“Just remember he’s worth it,” Nia said from across the room. “And that man of yours can handle himself.”
Lena smiled faintly. “Yeah. I just don’t like not knowing what’s going on.”
“None of us do. But we can’t go bugging him, either, if we want him to concentrate. He’s safer if he’s got his mind on the job anyway, right?” Nia pointed out.
“Yeah.” Lena sighed.
Law smiled at Nia. She jerked a shoulder in a shrug and crossed her arms.
Carter was a patient man under most circumstances, but today wasn’t most circumstances. He kept his radio tuned into the frequency the local cops used as he turned the little BMW down Reilly’s driveway. People recognized his van too easily. They didn’t drive the BMW as much—hopefully, it was less likely to be recognized.
His head pounded as he slammed on the brakes in front of Reilly’s place. Nia’s bike was there, parked in front. Good. Take care of them both. The bitch, Reilly. Then he’d deal with Lena before heading back to his workshop, where he’d finish things.
He only had a couple of hours before the drugs wore off on Roz. Well, assuming she hadn’t suffocated. He wanted to be back before she woke up. He’d give her more drugs before he took care of her, make sure she didn’t know what was coming.
He loved his wife. Hurting her was something he’d never do.
Time was short. Because he didn’t have time, he didn’t bother knocking. He knew there was an alarm system and he’d planned on only being there a few minutes anyway. It didn’t take long to aim and pull a trigger, after all.
But the three minutes he was in the house were wasted, because the house was empty.
Damn it.
Rage was singing in his blood by the time he was back in the car. He didn’t have time for this shit. He’d be damned before he got his ass arrested. No fucking way.
Now he had a choice to make. He deliberated as he headed to Lena’s. Did he waste any more time trying to find Nia? She was the reason for all of this.
“Well, actually, that’s Lena,” he muttered, his voice harsh, rough. All those months ago. When she’d heard the screams when his little bitch got away.
Just thinking about that had those memories flashing through his mind—her screams. Him tracking her. Catching her—
The way she’d sobbed as he hauled her back, her pitiful pleas …
Blood roared in his ears, so loud, so hard.
He didn’t even hear the sirens wailing until the first deputy car came flying around him.
Spine stiffening, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw another.
Sirens wailing, the car flew around him, the same as the last one. Heading east down the highway … toward the Inn.
And his workshop.
Breathing raggedly, he gripped the steering wheel. Lena’s house was coming up.
He made a split-second decision.
He had to know—because if they were at the workshop, he couldn’t risk going back there.
Ezra still had a million and one things to do, and this was already a nightmare in the making as far as crime scenes went, but the lost look on Remy’s face, when the man was normally so fucking cocky and collected, hell. It was killing him.
“I called for an ambulance, too,” he said, moving to stand in front of the bench where Remy was sitting, cradling the unconscious woman.
“Ambulance,” Remy echoed. “Yeah. Good idea. Why won’t she wake up?”
Ezra had his suspicions. He lifted one of Roz’s lids, peered at her eye. The pupil was a mere pinpoint. “I think he drugged her. I’ll tell the EMTs—they’ll probably look anyway, but they can let the doctors know, run some blood tests.”
Remy nodded.
Still, that lost, dazed look remained on his face. Ezra didn’t have time to shock him out of it, either. Hell, Remy didn’t have time to sit there looking lost, or confused. There was too much at stake, too many people who could become potential targets and Remy, better than most, might be able to figure out who was most at risk.
“You going to sit there all damn night looking like he killed your dog or are you going to snap out of it and do something?” Ezra said, going for a cold, flat tone and hoping it would do some good.
Remy stiffened.
Then slowly, he looked up, his blue eyes shuttered. “You’re going to have to give me some time to adjust to the fact that my cousin—my blood, my friend—is a killer.”
