by Rita Herron
“He was killed in an accident,” Sylvia said. “A month after our son was born.”
Mona’s heart broke for the woman and for the child.
Sylvia stood, hands fisted by her sides as if she might punch someone. “But he’ll never know his father, and Ted wasn’t supposed to die. We were a family, he was going to build us a house with a fenced yard and a walk-in closet—”
Mona started to respond, but the door swung open, and suddenly Leslie’s husband, Whit Combs, burst in, waving his arms around. Aimee was on his tail trying to stop him. “You can’t go in there!”
“You bitch, where is my wife?” Whit shouted.
Sylvia ducked behind the chair, and Mona raised a hand to calm the man. “Please, Mr. Combs, settle down. If you want to talk—”
He lunged forward and grabbed her. Mona’s legs buckled as she reached for the panic button on the side of her desk.
Cal parked, battling the fierce winds rolling off the mountain as he hurried to the morgue.
Peyton and Dr. Wheeland met him in the lab.
“What did you find?”
“The lipstick is called Ravaging Red,” Peyton began. “It’s an inexpensive brand that I thought was probably found in most drugstores, which would make it more difficult to trace. But the interesting part is that the cosmetic company who made that brand no longer manufactures it.”
“So it’s old?”
She nodded. “The killer may have had it for a long time. It might have belonged to a sister, girlfriend, or mother.”
Cal cleared his throat. “I consulted the counselor in town, Mona Monroe, who studied criminology. She suggested he cut the victim’s hair to make her resemble someone he knows.”
“That makes sense,” Peyton said.
“Anything on the bridal gown?”
“As I mentioned before, it was homemade.” Peyton indicated a sample of thread on a slide. “That thread is so old it’s rotting.”
“So the unsub got the dress from a family member or a vintage store?”
Peyton nodded. “That’s possible. I ran a search for vintage gowns on Craigslist, eBay, and other stores and sites but haven’t come up with anything so far. I also posted a picture of the dress and asked anyone recognizing the seamstress’s work, the stitching or beadwork, to contact me.”
“Good work,” Cal told Peyton.
Dr. Wheeland raised a finger. “I have something else, too. We found DNA on the victim’s cheek that doesn’t belong to the victim.”
Cal’s pulse hammered. “You think it belongs to the killer?”
Dr. Wheeland nodded. “I believe he kissed her on the cheek before he left her at the falls.”
“Sick bastard.”
“I’ve already run the DNA through the databases, but nothing popped,” Peyton said. “If you bring us a suspect, we can run a comparison.”
Cal’s phone beeped, and he checked the ID. Deputy Kimball. “I need to take this. Anything else?”
Peyton handed him a slip of paper with a number and name on it. “This is for a tailor shop in Graveyard Falls. The owner might be able to look at the dress and stitchwork and help.”
“Good.” He’d get one of the deputies to check it out. “Peyton, I asked the warden at the state pen to send any suspicious mail Pike received to you for analysis.”
“I’ll put my assistant on it right away,” Peyton said. “If there’s a lead there, we’ll find it.”
Cal’s phone buzzed again, and he pushed Connect. “Yeah?”
“I just got a call from Mona Monroe’s assistant,” Deputy Kimball said. “There’s trouble. A man I brought in earlier for spousal abuse made bail and went to see her.”
“I’m on my way.” Cal rushed outside, the gray clouds painting a gloomy darkness across the sky as he jumped in his SUV and headed toward Mona’s office.
If that man had hurt her, he’d tear him apart with his bare hands.
Mona yelled for the security guard. Whit shoved her against the desk and her hip hit the corner hard. He raised his fist, but the security guard snatched his arm back and dragged him away from her.
Whit swung his fist back and connected with the guard’s jaw. He landed another punch, and they tangled for a few minutes, trading blows.
Mona reached inside her purse and grabbed her gun, then raised it. “Let him go, Whit. I don’t want to use this, but I will.”
Whit ignored her and again punched the guard, who dropped to the floor in pain. Aimee was at the door, her eyes panicked. She waved Sylvia past, and Sylvia rushed out the door.
“Whit, let him go!” Mona shouted as Whit raised his fist again.
“Do what she says.” Cal’s deep voice echoed from the doorway, his big body tense.
Whit jerked his head toward Cal, then raised his hands in surrender at the sight of Cal’s gun.
Damn man. He wasn’t afraid of her, but he respected Cal. Typical abuser. Picked on someone smaller and weaker than himself.
Cal’s boots pounded as he crossed the floor, then he yanked Whit’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. Cal’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her gun, and she instinctively lowered the weapon.
“You got no right to arrest me,” Whit bellowed. “That bitch kidnapped my wife and pulled a gun on me!”
“I did not kidnap her,” Mona said, grateful to see the security guard getting up. Aimee helped him sit in a chair to collect himself. “You need psychiatric help, Whit,” Mona said.
“Where did you take her?” Whit snarled.
“I didn’t take her anywhere,” Mona said. “She left to protect herself from you. If you really love her, you’ll let her go and get some counseling.”
