by Rita Herron
The dispatch officer over the police scanner reported an overturned truck in the northbound lane ahead.
Hopefully it wasn’t Barlow.
He might have answers for her.
Ian took the next exit and drove the back roads until they reached the outskirts of the city.
“Where’s Barlow exactly?” Beth asked.
“I called when you were in the ladies’ room. He had a delivery at a local grocery chain. He agreed to meet us at the rest area where he found you.”
Beth gripped the car door. She’d seen photographs of the rest area, but she needed to revisit it.
Yet dread sent a shudder through her as Ian parked. Rain continued to beat down, and the lights of several cars bled through the haze. An eighteen-wheeler was parked along one side, the food delivery truck near the restrooms and snack area.
The glow of a cigarette flickered in the dark, the man smoking it pacing in front of the entrance.
For a second, her surroundings faded, but the sound of rain intensified as the glow of the cigarette grew brighter.
Then darkness swallowed her.
She gasped, lungs straining for air as the scent of blood swirled around her. Light flickered again. Not a cigarette.
Candlelight.
“Fear not the dark or death, love. Death is only the beginning,” a voice whispered. “Just follow the light to salvation.”
JJ shook her head no, choking out a protest. She tried to get up, but she was tied down, arms and legs bound.
Her gaze latched on to the candle, but a pinging sound made her look to the right. Not the rain this time.
Blood.
A stream of Sunny’s crimson life force trickled down her arm and pinged into the vial on the ground below her.
Reverend Wally Benton’s lessons on salvation reverberated in JJ’s mind. She murmured a prayer for forgiveness for failing Sunny.
Self-hate mushroomed inside JJ. She was a bad girl. No one wanted her or loved her.
How could they?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ian felt helpless at the torment on Beth’s face. Was she in the throes of a memory?
As much as they needed her to recall the details of her abduction, returning to that frightening place would be painful for her. It could be dangerous.
When he’d first attended the police academy, he’d asked questions about amnesia. He’d wanted to know if Beth could have faked it. A specialist in recovering memories had explained that trauma-induced amnesia was usually the mind’s way of protecting a person until he or she could handle it.
At fifteen, Beth hadn’t been ready.
Was she now?
“Beth?”
She closed her eyes and pressed her hand against her eyelids. He hated the fear on her face.
“Beth, talk to me. What happened?”
She blinked several times. “The candle . . . He lit one because Sunny was afraid of the dark.”
“That’s odd. It sounds like he cared for her.”
Beth chewed her bottom lip. “He acted like he did. He called her love.”
“Love, like a term of endearment?”
Beth nodded again. “He told her not to fear the dark or death, to follow the light to salvation.” She gripped Ian’s arm. “He thought he was saving her. There’s something else,” Beth said, an urgency to her tone. “When he cut her wrists, he saved her blood. He caught it in a vial and kept it on his wall with the others.”
Good God. “He collected the blood? What for?”
“I don’t know yet. But he had a lot of vials.”
Ian’s stomach knotted. Were there more victims than the ones they’d found in the holler?
Beth rubbed her arms to ward off the chill the memory evoked—the soft, soothing candlelight and the voice murmuring comforting words to Sunny contrasted with the sharp act of slicing her wrist to the bone and watching the blood drain from her.
What was he doing with the blood? Was he some kind of sicko who drank it? Could he be experimenting with it?
Was the blood his trophy?
“Beth?” Ian’s voice dragged her from her troubled thoughts.
“He stores their blood in vials,” she told Ian. “He has a bookcase of vials against one wall. No, wait, I think it was some kind of refrigerated case.” The air grew hot, suffocating. “He was preserving it.”
Ian arched a brow. “What wall? Can you see where it is?”
Beth frowned. “There were rooms in the cave. When the door screeched open, I tried to see his face, but it was too dark.”
“What else did you see?”
