by Rita Herron
Forcing himself back to the present, he glanced at the victim’s body as the M.E. rolled her over. Bile rose in his throat. When they’d found her, Lisa’s lower back had been covered in welts in much the same way. Thank God she was safe now.
And keeping her safe continued to be part of the job. No one knew where she was. The new name she’d assumed.
And he intended to keep it that way.
But this poor woman…it was too late.
“Can you believe this?” His partner, Ethan Manning, strode up, notepad in hand, rubbing at the sweat on his neck. “We were in a drought back then, too, a real scorching heat wave.”
Brad nodded. “And the killer always left the body in an isolated place.” The proximity to his own cabin on the lake seemed eerie, too coincidental. He didn’t like coincidences.
“Wooden box was nailed shut with the same kind of nails,” Ethan said. “And he chops off the victim’s hair. Brutalizes them. Even calls a reporter to gloat.”
Brad grimaced. “But this time he left a cross instead of a rose.”
“What’s that all about?” Ethan asked.
“Maybe some indication that he’s a religious freak.” Brad scoffed at the idea. “Any sign of rape?”
The one thing Lisa had been spared. Thank God. Apparently White had been impotent.
“Can’t tell yet, but I’ll let you know,” the M.E. said. “He cuts the fingernails off to get rid of trace evidence.”
If the woman had been raped, then the copycat was deviating slightly from the first killer’s MO. Still, there were so many similarities. “How could this copycat know every last detail?”
“The papers carried the trial,” Ethan suggested. “And he could have read the transcript of Lisa’s testimony.”
Brad’s gut clenched. Every word of that agonizing testimony had been seared into his brain.
“Or hell, he probably bragged about it in prison,” Ethan said. “You know how these sickos are. White was a sociopath.”
Brad nodded. Right, the bastard had no conscience.
Brad almost understood. He’d been forced to get into perps’ heads too many times. Had seen their handiwork. Had witnessed their unspeakable acts.
Had begun to think he might be tainted himself from the violence. Not knowing his daddy or the genetic pool he’d come from triggered disturbing questions in the dark hours of the night.
The M.E. lifted a maggot from inside the box and bagged it. July 1, the dead of summer, and the Atlanta temperature soared near a hundred, making the heat in the box even more suffocating.
The poor woman. How long had she been kept down there before her killer had called? Brad turned toward Gunther, the local officer. “She the one you’ve been looking for?”
“Matches the sketch,” he said, tight-mouthed. “I’ll phone the family to meet us at the morgue and verify her identity.”
Brad grimaced. One of the worst parts of the job. Telling the victim’s family.
He still remembered Dr. Langley’s reaction when he’d phoned to relay the news that they’d found Lisa. Alive. Only the man hadn’t reacted as he’d expected.
“We’ll question the other inmates where White was imprisoned,” Ethan said.
Brad mumbled agreement. “And I want to talk to that reporter.”
“I’ll get someone on the lumber supply companies,” Ethan said. “He may be building these boxes himself, like White did. Maybe we can get a jump on where he bought the wood.”
Surges staggered up, wiping at his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it, kid. You’ll get used to it,” Brad said. “Just start canvassing those cabins around the lake.”
Surges nodded, and Brad contemplated different possibilities—such as what if White hadn’t been operating alone years ago?
Sometimes serial killers worked in pairs….
The hairs on his neck tingled. They’d explored that angle during the original trial, but had never found any evidence to support it. But they could have been wrong.
Ethan moved up to his side. “Are you going to tell Lisa?”
Brad jerked his head toward his partner and swallowed hard. He’d never confided his feelings for White’s final victim, but Ethan had sensed the attraction. That Brad had nearly lost perspective.
But Lisa hated him. Would barely even look him in the eye.
How could he blame her? He’d hounded her for information on her boyfriend for weeks, accused her of covering for the man, even suggested White had used her, that she was a fool if she didn’t know the truth.
Then, when she’d finally phoned him to admit her suspicions, he’d promised to protect her. But White had gotten to Lisa first. The week that followed had been hell for Brad.
But nothing compared to the ordeal Lisa had endured. Seven days and nights of pure torture.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Booker?”
“No, not yet. I don’t want to alarm her.”
“You think that’s wise? Maybe she remembered something during the last four years that might help us. Like the place where White kept her. Or a second man.”
Brad nodded, feeling resigned, while they both tried to focus on the details regarding this other woman.
But as things wound down, and he strode back to his car, a sense of foreboding followed him. Could he ask Lisa to relive those nightmarish details again? To tap into her subconscious, where she’d repressed some of the horror?
Of course you can. You’re the man without mercy. You can do whatever it takes to get the job done.
His stomach knotted as another thought struck him. If this psycho was copying White’s crimes to a tee, would he go after Lisa just as the last madman had?
* * *
FOUR YEARS LATER, and Lisa still checked over her shoulder everywhere she went. She sighed, determined not to obsess over the past as she drove around the small north-Georgia mountain road toward Ellijay. But this particular stretch of road, barren and practically uninhabited, with acres of woods, always gave her the willies.
