by Rita Herron
“Any luck on the wood that he’s building the coffins with?” Rosberg asked.
Officer Gunther shook his head. “No significant orders placed at the hardware stores nearby. We noted two purchases that might be our perp, but both were paid for in cash. I tracked them down, but they didn’t pan out. One man was redoing his deck, the other built a storage shed.”
“How about leads on where he might have bought the necklaces?” Brad asked.
Detective Bentley spoke up. “I found identical ones in two different local mall stores, but no one recalls anything odd about the buyers. A couple were credit card purchases, and I traced those. The first cross was bought by a woman as a gift for her daughter, the second one a father purchased for his teenager.” He paused. “I also found the same crosses on eBay. I’m trying to track them down, but need more time. Several church groups have also ordered the necklaces by the dozens as graduation gifts, and gifts for confirmation services.”
“Jesus.” Rosberg dabbed his handkerchief over his forehead, already sweating.
Ethan jammed his hands in his pockets. “I talked to Chartrese, Curtis Thigs’s wife, but she hasn’t seen him.” He paused. “He’ll turn up at her place sooner or later, though, and we’ll catch him when he does.”
Rosberg glanced at Brad. “Any other suspects?”
Brad cleared his throat. “I’m still trying to track down Vernon Hanks. From everything I found, he disappeared from school four years ago, right after the first Grave Digger victim was kidnapped. He hasn’t resurfaced.”
“Any family?” Rosberg asked.
Brad shrugged. “He has a half sister. I’m going to talk to her later.”
Brad gestured toward Special Agent Slater and said, “You have the floor.”
She nodded, all business. “As you probably know, most serial killers are Caucasian men in their early twenties. Our guy could be a little older, maybe early thirties. He has a past history of violence, was probably abused as a child or bullied. Anyway, he’s intelligent, but he never fit in.” She paused, tapped her pen on the file. “Preliminary reports show that he has copied White’s crimes to a tee, except that he did try to engage in sex with the vics. White was impotent. This guy may be also. Most rape cases are about control. Like White, this copycat definitely wanted to exert power over his victims. White had rage because he couldn’t perform.”
“And this guy?” Rosberg asked.
“The same thing. He tried to have sex with them but failed. Maybe his impotency is a new problem, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.”
“I don’t see how this helps us,” Ethan said in a surly voice.
“Knowing how he ticks, his motivation, may assist you in pinpointing where he’d take his victims.” She paused, consulted her notes, unfazed by Ethan’s attitude. “One other observation we need to consider—this man likes power. He likes to punish. He’s emulating White because he saw White wield that power, and admired him.” She twisted her mouth in thought. “Like I said before, he’s intelligent, meaning he may hold a job where he can exert that control. He could be a doctor with a godlike complex, a judge, maybe even a cop. Either that or he’s tried to attain one of these jobs and failed, probably because of his inability to fit in socially.”
The men in the room rustled uncomfortably. “That’s a pretty broad spectrum,” Ethan said skeptically.
She aimed a wry gaze at Brad’s partner. “Bring me more, and I can tell you more. But one thing is for certain. Mindy Faulkner won’t be his last victim. Now that he’s gotten a taste for killing, he’s likely to escalate. Until Lisa Langley, White chose all brunettes, because his abusive mother was a brunette. We all know he kidnapped Lisa Langley to silence her. Our current perp is not particular to hair color, meaning he hates all women.”
“Great,” Ethan said. “That narrows it down.”
“Like I said, bring me more. Then we’ll see a pattern emerge, or he’ll make a mistake and we’ll catch him.”
Brad spoke up, “We’ll compose profiles on our current suspects. I’ll search the databases for cop-wannabes who flunked,” Rosberg said. “Maybe look at the pre-med programs, too.”
Agent Slater nodded. “Good idea.”
“We have locals searching all areas near railroad tracks or stations,” Brad said. “Especially the abandoned buildings near where we found the two graves.”
