Good Little Girls

by Rita Herron

  Interesting.

  “I’ll check the kitchen and den,” Hatcher said. “Looks like his home office is over there.”

  Wyatt nodded and veered toward it as they both started their search.

  He checked the desk first and found basic office supplies. A cherrywood filing cabinet held financials on several companies, a testament to Milburn’s role as an entrepreneur and investor. On the off chance his murder wasn’t related to the Keeper or the rape accusations against him, Bernie would check financials. If Milburn had cheated or swindled clients, one of them could have killed him and used the justice symbol to throw off the police.

  Wyatt couldn’t assume anything at this point.

  He gave a perfunctory glance at each file, then decided he’d have the ERT carry them to the lab.

  He slid into the man’s leather desk chair and opened his laptop. The prosecutor had secured warrants for his computer and other electronic devices when Milburn was first arrested but hadn’t found anything at the time. He’d suspected Milburn had wiped them clean.

  Milburn had obviously purchased a new computer since.

  As Wyatt expected, it was password-protected. Dammit.

  He searched drawers, then beneath the desk, and found a file taped to the underside.

  No password had been written down, although he did find a list of numbers and dates, so he tried a combination of several of them. Finally, he got in. He checked the man’s browser history. Several financial sites, startup companies, research projects.

  Nothing incriminating.

  Frustrated, he searched the desk drawer, then walked over to the bookcase. Milburn had a collection of first editions. All the books on the shelf were meticulously lined up except for one, which was off-kilter.

  He reached for it and pulled it out, then spied a box behind it. Curious. He pulled the box out and opened it.

  CDs.

  His heart pounded, and he carried them back to the computer. Seconds later, he inserted the first one.

  His stomach churned at the images that appeared. Photos of young women strolling the river walk. There were candid shots of the ladies with friends, drinking, laughing. Having fun.

  Had he been stalking them? Looking for his next victim?

  Wyatt removed that CD and slipped in another. More photos . . . this time random women in sexual poses engaged in S&M.

  A third CD, and he hit pay dirt. Pictures of the three women Milt Milburn had been accused of raping. Candid shots of them at their homes, in their houses, in their bathrooms when they thought they were alone.

  He’d stalked them before he’d raped them.

  The next set made his stomach turn. Pictures of the women, drugged and lying in erotic poses where he’d placed them for the camera.

  Poses—evidence—that no one had known about at the trial.

  Pictures that would have cemented the case against Milburn and sent him to jail. But the DA had obviously never found them.

  He grimaced. Instead, Milburn had walked free. And he’d probably intended to rape again—most likely the woman he’d met in the bar hours before his death.

  Instead of in jail, though, he was dead. And he definitely would be burning in hell.

  Exactly where he belonged.

  Tinsley’s computer dinged, signaling that she had a message.

  She hurried from the bathroom to look at it, and her pulse pounded at the sight on the screen.

  A picture of a woman tied up in a dark room inside a cage.

  Fear shot through her, then horror. Oh God . . . it was Dr. Ferris.

  See what you forced me to do, Tinsley. Since I can’t have you, I’ll have to make do with your friend.

  A scream lodged in Tinsley’s throat. He had taken Felicia from her. She couldn’t lose another friend to him . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He took his time. The important thing was that Tinsley knew he hadn’t forgotten the weeks they’d spent together.

  That he really wanted her.

  But for now, her friend would do. She fit what he was looking for. She was a good girl. She devoted her life to rescue animals.

  How could he not admire her for that?

  That was like Janine, too. So giving. So loving. So eager to help others.

  The familiar twinge of desire stirred inside him. It was wrong, the way he felt about his mother. Sons were supposed to look up to their mamas, admire them, obey them.

  But he’d lusted after his. Had wanted to replace his daddy in her bed.

  It all started when his daddy let him watch one night. He’d seen his big daddy, naked, his thick cock ramming inside her, and he’d gotten so hard he’d come.

