Good Little Girls

by Rita Herron

  A German shepherd barked from one corner, and Wyatt parked and walked over, anger coiling inside him at the blood on its mouth.

  Shit. He imagined what had happened. The dog had tried to protect the doctor. The Skull probably hit him to make him back off.

  The dog whimpered and trotted toward the opposite corner, and Wyatt saw two other dogs lying on their sides in the yard.

  Fuck. They’d better not be dead.

  He shined his flashlight around the property, senses alert in case the man had stuck around. But he hadn’t escaped the law because he was stupid.

  This man was a planner. And he was patient. Otherwise they would have heard from him in the last few months.

  He quickly checked the front door. Locked. As a formality, he rang the doorbell but wasn’t surprised by the lack of response.

  Concern for the dogs drove him back to the fence. The German shepherd remained at the edge, as if standing guard. Wyatt spoke in a low, soothing tone for a moment, assuring the animal he was a friend, then let himself inside the fence. Once inside, he stopped and let the dog sniff him as he spoke in a calm voice. “Shh, buddy, it’s okay. I’m here to help.”

  The dog warmed up to him, and he petted him for a minute. “I know you’re worried about the doc,” Wyatt said. “I’ll do everything I can to find her and bring her back.”

  He rubbed his head, then slowly walked over to where the other two dogs lay. A brown mutt and a mixed beagle. Both on their sides. He checked the brown dog for a pulse, relieved when he found one, then checked the beagle mix. He was breathing as well.

  Still concerned, he called Bernie and asked her to send a vet to the house to take care of the animals.

  Then he headed to the back door. He pulled on gloves, then shined the flashlight along the door and windows, peeking inside the exposed glass. Sheers hung open. She’d probably thought she was alone out here, that she had plenty of privacy.

  That had worked against her when the Skull made his move.

  He jiggled the door. Unlocked. Most likely, the Skull had taken her out through here.

  He raked the flashlight over the sidewalk. No footprints or drag marks.

  He eased the door open and peered inside, scanning the kitchen. The cabinets and floors were outdated, indicating the doctor hadn’t cared about furnishings. She probably put the animals first.

  No wonder she and Tinsley were friends.

  Admiration for the vet stirred, strengthening his resolve to find her. The world needed people like her.

  He shined the light along the counters and floor, searching for signs of an intruder, then eased through the hallway to the living area. A lamp overturned. Magazines strewn. A shattered coffee mug.

  He could almost feel the struggle, hear Joyce Ferris screaming for help.

  Pulse pounding as he imagined her fear, he inched down the hall to the bedroom. The bed was still made, although the small chair in the corner had been knocked on its side.

  He peeked inside the bathroom and cursed. This was where she’d been taken. The toiletries on the vanity were overturned, a bottle of lotion on the floor as if she’d tried to grab whatever she could find to defend herself.

  The shower curtain had been ripped from the rod, a towel saturated with water in the tub. Blood stained the corner of the sink where the woman must have been injured as he dragged her from the bathroom.

  What disturbed him even more was the black outline on the mirror. An outline of a skull.

  Beneath it, he’d written Tinsley’s name in blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Something about the bloody message seemed off to Wyatt. The Skull had sent sugar skulls to the police to announce when he’d taken victims before. But he hadn’t written in blood on the mirror or left a message.

  This message read as if he was angry.

  Was he evolving, or was he about to spiral out of control?

  Hadn’t he enjoyed the attention Marilyn Ellis had given him? Or was he angry that they were guarding Tinsley and he couldn’t get to her?

  Wyatt met the ERT at the front door, along with the vet and his assistant from the emergency service. Wyatt had also discovered two cats prowling around outside, but they seemed fine, just agitated.

  Wyatt asked the vet to see whether he could pull DNA from the German shepherd for tests. The vet’s assistant hurried to the mutt and the beagle mix. He listened to each dog’s heart and palpated them for injuries.

  “I think they’ve just been drugged,” the assistant said. “It should wear off. But I’ll transport them to the emergency clinic for tests and observation.”

  “We’ll need a copy of any labs you run, especially the tox screen,” Wyatt said. “This man has drugged his victims before to subdue them. Finding out how he gained access to the meds he uses could lead us back to him.”

  “Understood.”

  Wyatt watched as the doctor and assistant carried the animals to the back of the emergency vehicle.

  “What do you know about Joyce?” Dr. Brudwig asked.

  Wyatt scraped a hand over his jaw. “We have reason to believe that she was abducted by the man known as the Skull.”

  “Good God, poor Joyce.”

  Wyatt nodded grimly. “Time is of the essence. How well do you know Dr. Ferris?”

  “Not that well,” Dr. Brudwig said. “Just in a business capacity. But she was one of the kindest, most giving veterinarians I’ve ever met.”

  “Did she mention anyone following her or bothering her?”

  Dr. Brudwig shook his head. “Not to me.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “A couple of weeks ago at a staff meeting. She seemed fine and was excited about the upcoming event for PAWS.” The man’s eyes flickered with worry. “Please find her.”

