by Unknown
Red’s voice trailed away as his glassy gaze fell to the naked woman laying face down on a pile of black video tapes, gaudy skin magazines, and dozens upon dozens of condoms, wrapped and unwrapped. Most shocking of all were the huge letters scrawled across her back in gruesome crimson, like a child’s twisted finger painting.
LUST.
“It’s Lori Watson, Sheriff. She’s dead.”
“I see that,” Cam murmured, setting his hands on his hips, studying the letters with a frown.
Odd. Well, not so very odd when you considered the evidence, and the woman’s reputation. But odd that someone—no, not someone…her killer—odd her killer should choose to leave that particular word as his message. Why not something more obvious, more common…like whore or slut?
Cam dragged his gaze from the defiled body to 31
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survey the surrounding woods. He drew in a long, concentrated breath through inconspicuously flared nostrils, then let out a disappointed sigh. The rain last night must have washed away whatever trace scents the killer might have left behind. His keen eyesight picked up nothing Red hadn’t already marked with a large plastic number.
Right about now he was beginning to fervently wish someone else could have accepted responsibility just this once, wished someone else could shoulder the weight of this crime scene and what looked to be a damned puzzling murder investigation.
Unfortunately, Sutter Hollow didn’t have its own police department, falling a few people shy of a map dot, and so it fell under the Fulwick County Sheriff’s jurisdiction. Convenient, considering the Sheriff and most of the deputies not only lived in Sutter Hollow, but had grown up here as well.
And so, officially, this was Cam’s problem Cam stole one more glance at the garish red scrawl on the victim’s back. His gut churned. Was this another of his acute gifts rearing its head? Was he scenting trouble on the wind, or was this just plain old common sense?
Red had already cordoned off the standard perimeter with official yellow tape. He’d kept everyone else well outside the boundary lines.
Despite his lack of experience—and his obvious shock—Red had done a good job of following protocol, keeping the scene secured. Besides Cam, Red had called the County ME to the scene, as well as Deputy Judy Blake who now stood with Jeff Williams, a local hunting fanatic. Like Cam, Judy was also off duty and in civilian clothes. The last two stood a little way outside the tape, the female deputy talking in reassuring, hushed tones with the pale-faced hunter while the ME hovered near the body muttering to himself.
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Red stretched a finger toward the blood red, silk stocking cinched around the victim’s throat. His voice wobbled. “Looks like she was strangled, sir.”
“I see that, too,” Cam replied in hushed tones.
The muscle in his jaw flexed as he worked to ignore the scornful snort the ME coughed to cover up.
Cam bent to step beneath the tape, but stopped in his tracks as a fine wisp of white dust sifted from his hair down onto his T-shirt and paint splotched jeans. Straightening, he backed up a step. “I can’t get any closer, Red. I’m covered in sheetrock dust, and I don’t want to contaminate any evidence.” Red nodded, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the corpse. It wasn’t every day Sutter Hollow produced a dead body, and never one displayed with such lascivious care.
“Son of a bitch,” Cam swore under his breath again as his gaze fell to Lori once more.
He couldn’t see her face from where he was standing, but even from this distance, the bruises covering her body were brutal. Acid churned in his stomach at the undignified sprawl in which the killer had taken such obvious care to pose her. The ME had secured bags over her hands, but he’d wager next month’s pay the chances of gleaning DNA from her nails were slim to none. Her fingers were a broken, bloody mess inside the clear plastic.
Shaking his head, he called out, “Tell me you got what you need so we can at least cover her up, Jarvis.”
Dr. Jarvis English, Fulwick County ME, nodded as he covered the distance to Cam, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, gazing at the clipboard in his hands with myopic absorption. A slight breeze whistled through the trees, stirring the budding leaves overhead, ruffling the hair at his silver streaked temples. “I believe the preliminaries are covered. The rest can wait till I get her back to the 33
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morgue.”
“Can you give me anything so far?”