“No. I don’t have to give you some time, Counselor. Because time is something we don’t have. Somehow I don’t see him tucking his wife into an oven and just disappearing. He was going to come back and kill her, but he had a plan, damn it. He was going after somebody. He’s pissed and I bet you can figure out best who is the most likely target. Nia? Since she came back and fucked it all up? Reilly? Lena?”
“What … why would he go after Lena?”
Ezra spun away, shoved a hand through his hair. “Hell. You really aren’t thinking like a lawyer, are you? Are you thinking at all?” He looked back at him. “She heard one of his victims, Jennings. The screaming. Probably Nia Hollister’s cousin.”
Remy went white. Then he closed his eyes. Nodded. He took a deep breath and looked at Roz, then back at Ezra. “I can’t process all of this—I just can’t. Give me a few minutes—let me get her to the hospital.”
As he said it, they both heard the sirens wailing. Remy rose, still cradling the burden of Roz’s limp, practically lifeless body. He looked toward the window. “I need to call Hope, let her know what’s going on.”
Ezra softly said, “She already knows most of it. She was at the Inn this morning with Lena. Left when Lena did. She’s at our place and she’ll stay there.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “She knows, then. About Carter.”
Ezra inclined his head.
“Okay. I need to talk to her. I need a few minutes. Then I can think.”
He headed for the door and then looked back. “It won’t be Reilly, though. It would be too fair a fight. Even when we were kids, one thing Carter never could stand was a fair fight. He wouldn’t call it that—had it in his head that it was strategizing or whatever. But he’ll go after somebody he has a chance at taking down. He wouldn’t have a chance with Reilly, and he knows it.”
Then he paused. “Actually, he’s most likely to go for the weakest one, the most vulnerable. While others are focusing on her, he’d have his fun with the rest. Mind games. He was all about mind games.”
“Hope.”
Remy’s mouth twisted and he shook his head. “Hope’s quiet, but she’s not weak, man. And he doesn’t have any reason to go after her. He’d only fixate on somebody who posed a problem to him. Hope’s not the vulnerable one I’m talking about.”
Ezra’s gut turned to ice.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
THIS TIME, EZRA GOT THE WARRANT EASILY.
It was hell on earth, too, because this was now the last place he wanted to be. He wanted … needed to be with Lena. But instead, he had to be here. Doing the job he could have been doing earlier if Beulah had given him the benefit of a doubt.
Instead of being with his wife, he had to be a fucking cop. The only consolation was that he would be better able to protect her once he had what he needed to lock Carter up. And it would have to be a strong, solid case because the people of Ash, Kentucky, might just make that legendary Blue Wall of Silence among cops look mild. They weren’t going to like seeing one of their beloved Jenningses go down—Remy was proof of that, and Ezra liked the guy.
He’d be damned if he left her unprotected, though.
He had Ethan and Keith out there. They might want to be here, but he trusted those two more than anybody else on his team and if he couldn’t be with Lena, then it was going to be them.
He barely managed to keep himself from tearing into the place while he waited for the warrant. Once Beulah had it to him, though, Ezra and his deputies all but peeled the workshop apart, looking
for a clue, a sign.
Granted, the deputies weren’t too keen on it at first.
But Steve Mabry made a gruesome discovery that changed everything. It was dumb luck that he’d even found it, though. The kilns were heavy mothers that would need to be moved with forklifts—and those were the smaller ones. The bigger ones, Ezra didn’t know how they’d even begin to move those bastards.
This kiln was a smaller one, the same size as the one Roz had been in. Identical, even. But Steve had noticed the internal dimensions were off. Because of that, he’d checked the make of the kilns. Identical.
Watching the big deputy crouch inside it made Ezra’s gut clench—the thing was nothing more than a big oven, one that got really, really hot. He circled around it, checking the display. It was dark, but still, it freaked him out seeing one of his men in there. Almost as bad as it had been seeing Roz—
“Sheriff, there’s something weird about the back wall of this thing.”
“Something weird about this whole damn thing,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then he sighed and headed back around to the front, peering inside.