Beth inhaled a deep breath. “Just the candle, a hand lighting it. Then Sunny was screaming . . .” She covered her ears to drown out the sound, but it replayed in her head. She would never forget her friend’s pleas to live.
And the soft male voice of her killer acting as if he cared while he took her life.
God help her. She couldn’t give in to the fear those memories resurrected. She needed to face them to uncover the truth.
A tap on the window startled Beth. She jerked her head around and bit back a gasp. A burly man with a beard was staring at them through the window.
Ian exhaled sharply, then powered down the window. “Mr. Barlow?”
Barlow shifted the toothpick in the corner of his mouth to the opposite side. “Yeah. You said you wanted to talk. Can we do it now?” He tapped his watch. “I’m on a schedule.”
“Sure. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Ian gripped Beth’s hand. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, although her legs felt weak as she opened the door, and she was relieved at the moment to let Ian lead the questions. She tugged the hood of her jacket over her head, praying her legs held out as she followed Ian and the trucker to the rest area.
They paused by the vending machines and Ian introduced Beth. She’d estimate his age to be midthirties, meaning he’d been around twenty when he’d found her. He had a long jaw, a scar down his right cheek, and a cleft chin.
Barlow lifted his hat and scrutinized her. “It is you. That girl I found here.”
Beth tightened the belt of her jacket. “Yes, sir. Thank you for coming.”
“I heard you never remembered anything,” Barlow said.
“No,” Beth said. “Well, at least not until recently. Whoever took me lit a candle and placed it beside the girl he killed.” Her voice warbled. “That girl was my friend, Sunny.”
He pulled out another cigarette. “I read about her. She was in that holler where they found a bunch of bodies.”
“That’s correct,” Ian interjected. “We were hoping you could fill in the details about the day you found JJ—Beth.”
Beth dug her hands in her pocket, her eyes drawn to his cigarette. The scent of smoke had sickened her for years, although she had no idea why.
Had the man who’d abducted her been a smoker?
Ian focused on Barlow as he led them to the spot where he’d found Beth.
Fifteen years ago, Barlow had been in his twenties. Serial killers often struck during their twenties, thirties, and forties.
Barlow blew smoke rings into the air. “I was on a run, just like tonight,” he said. “It was late, and I was tired. I was coming off an all-nighter, so I stopped to take a leak and crash for a while. When I came out of the john, I heard a noise, like a sick animal.”
“I thought I was unconscious,” Beth said.
“You were, but you were moaning.” He patted his chest with a crooked finger. “I pushed the bushes apart and saw you curled up on the ground. Your skin was like ice.”
“Was anyone else around?” Ian asked.
Barlow scratched his chin as he tossed the cigarette stub to the ground and stomped it out. “Not many folks. Another trucker asleep in his cab. A man and his teenage son came out of the men’s room. I yelled at them to call an ambulance. The kid ran for the pay phone to call.”
“Did you get the man and his boy’s name?” Ian asked.
&nb
sp; “No,” Barlow said. “It all happened pretty fast. The boy called, and I went to the truck for a blanket.”
“How long did it take for the ambulance to arrive?” Ian asked.
“Not long. Five, ten minutes maybe.”
Beth inhaled a deep breath. “Did the man and boy stick around?”
Barlow nodded. “Waited until the ambulance got here. Wasn’t nothing for them to do then, so they took off.”
Ian folded his arms. “What kind of vehicle were they driving?”
Barlow rubbed at his beard. “Geesh. It’s been a long time. I don’t remember.”
“Try,” Ian said. “It might be important.”
Barlow’s jaw went slack. “You think they had something to do with the kidnapping?”
Beth shrugged. “We’re considering every possibility. Were they in a car? A truck?”
Barlow shifted on the balls of his feet, then lit another cigarette and took a drag. “Come to think of it, I think it was some kind of pickup. Maybe a Ford. Black.”
“So he didn’t stick around to talk to the police?” Ian asked.
