To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  At last, he came upon the old track and followed it across an open gorge, praying that it was out of use and no train would come. Despite his recent vision, he knew that he would jump into the river, rather than be crushed by a train. Some things men had no power over, like their will to live.

  Safely on the other side, he continued to climb; edging his way up the mountain diagonally, using his hands to balance against the pale grey rocks. Finally, as he paused on a ledge to catch his breath, he glimpsed an inviting clearing against the side of a rock wall. Venturing closer, he realized that the glade was paved in granite slabs that prevented tree growth, though moss and lichen shrouded several boulders.

  Near the rock wall, an overhang offered some protection from the rain, so he squatted again and waited for inspiration. Time was running out. Perhaps he should have involved the police. Who was he to take on a killer? But cops…he hated them—

  A branch cracked breaking his thought. Peering sideways, he spied the man, leaning casually against the rock wall some ten feet distant. With keen eyes, he surveyed the body he knew only by touch: brown hair beneath a sopping ball cap, a green rain poncho, blue jeans, hiking boots. He carried no obvious weapon, but anything could be hidden under that ugly plastic cover.

  The man nodded, then sauntered toward him. “I’ll need to search you.” His voice was raspy and low. Unrecognizable. “You won’t mind though, will you? Undo your coat.”

  “So, you’re sociable this time.”

  While patting him down, the man’s hands tightened on his inner thighs and lingered. Estrada tensed under the focussed squeeze of his fingers.

  “I said to come alone. You don’t listen very well.”

  So, he’d seen them arrive in the crimson car and felt betrayed. He had no right. This was no relationship.

  “Where’s Maggie?”

  “You broke the deal. We’re going someplace where your puppy can’t find us. Move.”

  Estrada sauntered ahead, skirting trees and fallen rocks, turning where instructed, and all the while, trying to remember landmarks. After twenty minutes, he realized that they were heading directly toward a steep mountain.

  “Through there,” the man said, pointing out a cleft in the rocks. Estrada manoeuvred his slim body sideways, through an impossibly narrow rift that seemed to cut its way upwards through the centre of the mass. His right hand, while dangling at his side, brushed against the man’s fingers. He jerked reflexively, hit hard stone with his knee, and yelped.

  “Keep going,” the man barked, hurt by his too obvious repulsion. Winded from the climb, Estrada breathed heavily. As the cleft opened wider, the rain poured down. At this altitude, he realized with chagrin, as night drew on, it could easily turn to snow. How bizarre it seemed, that only the night before last, he laid in a rushing stream under the clear silver light of the full moon and felt the power of the gods surge through his soul. If only they would help him now.

  He sent a silent prayer, then paused, confused, seeing nothing but a vertical mass of rock and a few straggly trees. “Through there,” the man repeated, and nodded toward the trees. Finally, he pulled back the stunted pines and shoved Estrada down and through a small crevasse in the rock.

  Motionless in the pitch, he listened. All he could hear was the ringing of his ears in the tomblike silence. Then, the rattle of wooden matches. A minute flare appeared and he smelled the stench of sulphur. As the flame grew, fire illuminated the man’s face. He was wearing a crudely applied rubber mask. Damn. He could be anyone. Visible fissures around the lip lines and green eyes enhanced the distortion.

  The man squatted, picked up a torch from the ground and lit it, just as the flame reached his fingertips. He flicked the match aside and stood holding the torch. “Keep walking.”

  “Is Maggie here?”

  “I’m impressed by your concern.”

  “She’s just a kid.”

  The floor rose slightly as they stepped through the shadows and followed a curving passage. Estrada tripped and swung into the wall. “Damn. If I have to go first, at least let me hold the torch.”

  “So you can turn around and punch me?”

  “If I wanted to punch you, I’d have done it already. I came here for Maggie.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, and until she’s safe—”

  “Relax, magician. We’re nearly there.”