  “We’ll do everything possible. We’re looking at her personal phone and computer as well as her work ones.”

  “You think she knew him?”

  “It’s possible. He could have met her at the clinic or rescue center. If she didn’t perceive him as a threat, she might have let him into her house. That could have given him the advantage.”

  The doctor looked grim. “Do you want to question our male clients?”

  Wyatt nodded. “That would help. I’ll have warrants soon.”

  The doctor handed him a business card. “Tell your people to contact my receptionist. I’ll see that she gives you whatever you need.”

  Wyatt thanked him, then texted Bernie with instructions for obtaining the files from the clinic and rescue shelter.

  “Get warrants for the doctor’s files so we can run background checks on each of the patients/pet owners who used the services of the Best Friend’s Animal Clinic. Also look at the volunteers and workers at the rescue shelter and anyone associated with the upcoming adoption event.” A thought hit him. “Let’s cross-check with anyone who attended or helped out at the event last year.”

  If a name popped on both lists, they might finally get a lead.

  No news from Wyatt. Every second that ticked by meant another second that Joyce was in that monster’s hands. That he could be hurting her.

  Frantic with worry, Tinsley turned to her website. If he was reading it and had contacted her earlier, maybe the FBI could trace his location.

  A flurry of posts expressed relief that the River Street Rapist was dead.

  A shout-out to whoever ended that man’s reign of terror.

  Finally, we can walk on the river walk and feel somewhat safe again.

  Don’t forget that there are always other predators out there.

  She skimmed more comments but was drawn to a different one.

  Every night when I go to bed, I see his face in my mind. He has never touched me, but he hurt my sister. I feel her pain as if he did those horrible things to me.

  I want to kill him with my bare hands. Some nights I do kill him in my dreams.

  All the days she was missing, I searched the streets for her f
ace, praying she’d come back alive.

  But when she did, she wasn’t the same.

  The sister I knew and loved was dead.

  He will be dead soon, too.

  A shudder rippled through Tinsley.

  That post could have been about her and Carrie Ann. She had been lost when she’d returned from hell.

  So lost she hadn’t considered how much her sister had suffered when she was missing. How horrible the days had been when she’d waited for word on whether or not Tinsley was alive.

  If the roles had been reversed, she would have been out of her mind with terror for Carrie Ann.

  Just as she was for Joyce now.

  A soft knock startled Tinsley. Then the doorbell.

  She jumped, hesitating before she went to the door. The officer was supposed to be outside.

  But what if . . . what if the Skull had gotten to the officer? He could have subdued him, then come to the door in disguise.

  The low knock again.

  She checked the peephole and nearly cried out in relief when she saw Wyatt on the other side.

  She hurriedly twisted the lock and opened the door. Without thinking, she fell against him, her body trembling as he wrapped his arms around her and stepped inside.

  Wyatt inhaled Tinsley’s sweet scent, silently thanking the powers that be that she was safe.

  He intended to keep her that way.

  But her body trembled against his, a reminder that she was terrified and that she had reason to be.

  He stroked her back, rubbing slow circles, amazed and grateful that she’d allowed him to hold her. But as that realization sank in, it must have also seeped into her consciousness.

  She pulled away, a dazed look on her face. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  He reached for her again, but she threw up her hands in a warning.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  She took a step backward, putting more distance between them, then lifted her hand to her cheek and rubbed it.

  “Any news?” she asked in a pained whisper.

  He wanted to tell her yes, but he refused to lie to her.

  “We’re getting warrants for her work and home computer and phone. Our analyst is going to compare her patient and volunteer list to the one from last year’s fund-raiser, to see if anyone appeared on both.”

  “You think that’s where he met me? And now that Joyce has taken over, he’s fixated on her?”

  “It’s possible.” He hesitated. “Think about it. Did the Skull make any references to the fund-raiser? Did his voice sound familiar?”

  Tinsley twisted her mouth to the side. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Although there were hundreds of people at the fund-raiser that day. He could have been in the crowd or even spoken to me and I forgot.” She gave him a beseeching look. “Were your people able to trace the video post he sent?”

  “They’re working on it.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Was there anything you saw in the picture that might help us figure out where he’s holding her?”

  She shook her head no. “It was dark, just like it was when he held me. Do you think he has her at the same place?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “If it’s isolated, yes. Maybe there were sounds outside where you were? Birds? A train? Airplane?”

  She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes. Silence stretched thick between them, fraught with emotions and fear.

  “I think I heard a boat.”

  His pulse jumped. She hadn’t mentioned that detail before. “What kind of boat? A motorboat. A barge? Cruise ship?”

  “A small one. Like something you’d use in the swamp or an inlet.”

  There were a lot of houses near the river, a creek, inlets on the island and the outskirts of Savannah with water access.

  An odd look crossed her face, and he cleared his throat. “Did you remember something else?”

  She pressed her hand to her cheek again, her eyes haunted. “He has rituals.”

  Wyatt’s stomach clenched into a hard knot. He didn’t want to hear about them.

  But he had to.