“I still think we need to focus on finding a connection between the two victims,” Ethan stated. “Mindy Faulkner worked at the same hospital where White died. That has to mean something.”
“But she wasn’t on duty the night White was brought into the E.R.,” Detective Bentley argued.
“Maybe he didn’t know that,” Ethan said.
“Hey, wasn’t that Langley girl’s father one of the doctors on duty that night?” Rosberg asked. “Didn’t he operate on White?”
“He was on duty,” Brad said. “But an E.R. doctor treated White, not Langley.” That niggling started in Brad’s head again, and he flipped through the pages of notes on Joann Worthy. Operating on a hunch, he made a phone call. Seconds later, he rapped on the table. “I think I found something. Joann Worthy was called for jury duty the same week White’s jury was selected.”
The gaping mouths told him he had been right—this was significant.
“She served on his trial?” Rosberg asked in an incredulous voice. “How the hell did we miss that?”
Brad held up a hand, urging them to listen. “That’s just it, she didn’t. She was excused due to illness.”
A chorus of mumblings echoed around the room.
“Don’t you see?” Brad said. “If someone had access to that jury list, they might not have known that she was excused. They might have thought she helped convict White.”
“Christ.” Rosberg waved a hand. “We need to warn the other jurors.”
“If he wants revenge on everyone who put White in jail, we have to consider the prosecuting attorney, the judge, everyone involved,” Brad added.
“Especially the females,” Agent Slater said. “Remember his rage is directed toward the women who wronged him.”
“I’ll put out the word,” Rosberg declared. “But we have to handle this delicately. We don’t want to cause a panic.”
“Panic—hell, these people have a right to know they’re in danger,” Ethan snapped.
Brad’s gut clenched. And Lisa would definitely be on that list.
In fact, she’d be at the very top.
* * *
THE CURTAINS FLUTTERED, a tiny sliver of sunlight from the window illuminating Lisa’s face as she lay sleeping on her side. Vernon forced his breathing to a shallow, inaudible pitch, although tamping down the heightened adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream was impossible. Her blond hair seemed like white silk streaming across the pillow, her lips like ripe berries. They were parted slightly, looked so soft, supple. Her satin nightshirt had slipped open at the top, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the pale creamy flesh of her breasts, the soft mounds that would swell with his loving caresses, the dusky-rose nipples that would tighten when his mouth closed over them.
He was so near. Only a hairbreadth away from touching her. All he had to do was reach out, let his fingers dance toward her body, and he would feel that satiny smooth skin.
She twisted slightly, rolled to her back, sighed as if she might wake. He took a tentative step backward to hide in the shadows in case she opened her eyes. Instead, she made a whimpering sound, and a frown marred her delicate features. Then she drew her mouth into a pinched line and cried out as if demons were chasing her in her sleep.
He froze, immobile. Breathless. Hurting for her. Knowing he had to wait.
White had taken the slate of innocence that comprised Lisa’s very soul and painted it with ugly tawdry lines. Lines that couldn’t be erased, except over time.
And the fact that he would have the honor of making those black marks disappear had been given to him by God. The words of his maste
r rose from the depths of his soul to remind him of that day.
On the third day, he arose from the dead and sitteth at the right hand of the Father Almighty…Yes, Jesus had saved him.
Like a miracle, Vernon had been given a second chance. A second chance at life. A second chance with the woman he loved. Everything would fall into place in due time.
He simply had to be patient.
Inhaling to fortify his resolve, he moved silently toward the night table beside her bed, then slowly reached out and touched her hair.
He would take it slowly. And one day, when she was ready, she’d realize he could destroy those demons for her forever.
And that she could never escape him.
* * *
SHE WAS IN THAT COFFIN again. Darkness covered her like a thundercloud, only it was blacker, sucking the life from her and tossing her into a cold vacuum of nothingness. Dirt pinged onto her coffin, the sound fading and growing hollow as the mound above her grew, and she sank lower, deeper into the cavernous belly of the ground.