  Indeed, a few steps later, Estrada turned a corner into an oddly shaped cave. Strewn with dried fragrant grasses, it offered comfort after the long climb in the rain. The man jammed the torch into a crack near the wall, then picked up a fresh one, lit it, and planted it in another corner. Satisfied with the state of his den, he pulled off his wet poncho and hung it over a rock; then slid off his small backpack and perched on a bench-shaped boulder. Taking out a canteen, he offered Estrada a drink. A small gold crucifix, set with green stones, fell from his collar.

  Estrada eyed the cross. Emeralds. Expensive. Perhaps Dylan was right and this was Grace. Observing his interest, the man tucked it beneath his sweater.

  “What is this place?” Estrada asked, sensing ambient energy in the cave. He wondered how the man knew about this hidden grotto. Perhaps, he’d lived nearby as a boy or had a father who was an avid outdoorsman, as he appeared to be. He wished his father had taken him exploring in places like this, where the graffiti might be thousands of years old and the spirits of the ancient ones still lingered.

  “Indian cave? Gold mine? I knew you’d like it. You’re a romantic and—”

  “Where’s Maggie?” Estrada interrupted, his eyes narrowing. This sordid attraction tormented him.

  “Your fear makes you tense, magician. I’m a good masseuse…better than your priestess.”

  “How do you know—?” The man laughed, amused by his reaction. “I’d rather you kept your hands off me. I came here for Maggie, not you.”

  “You keep saying that. Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Look, if this is your idea of a date, I’m not impressed or interested.” The man scratched at the corner of his eye where a drip of glue clung to the mask like a static teardrop. “That can’t be comfortable. Why don’t you take it off and show me who you really are?”

  “Who I really am? We all wear masks of one kind or another. Even you, pretty boy.”

  The flaming torches cast intense heat into the small confined space. Accepting that he was stranded in conversation, Estrada took off his dripping coat, spread it over a boulder and sat on the stone floor. Lifting his leg, he wedged one foot against the edge of a rock. He hated that pretty boy shit. He’d been judged by it all his life. He wiped the rain from his face, then wrung out his wet hair and tied it in a knot.

  “I suppose you have me all figured out.”

  “I know you’re into me, despite your denial. I can feel it. Hell, I can almost see it.” Estrada could see it too. Faint trails of light connected them—bonds of intimacy. He wondered if the man had some innate ability similar to his own for visualizing energy. “The last time we met—”

  “Don’t make it more than it was. I gave my word to let you do—”

  “You loved what I did. Admit it. I’m the best lover you ever had—better than your Michael Stryker. You’re as hard as I am right now. You want more. You want me to—”

  “No.” Estrada swallowed to moisten his dry throat. He had to stop this banter. Everything the man said was true. Their connection was more potent than anything he’d ever felt in his life, and as lovers go— Christ. If he didn’t maintain control, he’d lose himself, and this time there would be no coming back from it. He was beguiled—as charmed as the killer. “No. That was before…before I realized that you burn women. How could I ever—?”

  “There are many ways to burn women. You and your friend burn women frequently and indiscriminately.”

  “And he’s a philosopher.”

  “It’s true. You choose only the beautiful people for your soirées and reject all others without a thought. You glori
fy violence and death. That Halloween performance was obscene—”

  “Sorry I offended you.” So, he had been there.

  Ignoring his sarcasm, the man continued. “You feed unsuspecting women drugs that alter their senses and morals, and you transform innocent girls into whores—girls like Maggie. Did you even notice how she changed to seduce you?”

  Maggie had changed her appearance but he assumed it was because she was delving into goth, not because of him.

  “Did you ever consider that the women you select for your parties, might be daughters, sisters, or mothers with children waiting for them at home? No magician, you are selfish and capricious—”

  “Enough. I get your—”

  “You use and discard. Just as you are about to do to me.” Estrada felt a chill sweep the backs of his arms. “The only difference between us, is that you burn women recklessly and I burn them with reason.”