“Not anything conclusive…and you know me better than to ask for speculation.” Jarvis stepped closer, shot a glance at Jeff—the only civilian on the scene—then offered in a lowered tone, “I can say, however, it appears as if there was cadaveric spasm involved.”
Cam frowned at his friend as he sifted through the crime scene terminology lodged in long forgotten corners of his brain. He couldn’t quite pin the term down. Death wasn’t something he’d dealt with much in his ten years on the force…unless you counted road kill of the hoofed variety. Fulwick County was relatively small, and, for the most part, minor crimes were the rule of thumb. Run of the mill domestics, petty vandalism, under-aged drinking, the occasional B and E, and the rare meth lab were his area of expertise.
Edward Whitlock—the bane of Cam’s existence—was the only regular in Cam’s jail.
Whenever the mood struck, which was more often than not, Ed went on a bender and busted up Pappy’s, the local drinking hole. His offenses were usually nothing more than public intox with slaps on the wrist for being a nuisance. Fulwick County hadn’t seen a murder in damned near fourteen years, and that one had been cut and dry. Man comes home. Man finds wife in bed with plumber.
Man shoots plumber. Man shoots wife. Man shoots himself. Case closed.
The communities other population was very careful to maintain anonymity. Too careful for something like this. Besides, if they did hunt, they never hunted humans. And, rain or no rain, he would’ve been able to pick up one of their scents from five miles away.
He swerved a troubled gaze to the doctor and 34
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blinked, momentarily taken aback in an abstract sort of way as he noticed for the first time the faint crow’s feet at the corners of his friend’s gray eyes.
When had that happened? Jarvis was only a handful of years older than Cam. They’d worked out twice a week together down at Fitness Connection for the last eight years, ever since Jarvis had moved to town. When had Jarvis taken on such a dignified… doctorly air? Shit. So much for Cam’s uncanny powers of observation.
“Sorry, Jarvis,” he rumbled, pulling himself back to the conversation. “The term sounds familiar, but I’m drawing a blank here.”
The ME turned his back on the hunter and lowered the clipboard in one hand as he explained with quiet patience, “In the final moments of death—particularly a violent or emotional death—
certain groups of muscles lock tight, usually those of the hands and forearms.” He lifted a hand and made a fist for demonstration, adding, “Often when the victim is clutching something.” Jarvis held up a finger, then stepped away for a moment to dig through a small pile of clearly labeled, plastic bags.
He returned with one and held it up for Cam’s inspection. “I found this in her fist.”
“Is that a rosary?” He frowned when Jarvis nodded confirmation. His gaze swerved back to the form now huddled beneath a white sheet. “Red?”
“Yeah, Sheriff?”
“Aren’t the Watson’s Methodist?”
“Yeah, Sheriff.”
What in the hell was Lori doing with a rosary?
Cam let out a long, aggravated sigh while he toed at the soggy debris near his boot. At least they wouldn’t have to freeze their balls off looking for evidence out here. A few weeks back, and this search would have been downright miserable. Then his gaze skittered over the sloppy mulch around the body, and he 35
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changed his mind. Searching for any clues in this
mud and decomposing debris might well be a miserable task after all. He’d have to come back later, after everyone else had cleared out, and go over the scene on his own. His senses were sharp now, but they’d be fifty times stronger after he’d shifted.
Shit. Well, there went a quiet night at home with a take-out tray from Maggie’s and a cold one while he watched the game on his big screen. Hell, who was he kidding? The game might be on, but, like as not, it’d be like everything else today…pushed to the back burner by unexpected fantasies about that gorgeous blonde in Maggie’s this morning.
He hadn’t been able to shake her from his thoughts all day no matter how hard he’d tried.
She’d been like a constant buzz in the back of his brain, an unceasing hum in his veins. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never, never had this problem before…and sure as hell not off one little glance at a woman.
Scrubbing his hand down the side of his jaw, he conceded the point that he’d stolen more than one little glance. Hell, he’d been hard pressed to tear his eyes away from her for more than a handful of minutes, from the time he’d stepped inside Maggie’s until the moment she’d sashayed out the door. He’d never had a woman affect him like that. He’d never let a woman affect him like that. Hell, it was probably just a fluke. Next time he saw her—and there definitely would be a next time now that she’d moved to town—he wouldn’t pay her any more attention than he did anyone else.