Then there was silence. A long deafening silence that stretched into an eternity. She screamed and clawed at the box, ripping at the wood with her fingernails until blood seeped from her fingers. She pushed and pulled at the top, dug into the edges of the sides, trying desperately to find an opening, but the heavy lid wouldn’t budge. Despair weighed her down just as pounds of dirt weighted down the coffin lid.
Panic seized her, launching her into a dizzying spell of grief, then she collapsed, unconscious. But a few seconds later, she dragged herself from the well of death with a new resolve. She had to get out. Save herself. She couldn’t let William win.
Then she heard footsteps. Someone yelling.
No, the voice was in her dreams. She had floated into the unknown again. Was dying. There was no escape. She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing her father’s face in her mind. She was daddy’s little girl. Her mother’s face drifted into the fog. She was happy, smiling. She and her father were dancing in the yard.
Tears dripped down her father’s cheeks as he placed roses on her grave. One of the church ladies sang, “Just a rose will do.”
What seemed like a lifetime later, cool air brushed her cheeks. Suddenly she was being lifted from her grave. Someone was knocking at the box. Tearing off the lid. Warm hands closed over her body, shaking her. Lifting her. Holding her.
A husky voice pleaded with her not to let go, to come back.
* * *
LISA JERKED AWAKE, sat up and threw aside the suffocating covers. Trembling, she stared into the darkness, a fog of heat swirling around her. Where was she?
It took her several minutes to acclimate herself. She was in Brad Booker’s bedroom. She’d been dreaming about her abduction. Had woken up in a blinding cold sweat, rubbing at her neck where the amethyst had once been. But it was gone forever, just as her mother was. And so was William. Brad had seen his dead body himself.
But another killer had taken his place.
Cool air from the ceiling fan stirred around her, brushing her face, reminding her of the voice against her cheek four years ago. Brad’s voice.
Then the curtains fluttered against the wood frame of the windowsill, and her stomach clenched.
Someone was in the room.
She could smell his presence. Hear the rasp of his uneven breathing he tried so hard to hide.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TERROR MOMENTARILY immobilized Lisa, but in the split second the emotion hit her, she fought back. She refused to let panic trap her.
Last time she’d done that, she’d almost died.
She was stronger this time.
She reached for the phone on the nightstand, praying she could dial 911 before the man attacked. The shadow shifted suddenly; the sound of clothing rustled in the quiet. She closed her fingers around the receiver, rolled sideways and dropped to the floor. But instead of lunging for her, he bolted into the den. The front door screeched open, then slapped shut.
Gasping for air, she searched the shadows as she punched in numbers. Not 911, but Brad’s cell phone. She had to hear his voice.
One ring. Two. She closed her eyes, one ear listening for sounds that the man had returned. A frog croaked in the distance. The dog howled. The wind swished the curtain against the windowsill. The rumbling of a motor sounded somewhere from the road.
Another ring.
“Booker here.” A pause. “Lisa?”
“Brad,” Lisa whispered, “there…there was someone in the cabin.”
“What?” His breath rushed out. “Are you all right? Is he still there?”
“I’m not sure. He ran into the den and I think he went outside.”
Brad cursed. “Lock the bedroom door. I’ll be right there.”
* * *
ANXIETY SQUEEZED the oxygen from Brad’s lungs. He had left Lisa at his place, alone. How had the copycat killer known?
The reality of what could happen to her hit him in the gut as he glanced at the crime scene photos spread on the conference table.
“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked.
“An intruder was just at my place, in the bedroom where Lisa was sleeping.” Brad dialed the Buford cops and ordered a patrol car sent to his cabin, then snapped his phone shut. “I have to go.”
“You think he made a move?” Rosberg asked.
“I don’t know, but get a CSI unit there immediately to dust for fingerprints. If the son of a bitch was in my place, I want to know who he was and how he found Lisa.”
“Maybe he’s been tailing you,” Agent Slater suggested.
