The Marshalls Boxed Set (Texas Heroes: The Marshalls Books 1-3)

by Jean Brashear

  And he hummed tunelessly.

  At last he stood back, admiring his handiwork. “Ah, yes. It’s how I’ve always imagined. An altar to show you my adoration, and you are the centerpiece.”

  He brandished the knife.

  “Ah, but now, I must prepare my bride…the lovely Lorie’s pretty skin. I’ve fasted and purified myself, so I’m ready for you, my love. I’m an artist, you know, and you will be my finest work.”

  The blade slid down the center of her chest, into the valley between her breasts, the razor-sharp edge slicing through her unitard without breaking the skin.

  She shuddered at the slow rending.

  The cool air on her exposed nipples made them harden into peaks.

  “Ah…you like this.”

  She rocked against her restraints.

  He wrapped one hand around her throat. “Do not move. I don’t want this pretty skin marked.”

  Sour sickness gagged her. She forced herself to be still, squeezing her eyes shut against the sight of him, of what he was doing to her. Trying not to feel the path of the blade as it bared her skin to his loathsome gaze.

  She clenched her jaw against the nausea. She couldn’t let herself get sick, though drowning in her own vomit couldn’t be worse than the terrible, powerless anguish of having this pervert invade her body.

  The blade slid over her pubic bone, and she felt its whispering touch at her core. Tears flowed freely now as her mind recoiled in horror. She began to lose hope as she realized just how depraved this could get. She understood now that he would surely violate her body as he had violated her privacy. Her control of her life.

  Then he pulled out the camera.

  And smiled.

  “Before…and after. I intend to capture every step.”

  Quinn tore out of the cab and raced toward the door. He spotted the doorman and cursed his luck that he’d have to waste precious moments getting past the man. He wondered yet again if the threat was as real as it seemed. Out here on the street, everything appeared so normal that he questioned his sanity.

  But remembering the cold, slithering darkness, he knew he couldn’t take a chance.

  He approached the doorman, knowing instinctively that racing through like a madman would only land him in jail. He combed a hand over his hair and cursed himself for not binding it back. The guy probably saw too many junkies with wild eyes like his to go for this, but he had no choice.

  “Hello.” He gave the man the calmest smile he could muster.

  The man tipped his hat. “Good evening. May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Chandler, please.”

  “She expecting you, sir?”

  “No, not exactly, but I’d like to surprise her.”

  “Well, I can’t do that, not with someone I don’t know.”

  “My name’s Quinn Marshall.” He paused, wondering what to say next.

  The man’s eyes sparkled. Quinn tried to tamp down his desperate need to get upstairs. He smiled back, nerves jangling at his urge to run. “Is that funny?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” The grin widened. “Are you by chance from Texas?”

  “I am.” Steady, Quinn, don’t lose your temper.

  “And where is Grant this fine evening?”

  Could he be catching a break? “At my brother Josh’s loft, sleeping like a log after a busy day, playing football at the park, video games and so on.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man nodded, and Quinn took hope. “I expect Mrs. Chandler might like the surprise, sir. I’ll just be checking in a few minutes to make sure she’s pleased,” he warned.

  “Thank you, Mr….”

  “Frank, Mr. Marshall.”

  “Thank you, Frank.” Quinn managed to wait until he was out of Frank’s vision.

  Then he broke into a run.

  He spotted the service stairs and took them two at a time instead of using the elevator, so the sound of the motor wouldn’t tip anyone off.

  And he hoped to hell he was going to wind up looking like a fool. That Lorie would greet him at the door with a smirk.

  He had only a vague idea of where her apartment was, but he had the number and the floor. He’d had to go into a crime scene before with less information.

  As he neared the door for the third floor, he saw it was unlocked. Probably how the guy got in, but he wasn’t quibbling right now. He crept along the hallway, ears cocked to listen for clues to the situation.

