In a Heartbeat

by Rita Herron

  Ethan frowned at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked. “I’m going after Lisa.”

  Ethan gestured toward the bandages across Brad’s shoulder and chest. “You’re not in any shape to hunt down a killer.”

  Langley cleared his throat. “He’s right, Booker. As a doctor—”

  “Consider yourself and the hospital free of any responsibility.” Brad gripped Ethan by the collar. “Listen, Langley thinks this lunatic is Dunbar. And I’m not lying in bed while Lisa’s suffering.”

  Ethan glared at him. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll get a team on it.”

  Brad heaved himself to a standing position and tucked the shirt into his pants. “I promised Lisa I’d protect her, and I’m not breaking that promise. Now, you drive, and Dr. Langley and I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  Brad started walking, swayed slightly, then hesitated and started again, refusing Langley’s assistance. Five minutes later, they settled in the car.

  “Now, what?” Ethan asked.

  “Radio in and find out where Dunbar lives.”

  “The CSI guy?” Ethan asked.

  “Yeah. And get a search warrant.” Brad explained Langley’s theory, omitting the part about him falsifying White’s donor forms. Langley cleared his throat, obviously willing to come clean, but Brad shook his head, cutting him off. They’d deal with that indiscretion later. He didn’t want any issues muddying the case.

  Ethan cranked up the air conditioner while they waited on the dispatch officer to give him the address. Perspiration coated Brad’s face and arms, and his hands trembled, the pain in his chest like a knife blade twisting inside his body.

  “Do you need something for the pain?” Langley asked. “I can give you—”

  “No.” Medication would only slow him down. It sure as hell wouldn’t do him any good now or cure what really hurt him.

  Only finding Lisa alive could do that.

  “He lives near Lake Lanier,” Ethan said.

  Shit. Not too far from his own house.

  No wonder the killer had been able to sneak into the woods by the lake to bury the bodies. He could have hauled the boxes over in a boat. Another reason they hadn’t found tire tracks.

  Ethan flipped on the siren, spun onto I-285, then sped toward Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. Ten minutes later, he maneuvered through traffic, taking the right shoulder when necessary. It still took fifteen more minutes before they’d reached the turnoff for the road that led to the lake.

  Dark clouds obliterated any remaining light and threatened rain, although the drought continued. Brad tried to banish thoughts of how hot it would be in that box. Langley clenched the back of Brad’s seat in a white-knuckled grip, his breathing labored as they bumped over the ruts in the dirt road.

  Brad had prayed only once in his life. Now he was making it twice—both times, that they would find Lisa alive.

  Ethan screeched to a stop, and all three men jumped out. Ethan unholstered his gun, then reached inside his pant leg, removed a smaller pistol and handed it to Brad. Brad nodded in thanks, then gestured for Langley to get behind them as they darted toward the house.

  Moving together with practiced ease, he and Ethan ducked down low, then slipped up to the side windows. The lights were off. The house seemed unusually quiet. Eerie.

  Damn it. No! It hadn’t been three days yet.

  The man couldn’t have already taken Lisa to her grave….

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SECONDS LATER, Brad and Ethan stormed Dunbar’s house. Another team was supposed to search Surges’s place. A worn plaid couch and chair faced a big-screen TV, while newspapers littered an oak coffee table. An empty scotch bottle lay overturned on the floor next to a pair of dusty boots.

  Brad paused and listened for sounds. Nothing.

  Ethan ducked to the left, into the tiny kitchen, and Brad veered to the right to check the bedroom. It was empty.

  “Kitchen’s clean,” Ethan said behind him.

  Disappointment bolted through Brad. Lisa wasn’t here, and neither was Dunbar.

  Langley was supposed to be waiting outside, but he rushed into the room, pale and shaking. “Did you find her?”

  “No.” Brad glanced at the unmade bed, the tangle of sheets, the discarded jeans and T-shirts lying in a pile on the floor, and grimaced. Details of what the Grave Digger did to his victims before he killed them raced through his mind.

