by Rita Herron
He swung his head toward her. “No, Lisa…you don’t need to see this.”
Her fingers closed around his wrist. “I’ve lived it before, Brad. I know exactly what to expect.”
He hesitated, but she reached for the door handle. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”
Glad she’d worn sneakers and jeans, she followed behind him as they entered the woods. Ahead she heard voices and saw shadows flutter between the trees. The sound of men giving orders broke the quiet.
When they reached the clearing, Lisa froze, bracing herself for the worst. Brad placed a hand in front of her to prevent her from going any farther, but in the clearing ahead, she saw a mound of freshly turned earth.
Then two policemen lifted a wooden box from the ground.
CHAPTER EIGHT
INSECTS BUZZED and nipped at Brad’s neck and face, feasting on his sweaty skin. He barely noticed. Instead, he raced ahead and began helping the officers pry open the wooden box. Dunbar, the crime scene tech, had quickly photographed the area before they’d lifted the coffin from the ground, and was snapping pictures of the surrounding area. The soft sounds of lake water slapping the bank filled the tension-laden air, the calls of crickets and frogs mingling with the low whine of a motorboat echoing in the distance. The murky gray of nightfall and death loomed ahead, dismal and omnipotent.
Following police orders, Lisa stood in the distance, away from the grave site. Time lapsed into a warped slow motion for Brad that spiraled into what felt like eternity, although in reality, only seconds passed until they tore off the lid.
He held his breath, hoping Mindy would still be alive.
But the second the top was lifted, his hopes disintegrated. Mindy was dead. Even though darkness shrouded the woods, he noted the bruises on her naked body. The insects that sucked at his own flesh had already dug into hers. And a gold cross identical to the one they’d found on Joann Worthy dangled around her neck.
His first instinct was to leave the scene, to close his eyes to the horror, but he was a primary on the task force investigating the crime. Still, he leaned against the tree, had to take a minute to let the dizziness pass.
Inhaling sharply, he balled his hands into fists by his sides, his nails digging into his skin. What kind of sick monster got his pleasure pounding on defenseless women, then leaving a religious symbol as if he had the power to decide who lived and who died? Did he see himself as some kind of God?
White certainly had. And now there was another….
Frustration radiated in waves of heat from Brad’s body. He was so damn tired. And when he caught this one, there would always be another and another and another.
He couldn’t save them all.
He hadn’t realized he’d staggered sideways until he felt Lisa’s hand grip his arm. “I’m so sorry, Brad.”
He swallowed hard at her low whisper, glancing at her but not really seeing anything for a minute. “You shouldn’t be here. She died because she knew me,” he said with a groan. Like an out-of-focus camera distorting images, Lisa’s face swam in front of him, her features blurring and slipping in and out of his vision. He blinked several times, then pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and massaged until the dizziness subsided. But the pain and shock of seeing Mindy brutalized and dead would stay with him forever.
“Jesus, he did a number on her,” Detective Anderson muttered.
“Looks like she died of asphyxiation,” Captain Rosberg said.
“Cut her fingernails just like the first victim,” Detective Anderson added.
“Her name is Mindy,” Brad stated, remembering Liam Langley’s bitter words about using the victim’s name.
“I realize you knew this woman, so take a minute, Booker.” Captain Rosberg slanted him a sympathetic look, unusual for the hard-ass cop.
Surges, the young rookie who’d thrown up the night they’d found Joann Worthy, clutched his stomach, his face turning ashen.
Detective Anderson shook his head. “Surges, for God’s sake, you don’t know the vic. You have to get a grip. Do you want to make it as a cop?”
“Hell, yes, it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Then you can’t go puking every time you see a corpse,” Rosberg barked. “Toughen up, be a man.”
Surges swiped at the sweat droplets on his upper lip and nodded, a determined expression tightening his mouth.
Brad’s own anger kicked in.
