Good Little Girls

by Rita Herron

  “I agree.” Marilyn squeezed her arm. “Talk to Agent Camden and have him assign you a protective detail. If the Skull comes after you, the FBI might catch him and end this.”

  She nodded. She’d consider it.

  Although prison would be too good for him. He deserved to die.

  She thanked Marilyn for the segment, then rushed toward the door. Her phone was buzzing as she exited the building. Tinsley.

  Damn. She’d probably seen the show. She’d wanted to talk to her so badly these last months. But now it was too late for talking.

  Besides, her sister would try to persuade her to go into hiding until the Skull was apprehended.

  Her skin crawled. She’d rather die than be locked up like Tinsley.

  She let the call roll to voice mail, then hurried toward her car. A fall breeze kicked up, stirring the tree branches. A blanket of orange, red, and yellow leaves covered the sidewalk, crunching beneath her feet.

  Another sound made her jerk her head around. Two women pushing strollers toward the park. Other people rushed to work or to shops and restaurants. The coffee shop on the corner had a line, the sign for pumpkin lattes prominent. A group of teens stood smoking by a streetlamp in front of a souvenir shop that specialized in pirate memorabilia. She’d been in that store before.

  Tomorrow would mark the one-year anniversary of her sister’s abduction.

  Nerves gathered in her stomach, and she crossed the street, then made her way down by the riverfront. Her car was where she’d left it in a lot behind a tattoo shop. No one lurking around.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she reached for her car door to open it. Suddenly she felt someone behind her. One hand went to her pocket where she’d stored the gun she’d stolen from Tinsley’s. She had a knife in her boot.

  But she had no time to retrieve it. Strong hands grabbed her, then she felt the sharp jab of a needle, and the world spun into darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Wyatt cursed. Carrie Ann Jensen had just done a reckless thing with her TV appearance. If the Skull was watching, he’d probably go after her.

  He’d killed Joyce Ferris because she wasn’t Tinsley. And he might think that Carrie Ann’s appearance was a trap.

  So he might try to take Tinsley.

  Thankfully, an officer was watching her.

  “Check that BOLO on Hinke, and let’s find Carrie Ann Jensen,” Wyatt told Bernie. “Get me a phone number, address, anything you can find on her. I’ll call the TV station and see if I can catch her before she leaves.”

  Bernie went to work, and he phoned the station and identified himself. “I just saw Carrie Ann Jensen’s interview. Is she still there?”

  “She just left.”

  “Then let me speak to Marilyn Ellis.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  He gripped the phone with sweaty hands as he waited. Bernie scribbled a number onto a sticky note and pushed it in front of him. Carrie Ann’s phone. He gestured for her to call it.

  “This is Marilyn Ellis.”

  “You should have told me you were going to put Tinsley’s sister on air.”

  Her sigh punctuated the silence. “I didn’t ask her; she came to me.”

  “Do you know where she was going when she left?”

  “No. She mentioned that she’s staying in an inn on the island. She didn’t say which one.”

  There were only two. He’d check both.

  Dammit. “You know you may have just pushed her into the hands of the Skull.”

  A heartbeat passed. “Then you’d better find him fast.”

  “You may not like me, Marilyn, but if you hear anything, you have to call me. Lives are at stake.”

  He hung up without waiting for a reply. Bernie was shaking her head. “No answer on Carrie Ann’s phone. I left a message for her to call you.”

  “Thanks. Marilyn Ellis said Carrie Ann left. She’s staying in an inn on the island. Find out which one and see if she’s there. Also find out what kind of car she’s driving and get an APB out on it.”

  He punched Tinsley’s number, but it rang and rang, and she didn’t answer.

  His gut churned. “I’m going to Tinsley’s.”

  He jogged to his car, then called the officer standing guard as he started the engine. No answer there either.

  What the hell? Where was he?

  Panic shot through him, and he clenched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip and sped onto the highway.