  He thought his way through the position of the stairs as opposed to the passenger elevators. Suddenly, he heard the whine of a motor and verified his position. He crept along, headed toward two doors, one of which he thought would be hers.

  As he neared, he could see the leak of light from one apartment and darkness from the other. His first instinct was to go for the one that was lit, but he remembered his first vision and the recurrent candles. He made his decision and neared the door to the darkened apartment.

  He touched the handle lightly. Locked.

  He blessed his favorite burglar snitch in Houston. Thanks to Bernie, he could open the best of locks with what he carried in his pockets. This lock was not the best. Within seconds, he was inside.

  He glanced around what was obviously the kitchen, looking for a weapon besides his hands.

  As he searched, he could hear an odd, tuneless humming coming from another room. Seeing nothing helpful and unwilling to chance a squeaky drawer, he moved slowly across the room, feeling his way in the dark.

  As he neared a doorway a phone rang nearby, and he jumped half out of his skin. Frank, he guessed, and cursed. The unanswered phone would stir suspicion. Cops could follow.

  It continued to ring, and the shrill sound blocked his ability to hear a voice talking down the hall. He edged closer, searching for another place to hide if the voice’s owner approached. He heard footsteps coming, accompanied by muttering. He stepped back into the first opening.

  Lorie’s scent teased his nostrils, and his heart thumped painfully. Her bedroom, he hoped to heaven.

  The footsteps passed him again, heading back down the hall toward a faint glow of light.

  Slowly. Carefully. Remember Clarissa. He didn’t want to spook whoever it was before he knew what he was facing.

  Quinn edged forward. His sole squeaked quietly. He bit back a curse and stepped backward into the bedroom to remove his boots.

  He left his socks on though that was a risk. Sweaty skin could squeak on hardwood floors, but socks could destroy traction.

  But quiet was paramount as he neared the source of the humming.

  Who had called? Everything in her willed the caller to see what was happening. To make it stop—

  But what if it was Quinn or Josh, and something was wrong with Grant?

  Her helplessness dragged a moan of anguish and frustration up her throat, and behind the terror roared a rage so powerful she knew she would use her fingers to rip out her captor’s heart if ever she had the chance.

  He returned without answering. As quickly as the adrenaline of the rage had come, it vanished. Defenseless and shaking, she searched fruitlessly for some new way to fight him.

  “Now, lovely Lorie, you shouldn’t look at me like that. You like pretty pictures of yourself, you know you do. You’re as vain as all the others, aren’t you? You complain as though you’re innocent, but if you didn’t flaunt yourself like a whore, no one would be paying for photos of you.” His smile was sly and smug and terrifying. “I will create photos like none ever seen. I’ll immortalize both of us.”

  His tone hardened. “You pose as the tragic widow, so pure and sweet, but you’re no different from the others. You sell your body for money, but you want to do it from a comfortable distance, and you look at people like me as though they’re filth on the bottom of your shoe.” Suddenly, the madness disappeared and a cold, hard will glared out at her. “You’d be nothing without me. None of you would. I’ll have you, and when I’m done, no one else will want you.”

  She understoo
d then that this soulless creature would kill without remorse. She waited for him to pick up the gleaming blade, trapped in the taut, humming strings of silence, knowing the slightest movement could goad him to slaughter.

  Then the killer blinked out, and the deranged lover emerged. With only the slightest shake of his head, Lorie’s pale admirer resumed the humming, slowly stripping off one latex glove. His hand hovered over her nipple.

  She shuddered soul-deep at the thought of his bare skin touching hers. Too real, unbearably intimate, a perversion of the act of love. The gloves had helped her retain the illusion that she wasn’t really here, that this wasn’t really happening. If he touched her…really touched her, flesh to flesh…

  And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.

  When at last his palm closed upon her breast, his clammy skin against her own, she moaned in revulsion and horror. Helpless…humiliated…hopeless. She understood at last that nothing would save her, that she would not even be granted the favor of oblivion.

  That there were worse things than dying.