  “I’ll search the kitchen again,” Ethan said, jerking him from the thoughts. “See if there’s anything there to tell us where he might have gone.”

  Brad did the same in the bedroom, first checking the desk drawer, then the closet. In the back, tucked inside a shoe box, he found four bags holding nail clippings.

  Four. Joann Worthy. Mindy Faulkner. Darcy Mae Richards.

  Lisa.

  God. He grabbed the wall for support, nausea building. Dunbar was their man. And he’d been right under their noses. Brad should have seen it sooner. The man was cool, unemotional, had the expertise to cover the crimes.

  “Booker?”

  “Evidence,” he said without elaborating. “You were right, it’s Dunbar.” No reason for Langley to know that the sicko had already clipped her nails.

  What else had he done to her?

  Trembling, he scrounged through the closet again, but found nothing. Remembering that White had kept Lisa in the box beneath his bed for the first few days, he dropped to his knees and looked under it, hoping she was there.

  There was no box. But there were track marks where Dunbar had dragged a long, rectangular-shaped object across the faded carpet.

  “I should have put it together sooner,” Langley said. “Sometimes with the surgery, patients go into depression. Some men are even afraid of sex, afraid they’ll have a heart attack. Sometimes the medication affects them. Makes them impotent.”

  Brad grimaced. He’d tried not to believe all the crap about genetics making a killer, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Langley paced the bedroom, a chalky pallor to his skin. “Where the hell is he keeping her?”

  Brad strode to the front of the house to find his partner. “Call Rosberg. Tell him to organize several teams to search the areas near where the other victims were buried. And get some dogs here to see if they can trace Dunbar’s scent or Lisa’s.”

  Ethan nodded, then gestured behind him. “I found his workroom.”

  Brad opened the door to the attached garage and grimaced. There was enough wood there to build several more coffins.

  * * *

  THE MOTION OF THE VEHICLE rocked Lisa back and forth, back and forth, making her already rumbling stomach queasy. She fought not to throw up, knowing she couldn’t lose more water. Suffocating heat enveloped her, robbing her of air, and the smell of gasoline rose to add to the nasty scent of her own sweaty, naked body.

  He was driving her to her burial spot. But where was it?

  And how would Brad find her?

  Brad… If only she knew he’d survived the gunshot wound. That he had talked to Gioni….

  The reality that he might not have survived yanked at her frayed nerves. Blinding terror over her own destiny dredged up the horror she’d tried so hard to forget the past four years. She had to tap into the man’s conscience.

  William didn’t have one.

  But she sensed this man did. That he was conflicted about what he was doing. That he thought he had no power to stop it.

  Maybe she could convince him that if William lived inside him, he could fight him and win.

  Her thoughts raced, images of the other three women being pulled from the grave playing on her mind.

  Forget them. Don’t think about it or it’ll paralyze you.

  Yes, she had to focus on the sounds around her. Maybe then she could figure out where he was taking her.

  But what then? How would her location help her if she couldn’t escape this damn box?


  The car hit a bump, the gears grinding. She froze and listened as gravel spewed and pinged off the sides of the vehicle. Bells clamored and he slowed, braked, then sat waiting. For what?

  The shrill of a train whistle echoed in the distance, and she realized he had stopped at the tracks. She closed her eyes, hating the darkness, and tried to discern if the train was a freight train or a passenger one. Probably freight. They were definitely driving in the country; she could tell that from the winding, bumpy roads.

  Finally, the train rolled past, the metal bars screeched upward and he gunned the engine, bouncing over the tracks. Then he made a sharp turn to the right, and Lisa’s breath caught as memory dawned. William had made a sharp turn four years ago after crossing the railroad tracks.

  This man must be taking her to the same place where White had left her.

  * * *

  BRAD, ETHAN AND LANGLEY met the rest of the task force members, along with a group of local officers, detectives and rangers who’d come forward to help with the search. Rosberg had argued with Brad, but Brad refused to leave.

