by Rita Herron
“Yeah, he gets hot thinking about them.”
Claire sensed she was close to the truth. Just a little push and Richie would spill all. But it could be dangerous.
“Is he killing them, Richie? Just like you killed your mother?”
He paced across the room toward her, and Claire tensed.
“Is Richard killing those women on the beach like you killed your mother?”
Suddenly, he bellowed and vaulted toward her. Claire lurched backward, but he caught her and wrapped his hands around her throat. “Shut up, you’re gonna get us in trouble!”
“Richie, stop it!” She grabbed his hands and struggled to pull free, but he tightened his fingers around her neck and squeezed harder.
“They deserve it,” he cried. “Every one of them. She killed my sister and buried her in the backyard. Now they have to pay.”
Claire cried out, reached for her panic button, but she was disoriented and missed. He dug his nails into her throat so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Her legs buckled as she tried to scream….
Chapter Fourteen
Mark was frustrated. His visit with the head of the support group had offered nothing but a dead end. Apparently Al Hogan had dropped out of the group shortly after Claire had, and none of the other members remembered much about him.
As soon as he entered Claire’s outer office, he heard her cry. Claire’s secretary glanced at him in panic.
“Call security!”
She grabbed the phone, and he removed his Glock, then flung open the door, his heart stopping at the sight of Richard Wheaton choking Claire. She swayed, clawing at his hands.
Mark aimed his gun. “Let her go, Wheaton.”
The man jerked his head around, then shoved Claire in front of him. “Get out of my way. She deserves to die.”
“No, she’s your doctor. She’s trying to help you.”
“She’s just like the others. She wants Richard to go to jail, but I can’t let that happen.”
“Look, no one’s going to jail right now. I’m putting my gun down. Let’s talk.”
Wheaton’s eyes flashed with distrust as he contemplated his next move. But his hands loosened slightly, and Claire coughed, gasping for air.
“Now, let her go. You don’t want to hurt Dr. Kos.”
Wheaton staggered slightly, an almost gurgling sound erupting from his throat. “She can’t tell them what Richie does. She’s not supposed to tell.”
“I…won’t,” Claire whispered.
“I don’t believe you. You want Richie in jail for killing those women. He goes to the beach. He makes them pay.” The man turned a crazed look on Claire, wringing his hands into her neck, and Mark lunged forward, karate-chopped his right arm so hard Wheaton buckled and dropped his grip. Mark knocked him against the wall.
Two security guards raced in. “Throw me some cuffs.”
Claire was trying to stand, gasping for air and clutchin a nearby chair.
The guards secured Wheaton, and Mark rushed to help Claire. She clung to his arms as he helped her upright.
“Don’t hurt him,” Claire whispered in a shaky voice.
“Are you all right?” Mark tilted her head back, examining the red-rimmed bruises on her neck. He glared at Wheaton. “You’ll be sorry you touched her, Wheaton.”
“Mark…” Claire gripped his arm. “He’s ill. It’s not his fault.”
“He tried to kill you, and he murdered three other women. If it’s not his fault, then who the hell is it?”
“His parents,” she said in a shaky voice. “They abused him.”
“And he turned that abuse into violence against others,” Mark said. “That may be the reason, but it doesn’t excuse murder. And it certainly won’t bring back the victims.”
THE NEXT COUPLE of hours went by in a haze for Claire. Detectives Black and Fox arrived along with Dr. Ferguson, and she gave her statement. Wheaton had been taken into custody. Claire had promised Richard she would visit him later, and vowed to follow up and make certain he received the necessary medical and psychiatric treatment.
“He’s suffering from dissociative identity disorder,” she explained to Detective Black. “It’s rare, but occurs when a child endures prolonged childhood abuse and/or trauma.” She hesitated, protective feelings emerging. “I’d say watching your mother kill your father could be pretty traumatic. I also suspect she may have killed his little sister and buried her in the backyard.”
Black arched a brow. “We’ll check out the sister. The police suspected he killed his mother, but they never found proof.”
“He’s a very disturbed man,” Claire said. “He belongs in a psychiatric ward, not a prison.”
“If I’d known he was dangerous,” Dr. Ferguson said, “you wouldn’t have consulted with him alone, Claire.”
“We’ll let the judge decide what to do with him,” Black said.
“At least he’ll be off the streets so he can’t hurt anyone else,” Mark added. “That’s what’s important.”
Claire stiffened when he tried to touch her. She still felt violated by Mark prying into her personal files. There was so much history and pain between them.
Besides, Dr. Ferguson’s comments had irritated her as well. He wouldn’t have spoken to a male colleague in that tone or implied he needed a bodyguard with a patient.
“I’m going with the detectives. I want to be present when he’s interrogated,” Mark said. “But I’ll drop you off first, Claire.”
“Security will drive her,” Dr. Ferguson said. “I’d do it myself, Claire, but I have a patient in a few minutes.”
“Th’s not necessary. I’ll give her a ride.” Kurt Lassiter’s voice echoed from the doorway as he rushed to Claire’s side. “Good God, Claire, I heard about Wheaton. I’m so sorry.”