Barlow shook his head no. “Said he needed to get his son back to his mother or he’d be in trouble.”
Damn. After fifteen years, without a name, it would be impossible to track down this other man and his son.
“Glad you got through it, ma’am,” Barlow said to Beth. “I had a little one at the time, too, and had nightmares about you for a long time. It was a cold night. If I hadn’t found you, no tellin’ what would have happened.”
“I’m very grateful for what you did,” Beth said sincerely.
“Can you walk us through that day?” Ian said. “You found the girl, yelled for the man to call nine-one-one, the boy ran for the pay phone, then what?”
“Like I said, I went to my truck for a blanket. I always keep one in the back in case of a breakdown or if I need to catch some z’s.”
Ian gestured to the parking lot. “Where were you parked?”
Barlow looked confused about the reason Ian asked, but he pointed to a space three rows down. Then he walked Beth and Ian to his truck. He lifted the back of the cab and indicated a couple of blankets in the corner. A Bible lay in the midst of the pile.
Ian’s gut tightened at the sight.
Stacks of canned and boxed goods filled the back. Boxes and boxes of candles were stacked together, wrapped in heavy plastic, ready to be delivered.
Long white taper candles like the ones they’d found floating with the bones of the dead girls.
The glowing candles from that dark place swam in front of Beth’s eyes.
She concentrated on the nuances of Barlow’s voice, his Southern drawl, the intonation. He seemed kind, like a Good Samaritan, as if finding her had deeply disturbed him.
If she was facing the man who’d abducted her, surely seeing him in person and hearing his voice would trigger her memory. She was stronger now; she could handle it.
“Mr. Barlow, you deliver a lot of candles,” Ian said with a sideways look at her.
Barlow shrugged, his expression perplexed. “So? All the grocery stores carry them along with food, birthday cards, and supplies.”
True.
Besides, Sheriff Headler had questioned him and checked out his story. They needed something concrete to consider this man a person of interest.
“Is there something else?” Barlow asked as he checked his watch again. “I really need to get on the road. I got one more stop, then it’s home to my son.”
“I appreciate you coming.” Beth offered her hand. “Thank you so much, Mr. Barlow. I owe you my life.”
The man slid his beefy hand into hers, then choked up. “I’m just glad they locked up the creep who did that to you.”
Beth’s hand felt clammy in his, his emotions triggering her own.
Ian broke the awkward silence. “Actually, Mr. Barlow, we’re not certain the right man was convicted of her abduction.”
Barlow dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “What are you talking about? I heard he went to prison.”
Ian folded his arms. “A man was arrested and convicted, but we have reason to question the validity of that conviction.”
“You didn’t see anyone else around here that night?” Beth said. “Sometimes killers like to observe when their victims are found.”
Sweat trickled down the man’s face. “Afraid not, just that man and his kid. I wish I’d gotten his name, but it all happened so fast and I was all shook up.”
“Do you think you could describe the man with the boy to a sketch artist?” Beth asked.
Barlow pulled at his beard again. “I . . . God, I don’t think so. It was a long time ago, and I was paying more attention to the girl. Boy was playing some kind of video game when I yelled at them to call nine-one-one.” He backed away slightly. “Them and that other trucker were the only ones here.”
Beth rubbed her temple. “Did you see the driver?”
Barlow shook his head. “Nah, figured he was asleep.”
“What kind of truck was it?” Ian asked. “Did it have a company logo on it?”
Barlow wrinkled his nose in thought. “Afraid not. I see so many trucks I didn’t pay no mind.”
That trucker could be their unsub.
Beth handed him a business card. “If you think of anything, even the smallest detail about the truck or the man and his son, call me. It’s important.”
Barlow agreed, said good-bye, and hurried toward his truck. Beth studied his profile as he climbed in the cab. He seemed harmless, helpful.
She’d been terrified that night fifteen years ago. Was he the kind of man she would have thought safe enough to accept a ride from?