Lush green grass, wildflowers, rolling hills and valleys filled with groves of apple trees all swished past, the scenery so picturesque she almost wanted to stop and take a photo. To venture into the woods off the side of the road to pick some flowers.
Yet a sliver of unease raced up her spine as she glanced into the shadowy groves. It was too isolated. The shadows held danger. The trees created a canopy of hidden secrets. The leaves shading the sun painted the forest in darkness.
And another drought had rippled across the South. A water shortage had caused the grass to wilt, the flowers to die, the heat to kill. Just as it had when the Grave Digger had struck.
She sped up, anxious to pass the area and enter the small town, where everyone was friendly. She’d purposely left Atlanta after her ordeal because in every crowd she’d seen a potential attacker. In every dark alley, a psycho waiting to grab her. In every smile from a man, an invitation for trouble.
Would she ever get over her paranoia that someone would attack her again? That becoming involved with a man would end in danger?
William is dead, she reminded herself for the hundredth time that week, as she turned into the day care parking lot. He’s never coming back.
And you have a new life.
Or did she?
How could she really have a life if she continued to be afraid of her own shadow? If she held herself back from friendships, from involving herself in the community because she didn’t want to become a victim again?
No, it had to be this way. She was just trying to survive.
Now, she was safe. She’d changed her last name from Langley to Long. She’d rented a small cabin on top of a rolling hill with apple trees surrounding it. She could see anyone approaching from miles around.
No one in Ellijay knew her true identity, or what had happened to her four years ago.
She intended to keep it that way.
Didn’t want the pitying looks. The curious questions. T
he suspicious eyes wondering if she was crazy. The condemning ones that screamed she was to blame for her own assault. And for those other women’s. If only she’d been smarter, come forward sooner….
Just as her father had thought. Oh, he hadn’t come right out and said it, but she saw it in his eyes. The disappointment. The shock that she was no longer daddy’s perfect little princess. His conviction that she was playing into the victim role.
But she had been fighting it on a daily basis.
She parked, then climbed out of her Toyota. Instantly, heat suffused her, and her feet crunched the dry blades of grass of the lawn. Glancing around quickly, she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man with wavy hair standing on the corner. He was watching her with hooded eyes.
Chilled by the realization, she hurried into the Love ’N Play Day Care, where she’d worked the last four summers. Thanks to Special Agent Brad Booker, who’d helped her relocate, she’d secured a teaching job at the local elementary school, and supplemented her income by working at the day camps in the summer. She waved good morning to the director, Luanne Roaker, who was talking to a parent in her office, and rushed to her classroom to set up for the activities.
Teaching preschoolers wasn’t the career she’d chosen before the attack, and certainly not the career her father wanted for her, but her priorities had changed drastically when she’d been pulled from that grave. Of course, Dr. Liam Langley, prestigious surgeon, didn’t understand that. First he’d wanted her to be the society wife, marry a doctor, serve on the volunteer committees as her mother had done when she was alive. When Lisa had mentioned a career instead, he’d suggested she follow in his footsteps and become a doctor.
When she’d chosen teaching, and relocated, he’d been furious.
But she liked working with the children—they were so innocent.
Just as she’d been once.
Never again.
Since the attack, she’d lost her sense of trust, given up on her dreams of marriage and a family. The kids she taught filled that void. They gave her the love she needed, their innocence a precious commodity, offering her hope that one day she’d be normal.
Free of the nightmares that haunted her.
Thirty minutes later, after she’d greeted each of her students with a hug and given Ruby Bailey, her assistant, instructions for setting up the daily art activity, she gathered the group into a circle for their morning share time.
“Miss Lisa,” four-year-old Jamie said in a low voice. “I had a bad dream last night.”
Lisa patted the little girl’s back, grateful she’d finally opened up to share. For the first three weeks in her class, she’d barely spoken. “Tell us about it, Jamie.”
The other children waved their hands, anxious to speak.
“I had a bad dream wast night, too,” exclaimed Sandy, a towheaded girl who hadn’t learned to say her Ls.
“I have bad dreams all the time,” Louis yelled. “But my mama says they’re not real.”
“They are too real,” Jamie mumbled.
“Mine was about spiders,” Sandy said. “Icky spiders with a miwwion-triwwion wegs.”
“I dreamed about being a princess,” Peggy said.
“I wants to be Spiderman for Halloween,” Davie Putnam said.
“Halloween’s not for a long time,” Billy Lackey shouted.
“Let’s let Jamie finish first, then the rest of us can share,” Lisa said, gently steering them back on track. “Jamie, Louis is right, dreams aren’t real, but sometimes they feel real, don’t they?”
Sandy scrunched her nose. “The spiders felt reawl. Wike they were crawwing on me.”
Lisa squeezed Sandy’s hand. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t like spiders, either.” She turned back to Jamie. “Is that how you felt, Jamie? Like the monster was right there with you?”
Jamie bobbed her head up and down, her lower lip trembling. Sandy scooted over and put her arm around Jamie. “It’s awright.”
Probably a remnant of her own therapy, but Lisa had learned that if she allowed the children to express their anxiety first thing in the morning, their entire day went smoother. “Tell us the rest of the nightmare, Jamie. Sometimes if you talk about your bad dreams, they go away.”
