Remembering what had happened to Helena made her heart slow for a few seconds before furiously speeding up. The attacker stood, and the relief at the removal of his weight from her ribcage was tremendous. Then he drew back his foot and kicked her in the stomach. His boot caught her gun, and the combination made her head spin as she cried out and sprawled on her back.
Lincoln Frazer would not be happy to find her dead body here in the scrub. He’d wonder why she hadn’t fought the man off, why she hadn’t screamed louder. She tried to inhale but still no real sound wanted to come out of her body.
Peering up through the fog she saw a tall, thin man. He wore a balaclava that hid his features, but she could smell the pungent scent of sweat along with alcohol and the heat of his hatred. Words of hate spilled endlessly from his lips, but she couldn’t make sense of them—maybe she wasn’t supposed to. He kicked her again, and she almost vomited from the blow.
She couldn’t believe she was armed and yet still lying here helpless. She tried to reach for her gun, but he stomped on her wrist, crushing the delicate bones there and making her scream in agony. At least she finally made some noise, so she screamed again at the top of her voice. The man smacked his fist into her chin and stars whirled around her mind. Then the asshole jerked at her shirt, ripping the front, buttons flying off in all directions. Ice crawled over her flesh. She didn’t want to be raped. Didn’t want to die. She forced her injured wrist to move, despite the fact she was pretty sure something was broken. White-hot agony screamed along her nerves, but she ignored it and finally got her finger on the grip of her pistol.
But suddenly someone else was there and her attacker was crying out and tumbling off her to land in a heap in the grass. Whoever had come out of the darkness to rescue her was punching her assailant in the face over and over again.
She lay there panting and then a cold tongue touched her face, kissing her, madly trying to revive her.
Barney.
He was safe. Him being there put her scattered senses back together. She hugged him to her. Glad they were both okay.
Somewhere in the background she heard Seth Grundy speaking on his cell. “Hank. You need to get down here fast. I think I caught your serial killer attacking Izzy Campbell right here on my property.”
Izzy turned her head to see the man lying on the ground beside her. Seth leaned down and yanked the balaclava off the man’s head. Izzy flinched.
It was Duncan Cromwell.
* * *
FRAZER SAT ON the couch, staring at the murder board. It was still dark outside, but he’d managed a few hours of sleep and was awaiting updates from the lab, the ME’s office, Hanrahan, Columbia Police Department, Parker and Rooney, and Chief Tyson.
He was getting the silent treatment from Lucas Randall, but he shrugged it off. Memories from last night kept coming back to blast him, including the one where Isadora had crept out like a drunken college hook-up. What irritated him more is he’d let her—pretending to be asleep when what he’d really wanted to do was snag her hand and drag her back to bed.
Why hadn’t he stopped her?
“You worked up a profile yet?” Randall asked finally, coming out of the kitchen munching on a bowl of cereal.
“Working on it,” said Frazer. “Did you get anywhere with the traffic cams?”
“I sent a list of fifty possible vehicles to cops in Maysville, hoping we can get some sort of hit on their ALPR system, but nothing yet. The system flagged a few unreadable images that I need to go check out.”
There were other ways for the unsub to travel too. Boat or even his own plane. But some of the photographs suggested Jessica might have been assaulted and murdered in the back of a van. Frazer found himself staring at all the names on the white board. He’d added Jessica Tuttle to the list of victims. The boy Jesse Tyson was a common connection, and the chief was working on that list of old cases that might have generated someone with a personal grudge against him. But it didn’t feel right. It would mean that not only had Denker buried his victims here seventeen years ago, but also that Chief Tyson had subsequently happened to move to this area. It was one coincidence too many.
Jesse could still be the link but probably not because of his father’s distant past. He made a note for Tyson to list any cases that had occurred on the Outer Banks itself. If the killer was from here that might make more sense.
Frazer glanced outside. The first glimmer of an orange dawn was lightening the horizon, but the weather was grim and the ocean stormy, which fit the simmering undercurrent of tension in the room. He decided to meet it head on. “She came to me.” Technically.
