRUDY WATCHED her mother leave. She hated to disappoint her. She’d felt the same way at first. She’d been so scared when her car had started rolling, not so much because she’d die in the car wreck, but because she wouldn’t—and the guy would come racing down the hill and pull her from the car.
She imagined him ripping off her clothes and slicing her throat wide open with a knife, as he’d done to Sally and Ruby. Only, he’d be even meaner to her because he thought she’d squealed on him. Sally had thought he was great. Trudy knew differently and her heart constricted at the memory. The things she’d never told anyone. The things they’d done.
“Are you ready to give us a description?” Sam Turner asked.
“I can do better than that. I’ll give you a name.”
Chapter Eleven
Trudy pushed herself up straighter in the hospital bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this at first, Miss Kimberly, but I was afraid.”
Her voice had dropped to a whisper as if she thought the man she was about to name might be close enough to hear. Caroline understood that fear.
“What’s his name, Trudy?” Sam asked.
“Billy Smith.”
Sam stepped closer to Trudy’s bed. “Was Sally dating Billy?”
“No. I told the truth about that part. He wanted her to go out with him. He hung out in the bar two or three days a week.”
“Did she like him?”
“Not at first, but he kept after her. They’d started talking a lot. And then…”
Trudy started shaking and taking quick, choppy breaths.
Caroline had moved over by the window, trying not to interfere with the questioning, but now she rushed to the bed and put a hand on Trudy’s shoulder. “Do you need a nurse?”
“No.” Trudy took a series of deep breaths. “I’m okay.”
Sam poured a glass of water and handed it to Trudy. “Take your time, Trudy. No rush. You’re doing just fine.”
Trudy nodded, but she drank every drop of the water before she started talking again. “I saw Sally and Billy outside one night when she took her break. They were kissing and he was feeling her up. Had his hand under her sweater.”
“Did she seem upset that he was touching her?”
“No. And then when they came back inside they were laughing and whispering to each other. I think she might have left with him that night, but I don’t know for certain.”
“Was that the night she was killed?”
“No. It was the Tuesday before she was killed.”
“Do you know if she had a date with him the night she was killed?”
“She came to work that afternoon, but then she got a phone call. A few minutes after that, she said she was sick and left early. But she hadn’t seemed sick before she got the call. I think she went to meet him and then he killed her.”
“What else do you know about Billy Smith?”
Trudy hesitated, then knotted her hands in the white sheet. “He’s bad, Detective. Mean. And he hurts women.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he used to come in and flirt with me. That was before Sally came to work at the Catfish Shack. He hung around me, just like he did Sally. Flirting and trying to get me to go out with him.”
“Did you?”
She turned away, then put her hands to her face. When she moved her hands, Caroline could see the tears well
ing up in her eyes. “I went out to his car with him one night.”
“What happened?”
“We were supposed to go for a drive, but we only went a little ways along a road behind the restaurant. Then he just pulled the car into the trees. I was nervous, but everything seemed all right at first. We were just kissing, playing around. Not doing anything wrong, though my mother would think it was.”
And Caroline had an idea Mrs. Mitchell hadn’t heard this part of the story—which explained why Trudy didn’t want her in the room during the questioning.
“So what makes you say he’s mean?”
Trudy pushed her fingers through her hair and shoved it behind her ears. “He had some whiskey with him. I took a couple of sips, but he was drinking a lot. Then he started putting his hands everywhere but…he was rough. I told him he was hurting me, but he just got rougher.”
“What did you do?”
“I begged him to stop. He wouldn’t. No matter what I said, he wouldn’t stop. He said it was what I wanted, that I’d asked for it.”
“Did he rape you?”
“He tried to, but I got a knee into his groin. He yelped real loud, then shoved me out of the car and drove off. I walked back to the restaurant in the dark. It was scary, but I didn’t care. Even knowing there’s snakes out there wasn’t as bad as being with him.”
“Did you report this to the police?”
“No. I was too embarrassed. Besides, who’d believe it was attempted rape? I was drinking and necking on a lonely road. The next day he came by and said if I ever told anyone what had happened that night, he’d kill me. And the way he said it, I believed him. I still do.”
“Have you talked to him since Sally was killed?”
“He came in the next afternoon. I was working behind the bar. He waited until no one else was around and then told me again that he’d kill me if I mentioned anything about him and Sally to the police. And…and then he tried to by running me off the road and down that hill.”
“He’s not going to kill you,” Sam said confidently. “Do you know where this guy lives?”