  He couldn’t help himself after that. He’d fantasized about doing the same thing to his mama that his daddy had done.

  It was the beast.

  Daddy said watching was okay, but not touching.

  Sometimes when his daddy worked late, he’d sneak into the bedroom and watch his mama undress in the bathroom. When she’d dropped her clothes to the floor and stood there naked, he’d wanted to rake his hands over her big breasts. To touch her smooth skin and suck on her nipples.

  He’d wanted to kiss her down there where his father said only he could lick her.

  He’d dreamed about sticking his tongue in her after that.

  The next time his daddy had worked late, he’d slipped into her bed when she was asleep. She’d woken up just as his tongue plunged into her pussy and he tasted her wetness.

  She’d screamed and thrown him out of bed so hard his head hit the corner of the dresser.

  His father had walked in and called him a pervert. Then he’d dragged him outside to the dog run and told him if he wanted to lick something, to lick the dog.

  Anger shot through him at the memory. He’d hated his daddy after that.

  And he’d wanted his mama even more. One taste of her, and he’d never forgotten . . .

  But she never looked at him the same way after that. Had locked the door to the bathroom and bedroom when she undressed.

  But he hadn’t been able to control his urges. He’d tried to sneak into her bed again.

  The next day, they’d punished him and sent him away.

  His pulse hammered at the thought.

  The beast screamed at him again. He hadn’t deserved to be sent away. To be denied. To be shamed. Not after what he’d seen his daddy doing in bed with her.

  He peeked in on Dr. Ferris to make sure she was secure. Yes, she was all tied up. Just waiting for him.

  The anticipation must be killing her.

  Laughter bubbled in his throat at the thought.

  Adrenaline fueling his excitement, he stepped into the bathroom. Time for his cleansing ritual.

  He hated the dirty, smelly, sweaty hair on the animals. Cat and dog hair clung to every piece of furniture in the house. And to him.

  He’d become obsessed with shaving when he was a teenager, when Daddy had pushed him out into the dog run and made him stay there all night.

  The next morning when his daddy let him inside, he’d showered and scrubbed himself raw. He wanted all the dirty, sweaty hair off his body.

  Infatuated with the process, he’d researched customs of other cultures, a topic that had intrigued him from the moment he’d read about the Day of the Dead celebration. He’d been fascinated by the ritualistic shaving practices of ancient Rome and Greece.

  Hair, especially beards, was a symbol of status.

  In some countries and religions, shaving represented a passage into manhood.

  So his own rituals had been born. He imagined himself as some stately Roman patriarch in a ceremony where his minions watched and revered him as his maids shaved his body clean.

  He stripped naked, then faced himself in the mirror, examining his head and face and neck. He must be clean all over. Washed and groomed, his skin freshly showered and free of stubble.

  Not wanting to cut himself, he used his electric razor on his head.
The buzzing sound aroused him, brought images of him naked and bald as a baby.

  Next he squirted a handful of shaving cream into one hand, then lifted his hand and inhaled the minty scent. Heaven.

  Carefully, he lathered his face and neck until his eyes were the only visible part of his face. Everything had to be shaved except his eyebrows. He’d shaved those at first, but it drew too much attention. People thought he was a cancer patient and asked too many questions.

  It bothered him to look at them, but it was a small price to pay for his freedom.

  Slowly and meticulously, he raked the razor across his skin, removing the fine layer of beard stubble that grazed his jaw and neck.

  When his face was completely smooth, he stepped into the shower. A fresh can of shaving cream sat in the soap dish along with a new razor.

  He covered his chest first, then his arms and legs. Finally, his ass and pubic hair.

  The water swirled with the discarded hair and shaving cream, disappearing down the drain, sucking away the dirt, sweat, and dead skin.

  Satisfied, he dried off, then stepped to his dressing area and unlocked the cabinet that held his masks. The one he’d worn for Tinsley had been all black with white-rimmed eyes.