Heaving a resigned sigh, he glanced down at his clothes before addressing Judy.
“Give me ten minutes to go home and shower this dust off and I’ll be back to walk the scene with Red. I know Tommy’s big game is tonight, so I’ll 36
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hurry, then you can go on. Just sit tight for now, detain anyone who stumbles out this way. Radio in and have Emma pull Austin in if she can find him, but have her keep it low key. I don’t want this to turn into a media circus. And I sure as hell don’t want this getting back to Steve until I drive over to break the news.”
“Aw, shit,” Red muttered beneath his breath. It must not have occurred to him next of kin had yet to be notified. Steve, Lori’s husband, and Red were old drinking buddies from high school. Cam stifled the urge to offer sympathy. Right now Red wasn’t a friend of the deceased’s family. He was a lawman with a murder scene on his hands.
Cam couldn’t stand to look at Lori any longer, covered as she was or not. He couldn’t afford to think of her as anything more than a faceless victim now, or he’d have a real mess on his hands. Turning to the hunter, he ordered, “Jeff, I’m gonna need you to stick around just a little longer. Judy will take your statement.”
The hunter bobbled his head, a feeble motion, oblivious to the subtle nod Cam shot Judy. Jeff’s reluctant, wide-eyed gaze dropped to the sheet-draped body and his Adam’s apple bounced. The man was built like a brick shithouse, but right now, he looked as if the slightest puff of breath might knock him off his feet.
Cam could sympathize.
He trekked back up the hill and jumped inside the cab of his truck. The big diesel roared to life. He left the lights and the siren off as he flew down the gravel road toward home in the fading daylight. He didn’t have far to go. Out of habit of years of patrol duty, his gaze flickered down the long driveway to the old Caruthers Place. He almost stomped on the brake when he caught the faint glow of lights at the rear of the house.
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Recalling the pixie-like blonde—the very source of his tormenting fantasies…and his new neighbor—
he stopped himself from charging up the lane to scare off any would-be vandals. He’d heard she’d moved into the place. Bought the house as it stood, without so much as stepping one of those tiny little hiking boots inside. She’d stirred up a regular hornet’s nest of speculation all over town, flitting here and there, ordering supplies and whatnots right and left.
He’d also heard through the gossip mill, she was some kind of artist, though he’d tried not to pay much attention at the time. The old place she’d chosen to hang her hat was in complete shambles, and if she intended to live there, she had her work cut out for her. Then again, after his stolen glances at her in the diner, he didn’t figure she’d last long.
Probably just as well, given his inexplicable reaction to just the sight of her. She’d been so prim, so aloof, sitting there all alone. She’d worn those faded, frayed jeans and that worn T-shirt better than most swimsuit models sported their sexy bikinis. Lord knew her effect on his system had been infinitely much more devastating.
He gave a weary shrug and punched the accelerator again. He had enough to deal with right now without worrying about some artist with a passing fancy for rundown buildings…even if she was about the prettiest thing he’d laid eyes on in longer than he cared to remember. Chances were she wouldn’t last the summer anyway. Hell, once she heard about the dead body sprawled damned near in her back yard, she’d be lucky to last the week. No, he wouldn’t worry about her. And he wouldn’t be wasting any more time daydreaming over her.
The sway of her hips as she’d left the diner that morning flickered through his mind.
He puffed his cheeks out and blew a long breath.
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Damn. She’d had a sexy little swing going on there.
She’d seemed rather frail though, had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her. Vulnerable. He didn’t usually go for the helpless type, preferring confident, self-reliant women instead. Still, something about her nagged at him. Something uncomfortable, something he couldn’t quite put his thumb on…and couldn’t quite shake.
Something that raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Swearing beneath his breath, he chastised himself for being nosy. Contrary to common perceptions about territorial sheriff’s departments, Cam did not, in fact, believe it his God-given right to stick his nose in everybody’s damned business.