  Following the glow, Quinn approached the arched doorway cautiously.

  When he peered around the corner, he spotted the man’s back first.

  Then he saw what the bastard was doing.

  Lorie was gagged. Bound spread-eagled. Her clothing lay in shreds, baring her.

  And that sick sonofabitch was touching her.

  He forced himself to breathe. To still. To quell the urge to charge in.

  But the image of that bastard’s hand on her breast seared his brain. The utter hopelessness on her face, the vulnerable sweetness of her beautiful, bound body defiled by that filth, all but brought him to his knees.

  The gleam of the knife blade snapped him into instant clarity. With the knife that close, any move to rush the man could easily cost Lorie her life.

  Not now. You’ve got to save her before you kill the sonofabitch.

  Just as he started toward them, fists banged at the front door.

  “Police! Open up!” Loud thudding echoed. “Mrs. Chandler, open up.”

  The man froze.

  Quinn exploded across the space between them.

  The man jerked around, saw Quinn and raced for the fire escape window.

  “You bastard!” Quinn took off after him.

  The man knocked down a chair, a table between them as he went. He reached the window and yanked it up. He leaped through the opening, just as Quinn made too quick a cut and lost his balance. Quinn was back on his feet in a second, headed for the window.

  The door burst open. A voice shouted, “Freeze!”

  Quinn didn’t stop.

  “Goddammit, I’ll shoot! Freeze!”

  “I’m only going after—”

  One cop lunged for him and caught hold, yanking one arm behind him. He saw the glint of a barrel, but still he struggled in a black fury. He fought like a man possessed as they struggled to pin his hands behind him. He barely felt them slam him to the floor.

  Still he fought, muscles tensed and ready. “Goddammit, you’re letting him get away! Let me go!”

  A knee pressed into his back, and still he battled, even though he knew better.

  It was too late. Her attacker had escaped.

  He wanted to howl. To murder everything and everyone in his way.

  It took the sound of Lorie’s sobbing to finally stop him.

  He fought for composure, expelling his violence in a ragged breath. “Please…let me go to her.” Her anguished sounds clawed at his sanity. He renewed his struggles. “Look, I came to help her. You’re letting that guy escape.”

  “Shut the hell up.” The cop put a knee in his back.

  But Quinn couldn’t drop it. “She needs me. You can keep the cuffs on, but don’t make her stay there alone. He—” Quinn choked on his anger, his impotence to help her, lying facedown, pinned to the floor. “You’re letting him get away! Look I’m a cop—I was a cop. Call Colello to verify. Or call the Houston PD, but for God’s sake, let me go to her.”

  He heard her broken sobs again. Her voice was so weak, so pitiful, so lost.

  He made himself relax his clenched muscles. Tried again. “I get that you don’t know me. I know the drill, but—listen, put a gun to my head if that will make you feel better, but please…she’s been hurt enough.” Quinn held himself completely still, desperate to make them believe him.

  The cop looked at him, staring long and hard. Quinn stared right back, baring his soul to this stranger. It didn’t matter what he had to do; he had to get to her, to hold her. Now.

  Frank appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Chandler?” He fell silent at the sight of her splayed on the table and glanced over at Quinn, clearly uncertain what to do.

  “You know my brother Josh,” Quinn said. “Call him. Verify who I am. And for God’s sake stop staring at her.”

  She’d suffered too much already; no one should see her like this.

  The doorman turned away.

  One cop was removing her gag, but she flinched from his touch.

  “I need Quinn,” she pleaded, her gaze hopeless. “He—” Her voice broke. “He came to save me.”

  At last the cop took the gun off him, nodding to his partner. They held his arms tightly as they yanked him to his feet. He pushed his way toward Lorie.

  Quinn focused once more on the only important person in this room. Reaching her side, he bent over her to cover her with his body and shield her from all these eyes. “Lorie, Grant is safe with Josh, and I’m here. You’re not alone. You’re safe.” He struggled to ignore the cop poised at his side. Wished to God that they were alone, that he had the use of his hands. Without them, all he could do was to share his body heat and try to get through to her with his eyes. He would not make her talk in the presence of strangers.

