She knew he was grasping at straws, but she wasn’t going to point out the fact. “Elijah is the one who started the pregnancy rumor in the first place.”
“Still feels like something’s off.”
A sick feeling washed over Angel, and she didn’t think it was because she was about to toss her stomach. “What time is it?”
They’d been sitting in the dark since 9:00, and the time seemed to drone on like an eternity. “Five past midnight. It’s the day. You should move to the bedroom.”
She did, climbing beneath the covers while John disappeared in the darkest corner of the room and waited. They both sat silent in the darkness, neither knowing what to say. The day had come. The killer would strike if he found a target. What if all other females fitting the description hadn’t left town? What if he knew which one, or ones, stayed? What if he stood outside another person’s house right now and prepared to fulfill his goal, accomplish his mission, claim another mother and child?
God, be with us. Please. Angel couldn’t believe she was turning to Him now, but then again, even through the years she’d denied Him, she’d believed He was there. She merely thought He didn’t care about her. But now she wanted Him to care, not only about her, but also about her baby. Protect us.
“I’m glad Lexie’s safe,” John whispered into the night.
The ringing of Angel’s cell phone made her pulse triple.
“Answer it.” His blunt demand highlighted the intensity of his apprehension. “Hurry.”
She snatched the phone from the bedside table and wondered—hoped, prayed—that she was about to learn the killer had been caught. “Jackson.”
John watched as Angel grabbed at her phone. He held his breath and wondered if the caller on the other end was about to inform them that the killer had been caught. Was the nightmare already over?
“Etta?” Angel’s confusion was evident in her tone. Why would Etta be calling her now?
He took a step toward Angel. “Tell her you can’t talk.”
“Etta, I’ll get the recipe from you another time. No, Lexie had to go out of town. If she’s not answering your calls, she’s in a dead zone.” She paused. “You saw her when? No, I don’t think that’s possible.”
John’s back bristled. Where had Etta seen Lexie? And how could she have seen her if Lexie left this afternoon, right after she got off work?
The lighted display on Angel’s phone illuminated her face, and he saw her shock. “Etta, are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
He stared at Angel. Something had gone wrong and it had to do with Lexie.
“Yeah, do that. And we’ll get right over there.” Angel hung up the phone, grabbed her gun and raced for the door. “Come on!”
John followed her from the room and sprinted after her toward the side exit of the hotel and toward her car, with the Feds from the lobby right behind them. “What did she say?”
“I’m not the intended victim. Lexie is.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lexie washed her face. Nothing different tonight, she’d follow her evening ritual: wash face, brush teeth, comb hair, everything the same as the nights when she didn’t expect a killer.
Her decision had been easy to make when she realized that her stomach bug—and the fact that John’s truck had been outside her home every night—made her perfect in the killer’s eyes. Blonde. Single.
And supposedly pregnant.
The fact that she’d asked for a pregnancy test at Dr. Weatherly’s and then left her doctor’s receipt on her desk at work didn’t hurt. The receipt showed a pregnancy test had been administered. It didn’t, however, provide the results.
Lexie had placed the receipt out in plain sight and then left the rest to Melody. True to form, Melody wasted no time. Paul called Lexie in Valdosta and told her to stay put. He also said he wouldn’t tell Tucker about the baby, but said she’d better tell him, since Melody had already broadcasted it to the entire town.
On Lexie’s way back to Macon from Valdosta, she decided to make certain the killer knew he had a new target. She went to the drug store closest to the police station, in case he was on the task force, or a cop, as Angel suspected. Then she bought all three brands of pregnancy tests.
Last but not least, she returned to Dr. Weatherly’s office with questions about “her condition.” True, she’d only asked the doctor how long she thought the stomach virus would last, but those in the waiting room, as well as anyone watching, would have seen her at the doctor’s office.
John and Angel had been secluded in her hotel all afternoon with the additional federal agents standing guard outside. Believing Lexie had left town hours ago, they prepared for the killer’s strike. Little did they know, so did she. She’d saved Angel from this killer twenty-eight years ago, and she didn’t want to give him another chance to take her away, especially since Angel had a precious baby on the way. And Angel had acted different lately, talked more about life and the baby. She suspected that Angel was finally finding God.
Let me save her again, Lord. Give her the chance to know You, love You, the way I do.
She finished scrubbing her face then brushed her teeth. No reason to have the gun yet. He wouldn’t come until the chosen day, and that day wouldn’t occur for—she looked at the clock—twelve more minutes.
Leaning over the sink, she pulled cool water into her mouth, swished it around and rinsed. Same old, same old. Nothing different than normal. If the killer could see her now, he’d see her getting ready for bed. No big deal.
She sighed, picked up a bottle of leave-in conditioner and sprayed it over her blonde waves, the signal of purity according to the Fellowship and something the killer required in his victims. Good. In his eyes, if her trips to the doctor today worked, Lexie met every requirement.
Stroke by stroke, she pulled the comb through her hair and watched the thick waves loosen with the silky substance. She finished and placed the comb back on the counter. Then she looked in the mirror. A blonde, single and supposedly pregnant female in a silky white nightgown stared back. She produced the picture-perfect image of innocence...with an exceptional aim and a quest for vengeance. “Ready.”