Randall’s lips curled. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I don’t give a shit how you feel. I’m just telling you I didn’t set out to seduce her. She came to me.” He forced himself to push out the next words. “I like her.”
“You like her? You sleep with a smart, courageous, hardworking, beautiful doctor who served her country in uniform, and you like her? Don’t go overboard with the yucky stuff there, pal.”
“You want me to declare undying love after knowing a woman for a few days?” Frazer asked dryly. “Not my style.”
Randall stared at him stone-faced for a long moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw. “She seems like a good person. Don’t fuck her around.”
Frazer eyed him. “You do remember I’m your superior, right?”
“Only in rank.” A grin caught Randall’s mouth. “And you owe me, especially considering you got to make out with a gorgeous woman last night and I got to sleep with her dog.”
Randall was a good guy.
“I should have told you about Rooney.” Frazer’s voice became gruff. “I was pretending none of it was happening so I didn’t have to worry about her or the baby.” The woman had already risked everything once and deserved nothing but the best. But life didn’t always keep its promises of happy-ever-after, as he’d witnessed firsthand when T.J. Knottes had walked into his family home in rural Wisconsin and shot his father dead, and fatally wounded his mother while she’d been making banana bread in their pretty cottage kitchen. To this day the smell of bananas made him want to puke.
“Caring about people sucks. I get it.” Randall sipped his coffee. “Anyway it was my fault. Mal pushed me away when I was critical of Alex. She loves him and he’s a good guy. I’ve got to stop with the overprotective bullshit. She’s having his baby for Christ’s sake. The woman can handle herself.”
Yes, she could. Isadora Campbell could handle herself, too. Was she awake yet? Did she regret what they’d done? Would he be able to persuade her to do it again?
He reminded himself he had a job to do. He cleared his throat. “The basic profile is simple. The unsub is physically strong enough to carry the dead bodies of his victims for short distances over rough terrain.” He thought of poor Elaine Patterson. “He likely has above average intelligence, but underperformed academically. He’s able to blend in with the community and is highly mobile. Despite the fact that only two bodies have been found on the Outer Banks, his familiarity with the locale suggests he either lives here or has spent considerable time here in the past. I’m betting this is his home territory.” He picked up his own coffee, staring at the murder board, wishing there were fewer victims and knowing there were likely many more. “The ease with which he takes women tells me he’s gregarious and socially competent. He’s also manipulative and self-centered. He knows how to make people do what he wants them to do. He drives a van or truck that he uses for both the abduction and to transport the dead bodies, and probably to commit the murder. Also, he sometimes rides a dirt bike—you run those yet?”
“DMV sent through a list but also noted you don’t need a license for a moped.”
Frazer grunted. “He travels frequently to the mainland, as there are easier victim pickings over there. He has a violent temper and holds a grudge, but he’s a damn good actor. He might be married with kids, or have a
girlfriend. He was probably sexually abused as a child. Usually it’s by a dominant female but for some reason I’m thinking in this case possibly by a male.” Assuming his hunch that this unsub was a schoolmate of Ferris Denker’s. He wasn’t ready to share that theory yet. “I believe he takes shoes as trophies, but I’m not sure how far that piece of information will get us in catching him unless we actually find the guy with a cupboard full of shoes.”
Frazer lifted the box Mildred Houch had given him and dumped it on the table. He removed the stack he’d already rejected.
“What are these?” asked Randall.
“Photographs from Ferris Denker’s school—which happens to be the same place where the prostitute Elaine Patterson’s body was dumped. I’m trying to find any photographs from when Denker attended the school.” Mildred Houch had thankfully written the year on the back of most of the photos.
Randall picked up one that was obviously from a recent wedding, and he added it to the reject stack.
Frazer’s cell phone buzzed. Tyson. He answered it.
