by Rita Herron
Tandy Pooler Benton buried herself deep in the covers of the bed she shared with her husband, cringing as the door to her house creaked open.
He’d slipped out earlier, but he was home now.
Her son’s voice drifted through the door, and Tandy’s heart broke. Her husband insisted it was time their son followed in his footsteps.
Tandy disagreed, but her opinions didn’t matter.
The light flickered on in the living room, sending a faint stream beneath the door.
Footsteps pounded as he walked across their living room floor, and the low hum of the gospel tune he sang echoed through the eaves of the old house.
She shivered at the sound.
He’d been at it again. Saving another lost soul. Exorcising the demons.
At first she questioned his interest in the young girls at the revivals. She’d suspected he had a physical thing for them, that his own sin was lusting for the innocent.
But he staunchly denied it.
Not that she approved of how he handled bringing them to salvation, but she was his wife, and he was her master.
She had to obey.
Questioning him was a sin in itself.
More footsteps, then the light flicked off in the living room. Tandy closed her eyes tightly, struggling to control her breathing.
Some nights after the girls, he came home all wired and demanding she service him like a wife was supposed to. Those nights he branched into dirty stuff that had shocked her in the beginning. Painful sex that left her hurting and wishing she’d never married.
Other times, he was so wrung out that he fell into bed and slept like the dead.
Those were the nights she prayed for.
The sound of his zipper rasping rent the air. Buttons unsnapping on his shirt. His pants sliding down.
She’d long ago memorized every nuance of her husband’s routine.
She continued to pretend sleep, her eyes closed, forcing her breathing to remain steady as he hung each garment up neatly. He slipped into the bathroom, and she prayed with all her might that he’d leave her alone tonight.
The water turned on in the bathroom. The toilet flushed. The door opened again.
Footsteps shuffled as he approached the bed. Instead of climbing in on his side, though, he stopped and stared down at her.
Tears burned the backs of her eyelids, but she didn’t dare move.
His breathing rasped out, uneven and filling her with dread. He reached out and slid his hand around her neck.
A sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it. If she fought him or told him she was tired, she’d get the sermon again, and the punishment.
“It was a rough night,” he murmured as he crawled on top of her. “She was a fighter, but I saved her in the end.”
Tandy choked back a cry of protest and spread her legs.
Ian kept alert as he drove into the mountains. Anxiety thrummed through him as he passed the burial site where they’d first found the bodies.
The scent of the blood from the cave lingered on his skin.
Had the unsub already chosen another victim?
Anger forced him to punch the accelerator. He couldn’t waste time.
He took the curve on two wheels, tires screeching, then sped up the gravel road. Three miles down he veered onto a narrow dirt road that led deeper into the hills. Thunder boomed and a streak of lightning zigzagged across the dark sky.
The clouds opened up, and rain pounded the roof of the SUV, making him slow. He turned the wipers to full speed, tires grinding over gravel and mud.
How had his father found this place?
His father had been living on the run, probably hiding in caves and bushes and wherever he could. No telling what he’d eaten or how he’d survived.
The GPS indicated Ian had arrived, and he slowed as a run-down shanty appeared. Ian pulled off the side and parked in front of the rotting structure.
He scanned the area but saw nothing. No cars or signs that anyone was here.
He yanked his jacket hood up over his head, pulled his weapon, and held it at the ready as he climbed out. He scanned the perimeter as he rushed up the rickety steps and peeked through the broken, muddy windows.
No lights inside. He leaned his head to the door and listened. All was quiet.
He jiggled the door, and it swung open. He stepped inside and raked his hand along the wall to find a light switch, but when he flipped it, nothing happened. Using his flashlight, he crossed the room, the wood floors bowing beneath his weight. No lights in the kitchen either.
Of course there wouldn’t be. His father had been a criminal on the run. He hadn’t any way to pay for electricity.
Ian swung the flashlight in a wide arc and spotted a couple of tin cans that had held food, a ratty couch covered with a threadbare blanket, and a scarred wooden table.
He checked the kitchen drawers in search of the files. Nothing but rusted flatware, mice droppings, and a can opener.
Anger at the conditions his father had been forced to live in hit him again. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Where had his father stored those files?
He waved the flashlight across the room again. A cardboard box sat on the bookshelf, so he hauled it down. A yearbook was also tucked inside with the files.
He thumbed through the folders, noting the names of dozens of students.
Beth could help him read through them faster.
He searched the rest of the tiny cabin, his heart aching when he found a photograph of Coach and Ian’s mother on the nightstand.
All those years, his father must have felt so alone. Must have felt betrayed.
His phone buzzed as he hurried to his vehicle with the box. Peyton. He quickly connected.
“Sheriff, I tried to call Beth, but she isn’t answering. Director Vance said she’s in the hospital.”
“She had an accident, but thankfully she didn’t suffer any serious injuries,” Ian said.
“Good. I was worried about her.”
So was he. “Her boss is upset with her, isn’t he?”