  “To save their souls, I presume.” A moral psychopath? The man was more complex than he imagined. “If I’m such a monster, why do you—”

  “Want you? Aye, there’s the rub. As you well know, a man cannot always control his desire. The soul seeks its counterpart.”

  “You think I’m your soulmate?” Estrada shook his head. “If I’m anything, I’m your Nemesis.”

  “Here to mete out justice? Great Mythic Hero Saves Innocent Girl From Evil Beast? Be honest. There’s more on your mind than that. You can’t stop thinking about me. You wonder why you’re so drawn to me, even now. It tantalizes you. It makes you crazy. It makes you weak.”

  “Listen. Because of you, at least one girl is dead. My friend is in the hospital because her ex thinks he killed her, and you’ve abducted Maggie Taylor. So yes, I am here to save the innocent girl from the evil beast. And, despite this bizarre attraction, I don’t want to be your boyfriend.”

  “But you long to be my lover.”

  “Listen. I don’t know what condition Maggie is in, but I imagine she’s scared out of her mind. You offered a trade. I accepted. Can we just get on with it?”

  “Fine. What will you trade?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Hmmmm…”

  Estrada shook his head. “Not sex. Something else.”

  “Your freedom, perhaps? Would you stay in her place? Ah, but sex would undoubtedly arise.” The man had engaged him in this insane conversation just to draw things out and Estrada was tiring of the game. “How about your life? Are you willing to trade your life for hers?”

  “If I made that trade, how could I be sure you’d release Maggie unharmed?”

  Estrada clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the rock. His mind was racing. Daphne’s spell must had morphed into some kind of sexual enchantment. Maggie had morphed into a sexy goth. He thought of Sensara, the unusual way she’d acted for those few weeks—frequenting Pegasus, changing her behaviour, the way she dressed—and how she’d suddenly changed back. He must be bewitched himself. And the man. Both of them were enthralled in some Bacchic charm that amplified feelings, created potent pheromones and compounded desire. The question was: should he give in to it, or resist? Which action would facilitate Maggie’s release and stop the man from killing other witches?

  “You would have to trust me, magician.”

  “Trust you? I don’t think so.” Estrada shook his head and sighed. “You seem to like magic. I could teach you a trick.”

  “That would only spoil it for me. Let’s see. What do you have to trade? Ah, I know. Your hair.”

  “My hair?”

  “Yes, I like you with your hair off your face, the way it is now.” He remembered that first night and how the man had tied his hair back in a bun.

  “Why do you want my hair?”

  “I don’t want your hair, magician. I want your submission. I want your power.”

  Estrada considered this. He had not cut his hair since becoming a magician. Seven years. Soaking wet, it touched the bottom of his rib cage and encased his solar plexus like a protective shield. He loved his hair. It was his brand.

  The man smiled, already delighting in his power. “Did you know that executioners shaved the heads of witches before they burned them?”

  “Are you planning to burn me?”

  The man ignored the question. “They said they were searching for the Devil’s mark, but really they shaved their heads to shame them because they were instruments of Satan that led men into sin.”

  He spoke like a priest. Estrada thought again of Grace, the priest who’d assaulted Maggie. He’d read that women accused of witchcraft were sometimes sexually assaulted while being held captive. Jade had been burned on a bed. What had this lunatic done to her before lighting the cabin on fire?

  “How many men and women have you led into sin, magician?”

  “Please, just tell me where Maggie is. Then you can do whatever you want with me.”

  “Oh, don’t tempt me.” Agitated, the man stood. “I love you, Estrada. Don’t you know that? Can’t you feel it? I love you so much it breaks my heart to refuse you anything.”

  “You love me? You murder Jade. You grab Sensara and me. You play sex games with me, then shove me away, and dump me on the highway. Then you kidnap Maggie just to get me back? All because you love me?”

  “Narcissistic fool. Do you think it’s all about you?”

  “Explain it to me then, because I don’t—”

  “And Maggie is far from innocent. She needs to learn—”

  “Did you rape her?”