There were enough dirty little secrets floating around this town to contend with as it was without adding more into the soup. His own included.
There’d be hell to pay if the town council found out about his foray into insanity last summer, though now, what with Lori’s murder and all, it’d be a might difficult to keep that particular secret under wraps. Heaven help him if they found out the rest.
The Salem Witch Trials would probably have offered more leniency than Fulwick County’s esteemed citizens. The chilling thought of mob lynchings and genocide sent shivers crawling down his spine.
He steered his truck down the neighboring drive, 125 Shady Lane, and slammed the truck into park, refusing to allow emotion to rise to the surface.
Red wasn’t the only one who needed to be a cop right now. Cam couldn’t let his emotions anywhere near this investigation. Sliding the keys from the ignition, he leaped from the truck and jogged across the yard toward the front porch. Bounding up the steps, he raced inside and back to his bedroom where he dug out a change of clothes.
Cam rushed through the house—stripping as he 39
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went—past construction materials and power tools, skidding inside the bathroom he’d just finished this afternoon. He caught his own reflection in the mirrored panels of the medicine cabinet, and his footsteps faltered. Bracing his hands on either side of the sink, he leaned closer and examined the face in the mirror. Hell, if he had that face sitting in an interrogation room, he’d have a cell waitin’ and a handy place to throw away the key. He’d never seen a face wearing so much guilt. How long did he have before someone else noticed it too?
Haunted green eyes stared back at him from a face pale beneath his natural tan. His wheat-colored hair was white with the dust of his labors. That same powder caked in the tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, exaggerating them, making him look far older than his age. His cheeks looked gaunt, his mouth grim.
He felt old. Decades and decades older than his thirty-one years. Hell, where had the time gone? It seemed j
ust yesterday he’d had nothing more to worry about than whether or not he’d throw the winning touchdown at the state playoffs…no worries other than if he’d be able to score with Mary Jane Patterson when the game was over.
Nothing more to worry about than concealing the abnormal changes taking place inside his own adolescent body. He jerked his mind away from that bitter train of thought and centered his focus on the here and now.
Here and now, his troubles consisted of a dead body and notifying the next of kin.
Shit.
Sometimes being the one in charge of upholding the law really sucked. His right hand smoothed over the tattoo covering the entire left side of his chest, yet another symbol of his transition from naïve, careless youth to jaded, responsible adult. The 40
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griffin—with its massive wings spread, lethal talons poised to strike—surveyed his reflection with piercing, ageless eyes. A personal reminder of the burdens he so proudly bore, every bit as much as the shiny badge he wore pinned to his uniform shirt.
Just now, those burdens felt like the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
Shaking his head, he hopped into the shower before the water had sufficient time to warm up. He toweled off, dressed, and was back on the road in record time. His gaze tracked back to 123 Shady Lane as he drove by, but nothing seemed to have changed. Turning back to the road ahead—resolved to keep the beguiling woman out of his mind—he edged the truck onto a side road wrapping around and back into the woods, bracing himself for the long night ahead.
Red had already set up floodlights, warding off the encroaching darkness. Drawing a deep breath, he jumped down from the chrome runner and made his way to the crime scene. Pulling on rubber gloves, he scanned Jeff’s statement, nodding his approval to Judy. She was a damned thorough officer. Cam advised Jeff to keep silent about what he’d seen before sending both Judy and Jeff on their way.
After helping Jarvis load the victim’s body in the back of the ME’s van, he stood at the side of the road, watching as the van’s taillights went around the bend and out of sight.
“Aside from the tapes, magazines, and condoms, there ain’t much to go on here,” Red called out as he approached. Red’s voice sounded steadier now, more in control. “Dr. English said as how he figured she was probably left out here sometime last night.” He stood, brushing damp, decaying leaves from the knee of his uniform. “Rained last night…hard tellin’ if we’ll be able to lift any prints. How the hell did he manage to dump her without leaving a single 41