The verses John quoted about God’s vengeance played through her head and she wondered…was she trying to “play God” by taking matters into her own hands? What if this wasn’t His plan for taking care of the killer? Would He approve of what she was doing? Would He help her succeed?
God, please forgive me. And please, God, stay with me now. Protect me, Lord.
She looked at the clock. 11:55. She’d purchased several indiglo nightlights and had placed them throughout the house. They cast the interior of her home in an eerie blue haze.
Moving to the bedroom, she flipped the switch on her radio and listened to the DJ on the talk news station. While he continued with the same topic he’d featured all week, the Sunrise Killer, Lexie slipped her hand beneath the pillow and touched the gun.
“As I mentioned earlier, we are mere minutes away from the day the Sunrise Killer is anticipated to attempt another murder. If we’ve done our job right with the media, and I believe we have, this killer won’t be able to complete his goal. Why? Because, thanks to broadcasts like this, as well as local television and newspapers throughout the Macon area, women who fit his criteria have left the city limits.”
Be with me, Lord.
“We’ve had several women call in from various parts of Georgia, as well as neighboring states, letting us know they not only left Macon during the time period of this scheduled attack, but they will not return until the killer has been caught. Due to safety issues, we won’t release the names of our callers; however, we can allow you to listen to some of their feelings regarding the fear this killer has instilled in all of Macon.”
Lexie listened to a blonde, pregnant and single female from Macon describe how she’d driven to Tallahassee to visit friends and family until this “horrible man is taken care of.” Then she heard another hiding out in
Atlanta. After her description of how scared she’d been in Macon and how she hurt for this year’s two previous victims, the announcer broke back in.
“One minute until midnight. Please, all Macon residents, take extreme care during the next twenty-four hours. Although we believe we’ve done everything in our power to eliminate his chances to find a victim, we have no idea how this killer thinks or what he’ll do when provoked. And if you see anyone or anything that seems suspicious at all, please dial 911.”
The small wooden clock above Lexie’s mantle chimed at the stroke of midnight, and her hand curled around the handle on the gun. She hoped he didn’t wait too long.
“We’ll continue with our taped conversations from women who’ve left Macon, but our phone lines are open if you have any thoughts or concerns you’d like included in our broadcast. Again, we’re covering Macon’s Sunrise Killer...”
Lexie leaned over and twisted the dial on the radio, dropping the sound of the DJ to a light whisper. She wanted the company of his voice so she didn’t feel quite so alone, but she also wanted to hear the killer’s arrival.
Her ears pricked at a sound that seemed close. In her home? Or in this room?
One of the things she loved about owning an older home, those tiny creaks and groans that occurred with the house’s “settling,” would be her undoing tonight. How would she tell the difference between the sounds of her house and the sounds of an intruder?
She took a deep, calming breath and lay still in the darkness as her clock struck the last chime of midnight.
Silence.
Lexie waited, keeping her eyes open as long as possible before blinking. Straining her ears to hear every tiny sound, every creak, every breath.
Breath?
Had she heard someone breathing? An exhalation, like a soft mist within her room? She scanned the bedroom and despised her decision to purchase the indiglo lights. The blue haze made it appear like something straight out of a horror movie and sent a frisson of pure terror down her spine.
Her hand tightened around the gun. The red digital numbers of the clock beside her bed glared in direct contrast with the blue haze filling the room and identified four minutes past twelve. Lexie’s pulse drummed in her ears way too fast, and way too hard, but she couldn’t make her heartbeat slow. Breathe in, breathe out. Watch. Wait. Hand on gun.
Angel’s words from the firing range filled her head. Time and time again, her cousin had instructed her on what to do. At the time, Lexie joked and laughed about Angel’s serious instructions. She didn’t laugh now. Oh no, she remembered, and planned to adhere to every word.
“One of the first things an FBI agent is taught is you only shoot to kill. If you draw your weapon, you have made the decision to shoot. And if you have made the decision that the situation is serious enough to warrant shooting, you have decided it is serious enough to take a life.”
Lexie blinked, then popped her eyes back open. Without a doubt, serious enough. But could she, would she, pull the trigger?
More silence. Then another sound. A little louder than the one before. He’s here. Or is he?
She would hear him breaking in, right? Maybe, or maybe not.
Lexie kept her breathing low and steady so she could focus on the sounds. She strained her ears.
A bang echoed from the front of her house, and Lexie’s hand squeezed around the handle, her pulse skyrocketed on its own accord, and a hot wash of adrenaline surged through her veins. She steadied her wrist, moved the gun forward beneath the sheets.
Another loud sound, then another. Then rapid banging in succession.
Then she got it. Knocking. Her eyes blinked while she wondered what to do. Did he knock on the victim’s door? Was that why there was never any sign of forced entry? What woman in her right mind would open the door after midnight? The questions spun through her head and made her stomach lurch. Oh no, she would not get sick now. She couldn’t.
More knocking. Louder. She pulled the sheets aside, slid her feet from the mattress to the floor and stood with the gun clutched in her hand. No, this wasn’t the scenario she’d planned, but even so, she could do it.