  Tinsley tried her sister’s phone again. No answer. Wyatt had called as Liz was leaving, but just as she saw his number, a text came through.

  She stared at the photograph in the text in horror.

  Her sister. A gag in her mouth. Hands bound. She lay on the floor of a cage unconscious.

  The cage where the Skull had held her.

  Another photograph appeared. This one of the three skulls dangling from the ceiling in clear sight of her sister. Except this time Carrie Ann’s sea turtle necklace was hanging from one of the skulls where the neck should have been.

  Cold terror washed over Tinsley as memories assailed her. His breath on her skin. His hands touching her. His throaty grunt as he shoved himself inside her.

  His childlike chanting about the dead, then his sobbing when he finished with her.

  Nausea flooded Tinsley, and she ran to the bathroom, dropped to her knees, and threw up. Trembling, she stood, used mouthwash, then splashed cold water on her face.

  She was pale from lack of sun. Dark circles beneath her eyes. A shell of a woman.

  Because she’d been too cowardly to face him, her sister might die.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  Stumbling on shaky legs, she hurried back to her phone. Another text from him.

  It’s you I need, Tinsley. It has always been you.

  If you want to save your sister, come to me.

  No cops or she’s dead.

  Heart hammering, she quickly sent a response.

  Tell me where and I’ll be there.

  Precious, painful seconds ticked by. She tapped her fingers on the phone, anxious. “Tell me, dammit!”

  Finally, a response.

  Where we first met.

  A picture of a dog followed. No . . . not any dog.

  Gingersnap.

  Her chest ached with the effort to breathe. What did he mean? Where they met?

  How did he have a picture of the first dog she’d rescued?

  She studied the picture again. The red collar around Gingersnap’s neck. The cage where her sister was being held. Where he’d held her.

  The stainless-steel bowls he’d used to give her bits of food.

  She pounded her head with her fist. She had to think, but she was so terrified her thoughts were jumbled.

  He’d told her he could give pain and take it away. That it was wrong that some people loved their animals more than their children.

  Korine said that he might be infatuated with his mother. That he saw his victims as a reminder of her . . .

  She glanced back at the picture—the red collar. Gingersnap.

  The photographs of the kids at the orphanage flashed in her head again. Something had been familiar.

  Where they’d met . . .

  When she’d gotten Gingersnap, the vet . . . she and Carrie Ann had taken dog obedience lessons from her. Two boys had helped at the clinic, cleaning cages, walking the animals . . .

  A year later when Gingersnap had been hit by a car, they’d taken her to that clinic. At first the vet had said Gingersnap would make it.

  But she’d died that night.

  She examined the picture of the orphanage boys one more time. The familiar face . . . Norton had been one of those boys. And the other, no, not at the orphanage. The photo of the boys doing community service . . . the vet’s son.

  Carrie Ann had mentioned that she’d seen the boy putting rocks in the dogs’ bowls. Said he’d even hit one of the animals.

  At some poi
nt, a cat had died suspiciously. She’d heard the vet talking to her son. He’d been in charge of the cat. The boy claimed the animal was suffering, that it was dying. He’d cried and said he hadn’t wanted to see it suffer.

  The next summer when she returned to the clinic, the boys hadn’t been there. According to the receptionist, the vet had sent her son away, saying that he was dangerous. She’d suspected he’d killed more than one animal.

  Tinsley pressed her hand to her mouth and forced a deep breath. That boy . . . oh God, he might have killed Gingersnap. He was the Skull.

  She’d met him when they were barely teenagers. She’d admired his mother and followed in her footsteps. Except for becoming a vet. She’d wanted that, but she’d given up the dream to help Carrie Ann go to college.

  Instead she’d focused on the rescue side of animal care.

  That’s how she reminded him of his mother. And Joyce . . . she was another vet . . .

  The profile’s words echoed in her head—the Skull had a twisted fantasy of his mother. He’d wanted her sexually but had known it was wrong.

