by Rita Herron
A cry of frustration caught in her throat.
She glanced back at the beach. He was moving toward her. She had to hurry.
Trembling with fear, she stooped to retrieve her phone. But her foot bumped it, and it slid beneath the table. She cursed and ran to the box above the refrigerator where she kept her .22.
Her breath panted out, the world blurring again. She snatched the pistol, then staggered back toward the window.
He was gone.
Either gone or on the steps of her porch where she couldn’t see him. Footsteps sounded outside.
Panic seized her. Her vision went foggy. The world swayed. Her legs suddenly gave away. The darkness clawed at her like quicksand.
A tapping on the window broke through the fog. His beady eyes pierced her through the holes in the mask. The windowpane rattled.
The paper skulls danced in the wind . . . Then the three human skulls, just like before . . . their vacant eyes staring back at her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Keeper had set the plan in motion. The cat-and-mouse game had begun.
Nerves made her jumpy, but there was no turning back now. Something had to be done.
According to the details of Tinsley’s abduction, the Skull built a shrine with flowers and sugar skulls and sang and praised the dead.
The Day of the Dead would soon be here. If he suffered from OCD as she suspected, he was thinking of Tinsley and wanting to reconnect with her.
Sacrifices had to be made to reel him in. One day Tinsley would understand and be grateful.
But another name topped the list of men needing justice.
Milt Milburn, the River Street Rapist. The bastard had raped several women, choosing his victims along the river walk in Savannah. Rumors had surfaced that his rich daddy had paid off the judge, and Milburn had been released on a technicality. Milburn and son had both been cocky enough to smile at the camera in victory.
But those rape victims had been traumatized, their lives changed forever.
Thankfully Cat, one of the Keeper’s hands, had exacted justice on the judge who’d released Milburn. But Milt Milburn still walked free.
Like the Skull, Milburn had been quiet for months. The police knew where he was. But Milburn’s father had threatened a lawsuit for harassment if they followed his son. So the police couldn’t do a damn thing until he attacked another victim.
That meant another woman would suffer.
Maybe the fucking cops could live with that, but she couldn’t.
A creep like him couldn’t stay dormant for long. The need for violence was in his blood.
Predators might tell themselves they could stop. But most of them were too weak. They gave in to the dark urges. Couldn’t resist the lure of the hunt.
She was counting on that.
She’d been watching him for weeks. Knew the bars he frequented. His cocky smile. His type of woman.
Meek. Trusting. Easy on the eyes.
She was not that type. Not anymore.
But hey, she could play the part.
She checked her wig in the mirror and carefully applied Kiss Me Pink lipstick before she climbed from the car. A breeze stirred the air, bringing the scent of the marsh and cigarette smoke from the bar.
She tugged her little black skirt over her hips, her chin lifted as if feigning disinterest as she strode inside. Men liked aloof women. Gave them a challenge.
Jazz music pulsed in the background, a sensual tune that sparked erotic movements on the dance floor.
He was here. Milt Milburn. The slime.
She’d spotted his little red sports car convertible in the parking lot. His dick was probably little, too. He tried to make up for it and prove his masculinity by using force.
His reign of terror would end tonight.
She spotted his smug face as soon as she scanned the patrons. He sat perched on the barstool at the end, his body angled so he could watch the door. Assessing the fresh prey as they entered.
The asswipe thought he was sophisticated in his GQ slacks and button-down shirt. A sterling-silver ring bearing the emblem for some snooty college he’d attended glittered in the dim lightning.
His eyes burned a hole in her as she sauntered to the bar, slipped onto a stool, and gave a shy smile to the bartender.
She’d much prefer bourbon, but white wine fit the profile of his victims, so she ordered a pinot grigio. Milburn was from an upper-class family. He was educated.
She thanked the bartender, paid for her drink, and then carried it to a table in the corner where it was dark. Better not to draw attention to herself.
Just as she’d hoped, he took the bait.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said as he slid into the chair beside her.
She blinked nonchalantly, not surprised he didn’t ask. His victims said he was charming. That they’d liked him at first.
Until he morphed into an animal and took them against their will.
She sipped her wine, carefully keeping it out of his reach. She was in charge tonight.
He wasn’t going to win.
“Where are you from?” he asked as he swirled his whiskey in his glass.
“Charleston,” she said. Let him think she was a blue blood.
She feigned interest as he bragged about his competitive sailing adventures, then dropped in tidbits about his investment business.
All bullshit. He’d invested in being his father’s son and living off his inheritance. Another rich brat who thought he could get away with anything because he had money.
So far it had worked for him.
But all good things came to an end.
By the third drink, she leaned on her hand, doting on him, acting as if she were tipsy. Little did he know that she could drink him under the table.
The seduction started with small strokes of his hand across hers. He scooted his chair closer, shoulders brushing. His lips caressed her hair.
She wanted to gag but forced a smile instead.
On the dance floor, couples gyrated to the seductive tune pulsing through the speakers. He swept her out to join them and pulled her close. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his excitement clearly building.