  “Tell me about it,” he said quietly.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist and went to look out the window again. She’d closed the shutters, but she opened them and stared out into the dark night. Moonlight glittered off the palm trees, the wind gusts making them sway.

  “He decorates for the Day of the Dead, builds the shrine with the paper skulls and flowers.”

  They’d talked about this before. “What other rituals?”

  “He’s obsessive about cleanliness,” she said in a low voice. “He bathes his victims before he rapes them.”

  She sounded as if she were far away, describing something that had happened to a stranger. A coping mechanism.

  “He scrubs his victims clean, even uses alcohol as if disinfecting the skin.”

  Maybe he was a germophobe?

  “He also shaves himself and his victims.”

  Wyatt swallowed at the images she painted in his mind.

  “He shaves himself?”

  She nodded. “Meticulously. He said hair has no place on the body. Except for a woman’s head.” She shivered and touched her hair, fiddling with the strands. “He was bald but didn’t cut my hair. He liked to run his fingers through it.”

  Wyatt stood ramrod stiff. He couldn’t react, or Tinsley might stop confiding in him.

  “The first time, he injected me with some drug that knocked me out while he performed his ritual.”

  “The first time?”

  She nodded, her lower lip quivering. “After that, he made me stay awake. He wanted me to know everything he was doing.”

  Sadistic monster.

  He inched toward her. The pain in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees.

  Unable to help himself, he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. For a brief second, she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand.

  Her soft breath punctuated the air. His stalled in his chest.

  The fact that she’d allowed him to hold her when he’d first arrived, and now let him touch her, humbled him.

  “It’s over, Tinsley,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

  His words broke the spell. She opened her eyes and stepped back again. “No, it’s not. Poor Joyce. He’s doing those things to her right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Shadows darkened the patio of Sandlover’s Cove, a local pub on Seahawk Island, as Carrie Ann parked. The bar overlooked the marsh and catered to locals who liked beer and seafood and enjoyed the late-night pub scene.

  It was also off the beaten path and provided an easy place for Carrie Ann to hide. She’d had to get out of that hotel in Savannah. She’d been going out of her ever-loving mind. It had been too damn far from her sister.

  Tinsley had refused to talk to her. Again.

  Loneliness engulfed her, and she climbed out and crossed the gravel parking lot to the entrance of the pub. Paranoid that a predator might be watching, she scanned the surrounding area, then quickly ducked inside.

  She tugged her pink cap over her head to hide her ugly hair loss. She couldn’t help herself; when she was nervous or upset, she pulled it out without even thinking. Now she had bald patches that made her look like a freak.

  The last shrink had tried to help her with it. Had given her medication. Antidepressants. Something to help her sleep.

  But sleep was her enemy. When she slept, she had nightmares, vivid images of the things that monster had done to her sister. Images she couldn’t get out of her head.

  Once she connected to Tinsley’s website, she’d started reading Tinsley’s posts along with the others, and she hadn’t been able to stop. She’d almost become obsessed with the dark thoughts.

  Because they were so similar to her own.

  If Tinsley knew what she’d been thinking the last few months, her sister would probably lock her in a loony bin.

  But the best therapy
for both of them was to rid the world of the Skull.

  She slipped into a booth in the back, ordered a scotch, then booted up her computer. Seconds later, she found the chat room where the Keepers met.

  Carrie Ann followed Marilyn Ellis’s every broadcast. Marilyn not only asked tough questions but also, without even realizing it, kept her informed about Tinsley.

  A few months ago, after not hearing from Tinsley, Carrie Ann had wondered whether Tinsley was still alive. Then Marilyn had aired that story about the vigilante killings and mentioned that one of the victims had been left in front of Tinsley’s cottage.

  Carrie Ann had been grateful to know where her sister was. And she’d been intrigued by the Keepers.

  Cat Landon was her hero. Instead of tolerating the fact that bad men went free, she’d made sure they were punished. That took guts.

  She wanted to be like Cat. Be a hero for her sister.

  The waitress brought her drink, and Carrie Ann took a sip, then entered the chat room, her nerves pinging. Tonight’s agenda: everyone was supposed to bring a list of problems that needed to be erased.

  Taking action instead of sitting around and accepting the injustices felt liberating. Cathartic.

  Voices and laughter from the pub blended with the sound of the ocean in the background. Two inebriated girls belted out a song, drawing laughter and clapping from their fellow coeds.

  A dark-haired guy with a beard gave her a once-over. But when he saw her hat, he made a face and turned his attention toward a busty blonde on his left.

  Bastard. Most men just cared about looks. They didn’t stand beside you when you needed them most.

  Tinsley’s fiancé was the perfect example.

  Not that Carrie Ann cared about this asshole in a bar. After what had happened to Tinsley, she was so not interested in a one-night stand. More than one of those had turned nasty for her.

  She turned back to the chat room and the Keepers.

  Maybe she’d add a couple of those bastards’ names to the list.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The sound of rain drizzling added to the chill inside Tinsley. She couldn’t shake the nauseating images of what the Skull was doing to her friend.