“There was a big ugly monster hiding under my bed.” Jamie’s eyes widened. “He had green hair and black teeth and scales all over his body!”
“Eww.” Several kids shrieked, while Roddy Owens, a big kid with a devilish streak, mocked them.
“Scaredy-cats. Scaredy-cats.”
Lisa lifted a warning hand. “Roddy, we don’t make fun of others for how they feel.”
The voice of the therapist she’d seen after the attack echoed in her head. Emotions aren’t always rational. You simply have to learn to control your reactions.
“What happened next, Jamie?” Lisa asked.
“He grabbed my feet, and he dragged me under the bed.” Jamie wrapped her arms around her waist. “It was so dark. I don’t like the dark.”
Lisa hugged her. “A lot of people are afraid of the dark, honey. Maybe you could ask your parents to get you a night-light. I sleep with one myself.”
“You do?” Jamie said. A few of the children seemed surprised, then others piped in.
“I gots a night-light,” Kelly Ames claimed. “It’s a Cinderella one.”
“I got one shaped like a spaceship,” Ernie Walker squealed. “With sparkly colors on it.”
Lisa relaxed as the children shared, the morning racing by as they broke into groups for play activities. Finger painting was on the agenda for the day, so she tied an apron around her front to protect her clothing. Art was her favorite activity, and although Ruby sometimes complained of the mess, Lisa loved it. The kids could express themselves and their creativity while having fun and learning how to mix colors.
By one o’clock, when the class left for home, she was exhausted, but her spirits were high as she studied the colorful, bright pictures the children had painted. She and Ruby tacked them on the bulletin board.
Ruby laughed good-naturedly. “Wow, we have everything from bugs to barrettes.”
Lisa smiled at Sandy’s rendition of spiders, although Jamie’s interpretation of her monster disturbed her. Could that monster be real? Maybe a parent abusing her?
Or was she overreacting? Letting her own distrust of men make her suspicious?
“Ruby, do you know anything about Jamie’s family?”
Ruby frowned. “Just that her mother died last year.”
That’s right. Lisa remembered the single parent status from her file, although Jamie never spoke of it. “What about her father?”
“He’s a contractor, works long hours, but I hear he’s very loving. He’s a deacon at the church.”
Hmm. Maybe the monster wasn’t her father. Maybe a manifestation of Jamie’s fear of being alone, of losing her mother.
Lisa’s heart squeezed. She’d lost her own mother when she was about Jamie’s age. She’d make it a point to pay extra attention to the little girl.
After all, Jamie was only five. She should have childish fears.
But Lisa should be conquering hers.
* * *
NEARLY A WEEK HAD PASSED since they’d discovered the first victim of the copycat Grave Digger.
A week that had brought them no closer to finding the killer.
A week of thinking about Lisa Langley and wondering if she was all right.
Sure, Brad had the locals check on her. Physically, she was fine.
But was she really healing? Moving on with her life?
From his reports, she seemed to be. So why was he so damn nervous? Why had he been unable to sleep for the past six nights, wondering if she’d heard the news of the Atlanta woman’s abduction and death? If for some reason this new killer would come after her.
He knew for a fact that she didn’t read the paper anymore, that she rarely watched the news. That the least criminal behavior triggered her paranoia, when she was strug
gling so hard to recover.
But what if she had heard and was frightened? Lying in bed wondering why he hadn’t been the one to inform her a copycat had left White’s signature?
Would Lisa call him if she knew?
He’d left his number, told her countless times to phone him if she needed him.
Had hoped that she might so he could hear that soft, sultry voice of hers.
God, you’re sick. As if you’d have something to offer.
You’re Brad Booker, a bastard child. A man who’s seen the most abysmal side of life. A man who’s killed without blinking twice.
A man who should have protected her but let her down.
The clock chimed midnight, the hours ticking by a constant reminder that another victim might be taken any minute. That this case was a chance for him to redeem himself in the eyes of his superiors. He’d been walking a tightrope ever since the White disaster. And this time he had to toe the line. Prove the hard-edged agent was still in control. Methodical. Able to compartmentalize. Stay detached.
Reeling with frustration, he climbed from bed, wiped at the perspiration on his neck and opened the French doors of his cabin, aching for the quiet lull of the lake outside. The heat blasted him, though, insects swarming on the patio, being fried by the insect zapper he’d hung from the railing. He watched them dive toward it, circle the light, be drawn to its brightness. Then he heard the sizzle as they met their death.
Just as he would ruthlessly take down the killer.
As he’d done before.
What would Lisa think if she knew about his past?
He shook off the thoughts. The case was all that mattered.
The first Grave Digger, White, had chosen all brunettes. That is, until Lisa. But Lisa’s abduction had been about revenge. Silencing her for reporting him to the police. Not the same motive as the others.
The first victims had fit the same profile, had all been grad students in their twenties. Brunettes just like White’s mother.
Grave Digger #2 had started with a brunette, too, although she wasn’t a student. She was a professional. Would this new guy deviate even more from the pattern as time progressed?