  Another was black with white teeth painted on the mouth. Another had crossbones on the cheek. Streaks of red that looked like blood dripped from the mouth of another.

  Three were missing. The three that belonged to the women he’d had to say goodbye to.

  He traced his finger over the one he’d worn with Tinsley, then lifted it and pressed it to his cheek. Tinsley’s scent.

  His cock swelled. Twitched. Ached for her.

  “Soon we’ll be together again,” he murmured. “Very soon.”

  He carefully placed the mask back onto the skeletal bust and chose another.

  Next he pulled on his black bodysuit, removed a hypodermic from his supply, then headed toward the good doctor.

  Once he sedated her, he could cleanse her as he’d done himself.

  But he would make sure she was awake when he joined with her.

  After all, he wasn’t a pervert as that fucking reporter suggested. He wasn’t into necrophilia.

  He wanted her to be alive and awake so she would know exactly what was happening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tinsley clutched her chest and struggled for a breath. No . . . this couldn’t be happening.

  He couldn’t have kidnapped Joyce. That woman was a godsend to the shelter. She loved people and animals and life itself.

  Praying she was mistaken, she called Joyce. Joyce’s phone rang and rang, but no one answered.

  Her stomach tightened with fear as she looked at the picture on the computer again. Another message came through. A link to a live video stream.

  She clicked on the link, tears blurring her eyes.

  The woman was tied in the cage again. Tinsley couldn’t see her face clearly. But she had medium-length hair, wavy, sandy-blonde . . .

  Then slowly she lifted her head and looked up. Her eyes were wild with fear, a scream dying in the gag stuffed in her mouth.

  Tinsley choked on a sob. It was Joyce.

  A faint stream of light filtered through the room as the door opened, just enough for her to recognize him.

  He was wearing the black bodysuit. A mask, this one with wide white teeth. And he was holding a hypodermic.

  She knew what was going to happen. First he’d drug her, then bathe her and shave her body . . .

  All except for the hair on her head. He kept that. He liked running his fingers through it. Had said that the only place hair belonged on a woman was her head.

  Nausea shot to her throat. She couldn’t believe it was happening. “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why? Joyce never hurt you!”

  Rage and helplessness nearly immobilized her. But she fought the terror. She hadn’t been able to save herself or Felicia. Maybe she could save Joyce.

  Hands shaking, she clawed for her phone. But it slipped from her fingers and slid beneath the chair. Frantic, she dropped to the rug to retrieve it.

  She snagged it, accessed her contacts, and called Wyatt. The phone rang three times, and then she heard his voice.

  “Tinsley?”

  “He has the vet who volunteers at the rescue center,” she cried. “Wyatt, you have to save her.”

  Déjà vu struck Wyatt. Just a few months ago, the Keeper had used a live video stream to reveal a man she held hostage.

  They’d managed to save him in time, but could they do it now?

  They had no clue who the Skull was, where he worked or lived, or where he’d held Tinsley.

  “Wyatt, did you hear me?”

  Tinsley’s panicked voice jerked him back to the phone conversation. “I heard. I’ll contact our analyst and see if we can trace where the post is coming from.”

  “He also sent me a photo of the doctor tied up,” Tinsley said. “I’m going to forward it to you now along with the video link.”

  He swallowed hard at the image that appeared. “I’ll get this to the lab along with that link.” Although tracing these posts was damn near impossible. Bernie had been working on trying to trace a Heart & Soul post that had sounded as if it had come from the Skull, but so far she hadn’t had any luck.

  “Please hurry,” Tinsley whispered. “He’s going to rape her and torture her, and he wants me to know it. To see it and know he’s doing it because of me.”

  Sick fuck. “Listen to me, Tinsley. This is not your fault. We will find him.” And hopefully the woman before he killed her.

  Although judging from what he knew of Tinsley’s ordeal, the woman would suffer first.

