by Rita Herron
The old familiar humiliation crawled back up her spine. When Brad found her, her entire body had been black-and-blue with bruises, her cheeks, nose and lips purple and swollen, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot from lack of sleep and crying, her long blond hair chopped in ragged tufts from where William had sawed it off like a savage.
So ugly.
She jerked her gaze in front of her to keep from covering her face and hiding at the memory. She’d thought she’d cried out all her pain four years ago.
It was amazing how quickly it resurfaced.
They walked along the sidewalk, down the block, the light summer breeze fluttering the trees, whipping her denim skirt around her ankles, and bringing the faint aroma of Brad’s cologne, some masculine woodsy scent that she still remembered from the ambulance ride. She’d been grasping for a lifeline that night, latching on to anything positive to will herself to stay alive. His scent had been one of them.
His low, soothing, husky voice another. The feel of his hands, the third. The connection had been so potent that sometimes in the night when she was alone she swore she could still feel his fingers stroking her palm.
Pots of geraniums, marigolds and impatiens filled the window boxes and planters in front of the stores, adding color, although the normally cheerful signs of summer that usually lightened her moods did nothing to alleviate her anxiety today. In fact, they only reminded her that even when beautiful things flourished, ugly ones might be festering below the surface.
Five minutes later, they scooted into a booth at Daisy’s Diner, the small local hangout, where food and gossip were a daily ritual. They both ordered coffee, although Lisa dumped sweetener in hers, then added a cube of ice to cool it, and cradled her cup in her hands. Anything to stall, to keep her from reaching for Brad and begging him to make this nightmare go away.
Brad’s dark gaze skated over her, relentlessly calm, haunted. “You said you knew why I was here?”
Lisa nodded, unable to look into his eyes, his face, to see the pity. She felt him watching her, studying her as he had through the trial, as if she were a fragile piece of glass that might shatter any second. Wondering if he should call a shrink. Would she be able to hold it together long enough to testify?
The case had all hinged on her. He had been relentless in pushing her for details…details she’d tried so hard to forget.
Lisa shivered. “He’s…he’s back, isn’t he?”
Brad reached out to touch her hand, then pulled away as if he shouldn’t. “No, it’s not William, Lisa,” he said in that gravelly voice that made her wish she wasn’t so weak, that she had the courage to look him in the eye and admit her attraction. “He is dead, just like I told you.”
“Then a copycat killer?” she said quietly.
“I’m afraid so. We found the first victim a few days ago.”
Anger simmered in his voice. Yet the protective tone underlying it also aroused something deep inside her. Something she hadn’t thought about in ages. She had clung to Brad’s promise while William had tormented her. Knowing that he was out there looking for her, that he wouldn’t give up, had kept her alive.
“He’s kidnapped another woman now. Her name is Mindy Faulkner.”
Lisa closed her eyes. Hearing the woman’s name made it more painful. Made her real. How did Brad do his job? “I’m sorry, Brad….”
He reached out again, and this time covered her hand with his own. Lisa tensed, savoring the comfort, the warmth of his skin. He had wide palms, soft but slightly callused. Long fingers, blunt nails. She’d memorized those in the ambulance, as well.
How many times had she lain in bed at night, aching for someone to hold her? Thinking about those hands? His strong arms. Wanting him to touch her. Soothe her. Stir some life back into her endlessly listless body.
If only she’d met him before she’d met William White.
Before he’d tainted her….
Brad cleared his throat, ran a finger over her palm. “I hate to ask you to do this, Lisa, but I need your help.”
She sighed, disappointment mushrooming inside. Had she really hoped he’d come because he wanted to see her?
“How can I help you, Brad? I don’t know this woman or anything about this copycat man.” Not like I did last time.
Guilt flared in his eyes. Damn it, she didn’t want his guilt or pity.
“It’s been four years, Lisa,” he said in a low voice. “Except for the length of time the killer keeps the victims, and the fact that he leaves a cross instead of a rose with each one, this guy is copying the original crimes to a tee. He’s either read the trial transcripts, talked to White or he was a second party to the first crimes. Maybe there’s something you’ve remembered during the last four years that might help us.”
“No…” Lisa shook her head, denial mounting. “There’s nothing more to tell…you know everything. And there wasn’t a second man.”
“You might have repressed his memory. Maybe he was there in the shadows, just watching, or maybe—”
“No.” She fidgeted with the coffee cup, took a sip, pushed it away, disgusted. Maybe she hadn’t remembered everything that had happened. But God, she didn’t want to… And Brad couldn’t ask that of her. He’d seen what White had done to her. The horrid pictures. The brutal details.
“Maybe something about the place he held you,” Brad insisted in an even voice. “White never revealed the location during the interrogation or his prison stay.”
Lisa stared into his cold eyes. How could he do this to her? Ask her to remember. To revisit that evil tunnel of darkness. “I can’t do this, Brad. Please, stop it.”
Suddenly shaking all over, she jumped up and ran outside. Heat suffused her, the sun scalding her as she ran toward the day care parking lot and the safety of her car. Dust flew up from her sandals, and she nearly stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, but she forged on, her stomach heaving as she grabbed the car door, swung it open and collapsed inside.