  “Did I rape you?”

  “I didn’t refuse you, and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “Fine. I submit. Take my hair and let Maggie go.”

  “Deal.” He sat down on the stone bench across from Estrada and held out his hand. “Give me your cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Maggie’s not here, but I’ll type the directions in a text to…?”

  “Dylan.” At last, he was getting somewhere.

  “When our deal is complete, you can press send. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the phone. Dylan, Sensara, and Sylvia were sitting in a restaurant just off the highway, awaiting instructions. Once they knew Maggie’s location they could go and get her.

  The man typed the text and flashed it before Estrada’s eyes, so he could see the words that signified her release. Carefully, he set the phone down on the bench.

  Estrada rubbed his skull, feeling the odd bumps and dents of life. His mood had lightened. He hadn’t had a buzz cut since he was a kid, but if sacrificing his hair could save Maggie’s life, he’d do it gladly. Once she was safely out of the country, he’d come back and finish this.

  The man extracted a pair of shears from his pack.

  “You came prepared.”

  “Perhaps I’m psychic too.”

  Estrada did not laugh, but focussed on his quivering gut as his captor gathered his hair in his hands and hacked through it with the shears. When he finished, he waved it in the air. “Head feel lighter?”

  Estrada closed his eyes. “You’re not really going to shave my head, are you?”

  The man chuckled. “Has a razor ever touched your head?”

  “Jesus. Not with a razor.”

  “Relax.” He reached into his bag and produced a battery-powered shaver.

  “You knew it would come to this.”

  “I know you.” Tilting Estrada’s head, he ran his fingers softly up his neck, across his jaw, and over his lips, then touched them to his own lips. “Because I love you.”

  “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t do this.”

  “You’re wrong about that.” He ran his palm over Estrada’s scalp. “Your hair’s still damp.” He took a small towel from his bag and massaged his head. The man’s touch was a crazy comfort. Perhaps at another time, under different circumstances…

  “You like this. I’m glad.”


  “Just get on with it,” Estrada said, coming to his senses.

  He cringed as the man turned on the shaver and began to buzz his head from the base of his skull to his forehead. Hair fell like leaves around him. When at last the buzzing stopped, silence crammed the cave. Estrada shook his head and felt nothing but a rush of air.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Strong and free. Now give me the fucking phone.”

  The man stood in front of Estrada and ran both hands over his skull. “I do love you. That’s why I had to shave your head. It was the only way to save your life.” When he leaned down and kissed him on the mouth, the force of it rushed through Estrada’s body like an electric wave as memories of that night in the cabin surged through his senses.

  He jerked away. “Don’t—”

  “Here.” The man tossed him the phone, his voice dismal. He wanted more than power and submission. He wanted love.

  Estrada read the text: follow game trail 2 miles E from Saddle Rock tunnel

  He pressed send.

  And I would walk five hundred miles. The sound of The Proclaimers erupted from directly outside the cave, startling both men who looked to each other in astonishment. Then Estrada grabbed his coat and dashed toward the opening.

  Behind him, rocks came crashing down in a clattering chaos of dust and debris. As the cave convulsed, he heard the man cry out. Halfway through the opening, Estrada stopped. Should he go back and save him? Then a boulder rolled from the inside, seemingly by the hand of Gaia herself, and the cavity was sealed.

  After squeezing through the tunnel, he emerged on the other side. Dylan stood there clutching his cell, and despite everything, Estrada laughed. Wearing a green and blue plaid kilt, black leather knee boots, and navy windbreaker, Dylan’s cheeks glowed like ripe apples. He sniffed and nodded. The two men embraced, and then sized each other up; their eyes a maze of questions.

  “How did you—?”

  “I followed you.”

  “Where’s Clive?”

  “No idea. The car’s parked by the trail entrance. But I didn’t see him.”

  “So where is he?” Dylan shrugged. “Did you do that?” Estrada pointed to the cave. He knew the kid could communicate with rocks. Could he also command them?