  He’d used her as a substitute for his mother and acted out that fantasy. Then he’d cried afterward because he knew he shouldn’t lust after his mother.

  She reread his text. If she wanted to save her sister, she had to go to him. If she brought the cops, he’d kill Carrie Ann.

  Tears blurred her vision. How could she do that when she couldn’t bear to go outside the cottage?

  You have to go to save Carrie Ann.

  Heart racing, she dug her car keys from the basket in her room. Her phone was ringing again. She checked the number.

  Wyatt.

  She started to answer. Tell him and let him go.

  But doing that might get her sister killed.

  Her mind raced. She had to get rid of the officer outside.

  She sent him a text and told him she saw someone on the beach, someone who might be the Skull.

  Please check it out.

  He responded that he would, for her to keep the door locked.

  She clenched her keys, then stopped to grab a kitchen knife. She jammed it in the pocket of her jacket, then rushed to the door.

  She closed her fingers around the doorknob, but the room swayed, spun. She couldn’t breathe.

  Her legs gave way, and she slid to the floor, sweating and trembling.

  Why wasn’t Tinsley answering the damn phone?

  He tried the officer on duty again and finally got him.

  “Tinsley saw someone on the beach. I’m checking it out.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Locked up tight. I’ll check back with her when I see who this guy on the beach is.”

  “If it’s him, call for backup.”

  A call from Bernie beeped in, so he hung up.

  “I found some interesting information on Hinke. Actually, Hinke is his mother’s maiden name, not his father’s name. She was a veterinarian.”

  That fit with the profile. “Does she still practice?”

  “No, she passed away two years ago tomorrow.”

  Adrenaline spiked his blood. About the time they suspected the first victim had gone missing. Then Tinsley last year. It all fit.

  “The mother’s house was handed down to him,” she said. “I’m sending you the address now.”

  “Good, now get me some warrants.”

  He pressed the accelerator and sped away from the field office, racing toward the address. He veered around traffic, speeding through intersections, his focus on one thing—finding this bastard before he hurt Tinsley or her sister.

  His phone buzzed just as he swung onto the street leading to the man’s house. Bernie. “Yeah?”

  “I checked surveillance cameras around the TV station.” Bernie’s voice cracked. “Carrie Ann Jensen’s car is still there.”

  His lungs tightened. “Maybe she took a cab?”

  “I’m afraid not, Wyatt. We have him on camera. You can’t see his face, but he has her.”

  He slammed his fist against the steering wheel with a growl. “Did you see what kind of vehicle he was driving?”

  “No. He dragged her into an alley, and then we lost him.”

  “Look at traffic cams in the surrounding area. Let’s find this bastard.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Wyatt eased down the deserted street to Hinke’s house, scanning the road and property. A dark sedan was parked beneath a carport, but he saw no signs of life outside. The curtains inside the house were drawn, the yard slightly overgrown, an ancient swing set to the side.

  It looked abandoned. Set off the beaten path, it would be a good place to hide his victims. An outbuilding made Wyatt even more suspicious.

  He parked, drew his weapon, his senses alert as he approached the house. The wooden steps creaked as he climbed them. He leaned against the door and listened, straining for sounds of a voice or a woman’s cry.

  Silence.

  Body coiled with tension, he turned the doorknob. The door swung open.

  He inched through the house, noting well-worn furniture. A faded spread hung on a spindle bed that looked as if it hadn’t been slept in for a while.

  A wall of photographs in the first bedroom held pictures of a menagerie of animals, most likely rescues the mother had brought home.

  Where were the pictures of the son?

  Curious, he examined the collection on the dresser, but a lone picture of a small boy was all he found.

  Next, he stepped into a room that he assumed was Hinke’s. A navy-and-brown-plaid spread covered a twin oak bed. The bedding was mussed, the pillow worn.

