With an “atta-boy” for her partner, Angela turned the wheel, heading away from the congestion at the mouth of the lane. As the SUV bumped over uneven ground, she scanned the scene again. God, what a mess. Not the kind of case a cop wanted to catch this close to the weekend. And yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. All of a sudden, Sheriff Yahoo was looking a whole lot smarter than the two of them put together.
What in God’s name had happened here?
Her brows drawn tight, Angela hit the brakes and threw the truck into park. Taking the keys out of the ignition, she tossed them to Mac. “Man, where are we? Kandahar?”
“Not enough dead bodies.” Mac caught the airborne gift, cutting off the happy jingle of metal on metal mid-song.
“We’ve got what—just the one, right?”
“Yeah, one dead girl, but…” Popping the latch, Mac pushed the door open and stepped out of the SUV. “Night’s still young.”
Angela snorted. Four a.m. was young? Her partner needed his internal clock reset. Then again, an insomniac no doubt dealt with a different set of criteria for determining what constituted early and late.
“So, what’s your best guess here. Is it…” Angela trailed off, realizing her partner wasn’t listening. Hopping out of the cab, she glanced over and got a load of Mac’s expression. Oh, boy, she knew that look. He didn’t wear it often, and seldom went that still, but when he did? Nothing good followed. “Hey…Mac.”
Size twelves planted on the ground, he stood frozen in the V-shaped cove between the open door and truck frame. White-knuckling the roof edge, he stared at the sky above the Cape Cod, his gaze sweeping through the darkness, searching for something. A something Angela couldn’t see, but experience told her not to discount. Mac’s spidy senses were crazy accurate, much sharper than hers…when he wasn’t having one of his episodes.
One eye on her partner, the other on the sky, Angela unVelcroed her Glock. Gripping the hilt, she kept it holstered and hustled around the front of the SUV.
“Talk to me…whatcha got?”
“Don’t know…something’s off.”
Great. Here they went again. Trouble.
“What was your first clue?” she asked, keeping her voice light to bring Mac back onside. Every once in a while, he freaked her out like this. The last time, he’d seen some sort of shadow, felt breath on the back of his neck. Mac had hauled ass, moving with freakish speed after something Angela hadn’t seen, much less felt. She’d chased him seven blocks that night. No way she wanted him to put in a repeat performance here…in the middle of nowhere with nothing but bush for miles. “A freaking bomb went off out here.”
“Probably C-four,” he murmured, his military mind coming back online. Thank God and all the angels, too. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good to know,” she said and meant it. She’d had enough cardio lately, thank you very much. “Come on. Let’s walk the scene. See what we got.”
He studied the skyline for another heartbeat, then dragged his gaze away and tipped his chin in her direction. “Right behind ya.”
With a nod, she folded the Velcro back in place and, securing her weapon, led the way up the lawn. After flashing her creds, she ducked beneath the yellow tape and peeled right to walk the perimeter. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mac go left, toward the sheriff and the tight knot of deputies surrounding him.
Thank God for small favors. Or rather, for Mac. He knew her strengths lay in the field—in picking up evidence at a glance, the small stuff that most detectives missed—not in interdepartmental schmoozing. Being a twenty-first century woman didn’t mean automatic acceptance. Some of the old-timers still got their panties in a wad over a woman working homicide. And that just pissed her off…so, yeah. Her talking to Sheriff Yahoo wasn’t a great idea.
With methodical precision, Angela let her eyes do the walking and worked her way down the side lawn, around the back corner of the house and what the—
It looked like a freaking tornado had blown through back here.
Snapped like toothpicks, a swath of trees lay flat, massive trunks torn in two. The track was at least fifteen feet wide and forty feet deep. Holy crap. Something huge had made that, a bulldozer maybe. Big problem with that theory, though. No tire treads or tracks, not a single one indicating any heavy-duty equipment had rolled through recently.
Angela kept going and found an ash pile. A massive one. Okay, so it was bigger than the ones they’d found in the city, but discovering it ticked the first box. Their guy had definitely been here.