A minute later, Brad stood beside the car, holding open the door, towering over her. “Listen, Lisa.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as if he was angry, but anguish laced his voice. “This woman…I know her. She…we dated.” His voice dropped a decibel, riddled with fear, more guilt. “I can’t let her die.”
A shudder overtook her. Brad had met someone. Had fallen in love. And like a foolish girl, Lisa had harbored hope that one day he might see her as someone other than a victim.
She chewed on her lip, fighting to steady her breathing. Four years ago, Brad Booker had been her savior. She wouldn’t be alive now if it weren’t for him. How could she possibly turn him down?
Tears blinded her as she righted herself. She trembled, feeling blistering hot and freezing cold at the same time. It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to move on with her life, to try to forget the horrible things William had done to her.
If she traveled down that road again, willing up memories, reliving it, she might not survive a second time….
CHAPTER THREE
BRAD GRIPPED HIS HANDS by his sides as Lisa drove away. He had the sinking feeling that he’d screwed up in some major way. Maybe he had been insensitive. Coldhearted. A bastard.
Even cruel to have come here.
He’d seen Lisa fidget, and remembered her tears over the lost amethyst that her mother had given her. It had been the only thing she’d had left of her, and White had torn it from her just as he’d torn her clothes. Brad would never forget the day Lisa had told him. Her mother had given her the ring on her fourth birthday, and explained that amethyst had been worn by royalty in the fifteenth century and was supposed to control evil.
But the amethyst, made into a necklace, certainly hadn’t done its job with White.
All day Brad’s imagination had pummeled him with horrid images of what Mindy was enduring. He’d had to ask for Lisa’s help. Details from Lisa’s trial, the inhumane treatment, then Joann Worthy’s bruised face passed through his mind. He leaned against the car
, heat beating down on his back.
The ritualistic behavior of other serial killers compounded his worries. Sometimes they changed MOs. Their depravity escalated. Who knew what this new guy was capable of? If he’d only gotten started…
Mindy was a nice woman, a nurse with a bright smile and kind heart. She helped others selflessly, had tried to be the woman he desired.
But Brad hadn’t had his head in the game.
Because another woman occupied his mind.
Now the case dominated his mind. Not Lisa Langley in particular, he told himself. He’d simply found a soft spot for a victim. Had felt guilty over his part in not preventing the abduction.
And hell, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d imagined holding her, kissing her, taking her beneath the sheets and proving to her that every man wasn’t a sadistic animal. He’d fantasized about making slow, easy love to her until he put a smile on her face that would wipe out the sorrow White had left there.
But that meant nothing. A sexual attraction, that’s all it was. No emotional attachments.
Brad Booker didn’t need anyone. Didn’t want to get involved. Couldn’t allow himself to.
He brushed at the dust coating his slacks, climbed in his sedan and cranked the engine, grateful for the blast of the air conditioner. An old-timer stopped by his pickup truck and studied him, his wife shifting a foam container of leftovers in her hands as she, too, peered at him. The diner probably served as a boiling pot for gossip. Brad supposed they didn’t see too many strangers in town. They were automatically suspicious.
Had they overheard his conversation with Lisa in the diner? Were they Lisa’s friends, trying to protect her?
If so, he should be happy she’d found solace in these north Georgia mountains. Friends in the small town.
And one day she might find a lover.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the stab of unease at the idea as he debated over what to do. Drive back to Atlanta? Spend the night?
What good would staying do?
He had work to do to find Mindy. And Lisa knew how to contact him.
But she obviously thought he was a bastard. And he had been. Otherwise, Mindy might not be in danger.
And Lisa wouldn’t have run from him as if he was the devil himself.
* * *
LISA WANTED TO RUN AWAY.
Again.
She clenched the steering wheel with a steel grip and guided the car through town toward her cabin, trying to plan a route of escape. But where would she go this time? And how far would she have to run to escape the demons? Would she need to change her name again? Get a different type of job?
The bitter memories of the days and nights of her captivity rolled through her head. Day one—the blindfold. The tauntings. The darkness. The unbearable heat. The stench of blood and decay. Day two—his evil touch. The beating. The sick mind games. The constant fear pressing in her belly. Day three—the box beneath his bed. The sounds of his breathing. The claustrophobia. The hints of what he wanted….
Day four—the hunger. The dry, parched throat from pleading with him for water. The dreams of dying just to escape.
Gasping for air, she hit the power button to roll down her window and gripped her stomach, fighting nausea. A breeze rushed in, hot air filling the car. Dark clouds floated across the sky, obliterating the sun, but the weather forecast had predicted no rain. Yet the green-tipped mountaintops rose in front of her, the open pastures and farmland offering a sanctuary. Cows grazed in the fields, lazily gathering around a watering hole. A farmer in overalls was riding his tractor. An elderly woman in a bonnet stood with a hoe, examining her vegetable garden, a plump yellow squash in one hand. So picturesque. Safe. A perfect place to grow old and raise a family.
She thought she’d escaped the ugliness when she’d moved here. But in a heartbeat, one quick flash of time, Brad Booker had brought it all back.