  Instead of the desk in the corner holding sports paraphernalia or other childhood mementos, the corkboard was covered in photos of a young girl and a ginger-colored dog. He peered closer and realized that the girl in the picture was Tinsley. He’d seen a photo of her and her sister at her house.

  Good God. Hinke had known Tinsley as a child. And he’d begun an obsession with her then.

  He opened the desk drawers and discovered an album of pictures, very disturbing photographs of dead animals. A dog. A chicken. Two kittens.

  Animals Hinke had killed?

  He moved to the closet and opened the door. Dammit. The man had tacked pictures of Tinsley all over the inside of the door. Candid shots of Tinsley at the rescue events, at a vet clinic, at a park playing with a dog, on the beach with a lab.

  Tinsley’s cottage, a shot of her looking through the window. It had to have been taken from the beach. That bastard had known where she was all along. And he’d been watching.

  Rage slammed into him when he glanced at the opposite door. More pictures of Tinsley, these from her captivity. Photographs of Tinsley tied in a cage, close ups of her face and body as she lay unconscious from his torture.

  His first instinct was to rip them from the door and get rid of them. He didn’t want to look at them, and he sure as hell didn’t want Tinsley or anyone else to see them.

  But they were evidence.

  He couldn’t do anything to jeopardize this case.

  Stomach churning, he snapped pictures of the room and everything he’d found, then went outside to search that storage building.

  The door was boarded over, but a noise echoed through the rotting boards. He hurried to his SUV, grabbed a tool from the trunk, then rushed back and pried open the boards.

  The scratching sound came from the back.

  He hoped Carrie Ann wasn’t tied up in that dark corner.

  Perspiration beaded Tinsley’s neck as she struggled to regain control. She closed her eyes, forcing deep breaths to stem the panic.

  An image of the Skull taunted her. Then an image of her little sister tied up in that cage.

  Fury replaced her panic.

  She’d taken care of Carrie Ann when she was little, had kept the mean girls from teasing her when she wore braces. Had kept bullies from bothering her because she’d been tiny for her age.

  She was not goin
g to let the Skull torment Carrie Ann the way he’d done her.

  She massaged her temples, her breathing steadying slightly as other memories bombarded her. She and her sister and father collecting seashells out there on the beach. Her mother helping them glue the shells to frames to put their pictures inside. The four of them crabbing in the marsh. Riding bicycles to the Village and watching fireworks at the park on the Fourth of July.

  At night, she’d consoled her sister when she’d cried herself to sleep. Carrie Ann had tried to do that for her when she’d first been rescued, but she’d pushed her away.

  “I’m coming for you, sis,” she whispered on a ragged breath.

  The wind howled outside, the sun slipping away. She knew what it was like to live in that darkness. To lose track of time and the days. To wait for him to come . . .

  She gathered her courage and snatched her keys and purse where they’d landed on the floor when she’d fallen. Gripping them in one hand, she clawed at the door. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck as she turned the doorknob.

  Cool air assaulted her as she pushed the door open. It had been so long since she’d been outside that she’d forgotten how refreshing the ocean breeze felt on her face.

  She savored the moment, breathing in and out, then tried to stand. But her legs were wobbling, and the world tilted.

  Baby steps. You can do this. You have to.

  Instead of standing, she dragged herself onto the porch. Her vision blurred as she glanced down the steps toward the beach. The officer was too far away to hear her, but it wouldn’t take him long to get back.

  No cops or she’s dead.

  She had to hurry.

  Dogged determination filled her, and she forced herself to her hands and knees and slowly made her way to the bannister. She gritted her teeth, gripped the railing, and pulled herself up to stand.

  Her car was parked in the detached garage.

  You can do this. Just think of Carrie Ann.

  Those words became her mantra as she stumbled down the steps. Her legs felt weak, and she was sweating all over, but she managed to put one foot in front of the other and finally made it to the garage. She pressed the garage door opener and glanced back at the beach as the door slid up.