He watched her body as it disappeared beneath the surface of the lake. He had traveled Highway 321 until it intersected with 411, then he’d driven through Sevierville and from there to Douglas Lake. At this time of the morning—a little after two—there was no one else around, not another soul to see what he’d done. Although this time he’d been forced to kill Dinah in his home area, he had disposed of her miles away. If her body was found, it would probably be weeks from now, and by then identifying the remains would be more difficult. And even if she was found and properly identified, no one could ever connect him to Becky Olmstead, the latest body Dinah had inhabited. Only three people had known about their rendezvous last night. Now two of those people were dead. Timmons would stay dead, slimy bastard that he was. But she would come back. She always did.
He breathed in deeply as satisfaction spread through his body. She was dead. He had vanquished her once again. She had to be stupid to keep coming back, thinking he wouldn’t be strong enough to rid himself of her. Any sexual gratification he experienced with other women paled in comparison to fucking Dinah just before he choked the life out of her, while her beautiful body was still warm and soft. The combination of sex followed by death stimulated every fiber of his body and mind. He was never more alive than he was at moments like this. Being with Dinah again so soon, participating in their often repeated ritual within days of the last time, made him understand that despite the risks involved, a part of him hoped she didn’t make him wait months for her next return visit. Although he’d often wished her gone forever, he was beginning to doubt he could willingly give her up on a permanent basis.
When the night air chilled him, he sought the warmth of his car. As he sat behind the wheel, he glanced backward toward the trunk. There shouldn’t be any evidence back there, hopefully not even the slightest trace. He had transported her body wrapped securely in a plastic sheet, which he would burn later, along with his clothes and gloves.
He shut his eyes, savoring the memory of making love to her and then killing her. The euphoria he felt only with Dinah prolonged his fulfillment. Not just the sexual fulfillment, but the gratification of exerting power over a woman who had once rejected him.
“Aren’t you sorry, Dinah?” he said aloud. “Don’t you wish you had loved me instead of him?”
Jacob downed the last drops of coffee from his mug. He’d poured a refill less than five minutes ago from the fresh brew he’d recently made. On nights like this, he lived off caffeine, depending on the stimulant to keep him wide awake and alert.
Nobody, not even Moody, had gotten anywhere with Amber Chaney. After hours of being held for questioning, she’d finally asked for a lawyer—Max Fennel in particular. But when they’d been unable to get in touch with Max, she’d agreed to use Max’s partner, his nephew, Christopher. Chris Boatwright was Max’s wife’s sister’s son and had grown up in Cherokee Pointe. The guy had graduated high school the same year as Jacob, but they’d never been friends, having hung around with different crowds. Jacob had spoken to him briefly when he first arrived at the sheriff’s department half an hour ago and had done his best to impress on Chris the importance of Amber being totally honest with them. A woman’s life could well depend on it.
“You know how Genny’s sixth sense has helped local law enforcement on more than one occasion,” Jacob had said. “Try to make Amber understand that by not telling us who the other girls that worked for Timmons are, especially any redheads, she could be preventing us from saving a life.”
As he settled behind his desk, Jacob placed the empty coffee mug on a leather coaster, then glanced at his wristwatch. Two-forty-five. He shut his eyes, spread out his hand and rubbed his eyes by rotating his thumb and middle finger over the lids. With his eyes still closed, he tilted his head backward and pivoted his neck from side to side. He was tired. It had already been a long night, and he figured he might as well catch a catnap right now since there wasn’t much chance of him getting home to his own bed anytime soon. He’d found that a ten-minute power nap could mean the difference between keeping mentally alert and fading off into a weary fog.
It usually took only a minute or two for relaxation to claim him, but tonight, before that comfortable semi-asleep stage kicked in, a woman’s image flashed through his mind. A warm inviting smile. Arms held open to him. A body clad in a sheer satin nightgown.
Just looking at her aroused him.