Claire nodded, twining her hands in her lap as he knelt beside her. She wasn’t accustomed to having men hover around her. And now she had three who seemed to be fighting for her attention. “I’m fine, but I feel so bad for Richard.”
“Don’t, Claire,” Mark said.
Claire’s head snapped up. Don’t feel bad for him or don’t go with Kurt?
She bit her tongue to stifle a reply. She did feel badly for Richard; she felt as if she’d failed him, just as she’d failed those women, and Mark.
“Claire, call me if you need anything,” Dr. Ferguson offered.
“Thanks.”
“Come on, Claire, we can talk while I drive you home,” Kurt said. “That is, assuming you’re finished, Detectives?”
“We are for now,” Detective Black said.
“We’re not,” Mark answered.
Claire heard the undertones in his voice, but the idea of him sneaking around and asking about her condition still disturbed her. She didn’t want Mark’s pity or a love based on guilt or responsibility.
“If you need me, I’ll be at home,” she said. “I have to discuss Richard’s treatment with Kurt so I’ll ride with him.”
Kurt’s smooth hand slid over hers, and Claire forced herself not to tense. Mark didn’t bother to reply. She heard his clipped heels as he strode out the door.
But she held her chin high as she left the office. She had survived the past year without Mark. She could do it once more. She only wished she hadn’t given her heart to him. Because this time he would take it with him when he left.
And she would never love again.
CLAIRE WAS completely shutting him out of her life. The fact that she was leaving with Kurt Lassiter intensified Mark’s emotions.
She could not go from his bed to another man’s.
Not his Claire.
She’s not your Claire. You deserted her when she needed you the most.
How could she ever forgive him for that? How could he ever forgive himself?
He followed Detectives Black and Fox to the precinct where he met up with Agent Devlin.
“He confessed?” Devlin asked.
“In a roundabout way,” Detective Bl
ack said. “We’ve put him in an interrogation room.”
“We’re getting a search warrant for his place to look for corroborating evidence,” Detective Fox added
“I’d like to be there,” Devlin said. “We need to search for trophies, see if he kept something from the victims.”
Fox nodded. “We’ll start the questioning.”
Black and Fox both entered the interrogation room while Devlin and Mark watched through the two-way mirror. Mark was shocked at the change in Wheaton’s demeanor. The angry man who’d shouted obscenities and attacked Claire had disappeared. Instead of fighting and yelling, Wheaton had withdrawn into a shell. He sat in the chair with his knees drawn up to his chin, wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked himself back and forth.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered in a childlike voice. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“What kind of game is he playing?” Devlin asked.
“He’s mentally ill,” Mark said. “Claire said he’s suffering from dissociative identity disorder. Split personalities.”
“Dammit,” Devlin snarled. “We may never get a solid confession out of him.”
“True,” Mark said. “But maybe we’ll find evidence at his place to incriminate him.” He had to be the killer. So far, all the other employees at CIRP, right down to the repairmen, had checked out or had alibis.
“Let’s hope so,” Devlin said. “Otherwise, we’re going to need Claire to come back in to question him—”
“We’re leaving Claire out of it from now on. She’s been through enough.”
Devlin gave him an odd look, full of questions that Mark refused to answer. Maybe because he didn’t know the answers yet himself.
“The court-appointed psychiatrist can take over,” Mark said. “I won’t have Claire put in any more danger by that maniac.”
ALTHOUGH CLAIRE knew she was out of danger, she still felt uneasy with Kurt Lassiter as they drove to her cottage. He was too intense. And he wanted more than she could offer.
Oblivious to her discomfort, he questioned her about the ordeal with Richard Wheaton. Claire conveyed the details, trying for a detached tone, but the quiver in her voice betrayed her bravado.
When he parked and killed the engine, she reached for the door handle, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.
“I’m walking you in, Claire. I want to make sure you’re safe.”
She started to argue but he jumped out of the car and was at her door in seconds.
“I wish I’d been in there with you and Wheaton, Claire.” He pressed a hand to her back as they entered her cottage, and Claire tensed again, thinking of Mark and how natural the protective gesture felt. With Kurt, it didn’t seem natural at all.
“You won’t interview him again without a second doctor present,” Kurt said.
She frowned. “Wheaton might not respond with someone else, Kurt.”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s one point Ferguson and I agree on.”
“I didn’t realize you disagreed on other things,” Claire said.
Kurt cleared his throat. “We’ve had a difference of opinion on some treatments and a bit of research he’s doing, nothing major.”
Claire frowned, wondering what he meant, but she was too exhausted to explore the issue. Besides, she didn’t want to encourage Kurt to stay any longer.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He moved nearer to her, so close she smelled his aftershave, a musky blend that seemed stronger today. “You know I’d do anything to protect you, Claire.”
“I’m fine,” Claire said. “Maybe life can return to normal now.”
“I hope so,” Kurt said. “Then we can pursue a relationship. Maybe we could spend time together away from the office. Take a long weekend trip.”