She had to.
One step away from the bed, with the cold hardwood floor against her bare feet. Another step. Then another, while the banging grew to a fever high pitch.
Didn’t he care if a neighbor heard?
But Lexie’s home wasn’t all that close to her neighbors’ houses, and even if it were, most of her neighbors were elderly and couldn’t hear banging on their own doors, much less hers. The crazy thought flitted through her mind as she reached the hallway, took a deep, thick breath and progressed toward the large shadow on the other side of her door.
“Lexie, open the door!”
She stopped. Familiarity rang through the voice, but in her frenzied state, she couldn’t place it. She knew the killer? But who?
Another step. Then another. She had the gun ready in her right hand. Her left hand stretched forward, primed to unlock and open the door. Or could she shoot him from this side? Would the bullet go through? Could she kill him without the confrontation?
Did she want to?
And, the back of her mind whispered, what if this isn’t him?
She couldn’t do it, not until she learned the owner of the voice, and determined for sure whether the man who killed her aunt stood on the other side of her door.
God, please. Help me know what to do.
“Lexie, open up!”
She stopped walking and recognized the voice.
No.
“Listen, John called me because I was closer. They know who the killer is, Lexie. We’ve identified him. The Feds tracked him through his computer, but they haven’t got him yet, and we need to keep you safe. John knows what you’re trying to do, and he asked me to watch after you until he gets here. You should’ve left town when I told you to. And why didn’t you tell me that you hadn’t told him about the baby?” Paul Kingsley asked from the other side of the door.
“There is no baby.” Her whisper wasn’t loud enough for Paul to hear.
Paul, John’s friend. Paul, member of the Fellowship, who seemed angered when she’d called it a cult. Paul, mid-forties, the right age to fit the profile. Paul, who knew Hannah Sharp, as well as Abby Tucker. Paul, who’d been involved with the case and had known every move the task force made, thanks to Lexie’s careful reporting.
Paul.
Lexie reached the door—and the killer on the other side—then she stretched her left hand forward, twisted the lock and backed up, ready.
Paul flung the door open and bounded inside. “Lexie—”
She forced her hand not to shake...and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Nineteen
“What time is it?” John asked, pressing the accelerator so hard he could feel the vibrations from the motor against his sole.
“Midnight, straight up.” The Grand Cherokee hit a railroad track while doing eighty and went airborne. “Hurry!”
“Where are your men?”
“Right behind us.” She jerked her head around to make sure. “She’d better be okay.”
“Etta called the police, right. You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Try Lexie again—now!”
She withdrew her cell phone and dialed Lexie’s number. Like the other two times, the ringing continued. “She’s got it turned off. I’m sure of it.”
John’s hands flipped over each other on the steering wheel through another hard turn. His jaw clenched tight. “Paul better have gotten there in time.”
Lexie stared at the body face down on the floor. He wasn’t moving, but was he still breathing? With the muscles in her arm and shoulder still burning from the first shot, she lifted the gun to shoot again. Finger moved to the trigger.
Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.
She couldn’t do it.
He wasn’t moving, wasn’t going anywhere, and wasn’t going to hurt any woman—Lexi
e or anyone else—tonight. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t release another bullet. If he died from the first shot, so be it. But she wouldn’t do it again. She’d call John and Angel, let the authorities handle it now. It was over. Finished.
This man, this monster, had taken Aunt Bev’s life in front of her, taken John’s wife and his father, and taken countless other women’s lives, along with the children they carried.
The gun still in her hand, she backed across the room to find her purse and withdraw her cell. Within seconds, and while keeping one eye, and the gun, on Paul’s body in the foyer, she fingered the contents of her purse then located the phone. She’d turned it off, not wanting it to ring when the killer came. She’d planned everything, and she’d caught him, after all these years. The phone came to life, and she glanced down to dial John’s number.
The blow to her extended arm sent the gun flinging to the floor, then skittering across the hardwood. She opened her mouth to scream, but a gloved hand stopped her cold, while his other arm circled her torso and yanked her against his muscled frame.
No!
As he jerked her backward down the hall toward the bedroom, she stared in horror at the man she’d shot.
Paul.
Panic, fierce and commanding, filled her senses, made her vision blur. The killer had her, like he’d had her aunt, and Lexie knew what he planned to do, but she didn’t know how to stop it. She jerked within his grasp, moved her legs to kick against his shins as they rounded the bedroom door, but her bare feet did little damage against the hard male. Gritting her teeth, she tried to move her neck, to get her mouth free so she could scream, but his tight grip and the leather of his glove pressing against her nose made her short, sharp breaths come out in spine-chilling hisses.
He turned her toward the bed, released her mouth, and before she had a chance to force a scream from her throat, he covered the lower half of her face with a rag, then secured it behind her head, jerking on her hair so hard her eyes watered. Then he twisted her to face him, and Lexie’s eyes bulged wider. Her heart hurt in her chest, and her mind raced to the past, to that day so long ago, when her world changed forever by this man. This man, whose face had aged twenty-eight years, but who Lexie could see now, her fear and terror pushing the memory forward.
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