  Ethan organized them into groups, assigning maps and various segments of the area for the teams to focus upon. Choppers had also been called in to help expedite the search. Everyone was armed with water, emergency supplies, flashlights and phones, and a team of dogs led by a specialist was combing the area along the lake on foot. But if Dunbar had used a boat, the dogs might not be able to locate and track his scent.

  And if Dunbar had buried her, what time had he done so? How much oxygen would she have? How much heat could she stand without water?

  His shoulder pinched, the stitches pulling, the incessant throbbing in his chest gnawing at his endurance as he and Langley combed the woods nearest Brad’s cabin. If the psycho wanted to torture Brad, why not do it as close to his place as possible? An in-your-face move?

  Brad was counting on that.

  Having come up empty, they met to regroup. Exhausted faces and strained looks were all they had to show for their work.

  “She’s not here,” Ethan said. “We’ve searched every inch of the lake property within a fifteen-mile radius.”

  “She has to be,” Brad said, refusing to give up.

  Langley leaned against a tree, his face haggard. “I can’t believe this is happening a second time. God, why?”

  “The dogs didn’t come up with anything?” Brad asked.

  Officer Gunther shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We picked up other scents, presumably of the first three victims, but not Lisa Langley’s.”

  “Maybe Dunbar didn’t bring her here at all,” Ethan said.

  Brad’s mind raced. “Then where did he take her?” He glanced at Langley and saw the ill expression on his face. The search had been tense, Langley’s guilt palpable. Brad still didn’t know whether or not he believed the doctor’s theory. Neither had he decided what to do about Langley’s unethical conduct.

  Nothing mattered but finding Lisa.

  Then it hit him. They’d assumed the Grave Digger would bury her near the other victims. But maybe not…“If he’s thinking like White…”

  “What?” Langley croaked.

  “Then he might have taken Lisa to the same place White did. Death Valley.”

  * * *

  LISA CRAVED THE LIGHT. Light and water. And air. But it was becoming harder and harder to breathe. She could almost feel her heart slowing down. The energy it took to pump blood through her system was waning. Her body felt scorched, on fire, dry as if flames had fried the skin, as if the fire had settled in to eat away the next layer, then the next.

  Soon her body would just shut down and die.

  A tremor rocked through her at the thought.

  The truck gears ground and the vehicle slowed to a crawl, then stopped. A sob of relief mingled with panic tugged at her nerves. Stopping meant they had reached their destination. That soon it would be over.

  That time was almost up.

  She closed her eyes and prayed to lapse into unconsciousness before he put her underground this time. She didn’t think she could stand the sound of dirt and rocks pinging off the box again. Of imagining herself sinking deeper and deeper underground as the mound of dirt grew higher.

  The sound of a car door opening cut through the night. The box scraped the bottom of the vehicle bed, then she felt jarred as he hoisted it down. Brush snapped and broke beneath the weight as he dragged it across the ground. Her head slammed against the wooden top, her sore body bouncing inside. She clawed the side, grappling for control, but it seemed like an eternity before he stopped again.

  A sob welled in her throat and came out, a screeching, tortured sound like that of a sick animal. He jiggled the top. He was opening the box.

  She had to fight and get out.

  The top lifted slightly, cool air brushed her skin, and she dragged in a breath, almost choking with relief. Limbs and leaves cast shadows all around her, and the eerie outline of his hand holding a gun was silhouetted in the faint glow of moonlight shimmering through the trees. Then he dangled a gold cross in front of her, swinging it back and forth in the murky night. His final preparations. The necklace. Then he’d chop off her hair. And it would be over.

  “You have to wear the cross while we make love. Then to your grave,” he said in a voice that sounded faraway. Detached. As if it didn’t belong to the man in front of her.

  She summoned every ounce of strength she had, thrust her body upward and tore at his face. Her broken nails contacted his eyes and she jabbed hard, punching with all her might. He bellowed, dropped the weapon and swung his fists at her, but she pushed his chest so hard he fell backward. His hands covered his eyes for a minute, his cry wild, and she threw herself out of the box and into the dirt. She scrambled for a tree limb, anything to help her stand, but she was so weak her knees buckled. He lunged for her, and she crawled on her hands and knees, grabbed rocks, dirt, leaves—anything she could find—and threw it at his face. He coughed and sputtered, fighting to see, blocking the debris with his splayed fingers, and cursing madly. She pushed up and finally stood, swaying and wobbling as she ran through the woods.