Jacob’s eyelids flew open. “Damn!”
The woman who’d given him a hard-on was Reve Sorrell.
Don’t beat yourself up over it. Your subconscious is getting things all mixed up. He blamed Genny for causing this problem, for putting the idea in his head that he was destined to be Reve’s protector. Hell, with that highfalutin she-devil around, he was the one who probably needed protection.
Willing his body under control and doing his best to erase thoughts of a scantily clad, overly friendly Reve from his mind, Jacob didn’t hear his office door open. When he saw Chris Boatwright standing in front of his desk, he jerked involuntarily, taken off guard for a split second.
“What the hell? Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Jacob asked.
“I did knock.”
“Oh. Well, what is it? Have you been able to talk any sense into your client?”
“Maybe,” Chris replied. “If she admits that Timmons was her boss and names the other girls working for him, will she and the girls be brought up on charges?”
Jacob grunted. “She doesn’t have to admit to breaking the law. All I want are the names of Timmons’s other girls, starting with the names of any redheads.”
“Do I have your word that—”
Jacob waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve got my word.”
“There are seven girls, counting Amber, but only two redheads.”
“Names? Addresses?”
“April Fowler and Becky Olmstead are the redheads. They both live in Cherokee Pointe. We should be able to find out exactly where without much trouble. Amber thinks April lives with a boyfriend over on Eighth Street, and Becky still lives at home with her folks, but she doesn’t know the address.”
Jacob stood. “Does she have any idea who April and Becky might have been with tonight?”
“She has no idea,” Chris said. “Sometimes men contact Timmons directly to set up something, but often the girls pick up the guys on their own.”
“Thanks.” Jacob rounded his desk and shook hands with Chris. “Tell Amber she can go on home, but not to leave town. I might need more information from her.”
As soon as the lawyer left his office, Jacob got to work tracking down the addresses for the two redheads. Considering what time it was, well into the early morning hours, there was a good chance both women would have gone home by now. He sure hoped they were both home in their beds, safe and sound.
His murky green eyes focused on her face, then moved languidly downward, inspecting every inch of her naked body. Her breath caught in her throat when she looked at him. He was big and hard and overpoweringly male. She knew he was going to touch her. Waiting with anticipation, she offered him a come-hither smile. He ran his fingertips across her cheek, then speared his big fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her head. She gasped with pleasure. He pulled her to him, lowered his head and took her mouth in a hungry, demanding kiss. Desire unlike any she’d ever known spiraled through her body, making her want him desperately.
Reve came awake with a startled cry and sat straight up in bed. Heaven help her! Her nipples were tight, her breasts swollen, her body damp with perspiration and her feminine core throbbing.
Flinging back the covers, she got out of bed, put on her gold satin robe and slipped into the matching satin shoes. Checking the digital clock on the bedside table, she saw that it was nearly four o’clock. She might as well stay up because there was no way she would go back to sleep. Just the thought of having another erotic dream about Jacob Butler was enough to make her want to stay awake for the rest of h
er life.
What on earth was wrong with her? Why had she dreamed of that rude, crude savage? She didn’t even like him, so what had possessed her to dream about him?
She walked through her dark bedroom, lit only by the moonlight shining through the curtains, and opened the door leading into the living room/kitchen of her rental cabin. After making her way to the sink, she flipped on the overhead flourescent light and went about the business of preparing coffee. She’d brought her own preferred brand with her. Drinking gourmet coffee all her life had spoiled her, making most other coffee taste like dirty dishwater.
While the coffee brewed, she peered out the kitchen window at the paved driveway and parking area illuminated by a bright security light. Wet leaves stuck to the pavement, and the black asphalt glistened with rainwater. Looking to the right, she saw the cabin next door and, remembering it was occupied by a middle-aged couple, breathed a sigh of relief. Awakening so abruptly from a nightmare—and dreaming of kissing Jacob Butler was a nightmare!—she felt shaken and a bit on edge. If she’d been at home in Chattanooga, surrounded by the familiar, with two live-in-servants ensconced in the garage apartment and only a quick phone call away, she would feel completely secure.