Mabry tapped the strange white bricks that lined the back.
“They don’t match.”
Ezra frowned. “I couldn’t care less if it matches or not, man. It’s not like we’re running a fashion show here.”
Mabry shifted around more, giving Ezra a better view. “You’re not using your imagination there, Sheriff. Look.” He tapped the sidewall in front of him, then gestured to the other one. “See? These two, the material matches. The bottom, the top? All match. It’s the back that doesn’t. And look.”
Ezra watched as Mabry used his flashlight and tapped it against the sidewall. Nothing happened. But when he tapped it against the back wall, the white brick crumbled.
“You know how hot these things get?”
“Really hot?” Ezra said helpfully.
Mabry snorted. “How does about two thousand degrees or so sound?” He pointed to the back of the kiln. “The brick is supposed to help insulate against fire and stuff. How safe you think that is?”
“Well, probably not very. But we’re not here for fire safety—”
“This, here, Sheriff, is a patch job.” Mabry pulled a pocketknife out, wedging it in between two of the bricks. “There’s something behind this. I bet he doesn’t even use this kiln. It’s just here for show.”
Narrowing his eyes, Ezra folded his arms over his chest and watched.
It took more than an hour.
But when they were finished, they found a small, secure little cache. Two locked metal boxes, long and skinny, the kind Ezra would expect to see in a bank’s vault. The first one held hair. More than a dozen different swatches, different shades, different textures.
The other box, a larger one, was the most disturbing, though.
It held ashy fragments of bone.
Mabry looked up at him. “Is … ah, is that what I think it is?”
The rest of his men gathered around to peer inside.
Ezra blew out a careful, controlled breath as he studied the kilns. “How hot did you say these suckers could get again?”
“Two thousand degrees, easy.”
Gently, Ezra placed the lid back on the metal box. “The human body can be burned to nothing but ash and fragments of bone when it’s exposed to temperatures that high for a couple of hours.”
“Oh, God.”
He didn’t know who said it, but he echoed the sentiment. Somehow, he didn’t suspect they’d be finding many bodies. That was part of the reason Carter had gotten away with this for so long—there was never a trail. He picked women who weren’t from here, women with no connection to him, and instead of burying the bodies, he’d burned them.
“Sheriff.”
He glanced over. “Yeah, Kent?”
The deputy stood by one of the workbenches, staring down at something. Needing to get away from that macabre discovery, he joined Kent. “I saw this earlier. Didn’t think much of it until you all pulled that out,” he said, his voice thin and reedy.
Ezra frowned, looked at Kent, at his pale face, the sweat beading on his brow. Then he took the little index card.
The word glaze was written in neat block print at the top.
Most of the words on the card might as well have been a foreign language. Silica, feldspar, quartz. But there was one word that jumped out at him. One word that all but imprinted itself on his brain.
Ash mix.
His hand clenched spasmodically. Don’t jump to conclusions—don’t. “Ash mix, could be a lot of things.”
Kent shook his head and pointed to a magazine that lay open on the workbench. “He’s got an interview in there—it’s a recent one, just came out last week. Somebody asks him about his glazing techniques. Apparently he has a gift for coming up with ones that others can’t duplicate. He says he has a unique way of mixing his glazes. Cutting the wood ashes with a special mix of ashes that is unique, and only his.”
Kent bent over and tugged open a drawer, revealing another large metal box, similar to the ones they’d found hidden in the kiln. There were only ashes in this one, but precious few, clinging to the cracks and crevices of the box.
“In the article, it also says that his special mix has been depleted, though, and he anticipates it may be a long while before he can get the right ingredients again. He even says he may never be able to get the right ingredients—says he may not be able to use that glaze ever again.” Kent swallowed, his eyes glassy, but the rage was starting to burn through now. Rage. And horror. “People who have those special pieces should treasure them … each one is unique, each one glows with its own soul, its own voice … its own life.”