  “Tell me everything you can about her.”

  “Her name is Dr. Joyce Ferris. She runs the Best Friend’s Animal Clinic and volunteers with PAT.”

  “Is she married? Involved with anyone?”

  “No husband or family. She lives alone.”

  He glanced at Milburn’s desk. Hunting for this asshole’s killer was wasting time. He didn’t give a damn what the jerk’s father said.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re okay with us tapping your phone?”

  A tense second. “Do whatever you need to do to find this bastard.”

  “Is the officer still outside?”

  The sound of her breathing rattled over the line. Then her voice. “His car is in the cul-de-sac.”

  Hell, that was too far away. What if the Skull came in on boat?

  “I’m going to have him check the property and beach.”

  “You think he was here already?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to take any chances. Hatcher and I are at Milburn’s condo, searching it. I’ll get in touch with Bernie and have police check Dr. Ferris’s home, office, and phone. Maybe he contacted her, and we’ll get a lead.” He’d need warrants, too. Had to do this by the book as Bellows had warned him about with Milburn.

  “I hope so,” Tinsley said, her voice cracking.

  “Hang in there. I’ll be there ASAP.”

  A sniffle. “Please find her,” Tinsley said, her voice low. Pained. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

  Emotions welled in Wyatt’s throat. “Neither do you.” He wanted to say more, to do more. To be with her and comfort her.

  But the best way to comfort her was to find the man responsible for tormenting her.

  So he hung up and called the analyst. Hatcher stepped into the office as he was hanging up, and Wyatt filled him in.

  Concern darkened his partner’s eyes. “Go to Tinsley; I’ll finish here.”

  Wyatt nodded. He couldn’t concentrate here anyway. He showed Hatcher the porn photos he’d found, along with Milburn’s private collection of his victims.

  “The asshole got what was coming to him.”

  Wyatt agreed. But the law demanded they arrest Milburn’s killer.

  Tinsley’s life, and Dr. Ferris’s, were more important than tracking down someone wh
o’d killed a serial rapist.

  Tinsley tightened the belt of her bathrobe. The thick terry cloth warmed her, made her feel more secure.

  Probably because she’d been cold and naked all those months in that cage.

  Memories of his hands on her assaulted her. Him forcing her onto all fours, prying her legs apart, rubbing his disgusting self against her. Then inside her . . .

  Nausea rolled through her. Poor Joyce . . . What was he doing to her now?

  Joyce didn’t have children or a husband, but she had wanted those things.

  Tinsley covered her abdomen with her hand. Just as she had a year ago . . . before he’d ruined her for a man. And robbed her of the ability to have a family.

  Rage seethed through her. He had stolen a year of her life. And her future.

  She couldn’t let him take that from Joyce. But what could she do to stop him?

  Maybe if she sent him a note, he’d leave Joyce and come after her. Then Wyatt could catch him.

  She lifted her fingers above the keyboard, her breath erratic as emotions pummeled her. But the video post had disappeared.

  And she had no idea how to contact him.

  Wyatt called Detective Ryker Brockett and asked him to check the Best Friend’s Animal Clinic for Dr. Ferris. “If you see anything that looks suspicious or indicates she was abducted from the clinic, call in the ERT. We need to find Dr. Ferris fast.”

  “Copy that.”

  “I’ll go to her house and do the same,” Wyatt said.

  He phoned the local officer stationed at Tinsley’s and asked him to check the beach and cove, then texted Bernie to get started on the warrants and to ask for help questioning Dr. Ferris’s friends, volunteers at PAT and PAWS, coworkers, and clients.

  Then he headed to her house. Leaving Savannah, he drove a couple of miles until he reached a stretch of deserted road that led toward more marshland.

  The night seemed especially dark, the streetlights few and far between.

  The doctor’s house was a wood-framed bungalow that looked as if it had seen better days. A fenced yard housed several doghouses and kennel runs.