“Duncan Cromwell attacked Izzy Campbell when she went to pick up her SUV in Whalebone Junction. He was wearing a mask and dragged her into the marsh,” Tyson informed him. “He tried to kill her.”
Frazer felt like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart with a fist. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah. She’s alive anyway. Seth Grundy heard her scream and rescued her.”
Frazer’s lungs expanded, but he wasn’t sure he was breathing. “Where is she now?”
“She’s been taken to the hospital. Cromwell is in custody, being processed. I’ll see what I can get out of him before he lawyers up.”
“I’ll meet you there shortly.” Frazer sat there stunned. She’d only left his bed a few hours ago, for Christ’s sake. He hung up and released a long breath. “They caught Duncan Cromwell attacking Isadora Campbell.”
Randall’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Tyson didn’t say it, but he thinks Cromwell’s our guy.” Frazer grabbed his jacket. The idea a father would rape and murder his own daughter was repulsive, but it happened. And wait until the media got hold of that story. “I’m going to take Kit to the hospital, and I’ll meet you at the police station in an hour. I want you to start preparing items for a search warrant. Include photographs, diaries, computers, DVDs, and shoes.” He was dialing Parker as he walked out the door. “I need a detailed background check on Duncan Cromwell, Helena’s father, going all the way back to when and where he was born. Any overlap with Denker you can find, even if they only bought a candy bar from the same store thirty years ago.”
He hung up. Ran up the steps to the Campbell cottage and used the key he’d lifted a few nights ago to let himself in.
“Kit,” he shouted.
He heard a groan, and he strode farther into the living room, noticing Barney was gone and hoping to hell the dog was okay. “Isadora’s been hurt. She needs you.”
That brought some cursing followed by the sound of feet stumbling around the bedroom. She appeared seventy-seconds later, dressed, hairbrush in one hand, coat in the other. “Is she okay?”
He held her gaze. “Let’s go find out.”
* * *
IZZY LAY ON the bed, staring at the ceiling, wanting to escape. They’d run chest X-rays and ruled out fractured ribs and pneumothorax. Liver, spleen, and kidney all looked good on the abdominal ultrasound, and her blood work—count, electrolytes, liver function, coagulation—had come back normal. They were insisting on a CT scan before they’d let her escape. Stupid. Except for her wrist, which had already been put in a small cast and X-rayed, she’d suffered more damage during hand-to-hand combat training—for all the good that had done her.
She couldn’t believe how easily he’d overpowered her. Dammit. Aside from her wrist, nothing was broken but she hurt. She stuffed down the pain and the pity party. She remembered soldiers who ended up on her table—shot, blown up, concussed from bomb blasts. So she’d taken a few blows and had a fright. It would remind her to pay more attention to her surroundings in the future.
She checked a mirror she’d asked one of the nurses to give her. Both her pupils looked normal, not blown, so no coning, which was beyond excellent news. Then she made herself remember the name of every commanding officer she’d ever served under, to prove her brain was as intact as it had been when she woke up that morning. She was pretty sure she wasn’t concussed. Basically, there was nothing wrong with her that strong narcotics wouldn’t fix—except the humiliation, which she’d learn to live with. But her fellow physicians were being overzealous with her care—hence the CT scan even though she had no abdominal pain and all the other tests had come back normal.
God knew what would have happened if Seth hadn’t turned up. She slid her legs over the edge of the bed, thinking escape might be a reasonable possibility. But the sound of footsteps down the corridor had her grimacing. She recognized Lincoln Frazer’s purposeful stride even after their short acquaintance.
Long enough to screw his brains out.
Damn.
She got back under the covers and winced as a sharp pain shot from her neck to the middle of her skull. Dammit.
Then Frazer came into view, looking as handsome as ever, even if his shirt was a little creased from her throwing it on the bathroom floor last night. She avoided his eyes and looked at Kit instead. Her sister’s pace was hurried, her face a vision of fear and uncertainty as she clung onto Frazer’s arm like he was a close confidante. Izzy raised her brow at him, and he shrugged as if to say he didn’t know how it had happened. That was Kit for you. She chose you, rather than you choosing her.