“That’s putting it lightly, but you two did good work.” Peyton hesitated. “I may have found something helpful.”
Hope spiked in Ian’s chest. “What?”
“When you sent me pictures of that art on the cave walls, it seemed familiar.”
“I thought so, but I couldn’t place it.”
“I did some digging,” Peyton said. “The symbols and style are very similar to paintings done by an artist local to Graveyard Falls.”
A memory tickled Ian’s consciousness. “Good God, I know who you’re talking about. I saw him at the festival in town.”
“That’s not all,” Peyton said. “When I reviewed the notes Agent Hamrick and Agent Coulter took when they interviewed the victims’ families, at least three of them mentioned they’d received a painting after their loved one went missing.”
“A painting? You mean one with religious symbolism?”
“Yes. The note that accompanied the painting indicated it was a gift from a churchgoer who wanted to offer comfort.”
“Who sent the paintings?”
“They were anonymous, but I’ve called Agent Hamrick and Agent Coulter and asked them to follow up. I’m also securing photos of the local artist’s work for comparison.”
Ian pressed the accelerator. “You think the unsub sent the victims’ families a painting?”
“I don’t know,” Peyton said. “But that artist in Graveyard Falls has a technique that sets his work apart from others.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He mixes human blood with the paint he uses in his pieces.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Had the killer used his victims’ blood in his artwork and then sent it to the families?
Ian’s mind raced. What kind of demented person did that?
“I’ll talk to the artist,” Ian told Peyton. Although it was the middle of the night, an
d he needed a warrant. “If there’s anything to it, I’ll let Director Vance know.”
Ian hung up, then phoned the local judge and requested a warrant.
“Do you have probable cause?” the judge asked.
“More than a dozen girls have been murdered, Judge. The killer collects the girls’ blood after he drains it. This artist uses human blood in paintings he sends to the victims’ families.” He hoped he was making his point. “Do you want to give the unsub time to add another victim to the list?”
A big weighted sigh. “Of course not. I’ll issue the warrant.”
Ian ended the call, then phoned Deputy Whitehorse and explained the latest development.
“I’m still at the cave with CSU. It’s going to take hours, maybe even days to process the place.”
“I trust Lieutenant Ward to oversee it.”
“You want me to pick up the artist for questioning?” Whitehorse asked.
“Let’s wait until we get the warrant. If we tip him off, he might run. Stake out his place. If he makes a move to kidnap another girl, we might catch him in the act.”
Ian disconnected and swung into the hospital parking lot.
He carried the box of files into the hospital with him. Although the staff was watching Beth, he needed to see her in person.
He passed through the waiting room. Vanessa was hunched in a chair, looking despondent. Her grandfather was snoring in a chair beside her. A few locals he recognized from the café had arrived to offer comfort, another reminder of how the people in Graveyard Falls supported one another.
His heart went out to Vanessa. First she’d lost her best friend, and now her grandmother was ill.
She looked up at him with tear-stained eyes as he approached.
“How’s Cocoa?” Ian asked.
Vanessa gulped. “She had a mild heart attack, but the doctor said she’ll be okay.”
“That’s good news,” Ian said.
Vanessa shrugged, unconvinced. He’d heard that her mother had abandoned her, and his heart gave another pang. She reminded him of Beth at that age. She tried to be tough, but she’d already suffered a lifetime of loss in the few years she’d been in this world.
He ruffled her hair. “Hang in there, Vanessa. Cocoa will be back bossing everyone around in no time.”
A tiny crack of a smile gave him hope that Vanessa would be okay. But the sadness returned to her eyes a moment later. “Did you find the man who killed Prissy?”
His gut pinched. Not a question any fourteen-year-old should have to ask.
“Not yet, but we’re getting close.” He indicated the files. “I’d better get back to it.”
Vanessa dropped her head back against the vinyl sofa as Ian hurried to Beth’s room. He relieved the security guard, then entered the room, lightening his step. He didn’t want to disturb her.
But he had to touch her.
Her skin felt warmer than it had before, a good sign. Her breathing was steady. He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“We might finally have a lead, Beth. I promise I won’t stop until we catch this guy.”
Except Beth had said there were two—a father and son.
Reverend Jim Benton and his father? He texted Peyton to dig up all she could on both the Bentons and the artist and his family.
Ralph Lewis was his name.
Ian settled in the corner of the room. His father had kept a file on each student he’d counseled, complete with notes on their conversations.
A file labeled Jane Jones stirred his curiosity. His father had made notations regarding his concern over her foster father.
Emotions thickened his throat. So his father had been trying to help her.
He turned his focus to the remaining files.
His pulse jumped when he discovered one for Ralph Lewis. Funny, but he didn’t remember the guy. Not that he’d paid much attention to his younger classmates, and Lewis was a year younger.
He flipped open the folder and skimmed. Lewis had been a good student, quiet, but antisocial. He was not athletic, but he excelled at science. He was creative and enjoyed painting.