Lisa inched closer to him, her breath shaky, and he suddenly pulled himself out of his shock. She looked pale, haunted.
He reached for her. He had to take care of the crime scene and her. “God, Lisa, I shouldn’t have brought you here. Are you all right?”
Anguish darkened her eyes, the shadows of night playing along her face and painting it in heavy gray lines. “I survived, Brad. I’m just…s-sorry she didn’t.”
Brad’s breaths caught in his throat at her selflessness. But Lisa’s hands felt icy-cold. The whites of her eyes were too bright, her pupils dilated. “Let me walk you back to the car. You don’t need to watch the investigation.”
“No.” She gripped his arm. “I’m okay. I want to be here for you.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to discern whether she was simply being brave or if she was really okay, but she squared her shoulders. “Please, Brad. I promise not to get in the way.”
He reluctantly nodded, although her hands still felt like ice cubes and the trembling of her lower lip belied her words. He ached for her, for Mindy…felt like such a failure that he’d let them both down. And he’d never be able to make it up to Mindy.
But Lisa was here, alive, well, and he intended to keep her that way.
“At least sit down. You look exhausted.” Thankful Rosberg had given him a moment’s reprieve, he guided her over to a large rock jutting from the ground, and coaxed her to sit there. In spite of the sultry heat, she was shaking, the warmth not returning to her hands. Afraid she might go into shock, he rushed to the car, returned with a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“If you need anything, just let me know.” He gently brushed the hair from her eyes. “You promise?”
She nodded and caught his hand. He squeezed hers in return, then released it. Seeing Mindy’s dead body, knowing that anyone who associated with him, anyone he got involved with, might be put in danger because of his job, only hardened his resolve to keep his distance from Lisa. She would be safer if she never saw him again.
Resigned, weighed down by guilt, he joined the other detectives at the crime scene. He had to resume authority. For Mindy’s sake, he had to make sure every piece of evidence was collected.
She had died because of him. And he intended to find her killer and make sure he faced the consequences.
Dunbar was studying the body, while other techs combed the wooded area. The rustle of trees and brush made him snap his head around, and Brad grimaced. Wayne Nettleton. The reporter practically dived through the thicket, notepad and camera in hand. Brad scowled. He’d half expected Nettleton to be there when they arrived.
Then again, if he was guilty, maybe he’d purposely waited so he wouldn’t incriminate himself.
Captain Rosberg immediately stepped up, flanked by Detectives Anderson and Bentley. “What are you doing here?” Rosberg asked.
Nettleton’s inexorable gaze traveled over the grave, swung to Brad, then to Lisa. Brad clenched his fists, prepared to keep him away from her.
“The killer called me so I could write the story,” Nettleton muttered.
Brad frowned. Could he possibly have staged a copycat killing in a ruse to get his career back on track?
* * *
THE SIGHT OF Wayne Nettleton snapping photos sent Lisa back mentally and emotionally into a state of frenzy that she had run from and thought she’d escaped.
The scraggly haired reporter with long, gangly legs and arms and a nose too big for his face, had harassed her during William’s trial. He’d painted her as an imbecil
e for not realizing she’d been dating a serial killer, had suggested that she’d deserved to be attacked because she’d worn blinders and let four other women die.
Worse, he seemed to care more about sensationalizing the events of the crimes and the victims’ histories, pointing out each and every indiscretion the women had made, as if they had been victimized because of their own faults, than he did finding the killer.
She had despised the man.
And her father had looked at her as if those allegations were true. Had made her feel as if she’d embarrassed him, the esteemed surgeon, in front of his prestigious friends. Early on, Lisa had learned that embarrassing him before his colleagues was unforgivable.
And she had committed the cardinal sin when she’d gone public with her testimony against William White.
Had her father really expected her to just sit quietly by? The therapist had advised her to testify, had claimed it would help her heal. But facing him on the stand still hadn’t been enough to erase the damage he’d inflicted.