You could have stayed with Jazzy. She graciously invited you to live with her while you’re in Cherokee Pointe, but you chose to rent a cabin and be alone.
Alone. That one word repeated itself in her mind over and over again. That was exactly what she was. Alone. All alone. And had been since her mother’s death. Her parents’ families consisted of cousins and one elderly uncle on her mother’s side, since Lesley had been an only child and Spencer’s one sibling, a brother, had died in childhood.
In a way, Reve had been alone all her life, even when both of her parents had been alive. They had adored her, given her everything money could buy, yet they had spent so many years childless and were so devoted to each other that occasionally they seemed to forget that she even existed. They had hired a nurse when she was an infant, then replaced her with a series of nannies, four in all, until Reve was fourteen. Instead of public high school, she had attended GPS, Chattanooga’s girl’s preparatory school, and dated boys who attended McCallie and Baylor. She had lived the life of a privileged American princess, but had she ever been truly happy?
When the coffee finished brewing, she poured herself a mugful and went into the living room, sat on the sofa and placed her mug on the coffee table in front of her. She picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. As she flipped through the stations, she realized her only choices were a variety of paid advertisements, a couple of old movies and several news stations. She chose one of the movies, having immediately recognized Clark Gable and Greer Garson. Ever since childhood, she had been crazy about old movies, especially romantic movies. Sometimes she’d spend a Sunday afternoon alone, watching movie after movie, feeding her feminine need for romance. The movies from the Thirties and Forties were her absolute favorites.
As she watched while Clark grabbed Greer and kissed the breath out of her, Reve sipped on her delicious gourmet coffee. If she also had a piece of pie or cake or a Danish, she’d be in heaven right now.
Suddenly the actors on the small screen, who were driving into Reno to get married, metamorphosed from Greer and Clark into Reve and Jacob. Reve blinked several times to dissolve the illusion, then glanced back at the TV. She heaved a deep sigh when she saw the old movie stars again.
Get a grip, she told herself in no uncertain terms. She had to stop dreaming about, fantasizing about and thinking about Jacob Butler. If she didn’t stop, she’d lose her mind.
You don’t like him. He doesn’t like you.
He was the last man on earth she’d want.
If that was true, then why couldn’t she get him off her mind—awake or asleep?
Jacob Butler said good-bye to Becky Olmstead’s mother and stepfather. Their daughter had told them she had a double date Saturday night and planned to stay over with her girlfriend, Amber Chaney, so she wouldn’t be home until sometime Sunday morning.
“She promised she’d be home in time for church,” Becky’s mother had said.
“Yeah, she’ll need to go to church all right.” The stepfather, a grizzly, bleary-eyed loudmouth, glared at Jacob. “She might fool her ma, but not me. She’s shacked up with some guy tonight. The girl’s got the morals of an alley cat.”
Jacob slid behind the wheel of his Dodge Ram and closed the door. Half an hour ago, he’d found April Fowler at home with her latest boyfriend, so that ruled her out as a victim, at least for now. But since Becky’s parents hadn’t seen her since Saturday afternoon and had no idea where she was—she certainly hadn’t spent the night with Amber—then Jacob had to consider her missing. Was Becky the intended victim Genny had seen in her vision? If so, then where did he begin to search for her?
He backed out of the driveway and headed toward the courthouse. If he used the standard means of tracing a missing person, there was little chance he’d find Becky within a few hours or even a few days. If she was lucky, she wasn’t with a cold-blooded killer right now and she’d show later this morning, ready to go to church with her mother.
Just as Jacob eased his truck into his designated parking slot at the back of the courthouse, his cell phone rang.
He flipped it open. “Butler here.”
“Jacob, it’s Dallas.”