She found a second pile as she walked the other side of the house, just to the right of a rundown garage. And then, something else.
An impression at the top of the driveway, beside the old tractor. Which, of course, the yahoo idiots were gum-flapping around. With a “do you mind, get the hell off my evidence,” she examined the hole. About a foot deep, the long trench was U-shaped with a mucky bottom. Stranger still? The ice chips. The small fragments were all over the area: in the trench, around it, mixed in with the gravel.
Hitting her haunches, Angela picked up a chunk. The piece was smooth and even, perfectly formed, like something you took out of a freezer. Weirder still? The thing was thawing evenly, keeping its shape as it melted in the palm of her hand.
An eerie sensation ghosted up her spine. Something was really wrong here…in a crazy spooky kind of way.
And she hadn’t even made it to the kitchen yet.
Angela blew out a rough exhale. Time to go. She’d avoided the body of her latest victim long enough.
Taking the steps two at the time, she avoided the rubble and stooped under the downed porch. A second later, she crossed over the threshold, boots crunching on broken glass, to head down the narrow corridor. She took a moment before moving into the kitchen, noting the red pool beside the island and the footprints drying in human blood on the ceramic tile. With a deep breath, she settled herself and took a wide path around the island, making sure to step carefully. The CSI unit would arrive soon. She didn’t want any evidence compromised…needed every scrap to figure out what exactly had gone down here.
At least, she thought so until she got her first glimpse of Caroline Van Owen.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered against the back of her hand. “The bastard.”
Laid out on her back, the girl had been sliced wide open. Mac had warned her, but still…
Angela swallowed the awful taste in her mouth.
This wasn’t their guy’s usual MO. None of the other girls had been pregnant. But Caroline? Holy hell. Someone had…had…cut the baby right out of her womb.
Yeah, not at all like the first three victims.
So different, in fact, it made Angela sick. Stomach-turning, bile-tasting sick.
Crouched beside the island—mere feet from a black bag and strewn medical supplies—Angela forced herself into detective mode and reached into the back pocket of her chinos. As she snapped on her rubber gloves, her mind went critical, diving into the place that allowed her to do her job—the place that both her captain and her partner loved: the sinkhole of analytical thinking that once engaged, solved a crap load of cases.
Seconds passed into minutes. How many Angela couldn’t say as she collected and analyzed…all without touching. Her brain was like a camera, snapping pictures that she would later recall with total clarity. Some labeled her skill a “photographic memory.” Mac called it magic.
A soft scrape on the ceramic sounded behind her. Without looking away from the vic, she asked, “Any sign of the nurse?”
Mac cleared his throat. The rough sound echoed in the small space, telling Angela more clearly than words that her partner was on the same page. He hated what he saw as much as she did, the scene that had taken another girl’s life.
Shifting a little behind her, Mac said, “Shoe impressions…size seven, maybe…behind the rusted-out Buick. Alongside more big boot prints.”
“Military grade…like downtown?”
“Yeah.�
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“The smaller ones might be Caroline’s.”
“Could be, but my gut says no.” Moving around to the other side of the kitchen, Mac hit his haunches at the opposite end of the island. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he met her gaze over the top of Caroline’s body. “I think they belong to Myst Munroe, our missing nurse.”
“Um-hmm.” Picking up a discarded cell phone, she flipped it open. Yup, it belonged to the nurse. “Wrong place, wrong time?”
“Maybe.” He tipped his chin toward their vic. “That’s precision cutting…surgical, clean, no hesitation marks. Need a lot of training to do that.”
“So, what are you thinking? Black-market baby?” Angela hoped not. The monster killing young women was enough for any duo to handle. That someone might have sliced up a woman to take her baby? Yeah, she wasn’t going there until the evidence forced her to. Her eyes narrowed, she scrolled through the nurse’s phone, looking at the history. “Got a nine-one-one call.”
“A hang up?”