“Nettleton, you don’t belong here,” Brad said in a harsh voice.
The reporter snapped another picture, ignoring him. “You forget that the killer is calling me. He’s doing that for a reason.”
“Just like White did?”
“I’m sure he read the series I wrote on the first Grave Digger.” Nettleton grinned, revealing a row of crooked front teeth, and Lisa shivered, remembering him turning that vacuous smile on her.
Brad sneered, his disdain for Nettleton obvious. “And he’s copying him, so why not call you again?”
“Exactly,” Nettleton said in a smug tone.
“Your career hasn’t fared so well the last four years, has it, Nettleton?” Brad asked.
The man scratched his collar with two fingers. “I’ve had some health issues.”
“And that story you embellished about the mayor didn’t hurt your reputation at the Atlanta Daily?”
Nettleton’s smile turned to sullen insolence, but he recovered quickly, spinning toward Lisa. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Langley. You’ve actually made my job so much easier.”
Brad lurched forward as if he might pounce on Nettleton, but Lisa stood her ground. “I hope I can help find the killer.”
Nettleton’s smile lapsed into a hearty chuckle, the sound eerie, as if it had floated across the lake and boomeranged back. “Ahh, the innocent virginal princess returns to assist the feds in saving more damsels in distress?”
Lisa’s insides churned. “At least I’m sincere in wanting to help. You’re just here to make a name.”
“And you’re going to help me do it,” Nettleton said.
Brad jerked him by the collar. “Unless you have more information to give us, something the killer said that might hint as to his identity, Nettleton, then I want you out of here. This is a crime scene, and I don’t want it compromised.”
“I have every right to be here,” Nettleton argued.
Captain Rosberg strode up beside Brad. “Do you have more information for us, Nettleton?”
The reporter ground his teeth. “Not yet, but I will.”
“What does that mean?” Brad asked.
“When he kills his next victim,” Nettleton said with cocky assurance. “You’ll want me to call you then, won’t you?”
Lisa glared at him, detesting every fiber of his being.
“If you know something and you don’t come forward,” Rosberg said, “you will be charged with accessory to murder.”
“Or murder itself,” Brad interjected, “if you’re responsible for the crimes.”
“Listen to him,” Rosberg said. “In fact, I just learned you visited White in jail.”
Brad’s gaze swung to Rosberg’s. Brad hadn’t heard about Nettleton’s visits, but he wasn’t surprised. Nettleton would do anything for a story.
“I have an alibi for both murders,” Nettleton said.
“Then where were you last night?” Rosberg asked.
Nettleton frowned. “Chasing a lead. And you know good and goddamn well that my sources are confidential.”
“So is this investigation,” Brad said. “Now either leave or these officers will escort you away from the premises in handcuffs.”
Nettleton glared at him, then stormed off in a cloud of anger.
Lisa studied the phantom figures created by the shadows of the pine needles where he disappeared, forcing herself not to look at Mindy Faulkner in the hard wooden box. But she couldn’t shake the memory of being buried underground or the fear that this killer might attack her. Might try to kill her again.
She didn’t know if she’d have the courage to survive a second time.
The medical examiner arrived, followed by a crime scene unit, and Brad filled Dunbar in on the details. The next few hours dragged by in a horrific blur of voices that broke through the parapet she’d constructed to protect her mind from the details.
The wooden box the woman lay in resembled the one that had been her own coffin. As with her, the length and width had been custom designed to fit her body, allowing her no room to maneuver inside. There were claw marks on the inner walls where Mindy had tried to scratch her way out, just as there had been with Lisa. Her fingers had bled, were raw.
The killer must be insane to have committed such vile, inhuman acts. On the other hand, that kind of detail took planning and time as well as foresight, meaning that he was smart, cunning, clever.
And he had not chosen the women at random.
These kidnappings and murders were well-thought-out, premeditated murders. Each victim was chosen for a reason, her casket sculpted specifically for her.