Ian’s dark eyes searched her face. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Ian. He didn’t seem familiar.”
“As a truck driver traveling from city to city, he could have picked up girls along the way.”
“True. So could the other trucker.”
Except they had nothing to go on regarding him.
Ian’s cell phone buzzed. Beth crossed the sidewalk to examine the bushes again. She’d read the report—she’d been found wearing the clothes she’d disappeared in.
But her backpack had been missing. Had the unsub kept it for some reason?
Sunny’s backpack had never been recovered either. But that stuffed animal had been buried with her.
When Ian turned back to her, his features were strained. “A woman reported her fourteen-year-old daughter as missing—Prissy Carson. Said normally she wouldn’t have worried, but Prissy’s friend called and said Prissy left school upset, that she didn’t meet up with her like she was supposed to do.”
Fear crawled through Beth. Prissy Carson was the target age for the unsub.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ian followed the GPS to the Carson residence, a double-wide trailer that somehow had managed to survive the tornado. Although the roof was covered in a tarp, and a tree lay on the ground, partially sawed into logs, indicating it had probably fallen on the roof.
A beagle ran to greet him as he parked, and he patted the dog as Beth climbed from the passenger side. Together they walked up to the door, and he knocked.
A woman dressed in baggy sweats opened the door, a glass of whiskey in one hand. The scent of cigarette smoke swirled around him, and he stepped over a pile of tabloids as he entered. A bald man wearing a wifebeater T-shirt with a sleeve of tattoos stood behind her.
Ian introduced them both. “Ms. Carson?”
“Yes, and this is my boyfriend, Jed Hendricks.” He grunted a hello, revealing a gap where a front tooth was missing.
The lecherous look he gave Beth made Ian’s skin crawl.
Beth ignored him and directed her attention toward the mother. “Why do you think your daughter is missing? Does she always come straight home from school?”
The ice in the woman’s drink clinked as she sipped it. “Sometimes she does, so
metimes she doesn’t. I’m not always here.”
Ian studied the house. Judging from the dirty dishes on the counter, the scent of booze, and the stacks of laundry, the woman was probably drunk half the time.
Or she was passed out by the time her daughter arrived home from school.
Ms. Carson’s sweatshirt sleeves rode up to her elbows, exposing bruises. Dammit. The boyfriend was beating her.
“Does your daughter have a cell phone?” Beth asked.
“Hell yeah, she’s got her face in it all the time,” the boyfriend said. “Girl can’t do nothing but talk on it, or play one of them damn games.”
“Can I have the number so our lab can trace it?” Beth asked.
Ms. Carson scribbled a number on a pad with a shaky hand, then shoved it toward Beth. “I’ve been calling for hours, and she don’t answer.”
“I understand your concern, ma’am. We’ll see what we can do,” Ian said as Beth stepped aside to make the call.
Ian crossed his arms. “What was different about today, Ms. Carson?”
“What do you mean?” the woman asked in bewilderment.
“Did something happen today or last night to upset her?” He discreetly gestured toward the bruises on her arm. She yanked at the sleeve of her sweatshirt to cover them.
Bastard. Wife beaters were bullies who made women feel as if they’d brought the abuse on themselves.
He’d probably alienated Ms. Carson from her friends just as Bernie had Ian’s mother.
The boyfriend shrugged. “How should we know? She comes in and locks herself in her room and don’t talk to anyone.”
“You said that one of her friends called you,” Beth interjected as she returned.
Ms. Carson poured herself another drink. “Yeah, a girl named Vanessa. She said some boy at school hurt her feelings. Prissy can be emotional. You know how teenagers are.”
Yes, especially ones from dysfunctional homes.
“She’s a tramp,” the boyfriend said. “I told you she was, Gail.”
Ian chewed the inside of his cheek to control his anger. “We need to talk to Vanessa.”
Cocoa’s granddaughter was a good kid. She must be worried if she’d called her friend’s mother.