Claire inhaled, reluctant to hurt him, but unable to envision herself with Kurt. Mark’s questions about Kurt getting rough with one of his patients surfaced, too, although she didn’t know why. She hadn’t believed the accusations at the time, yet she felt undercurrents of anger from Kurt now, as if he might snap if she refused him. “Kurt—”
“Shh.” He pressed his finger to her lips to silence her. “You don’t have to make a decision this minute. Give us a chance to get to know one another.” He dropped his finger and cradled her hand in his. “I’m a good dancer, Claire. I like to sail and go to the opera. I could show you a good time.”
She shook her head slowly, knowing there was no use. Her heart belonged to one man, even though he had broken it. “I’m sorry, Kurt, I…I don’t want to lead you on. I’m not interested in being anything other than friends.”
His fingers tightened around her hand. “It’s because of that agent isn’t it? Steele?”
“Kurt—”
“There’s something between you two, isn’t there?”
He was hurting her wrist. “We have some history, but it’s over.”
“Then why won’t you see me, Claire?” His voice turned cold, angry. “I’ve been patient—”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” She pulled away, wrapped her arms around her waist. “I just can’t, Kurt.”
“It’s not over between us, Claire.” His voice was so harsh that Claire stepped backward, bracing herself in case he got physical.
But thankfully, he turned and stalked out the door. Claire locked it behind him, then sagged onto the couch, grateful he was gone. Now the killer had been caught, she could relax. And Mark could go on to another case.
But after loving him again, how could she continue alone?%">
“DID YOU FIND ANYTHING?” Mark asked.
Agent Devlin glanced up, his eyebrows arched. “Some adult magazines and sex toys, which only proves he’s a male with a sexual appetite, not a murderer.”
They had been searching Wheaton’s apartment for over an hour. The place looked as if two different people lived in it. The kitchen was immaculate, the cupboards tidy, the refrigerator well stocked, whereas the bedroom looked as if a hurricane had blown through. Clothes, magazines, newsletters from some underground group of white male extremists and adult videos littered the floor. And in the closet, they’d even found a small rag doll, its thumbs worn and damp as if someone had been chewing on the ends.
Mark frowned. They had expected some kind of shrine to Claire, at least pictures or the other scarves he had stolen from her cottage.
“No souvenirs from the victims?”
“Not unless there’s a secret room somewhere.”
Mark checked the closet, reached up and removed a shoe box from the top shelf. “Anybody check out his car?”
“Black and Fox did when they impounded it after they brought him in. Zilch. No scarves or souvenirs, although they’re checking it for DNA.”
A clipping of Wheaton’s father’s murder lay in the box, along with clippings about his mother’s death and the death of his younger sister. In the first picture, Wheaton was a little boy, only five. In the second, an angry adolescent wearing black leather and chains.
Another article had been included, this one described Claire’s lecture tour across country.
“His sneakers are filled with sand,” Devlin said. “Which proves he was at the beach. At least it’s something.”
But it didn’t necessarily prove he was a killer. Mark didn’t like it. He’d thought they’d find enough evidence so they could close the case.
Something was still bothering him. Something about the support group maybe? Or Lassiter…
Or was he just looking for a way to keep the case open so he’d have an excuse to stay close to Claire?
CLAIRE HAD JUST closed her eyes for a brief nap before the show when she heard the first whisper.
“You’ve been a bad girl, Claire.”
She froze and gripped the bedcovers, her heart pounding in her chest. No…she’d imagined it. She’d been dreaming.
“Bad girls have to be punished. Why couldn’t you save yourself for me?”
A deep trembling started w
ithin her as she reached for the phone. Save yourself. The first time the killer had murmured those words she’d thought he was warning her to save herself from danger. Now she understood the true meaning.
He knew she had slept with Mark, and he was going to punish her.
She had to call for help.
She lunged for the phone, but a hand snaked out and knocked it from her hand. Then a man dove on top of her. She bucked upward, throwing up her hands to fend him off, but he pressed a hand over her mouth, and the sharp point of a needle stabbed her arm.
The killer had drugged the other women before he’d killed them.
“No!” She thrashed and kicked, but her cries faded into a silent plea, darkness surrounding her as she sank into nothingness.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time Mark finished, it was time for Claire’s show to begin. He had called her cottage to offer her a ride, but she didn’t answer, so he assumed she’d stayed at the hospital to talk to Lassiter. Or maybe she’d already gone to the station for the evening show. Knowing Claire, she’d refuse to take the night off.
He turned on the radio, hoping to hear her voice, to know she was safe.
“Folks, tonight, we’re switching from our normal programming.”
Mark frowned at the sound of Drew’s voice.
“Dr. Kos is taking the night off, so we’re running a short segment on the best of the Calling Claire show, then featuring a special request hour of your favorite music.”
Mark’s uneasiness mounted. He dialed Claire’s home again, but she didn’t answer, so he called the radio station and asked to speak to Drew.
“Where’s Claire?”
“Hell if I know,” Drew said. “She didn’t show up.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. “She didn’t call?”
“No, I haven’t heard a word. That’s not like Claire, either,” Drew said. “I heard you guys caught the Midnight Murderer today.”
“We think so,” Mark said, although his gut warned him not to jump the gun, especially knowing Claire hadn’t shown up at the station. Something didn’t feel right.