“Hey. There was no need to come down here. It’s not that bad,” she tried to reassure them, but Kit flew to her side and hugged her tightly. Izzy bit back a yelp and let her hold on. Her sister had already lost way too much in the last twelve months, she’d have been terrified at the idea of anything happening to Izzy, too. Her gaze locked on Frazer’s over Kit’s head, and she knew he could tell she was in pain.
Izzy hugged her sister tighter. She wanted to stroke the hair off Kit’s cheek. She’d obviously just climbed out of bed and rushed down here because there were still sleep marks creased into her face.
“Who did this?” Kit wailed, taking in the cut at the side of her mouth where Duncan had landed a punch.
Izzy had barely believed her eyes when she’d seen Duncan Cromwell lying there on the ground. “Helena’s dad.”
“What?” Kit jerked away.
Izzy squeezed her eyes shut as her ribs were jostled. Ouch. Being brave sucked. She wanted to burst into tears and be done with it.
“Did he kill Helena?”
“Shush.” Izzy glanced at the open door. “I don’t know,” she said quietly.
“Did he hurt you?” Kit’s eyes were huge, looking at her properly, taking in her hospital gown.
“Chief Tyson bagged all my clothes as evidence. I’d appreciate someone going to my locker and grabbing the spare set I keep there.” The sooner she got something to wear the sooner she could escape.
“As soon as the doctor releases you.” Frazer’s blue eyes pinned hers.
Dammit. How’d he know her so well, so fast?
Her sister bit her lip. Izzy caught her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Look, he beat the crap out of me, but he didn’t touch me sexually.” She kept her voice down, glad she was in a separate room a couple down from where Jesse was holed up. He was supposed to be going home today. “I’m okay. I promise.”
“Kit,” Frazer said suddenly. “Why don’t you go buy your sister a drink from the vendor stand? And get me a coffee while you’re at it, will you? Black. No sugar.” He handed her ten bucks and Kit gazed at him stupidly for a moment.
“Oh, you guys want to talk. Sure. Okay.” She looked between them nervously. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Be good.”
“Too late,” Frazer said under his breath as her sister ducked out of si
ght.
Izzy laughed, holding her side carefully. Frazer sat beside her on the bed, way too close. He eased the side of her hospital gown up and she felt ridiculously exposed, which was crazy considering he’d licked every inch of her body last night.
“It isn’t pretty,” she warned, rolling over enough to let him free the gown.
His hands stilled when he revealed a series of bruises. He indicated she roll over farther so he could see the rest of her back. She did, aware he could also see her bare butt, but she guessed that ship had sailed last night. But this was the hospital and fluorescents were not as kind as the gentle light of the moon.
“How bad was it?” His voice was cold and emotionless, but she heard the undercurrent of rage it concealed. Just because he controlled his emotions didn’t mean he didn’t feel them.
“Honestly?” She let out a noisy breath. “I thought I was going to die.” She turned back so she was facing him, but sat up straighter, wincing at the sharp pains that attacked her body, and grateful for each and every one of them. “What was so frustrating was I had my gun in my front pocket, but he held my arms so tight I couldn’t reach it, and then he started hitting me and calling me a whore.” A wave of remembered revulsion rushed over her skin.
“It’s okay, Isadora.” Frazer captured her hand and brought it to his lips.
“You need to start calling me Izzy, like everyone else.”
“You want me to treat you the same way everyone else treats you?” His blue eyes were so bright it hurt to stare into them, like looking directly at the sun.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. How ironic she couldn’t lie to the guy considering the huge fat secret she kept from him. “I think someone watched us in bed last night.”
“What makes you say that?” His gaze sharpened, switching from lover to FBI agent in a split second.
“Someone folded a blanket that I’d left on the floor, and from that part of the deck you can see straight into your bedroom. The drapes were open,” she reminded him.
Cold Fear Page 25