Angela shook her head. “Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed as he stood to take the iPhone out of his front pocket. “I’ll get the recording. And a BOLO out on Munroe’s car.”
“Get a warrant, too…for her place, financials. Everything.” Angela snapped the cell phone closed and reached for the tag on the medical bag lying open beside the victim. With a flick, she flipped the name out and…what do you know? Myst Munroe was printed on the face in neat block letters, address included.
Yes, indeedie. Something smelled rotten in Bumpkinville.
And Angela’s gut told her that Ms. Munroe was up to her eyeballs in it.
Chapter Fourteen
Myst woke up in a strange bed. Naked.
Alarm bells—the kind that killed brain cells—went off inside her head, shutting down her ability to breathe properly. As her choppy breaths grew louder, adrenaline joined the fun, ramping her heartbeat into catastrophic territory. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus. Yeah, a functioning brain would be good right about now. Maybe then she could figure out whose bed she’d face-planted in.
And where her clothes had gone.
Rubbing her eyes, she ransacked her memory, trying to remember the hows and whys. Nothing but fog came…and the shriek of panic.
Double-fisting the down duvet, she forced herself to breathe in and out—in then out—and turned her head on the pillow. Her vision stayed blurry a second then…
Thank God. She was alone.
Good news all the way around, but even better? The neighboring pillowcase was smooth, the pillow without a dent from oh, say, a head. Which meant, she’d crawled in by herself and stayed that way since landing, well, here. In the middle of a strange bed…that no doubt belonged to a strange guy.
She rubbed her forehead, struggling to remember. The missing piece was…right there. On the tip of her brain, but no matter how hard she stretched, she couldn’t reach it.
“Okay…relax and think,” she said to herself.
Which, in hindsight, was a bad idea, because upon that instruction an awful thought popped into her head. While it banged around in there, Myst swallowed hard. Had she been…been…God, she didn’t want to say the r-word, but she couldn’t shake the horrible suspicion. Her big mind blank could be drug induced. Rohypnol was a powerhouse narcotic, one that wiped memory clean with wide, ugly brush strokes.
Myst should know. She’d had a patient or two come into the ER looking lost and empty-eyed the morning after being slipped Roofies at a bar.
All right. Breathe.
That was an awfully big assumption. Huge, really, without proof. So, first things first…eliminate every other possibility.
Myst pushed up onto her elbows. A narrow wedge of light streamed across the carpet, coming from an open door to the left of the bed. A bathroom, maybe? Seemed like a good guess, particularly since a second door was closed tight on the other side of the room. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, shadowed shapes formed: a dresser against the far wall, a bench at the end of the bed, a wide window behind tightly drawn shades.
But better than the semi-lit, somewhat sketchy decor? She really was alone…100 percent by herself. No one was sitting in the wide-backed armchairs in front of the window or lurking in dark corners or leaning against the wall across from the bed.
Relief hit her so hard she jackknifed into a sitting position. Blankets clutched to her chest, she took her investigation one step further. As she curled her legs underneath her she paid close attention. She and sex were nearly strangers. Had been for more than…what? Three years? Yeah, that sounded about right, so if she’d been…ah, sexually active last night, then certain muscles should be sore.
Right?
She nodded, liking the logic. “Yes, absolutely.”
Myst came close to crying when she realized she wasn’t hurting…at all. But the craziest thing? The one with sure wow factor? Other than the hole in her memory, she felt amazing: well rested, energetic, no headache. No headache? Man, that was a gift. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up without—
A knock sounded from across the room.
Her head whipped around. She stared at the door, traced its antique lines, not wanting to know who was bare-knuckling the thing from the other side. She’d just gotten used to the idea that she was okay, and now? Someone stood out there with every intention of proving her wrong.
A second knock echoed, stomping on the quiet like a herd of elephants.
Galvanized into motion, she scrambled over the side of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she tripped over a throw pillow and, heading ass-over-tea-kettle, grabbed onto the top sheet. Still anchored to the mattress, the cotton did its job and kept her upright before she yanked the entire mess off the bed. The duvet and an assortment of other bedding went flying.