  The other cop reached to untie her.

  “No! Don’t touch me!” Her eyes were sightless, black with terror…barely human.

  “Honey, it’s me, Quinn. I’m here. You’re going to be all right,” he soothed. Gingerly he laid his cheek against hers as he fought black despair. Only a few seconds more, and he’d have had the bastard.

  Then he felt the faint press of her head against his, and Quinn squeezed his eyes shut in a surge of blinding relief. Lorie was still there, inside that ravaged shell.

  Lorie stirred, shuddered out a breath. Quinn lifted himself away to give her room. She whimpered and pressed her head closer.

  He could feel her shaking.

  Ragged and jerky, her words spilled out. “I was so afraid, Quinn. He caught me from behind and I couldn’t—”

  “Sh-h, honey, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  The pathos in her voice would have convinced a much harder man. Quinn felt his handcuffs being removed.

  The second his hands were free, he clutched at her, reaching with one hand to untie her wrists while he soothed her and stroked her hair with the other. She turned into him the little she could, trying to curl her body into his.

  He stood up to strip off his shirt to cover her.

  “No—don’t go. Don’t leave me alone,” she moaned brokenly.

  “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I won’t leave you. It’s going to be okay.” He soothed with words he didn’t feel, trying to paper over the fury he was trying desperately to hold inside. He wanted to kill with his bare hands. He wanted to tear the guy’s heart out and rend it into pieces. He wanted rivers of blood. In his rage, he turned on the closest targets.

  “Call Detective Colello. He knows the case. And get the hell away from her.”

  “You can’t—” began one.

  The other whispered in the first cop’s ear, and Quinn caught Lorie’s name. The second reacted.

  “This had better stay out of the press,” Quinn warned.

  Abashed and uncomfortable, the men turned away and went to stand by the door, one already radioing in.

  Quinn succeeded in untying her wrists, all the while murmuri
ng to her in a calm, restrained voice. If he lost control right now, it would do her no good, but the need to avenge her was so strong, he shook with the effort to withhold his fury.

  As soon as her hands were free, she scrambled into his arms, scraping him with her fingers as though to bind him to her so that he could never leave. He wanted to untie her legs, but she wouldn’t let go. Her body trembled against him.

  He kept one arm firmly around her and cradled her head with the other. “Lorie…take a deep breath. I know, sweetheart, I know it’s hard. But I’ll help you—here, breathe with me.” He forced his own breathing to steady.

  At last, a ragged breath hitched. She followed it with another. A little of the terror receded from her eyes, and he pinned his attention on that scrap of reason shining through.

  “Good, that’s good, sweetheart…now try to relax.” He pulled back a fraction. She clutched him tighter. “I won’t leave, I promise. I’m not going anywhere. I only want to untie your ankles and cover you better. Will you let me?”

  He stroked and soothed her, knowing it was important for her to choose. “I won’t move an inch if you don’t want me to. It’s your choice. You’re in control, do you understand? I won’t do anything until you tell me. Okay?”

  His heart tore to see the effort she expended to nod and slowly lean back, but she grasped at his sides, as though she could not bear to lose touch. He whispered a prayer of thanks for her trust. Not wanting to be touched would come later, he knew from his years on the force, but for now, he blessed her instinct to believe in him.

  Tenderly slipping one slender arm into the sleeve, he pulled the shirt behind her and placed her other arm inside. He stayed low and close to her, never breaking eye contact as he buttoned the shirt by touch. Sensing how she might feel, he buttoned every button from neck to hem and smoothed the shirttail down to cover her as completely as he could.

  Wrapping her hands in his, he spoke again. “Now is it okay for me to untie your ankles?”

  She nodded, her gaze never leaving his. Faith fought with horror in those fathomless wells.

  “Would you like to sit up and move with me?”