Lisa tried to remember what the criminal profiler had said during William’s trial. White had been severely abused as a child. Had suffered a psychotic break from head trauma when he was a teen. He was a true sociopath.
Evidence revealed White had prior instances of violence when he was a child. He’d tortured animals, had killed his own cat in a sadistic way, cut off body parts, then buried it while it was still alive.
He’d been practicing for adulthood, for more heinous crimes.
A shudder coursed through her, and she tried to drown out the sounds of Brad’s agents and medical examiner as they discussed Mindy’s body and searched the area. The CSI tech took her shoe print, and Brad explained that they had to eliminate hers from the others found at the scene.
The smell of death and blood wafted toward her, along with some rotting vegetation.
She gripped her hands into fists, angry for Mindy Faulkner. Who could have done this to her?
William’s missing brother? Vernon Hanks, the young student who had dogged William?
Or…another possibility entered her mind. Brad had insinuated that Wayne Nettleton might know more than he was telling. He had certainly researched William’s MO, knew every gory, distinctive detail of the past crimes. Was it possible that he’d staged these killings just to do a follow-up story? The idea seemed preposterous, but when she’d looked into Nettleton’s devious eyes earlier, and at the trial, she’d sensed that the man had no morals or scruples.
He had thrived on magnifying the painful details of the attacks—anything to sell a story and build his name. And he had known exactly where to find the bodies.
He hadn’t acted especially surprised to see her, either, simply pleased. It was as if he’d known where she was all along. Or maybe he’d driven her out of hiding with these murders, then followed Brad to her cabin, knowing she would come to the grave site.
Was that part of his sick game—to make her relive the horror all over again?
* * *
NETTLETON STOOD BENEATH the thicket of trees bordering the crime scene, his clothes sticking to him, the hum of mosquitoes buzzing in his ears. But he couldn’t tear himself away. He had to see the body. The reaction of the cops. The expression on Lisa Langley’s face when she mentally revisited the grave.
Elation stole through him at the sight. Agent Booker
was reacting just as he’d expected. He was shaken to hell, mad as a hornet and worried sick about Dr. Langley’s little princess.
The other cops stumbled around, logging details, studying the ground, searching for footprints, their feeble attempts at trying to catch this killer almost comical. The Grave Digger was too smart for them.
In fact, he anticipated the cops’ every move. And he stayed one step ahead of them all the time.
Because he was a master at the game.
Nettleton’s gaze fixed on Lisa Langley as he snapped a photo, remembering her as the little girl who’d been Miss Magnolia when she was a child. The young woman who’d single-handedly survived the first serial killer, who had testified and sent White to jail. The courageous woman who’d stolen the hearts of strangers everywhere with her beautiful blond hair and those stunning blue eyes. Eyes that held sadness and secrets.
The truth about how it felt to be locked inside that box.
She had refused to grant him an interview. Had denied him the right to tell her personal story.
But one day he would get her alone, and she would tell him everything about her emotional journey. Exactly what it felt like when the killer had touched her. How the heat had nearly driven her insane. How the claustrophobia had mounted.
How it had felt to witness the top of that coffin being nailed down, shutting her into the darkness.
And what her final thoughts had been when she’d closed her eyes and given in to death.
He couldn’t wait for that day to arrive….
CHAPTER NINE
BRAD WAS STILL REELING from Nettleton’s comments as he watched the crime scene techs collect samples and search for trace evidence. He’d heard Dunbar was new with CSU, but he was supposedly a stickler for details. If there was any trace evidence to be found, he would find it, and pass it on to the task force via the lab.
Brad tried to suppress thoughts of Mindy and the last time he’d seen her, the night he’d ended their short relationship. Her long hair had been swept up in a French twist, with sparkly clips holding it in place. Silver dangling earrings had dropped to her bare shoulders, her scoop-necked red dress revealing just enough cleavage to tempt him to take her to bed one more time.