  He caught her seconds later, slapped her so hard she slammed against a tree. Her bare back stung as the bark scraped her, and the jolt sent a bolt of pain through her lungs. But she fought back. Brought her knee up and connected with his groin. Reached for a stick and swung it at his face, poking at his eyes as if she was jabbing at a fire.

  “Lisa! Goddamn it, stop fighting!” He lunged again, shouting, cursing and spitting her name.

  She rammed the stick at his chest, gasping for air as he wailed and staggered back. Taking advantage of that second, she turned and ran again. She needed to reach the car, but he was blocking the way, so she ran into the bowels of the forest, stumbling and tripping, grabbing at trees and bushes and weeds to steady herself. Her foot hit a huge rock, and she tripped and went rolling downhill. Down. Down. Down to the bottom of Death Valley.

  Her head slammed against a boulder, and she tasted blood and dirt. Still, she tried to scramble up. She had to keep going. Get away. Save herself.

  Seconds later, she screamed as he gripped her hair, yanked her head backward and dragged her toward the grave.

  * * *

  SIRENS BLARED through the night, car lights flashing, as Ethan managed to reach “Death Valley” in record time. Langley had kept his head bowed in his hands the entire ride, muttering mindlessly.

  Brad prayed and held his chest, because the pain had begun to explode, ripping down his arms and sides, splintering up toward his head so that he had to grip it once or twice and inhale sharply to keep from passing out.

  Ethan screeched to a stop. The other officers from the search team were following at a distance, but Brad, Ethan and Langley didn’t wait. They jumped out, Brad a little unsteadily, but he managed to find the ground with his feet and hold on for dear life.

  Lisa’s. Not his own. As long as he saved her, he didn’t care what happened to h
im. Let death claim him if it wanted him that badly.

  The men ran through the trees, Brad leading as he remembered the trail that led to the part of the valley where they’d found Lisa the first time. The woods were thick with brush and briars, buzzing insects, sweltering heat.

  Then a sound splintered the night.

  “No!”

  Lisa. She was screaming.

  She was alive.

  “That way!” Brad pointed toward a thicket of pines and darted toward it, picking up his pace although blood seeped from his chest wound and his head swam. Ethan followed, with Langley trailing them, their breath rattling out as they raced toward the clearing.

  “No! Help! Somebody please help me!”

  Brad gritted his teeth, wielding the gun as he burst through the clearing. Dunbar had Lisa by the hair and was shoving her into a hole in the ground. She was naked and fighting, clawing wildly at his arms.

  “Hold it! FBI!” Ethan yelled.

  Brad didn’t wait. The sight of Dunbar hurting Lisa sent him rocketing toward the man. He pounced on his back and tore him away from her, pressing the gun to his temple. “Move and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Langley ran toward his daughter, quickly covering her with his jacket. Brad glanced sideways to see if she was okay, but Dunbar took advantage, swung his arm up and knocked the gun to the ground. The two men rolled in the dirt, trading punches and blows while Ethan circled with his gun drawn, looking for a chance to fire.

  Brad slammed his fist into Dunbar’s head, then his face, blood spurting as he pummeled him over and over. Dunbar fought back, but adrenaline surged through Brad, and he jerked Dunbar up by the neck, then slammed his head against a rock. The man’s skull cracked and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Brad slammed him again, but Ethan grabbed his arm. “He’s out, man. Let’s call it in.”

  Brad ignored him, but his partner dragged him off. “See about the girl.”

  Ethan’s words registered, and he shoved away from Dunbar’s limp body, grabbed his gun, then staggered toward Lisa. His chest was bleeding heavily, but he didn’t care. Ethan unpocketed his cell phone to tell the others their location, and to call for an ambulance.