Two dances later, he led her toward the back door. “I need some air,” he whispered into her ear.
She let him guide her through the crowded throng. Booze and the lure of the music lulled the patrons into a trancelike state where they were oblivious to what might be happening around them.
His hand grew tighter on her arm as he steered her into the alley. It was pitch-dark—no lights, no cameras. No one around. Far enough away from the parking lot and smokers’ area so no one would see. Or hear.
He probably planned to rape her here and leave her by the dumpster. That was his MO.
He leaned in for a kiss, and her adrenaline spiked. She gently pushed away.
“A little soon for that,” she said softly. “Let’s go back inside and dance some more.”
“I’m done with dancing, baby.” The flirtatious gleam in his eyes turned to determination as he yanked her closer and slid his hands over her ass. He reached beneath her skirt, his filthy hands cold and mauling.
She shoved him harder this time.
Then he snapped. Gone was the slick, sophisticated charmer.
The River Street Rapist emerged. He yanked her purse from her and threw it to the ground, then hauled her against him.
His hands grew rough, punishing. He jerked her arms up above her head and pressed her into the cold brick of the building wall. Then he bit her neck.
Rage shot through her, and she kneed him in the balls. He bellowed in pain, then slapped her and called her a bitch.
He had no idea.
He lunged for her again, and she grabbed the knife she’d tucked inside her skirt and thrust it upward, straight into his belly. He grunted and cursed in shock and pain.
Eyes bright with rage, he dove toward her, his hands reaching for her throat.
S
he knocked him backward with a fist to his wound, then raised the knife and stabbed him again. This time in the heart, or where his heart should have been.
He grunted, blood spurting as he clawed for the wall.
She stabbed him again and again, smiling at the fear on his face when he realized he was going to die.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sunlight streaked the pine floor and lit the room, jarring Tinsley awake.
She blinked, but her vision was blurred, her head throbbing.
Confused, she peered around and realized she was on the floor near the door. The image of the Skull on the beach walking toward her house jolted her upright. She swayed, blinking the room into focus and massaging her temple.
Fear nearly immobilized her. She’d seen him outside the window again, had been going for her gun. Had he been inside her house?
If so, and she had passed out, why had he left? If it was him, he would have taken her . . . or raped her right here.
But if it wasn’t him, who had she seen?
Pulse pounding, she looked around again, but nothing seemed out of place. The door was closed, the lock in place. Her laptop sat on her desk.
But her glass of tea was on the floor, the liquid spilled out.
Slowly, she dragged herself to her feet. The room swayed just like it had the time she’d called Wyatt.
He thought she’d taken her antianxiety medication.
She hurried toward the kitchen counter and checked her medication. With trembling hands, she unscrewed the cap and looked inside.
The prescription bottle was still half-full.
A shadow moved across the window.
She bolted toward it. Was he out there?
The porch was empty. But paper skulls dangled from her awning. And . . . skulls. Three of them were perched on the ledge by the window.
A scream lodged in her throat.
The chirp of her computer suddenly sounded in the quiet. Nerves rattled, she clutched at the sofa for support as she made her way to her desk.
A message—The women of Savannah are finally safe. The River Street Rapist is dead.
God . . . a photograph, too.
She stared in shock, emotions welling in her chest.
It was a picture of a man lying in a pool of blood. So much blood that it looked like a river of red.
A shrill ringing jolted Wyatt from a deep sleep. He groaned and reached toward the nightstand by his bed, raking his hand for his phone. He knocked it to the floor, then scrubbed his hand over his eyes, leaned over, and retrieved it.
Tinsley.
Instantly alert, he quickly connected. “Wyatt.”
“He . . . was here,” Tinsley cried. “This time he left something.”
Wyatt snatched his jeans from the floor and yanked them on. “Are you okay?”
“He left three skulls on the porch.”
Wyatt cursed. “I’ll be right there.”
“There’s more,” Tinsley said, her voice edged with panic.
His phone was beeping with another call. Hatcher.
That couldn’t be good.
He’d call him back after he hung up with Tinsley. “What is it?”
“Someone sent me a picture,” Tinsley said. “It’s . . . a dead man. I think it’s the River Street Rapist.”
Wyatt hit the floor running. “Keep the door locked. I’m on my way.” He grabbed a clean shirt and dragged it on. Socks and boots next, then he strapped on his weapon and grabbed his jacket.
On the way out the door, he snatched his keys and hurried to his SUV. As soon as he peeled out of his driveway, he phoned Hatcher.
“Director Bellows just called,” Hatcher said. “The River—”
“Street Rapist is dead,” Wyatt finished.
“How the hell did you know?”
“Tinsley just called. Someone sent her a picture.”
“Bellows said the killer sent photographs to Milburn’s rape victims, too.”
Wyatt turned onto the causeway.
“I don’t like this,” Hatcher said. “The killer left the justice symbol on his forehead just like Cat did before.”
A coldness washed over Wyatt. “Another vigilante?”
“Could be the killer wants us to think that.”
“Maybe.” They had wondered whether Cat had acted alone.