Cal jerked the man’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. “I don’t know how you made bail, but this time you’re going to sit in a cell for a while.”
Ignoring the man’s litany of curse words, Cal hauled him toward the door.
Cal made sure the jerk was locked up, then returned to the front of the sheriff’s office. He’d driven Mona here to file a statement, and she was waiting, arms crossed.
He reminded himself to be calm, that Mona meant nothing more to him than anyone else, but that was a lie, and his tone reflected the surge of fear that had shot through him when he’d thought Combs might hurt her. “What the hell were you thinking pulling a gun?”
Mona glanced at him with a calmness that only infuriated him more. “I told you about it. I carry it for protection,” Mona said. “And before you ask, yes, I know how to shoot. Brent taught me.”
Of course he had.
“If your job is this dangerous, maybe you need to rethink your line of work.”
Mona released a bitter laugh. “You’re worried about my job? Cal, you put your life on the line every day.”
“But I can handle it. I’m trained.”
“I’m not going to debate this,” Mona said. “It’s the same argument Brent and I used to have.”
Cal gritted his teeth. One thing he and Brent had agreed on was keeping Mona safe.
In spite of her bravado, her adrenaline must have been waning, because a shudder coursed through her. He couldn’t help himself. He pulled her to him and closed his arms around her.
She laid her head against his chest, and he stroked her back. He didn’t know what the hell he would have done if the bastard had killed her.
Still terrified inside, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. For a brief second, he thought desire flickered in the depths. His own hunger spiraled.
Her sweet scent teased his senses, and the soft whisper of her breath made his pulse pound. She felt so fragile, yet Mona had always been strong, and that strength stirred his desires even more.
Unable to resist, he leaned toward her and touched her lips with his. A soft sigh escaped her as her lips met his in invitation.
Their mouths fused, need seeping between them, unspent hunger making his body harden.
Cal wanted more. He might never have enough.
He deepened the kiss, tasting her sweetness, yet a fiery heat ignited inside him. She clutched his back, her chest rising and falling against his own, driving him crazy with the ache to have her.
But a second later, his phone buzzed, jolting him back to reality. He cursed the phone. He cursed himself for kissing her. But the haze of passion glittering in her eyes made him want to drag her back into his arms.
His phone buzzed again, though, and he gave her a look of regret, then reluctantly pulled away and connected the call. “Agent Coulter.”
“This is Sheriff Buckley. There’s another dead girl at Graveyard Falls.”
He knelt at a pew in the church he’d attended since he was a kid. Granted, his mama didn’t take him regularly ’cause she’d been sick so much. But when he was little, they’d come every time the doors were open.
He’d been so scared when he was little he’d nearly peed himself when that big preacher had stalked up and down the aisles, hunting for someone to save.
Preacher would shout and pound the pulpit, sweat streaming down his ruddy cheeks, then he’d comb the aisles, stopping to glare at the children, at the men and women, at anyone he thought might have strayed from God that week.
Sometimes the preacher lingered on his face as if he thought Will was evil just because he didn’t have a daddy.
But Mama was dying, and Will didn’t know where else to turn. Maybe if he prayed hard enough, the good Lord wouldn’t take her from him.
Tears choked his throat, and he gulped them back, snot bubbling in his nose. Sometimes at night when he lay there in that big metal bed by himself, he cried like a baby. He didn’t know how he’d go on without her.
You have to find a wife.
Then he wouldn’t be alone.
He wiped his nose with his sleeve and glanced up to see that girl Josie DuKane kneeling at the pew across from him. He’d heard the preacher talking to her and asking her name. Her head was bowed, her lips moving as she prayed.
There was something about her that seemed so familiar. Her cheekbones? They were high . . . Her eyes an odd shade of green. And she had pretty hair. The wavy brown strands fell down her back, making him itch to run his hands through it.
She looked up at him then, and her gaze met his. Her cheeks looked flushed from the cold, and she lifted her scarf and tied it around her head.
“You look sad,” she said softly.
He didn’t like to talk about his mama, but she sounded so kind that he decided to open up. “My mama’s ill.”
“I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside him and covered his hand with hers. “I was praying for my grandfather. My mother and I came back to Graveyard Falls to take care of him because he’s sick, too. But he doesn’t seem to like me.”
How could he not like her? She was beautiful and sweet, and she cared about family.
Would she be a good wife? “Can you cook?” he asked.
She looked startled by the question. “Yes, why?”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “Just wondering.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cal didn’t have time to drive Mona home, so he let her ride with him to the falls. But he tried to convince her to stay in the car.
“Maybe I can help,” Mona said as she climbed out to follow him.
He couldn’t argue with her reasoning. This was the second murder within three days. If they were dealing with a serial killer, he needed all the help he could get.
Because the killer could already be hunting for another victim.
But hell, part of him didn’t want her anywhere near this mess. Whoever the unsub was, he was dangerous, and Mona already had enough trouble on her tail.
That man Whit was a loose cannon, and Mona had pissed him off.
Cal didn’t intend to leave her unguarded again.