She hated him for it.
Yet she ached to turn the car around and seek solace in his arms.
Blinking to clear the tears and regain control, she forced herself to concentrate on the beauty surrounding her. In the fall, when the apple trees were heavily laden, their fruits spilling to the ground, she gathered the Granny Smith apples and baked dozens of pies. Last year, she’d canned and frozen at least a bushel, had made homemade applesauce, apple butter and jelly. She’d savored the tart tastes, the miracles of nature.
How could that nature include humans so depraved that they fed on the weaker at heart?
Humans like William. And now this latest sick man.
How did Brad Booker continue to do his job without the atrocities of it eating at his soul?
She was still shaking when she sped up the driveway to her cabin, the serenity she normally experienced at the sight of her log home lost in the emotions warring within her.
Brad had suffered the atrocities—she’d seen it in his eyes. Heard it in his voice.
And there were the recriminations.
He was blaming himself now for this woman’s disappearance. As she’d once suspected he might have blamed himself for her abduction.
But it hadn’t been his fault. Just as it wasn’t this time.
Brad was the good guy.
William had been psychotic. And she had been a fool for not believing Brad the first time he’d hinted that her old boyfriend was trouble.
Her emotions in a tailspin, she glanced down the valley at the cabin where the stranger had just moved in. He’d been lurking outside her place this morning. Who was he really? What did she know about him?
Panicking, she threw open the car door and bolted up the graveled drive toward the house. Warm sunshine splintered through the dark clouds, the afternoon heat engulfing her as she opened the door and slipped inside. She slammed the door and locked it, then leaned against the wooden frame, trembling. She was safe. No one had followed her. She could hide out here forever.
The quiet seemed eerie around her.
Then the truth assaulted her. She’d chosen this cabin because it was at the top of the hill, away from strangers, from the town, so no one would bother her. Yet the location had isolated her from others to the point of preventing her from making friends.
Because she had wanted it that way.
The kitchen cupboard in the corner, filled with dozens of jars of apple butter and jelly she’d canned, mocked her. Dozens of jars—but she lived alone. All alone.
She had no one to share them with. Wouldn’t allow anyone close enough to even consider offering a dinner invitation.
She dropped onto the sofa and heaved for air, the realization that she’d locked herself away in a self-imposed prison filtering through the haze. William had taken everything from her the day he’d kidnapped her. Had stolen her innocence. Her trust in men. Her dreams of the future.
She glanced around at the bookcase, the sofa table. Empty. Only a few pictures of family. No boyfriend. No hopes of ever having one.
Only a framed photograph of her mother, and a picture of her father, sat on the table, one she’d clipped from the newspaper. He looked austere. Imposing. But he’d actually smiled, obviously primed because the article declared him a brilliant surgeon.
He never smiled at her now. Since the trial, she was no longer daddy’s little girl. Although they occasionally spoke on the phone, conversations remained brief to prevent any tracing so she could remain hidden. Of course, they had argued long before William had entered her life. Her father’s goals for her had been different from her own. He wanted her to be a social star, she wanted none of the limelight.
And she’d hated it even more when all the publicity about the trial had focused on her.
Sure, she’d told herself she was healing.
But this morning’s headlines, seeing Brad Booker again, knowing another woman was suffering as she had—the fear, the paranoia, the anger all came crashing back.
How could she say that she was happy here when she refused to open the door
to a neighbor? When the least little shadow or sound sent her skittering into near cardiac arrest?
When she would choose to run and hide rather than help another woman escape the horrors she had experienced? What kind of coward was she?
And how much more was she going to allow William to take from her?
* * *
BRAD KILLED THE ENGINE. Although he needed to work the case, he wasn’t quite ready to head back to Atlanta. He phoned Ethan for an update, but they were still chasing leads. They desperately needed to find out where the killer had taken Mindy.
Had Lisa remembered something that might help?
How do you know this guy is using the same place to hide his victims? He could be anywhere.
His stomach growled, adding to his irritation. He might as well grab something to eat before he faced the two-hour drive. The waitress glared at him as he entered the café, as if she’d seen Lisa running out, and wondered what he’d done to her. Great. Now everyone in Ellijay would probably think he was a bad guy.
Hell, who was he kidding? They’d be right. He’d just thrown Lisa back into her nightmarish past.
Besides, he couldn’t show the locals his credentials without revealing Lisa’s identity, something he’d sworn not to do.
The diner was rustic, with knotty pine walls and plank flooring. Photographs of antique cars and local scenery hung along one wall, and a collection of antique farming tools filled a case in the corner. Checkered tablecloths and fresh daisies on each table gave the restaurant a homey feel, the smells of homemade vegetable soup and pies wafting through the air.
He ordered a bowl of Brunswick stew and a glass of sweet iced tea, his gaze automatically scrutinizing each patron. Mostly old-timers. Three women wearing outdated Sunday dresses gathered at a round table eating coconut cream pie and sipping coffee. Two farmers conversed over the blue plate lunch special—meat loaf, green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy. A handful of teenagers stuffed into a booth laughed over their milkshakes and burgers. A real southern small town.