“I’m headed to the SPD headquarters,” Hatcher said.
“I’m on my way to Tinsley’s,” Wyatt said. “Someone left skulls on her porch last night. It could be the ones missing from those graves.”
“Fuck,” Hatcher said. “Another Keeper and the Skull on the same night?”
He didn’t like it either.
They agreed to keep each other posted. Wyatt’s pulse hammered as he drove past the Village. A few joggers and walkers were out; Morning Brew, the local coffee shop, was packed. Fishermen were scattered across the pier with their rods and reels, nets, and bait buckets.
A ship’s horn sounded from a barge leaving Brunswick and heading into international waters.
He veered onto the side street leading to the cove, his gaze scanning in all directions, in search of a car or the Skull.
The sadistic man would enjoy watching Tinsley squirm. He hadn’t attacked her yet, but he might be toying with her. Torturing her.
Waiting for the anniversary of when he’d first taken her to make his move.
Tinsley brewed a pot of coffee while she waited on Wyatt.
Then she washed her face, brushed her hair, and changed into clean jeans and a pale-pink T-shirt. Despair nearly overwhelmed her as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked sunken, her skin pale, the lack of sleep and sun taking its toll.
She hadn’t noticed the way she looked in a long time. She needed a hair trim and a manicure and . . . maybe she could order some of that tinted moisturizer to give her skin some color.
Why?
It wasn’t like she had company or needed to impress someone . . .
She hurried back to the kitchen. Those creepy paper skulls fluttered in the breeze, but the human skulls were even more sinister.
Did they belong to the women he’d killed before her?
The FBI and police speculated that he might have moved to another city or state this past year. He could have killed others and gone unnoticed. And these skulls might belong to those victims.
Either way, he was back. And he wanted her to know it.
A gust of wind tossed something onto the dock, and her stomach clenched. She stepped closer to the window to check it out. Relief spilled through her. It was just a branch that had broken off the tree in the yard.
A quick glance at the picture of that dead man on her computer screen made her panic return. Was there another Keeper?
Cat was in a psychiatric hospital. She couldn’t have killed the River Street Rapist. So who had?
A knock sounded, and she startled.
“It’s me, Wyatt.”
She rushed to let him in. His big frame filled the doorway, the scent of his masculine aftershave wafting around her.
Her stomach fluttered. He smelled . . . nice. The kind of sultry, manly smell that once upon a time would have aroused her.
His dark-brown eyes skated over her in concern. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, although she wasn’t okay, and they both knew it. “Those skulls . . . do you think they’re more women he killed?”
A muscle ticked in Wyatt’s jaw. “Forensics should be able to give us some answers.”
“I don’t understand,” Tinsley whispered. “Is it him? Did he take them to taunt me?”
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll get to the bottom of it.” His gaze shot to her computer. “That picture, when did it come in?”
“It came by instant messenger this morning.”
Wyatt crossed to her computer to examine it. “It’s him, all right. Milt Milburn.” He hesitated. “The killer painted the justice symbol on his forehead, just like the Keeper painted on her victims.�
�� He turned to her, his jaw tight. “Whoever sent this also sent it to Milburn’s victims.”
Tinsley pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. “It can’t be Cat. Not unless she’s orchestrating things from the mental hospital.”
“I’ll look into that angle,” Wyatt said. “It’s also possible that another vigilante replaced her. Hopefully our analyst can narrow down where Milburn’s body was left so we can investigate.”
Wyatt noticed the towel on the floor where she’d dried her spilled tea. He angled his head toward her. “Tell me what happened last night.”
She bit down on her lower lip, then quickly swept up the towel and tossed it into the washer in the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. He poured them both coffee and handed her a mug. The gesture seemed . . . intimate.
Their fingers touched, a tingle rippling through her. Her chest clenched.
She would never be intimate with a man again.
“Tinsley?”
“I saw a man in a hoodie walking on the beach,” she said, well aware her voice was strained.
Wyatt didn’t speak. He simply sipped his coffee as if giving her time to gather her thoughts.
“I had worked on my website earlier and was having some tea. Then he turned toward my window . . . that’s when I saw the mask.”
Wyatt made a low sound in his throat. “A skull mask?”
She nodded, battling to control the fear. “I thought I was seeing things, so I kept watching him. Then he came closer, and I saw him smile and . . . I knew it was him.”
“You saw him smile, with the mask on?”
“I know that sounds crazy, but it happened when he held me hostage. His black eyes lit up, and he . . . moved his mouth. He was laughing at me.”
A tense silence fell in the room. “Go on.”
“Then I got dizzy. I tried to reach the .22 I keep in the kitchen, but . . . I passed out.”
Wyatt went still. “Where’s the pistol?”
She quickly crossed to the refrigerator and pulled down the box where she kept it. But the gun was gone.
Wyatt scrutinized the scene in Tinsley’s house with a critical eye. Spilled tea, a masked man at the window, a missing gun.
He might think she’d imagined it, except this time the skulls were real. So someone had been there.