But, what did she care?
She wasn’t going for homemaker of the year here. The goal was safety, and as she wrapped the bed sheet around her like a toga, she searched for a weapon. Whoever stood in the corridor wasn’t necessarily her friend. She needed to be prepared to do…what exactly?
The heavy silver candlestick sitting on the bedside table caught her eye. One hand holding her makeshift dress, she snatched the thing off its perch. Curling her hand around its neck, Myst held it close, right up against her breastbone.
“My lady?” A crisp British accent came through the door, drifting on a polite wave of inquiry. “May I come in?”
Myst blinked. My lady?
The Brit waited half a heartbeat before the handle began to turn. Myst’s pulse went ballistic, ratcheting up another notch when the polished pewter rotated and the space grew wider between the door and its wooden frame. She raised the candlestick, widened her stance, expecting an axe murderer to come through the door.
A cherub—compete with dark curls and innocent eyes—stuck his head into the room. “Oh, wonderful. I am so pleased you are awake. Good morrow, my lady.” Completely ignoring the fact she was brandishing a candlestick like a battle axe, he pranced over the threshold. “Are you hungry, my lady? I have prepared waffles this eve and all have gathered in the kitchen.”
Myst stared at him, mystified. Waffles? In the kitchen? Holy crap, who—
“Oh, my goodness me,” he said as his flying fairy feet paused in the center of the room. He gave her an apologetic look, then smiled, flashing a gold front tooth. “Forgive me. Wherever are my manners? I am Daimler, and I am so very pleased to meet you, Ms. Munroe.”
With a flourish, he bowed, twin tails on his tux flapping.
Okay, so Daimler—Mr. Starched-Pressed-and-Buttoned-Up—knew her name, but as far as monikers went, she didn’t like that one. Ms. Munroe reminded her too much of her mother and, right this second, she didn’t need to have an emotional breakdown as well as a mental one. “Ah, it’s Myst.”
The little guy stooped to pick up a small throw pillow. He came back up with a perplexed look on his angelic face.
She cleared her throat. “My name is Myst.”
“Oh, my lady…thank you.” His eyes went a little misty, like she’d given him a huge gift. “You honor me beyond measure…” Smoothing the pillow with his long-fingered hands, he gave her a wobbly smile. “Myst. Master Bastian said you were a female of great worth, but…”
As Daimler prattled on, he scurried around the bed, picking up the discarded duvet. Myst heard every word, but didn’t care about any of them but one.
Bastian.
Bam.
Her memories poured back into her skull like water into a glass. Her eyes narrowed. The kidnapping jerk had kissed her. Last night. In the clinic. And…goddamn it. Why had she liked it so much? Exhaustion. Yes, that was a good excuse. She’d been so tired, and no wonder. After a night like that—after Caroline’s horrifying death and her angel’s near miss—she…
Holy crap. The baby.
Panic closed her throat for a second. Myst zapped herself with mental jumper cables.
“Daimler,” she said, her tone sharp with worry. “Where’s the baby?”
The butler hit the pause button on his mouth and the tidying routine. Standing with one hand poised in the air—in a gesture that reminded her of the guys from one of her favorite shows, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. “Oh, no need to worry, my…Myst. The little one is with Master Bastian, of course.”
“I need to see him…the baby,” she clarified. Not Bastian. The rat-bastard. “Right now.”
With a slight incline of his head, Daimler headed for the dresser and as he turned, Myst noticed something odd about him. The guy had pointy ears…like Legolas from The Lord of the Rings.
Holding tightly to her toga, Myst examined that bit of information. Although why it surprised her was anyone’s guess. Bastian and his crew were at least half dragon. Why not have an elf for a butler?
“Here we are.” Daimler turned and approached, clothes folded over his forearm. He laid black yoga pants along with a white tank top and purple hoodie on the bench at the foot of the bed. “It is my hope these will suffice, my…Myst.”
Fury of Fire Page 12