Religious symbols filled the pages, along with drawings of angels. There were also macabre sketches of graveyards and bones.
Ian bounced his leg up and down, his mind working. According to his father’s notes, Lewis was obsessed with blood.
At fifteen, he was experimenting with combining it with paint as an art medium.
Lewis’s mother had died when Ralph was an infant, leaving him to be raised by a single father, Hugh.
Ian rubbed his temple. If they were dealing with a father-son team, Lewis’s father might have murdered some of the girls. Then Ralph started killing as a teenager.
If Ralph was in the truck that night, Beth might have felt it was safe to take a ride with him because she knew him from school.
Ian searched the notes for more information on Lewis’s father. Hugh Lewis was a truck driver who made deliveries up and down the Southeast.
Another notation indicated that Ralph and his father also followed the teachings of the Holy Waters—Benton’s church.
Ian shifted. They had to be connected.
Morning sunlight spilled through the hospital room, rousing Beth from the nightmarish images of bones and ghosts. Claw-like broken pieces of skeletons had flown past her along with skulls and hollow empty eyes begging for help.
Blood swirled and sprayed the air and her face as if the bodies had exploded and their blood had erupted like a volcano.
Her head ached as she opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to realize she’d been dreaming. It had seemed so real.
She glanced around the room. Ian had fallen asleep in the chair in the corner. His head was lolled to the side, his lips parted, his breathing puffing out as if he was exhausted.
A box of files sat in front of him, one clenched in his hand.
He looked big and awkward and uncomfortable.
And so sexy that her heart fluttered.
He’d probably worked all night while he guarded her to make sure she was safe.
All that after she’d shot his father.
She tossed the sheet aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She had to get back to work.
A dizzy spell swept over her, and she gripped the bed with clammy hands to steady herself.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Ian’s gruff voice made her jerk her head up. His tone had been harsh, but worry darkened his sleep-ridden eyes.
“I need to get out of here.” She indicated the file box. “Did you find something?”
Ian scrubbed a hand over his face. His five o’clock shadow was morphing into heavy beard stubble this morning.
He must be totally worn out.
He stood and coaxed her to sit back. “I think so. Peyton phoned last night. That local artist who does the religious paintings is from Sweetwater. He went to school with us. His name is Ralph Lewis.”
Beth tried to recall his face.
Ian waved the folder in his hands. “He saw my father for counseling. He was obsessed with blood as a teenager, and he uses blood in his paintings.” His voice rose a notch. “According to Agents Hamrick and Coulter, three of the victims’ families received a painting with religious symbols similar to his work after their daughters disappeared. I’m getting a warrant to pick up Lewis and search his house, car, and studio.”
“My God, Ian, you think the paintings he sent the families contained their daughters’ blood?”
Ian grimaced. “We’ll know once the paintings are tested.”
Beth had seen the vials of blood. Seen a figure mixing blood with paint.
The pieces fit.
“Ralph’s father was a trucker, Beth. He serviced the same route our killer did.”
“The father-and-son team,” Beth whispered.
Ian flipped the file to a photograph. “This is a picture of Ralph Lewis as a teenager. Do you recognize him?”
/> Anxiety knotted Beth’s shoulders. An hour ago she was berating herself for not having the courage to identify her kidnapper years ago. Yet the thought of finally looking into his face triggered her old fears.
Time to get over that.
She reached for the file. Ian moved up beside the bed, his presence oddly comforting and disconcerting at the same time.
“This is him. Ralph Lewis. He was fifteen at the time.”
The high school picture launched her back in time.
Ralph was skinny with frizzy reddish-brown hair and large ears.
“Does he look familiar?” Ian asked.
Beth focused on the details of the teenager’s face. A long crooked nose, muddy brown eyes. His face was tilted away from the camera as if he was shy or didn’t want his picture taken.
He looked as harmless as a puppy.
Could he have possibly been devious enough to lure May and then her and Sunny into that truck so his father could kill her?
“In school, he liked art and was a science geek,” Ian said. “Maybe you had a class with him?”
“I didn’t take art. But he was in my biology class.” An image of him dissecting the frog surfaced. “He enjoyed dissecting animals. He always wanted to do the cutting. He liked to watch the animals’ guts spill out. And he talked about how the blood spray made artistic patterns.”
Ian’s phone buzzed just as he picked up the warrants for the Lewis house and property.
He sent Peyton a text.
Need address for Lewis’s father. Also a photo of what he looks like now and what he looked like at the time of JJ Jones and Sunny Smith’s abduction.
She responded.
Copy that.
Ian stood. “I’m going to question Lewis.”
Beth tugged at the hospital gown. “I’ll go with you. Get my clothes.”
Ian shook his head. “No, you need to rest.”
Beth pushed to her feet. “You and I have worked this case far too long for me to lie in bed when it goes down.”
“I can handle it, Beth.”
“I know that, but I need to do this.”
The pain and determination in her voice ripped at Ian. How could he deny her when he’d do the same thing?