Brad jerked his gaze to her, the realization that she might be right leaving an acrid taste in his mouth.
Worse, if someone had tailed him, he hadn’t even noticed.
What kind of agent did that make him? A washed-up failure….
“This could be our break,” Captain Rosberg said.
“Another mistake,” Ethan commented.
Excitement zinged through the room, although Brad’s nerves were too close to the edge to think about the total ramifications. All he knew was that Lisa was in danger, and he had to get to her fast.
Ethan raced behind him as Brad sprinted for the door. Seconds later, he tore through the streets of Atlanta, honking his horn and yelling at everyone in sight to move out of the way. A fender-bender on I-85 sent him into fits, and when he barreled around that, siren wailing, and saw the traffic backed up for miles on Peachtree Parkway, he thought he’d lose his mind.
“Call her back. See if she answers,” Brad barked.
Ethan punched in Brad’s home number, but the phone rang and no one picked up. Brad cursed and checked the clock. Anything could happen. He had a good half hour drive.
“Jesus, if he got to her…” Brad couldn’t finish the sentence.
“She was all right when she called, wasn’t she?” Ethan asked.
Brad swallowed, then took the right shoulder of the freeway, flying past the stalled traffic. “Call the locals, see if they’ve arrived.”
Once again, Ethan nodded and followed instructions, his voice clipped. “A unit is almost there.”
“What’s the damn holdup?” Brad swerved around an SUV covered in Praise Jesus stickers.
“They had a three-car pileup near the lake,” his partner said. “But they’re trying to get a unit to your cabin now.”
“Goddamn locals,” Brad bellowed. “They think a traffic problem is the same as a serial killing.”
“Settle down, buddy,” Ethan said in an even voice. “The traffic accident has fatalities. And we don’t know for sure that the intruder was the serial killer. It is summer. He might just be some drunken partier wandering in from the lake looking for a place to crash.”
Brad shot him a lethal glance. “You don’t believe that and neither do I.”
Ethan grimaced, and Brad gripped the steering wheel tighter, the next few minutes stretching into an eternity. Finally he exited and sped toward the lake. He’d purposely chosen th
e site because it was secluded. Set apart from others, just the way he liked. No nosy neighbors. No one interfering in his business. No one close by to rob him of his privacy.
Another reason he’d thought Lisa would be safe there.
But an isolated cabin also meant that she was alone with no help anywhere in sight. No one to turn to. No one to call. Nowhere to run.
And no safe place to hide.
* * *
CURTIS THIGS HATED hiding out.
But damn it, he didn’t want to be dragged back in to the cops and questioned for murder. No sirree, he’d been that route, served his time, and he was done with it. He’d die before he’d go back in the pen.
The blazing sun beat down on his skin, blistering hot, as if he’d been lit by a torch. Good God, he’d missed the outdoors, the sunshine, but he hadn’t missed this unbearable heat. Chartrese’s apartment might be in the low-rent district, but at least she had some fucking air-conditioning. Not like the shitty oven of a cell where he’d spent the last few years.
He removed a paper clip from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole of Chartrese’s apartment, then jimmied the door open and slipped inside. The smell of her Chanel perfume glided toward him, giving him a hard-on the size of a rock, and he smiled and walked straight to the bedroom. Chartrese was not a morning person. Liked to sleep till noon or later.
He had awakened her like this so many times before. Crawled into her bed and taken her for a ride before she’d barely had time to open her eyes.
Seconds later, he froze, his chest expanding as he watched her snuggle the pillow to her cheek and roll over. She’d dyed her brown hair fire-engine red, but the long daring tresses suited her. Without makeup, in the bright sunlight, she looked almost innocent.
A bark of laughter rumbled in his chest at the thought. He stopped to savor the blast of the air-conditioner for a moment, then inched closer, taking in the scattered clothing on the floor, a black demi-cup bra and lacy panties she’d discarded because she always slept in the buff. The covers rode down, and her 38-D breasts spilled over as she arched and stretched her back.