Staring into that metal box, Ezra’s blood roared in his ears.
Slowly, he shifted his eyes upward, staring at the neatly organized row of pots and vases lining the shelf just above the workbench. Some truly did seem to glow.
“My God,” he whispered.
“You believe this crazy shit?” Ethan muttered, shaking his head and staring out the window at the big old white farmhouse. Lena had spent a lot of money having the place fixed up. Fresh white paint gleamed in the soft light of the late evening sun. The shutters were dark red, but nobody could glimpse anything inside the house.
The curtains were drawn, hiding everything inside.
“I mean, seriously, Keith. This is nuts,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “Carter Jennings? A fucking killer? You don’t believe that, do you?”
“I know I don’t want to,” Keith said quietly. Carter was blood to him—very convoluted and distantly related, but still, family was family.
But the job was the job and when he’d taken the call from the sheriff, he’d heard the urgency, the sincerity in King’s voice. The man wouldn’t have them out here on some crazy ghost chase.
“Ha! See, I knew I wasn’t the only one.” Ethan smirked and leaned his head back against the headrest, sighing. “Damn it, this is going to screw Sheriff King up bad.”
Keith slid him a narrow glance. “You didn’t hear me very well. I said I didn’t want to believe it. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe it. I’m going to withhold judgment there. But the sheriff wouldn’t make this call without good reason.”
The crackle of the radio kept him from hearing anything else that might have been said.
“This is Dispatch … got a report of suspicious activity … Deb Sparks …”
Ethan and Keith, as one, groaned.
Keith answered. “We’re already busy at the moment, Dispatch. You’ll have to send another unit.”
“No one close—sounds urgent, heard her screaming.”
“Fuck.” Ethan rolled his eyes.
Keith groaned.
Ethan said in a low voice, “It’s just Deb. I can leave you here, swing by, flash the lights. It will make her feel better while the other car gets closer. We’re spread thin here as it is, with most of the team out at Carter’s workshop.”
“And what if there really is a problem?” Ethan gestured to the house. “There isn’t one here.”
The radio crackled again. “Closest car I have reports ETA in ten minutes.”
“We’re three minutes away.” Ethan glared at Keith. “You either get out and keep an eye on the place on foot, or you come along for the ride.”
Keith glared at the younger deputy as he reached for the door. “You know I’m going to write your ass up for this.”
Ethan flashed him a grin. “Go ahead. But I figure King’s going to be in so much damn trouble for the shit storm he’s bringing down with this bullshit on Carter, nobody’s going to care.”
That had to be the most faulty reasoning Keith had ever heard. But as he watched Ethan speed off down the driveway, he was torn—he liked Ezra. He liked Ethan. He’d known Carter most of his life. So did he hope Ezra was right—which meant Ethan wouldn’t be getting off scot-free for insubordination—or did he hope Ethan was right and that while Ethan’s little fuckup would get lost in the smoke of Ezra’s screwup, Ezra’s career would be shot?
“I didn’t sign up for this political bullshit.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Hell. Too much political bullshit.
Deb’s lifeless eyes watched him as he poured himself some whiskey from the stash she’d kept hidden in her sewing basket. He toasted her. “Cheers, Deb,” he murmured, looking out the window.
He’d heard her calling the cops. He’d wanted her to call the cops.
After all, how could he make a move when they were all focused on the place where he needed to be?
The sheriff’s department was spread thin as it was. So if he could cause enough chaos, hopefully he could slip in, quietly, do what he needed to do, and then be done with it.
When he heard the sirens, he smiled and left her sewing room, made his way to the living room. It was dim in the house now, almost dark with the oncoming night. He’d already taken care of the lights. Now he just had to wait, and watch.
Through the window, he could see the car well enough. Just one deputy. Sheffield, he thought. Wasn’t positive, but he thought that was the name. Carter was happy it wasn’t family.
If You Know Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense Page 28