Mona stumbled on a vine, and Cal caught her arm, helping her down the slope. Again, he was struck by the fact that the unsub must be strong to carry his victims to the base of the falls, where the water pooled before continuing downstream over the jagged ridges and rocks.
Icy wind bit at his cheeks, and Mona tugged the ski cap she’d retrieved from her office over her ears. It was so damn cold he felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were literally freezing.
Mona gasped when they made it to the clearing. Sheriff Buckley was standing beside the body, his hat tilted askew on his head, his face chapped from the cold. Deputy Kimball was already assessing the scene.
What the hell? He thought Buckley had retired.
The white wedding gown caught his eye, although it nearly blended with the snowy ground. God, the woman looked angelic with her blonde hair and that satin dress.
Except that the whites of her eyes showed reddish spots of blood called petechial hemorrhaging, her irises shockingly wide, her mouth frozen in a scream.
Mona’s breathing rattled in the silence as they crossed the remaining distance to the victim, and he realized she was taking deep breaths. Had she ever seen a dead body?
“I’m sorry, Mona, I told you it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“I can’t imagine doing that to another human. And she’s so . . . young.”
Yeah. She’d had her entire life ahead of her. But this maniac had stolen it from her before she’d had a chance to live out her dreams.
Cal hadn’t officially met the former sheriff, so he introduced himself. “And this is Mona Monroe.”
“Yes, I saw her at the memorial service,” Sheriff Buckley said with a scowl.
“Who found this woman?” Cal asked.
“I did,” Sheriff Buckley replied.
Cal’s pulse quickened. What had the sheriff been doing in these woods? “How did that happen? Did you get a tip?”
“No, but I started thinking that if this killer was copying the Thorn Ripper, there would be another victim, so I decided to revisit the area.”
He didn’t know whether to be irritated that the sheriff had decided to check the falls or to question his involvement. They’d need to get officers out here to monitor the area. “I thought you retired.”
Sheriff Buckley shot him a condescending look. “Once a cop, always a cop. Graveyard Falls is still my home.”
“And you were here during the original murders,” Cal said.
“Exactly. I don’t aim to let another serial killer destroy this town.”
Mona felt uncomfortable around the former sheriff, although she didn’t know why.
The medical examiner arrived, and the men gathered around the body.
“Cause of death appears to be asphyxiation due to strangulation just like Gwyneth Toyton, but I’ll verify it with the autopsy.” Dr. Wheeland opened the victim’s mouth and examined her tongue and throat. “Thorns are embedded in her tongue and throat same as the first victim. Her teeth are bloodstained, so she bled from biting the thorns while he strangled her.”
Revulsion filled Mona. Why would a man force a woman to bite on a thorny rose as he killed her? Was it his way of keeping her quiet? Of making her suffer because she’d rejected him?
“Did anyone ever ask Johnny Pike why he used the rose?” Mona asked.
Sheriff Buckley cleared his throat. “According to town tradition, the high school boys gave a girl a rose when they asked her to prom.”
Was killing the girls his way of saying he didn’t want to go with them? Definitely excessive behavior.
“Did they ever do a psychological exam on Pike?” Mona asked.
Sheriff Buckley shrugged. “Lawyer talked about pleading insanity, but it was clear that Pike was lucid, not insane.”
She still didn’t understand Johnny’s motive. “Did he have problems with his mothe
r? Had he ever been abused?”
“Listen, Ms. Monroe,” the sheriff said in a tone laced with disdain. “We’re not here to probe Pike’s mind. We’ve got a killer to find.”
Dr. Wheeland checked the victim’s wrists and ankles, and Mona cringed at the sight of the bruises and raw skin. “It also appears that her foot was bound with a heavy chain.”
“How about time of death?”
“TOD was sometime last night.” He gestured toward marks on the back of her neck. “Looks like he used a stun gun on her as well.”
Cal knelt. “The dress, the garter, the cut hair, the red lipstick smeared on her lips . . . it’s the same MO.” Even though the reporter had revealed the information about the rose and wedding gown, no one but the killer, the investigators, and the people who’d found the bodies would know all the other details.
Dr. Wheeland lifted the woman’s head and searched inside the back of her dress. “No tag. This gown looks homemade as well.”
A shiver rippled through Mona. “Are they family heirlooms?”
“We don’t know yet. They could be, or he could have purchased them. We’re looking into that angle.” Cal stood and glanced at the medical examiner. “You said you found DNA where the unsub kissed Gwyneth. Make sure you check for saliva on this girl’s cheek as well.”
He gestured toward her hands. “How about her fingernails? Do you think you can get any forensics there?”
Dr. Wheeland scraped beneath her nails, and his brow puckered as he sniffed her fingers. “Her fingernails have pieces of eggshells beneath them.” He indicated a particle he’d extracted.
“Eggshells?” Cal frowned. “They were cooking or eating before he killed her?”
Dr. Wheeland arched a brow. “That’s possible.”
But not much of a lead. “We need an ID.” He turned back to the sheriff. “Do you recognize her?”
“No,” Buckley said.
Cal approached the crime team and instructed them to search the area for the victim’s purse, ID, and any evidence they could find.