“I suppose Genny’s wanting an update. Tell her we narrowed it down to two women. One’s been accounted for, but the other, a young woman named Becky Olmstead, is missing and I have no idea where to start looking for her.”
“Start with the nearest creek or lake,” Dallas said.
Jacob’s stomach knotted painfully. “Genny had another vision.”
“Yeah.”
“I take it that when we find Becky Olmstead, if she is our victim, she won’t be alive.”
“I’m afraid not. Genny saw this woman’s dead body submerged in deep water somewhere.”
“Did she drown?”
“Genny doesn’t think so. In this vision, just as in the one she had earlier, she saw a black braided ribbon around the victim’s neck. Our guess is the woman was strangled.”
Jacob heard the hesitation in Dallas’s voice. “And?”
“Whoever the killer is, he’s a rapist and a murderer. Genny said the girl was unconscious when he raped her, so that means he either drugged her or knocked her out first.”
“Genny saw it happening that way in both visions? Damn, it couldn’t have been easy for her to witness something like that. Rape and murder.”
“It wasn’t. She’s in the bathroom right now still throwing up. This vision was a lot more vivid than the last one. She even got a glimpse of the killer’s body, at least below the waist.”
“And?”
“His John Thomas is a bit on the small size. And the hair surrounding it is brown.” Dallas blew out a disgusted breath. “I know that description fits forty percent of men in general and that part of the anatomy isn’t normally on view for the world to see, but it’s all we’ve got.”
“When I bring in any suspects, I’ll be sure to ask them to drop their pants for a thorough inspection,” Jacob said sarcastically.
“Yeah, you do that,” Dallas replied. “Look, I’ve got to go. I need to check on Genny and make sure she’s all right.”
“Hey, ask her if she thinks she can narrow down the area where he dumped the body.”
“I will, but not right now. She’s too exhausted to be of any help to you. Come by later this morning, after she’s had a chance to rest for a while.”
After shoving his cell phone back into its belt holster, Jacob slammed his hands down on the steering wheel. Two new murders. One body in the morgue, the other buried in a watery grave. And a killer on the loose. Somebody who got his jollies by balling an unconscious woman, then killing her immediately afterward. A real sicko who had just killed a young, redheaded prostitute.
CHAPTER 10
After being up all night and exhausting every possible source to find Becky Olmstead, Jacob resigned himself to the possibility that the teenage prostitute was the redhead Genny had seen in her visions. If that was the case, her body could be in one of a dozen different locations. Anywhere there was a creek, a stream, a lake or a river. The body might never turn up, so his only hope of capturing her killer might be through solving the Jeremy Timmons murder.
Jacob parked his truck in the driveway, got out, went to the back door and knocked. Dallas opened the door immediately and ushered him into the kitchen.
“You look beat. Want a cup of coffee?” Dallas asked.
Jacob chuckled. “I’ve drunk a couple of pots during the night, but if you’ll throw in some bacon, eggs and biscuits, I’ll—”
“I fixed breakfast this morning. Scrambled eggs and toast. Take it or leave it.”
Jacob removed his suede jacket and Stetson, hung them on the rack by the door and sat at the table. “How’s Genny feeling this morning?”
“She’s asleep. Finally. And I don’t want to wake her.” Dallas poured coffee into a Blue Willow cup and set it down on the table in front of Jacob.
“The Olmstead girl hasn’t shown up,” Jacob said.
“Hm—mm.” Dallas removed the lid from the skillet on the stove and spooned scrambled eggs onto a Blue Willow plate. He undid the aluminum foil encasing a stack of buttered toast, removed four slices and placed them on the plate, then handed it to Jacob.
“I’ve got one definite murder and a second possible one. I don’t know for sure if the two are related, but my gut instincts tell me they are. I think whoever killed Timmons, killed the Olmstead girl. Why, I don’t know. If I knew that, maybe I could figure out who our killer is.”
As Good as Dead Page 12
