by Rita Herron
“Like I said, I don’t know about her personal life. We haven’t talked in months.” Renee stood, wiping her hands down her sides. “Although she did make a few enemies with her business.”
Ellie raised a brow, her interest piqued. “Tell me about that.”
With a sigh, Renee walked back to the laundry basket, picked up the fitted sheet and stretched it out to hang on the line. “Courtney’s makeup line made her wealthy,” she said, her tone tinged with disapproval. “Some people loved her products, but at least a couple of women had adverse reactions to some chemical in the foundation.”
Heading over, Ellie snagged the opposite end of the sheet and helped Renee even it out so she could hang it on the line. “What happened?”
Renee’s gaze met hers. “The women’s faces were scarred. A couple had plastic surgery to repair the damage. They sued Courtney, but she paid them off and made them sign NDAs saying they’d keep quiet.” Renee released a sigh. “But Courtney just kept on making the product without changing anything.”
“If you two didn’t talk, how do you know about this?” Ellie asked.
Renee lifted her hand to her cheek. “Because I was one of them.”
Seventeen
The Men’s Den, Bluff County
The darkness called him again. He’d fought it for years, but those little girls’ graves had stirred up all the pain and anguish he’d suffered. Suffering he’d hidden for so long that he’d become adept at wearing a disguise.
Even the ones closest to him had no idea the evil thoughts that consumed him.
“Tuesday’s child is full of grace,” he silently chanted as he swirled the amber whiskey in his glass. Country music boomed through the speakers of the titty bar that was situated off the highway drawing locals and truckers. Women twirled and gyrated, showing off oil-slick bodies that tempted the audience to reach for their wallets and throw cash on the wooden floor of the stage or stuff it in their G-strings. The dim lights meant to enhance the atmosphere and provide cover for the patrons who wanted to remain anonymous made him relax, even as stage lights painted the dancers’ bodies in a rainbow of colors.
The one he’d come to see finally took center stage. Her lithe form was silhouetted by the haze of light, the sheer beauty of her striking him as she glided like a cat from the shadows.
He sat up straighter. He was not here for pleasure, but to watch for the perfect moment to strike.
But hell, who said a man couldn’t enjoy his work?
Adorned in a skimpy black negligee with red sparkly heels and silver glitter shimmering off her inch-long eyelashes, her gaze spanned the room. It was as if she was a bloodthirsty vampire sniffing out the tastiest piece of meat in the house.
The music piped up, and she spun around, dropped to the floor and crawled across the stage, her head lifted, tongue flitting in and out like a serpent’s. When she reached the edge of the stage, she stood, twisted around, then dropped her head forward. Her long dark hair grazed the floor as she shook her ass in his face.
Shouts and jeers erupted from the men in the room, and an old fat guy at the table in the corner rubbed his cock.
The woman was definitely comfortable with her body.
Anticipation heated his blood, but not for sex. To have her chained, at his command.
Would she fight or succumb?
Checking his watch, he tossed back his drink, then waved his hand to order another. She had another number after the next performer. But when she finished the show, she would be his.
Eighteen
Decatur, Georgia
Special Agent Derrick Fox slid onto the barstool at Manuel’s Tavern, palmed a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar, tossed a few in his mouth, then waved at his partner as he loped in. Special Agent Bennett Sanders joined him, ordering a scotch. It was a little early for Derrick to drink, so he asked for a club soda with a twist of lime.
A news report flashed on the TV screen hanging over the bar, and he went still as Detective Ellie Reeves appeared. Angelica Gomez, the same reporter who’d covered the serial case involving his sister Kim and was covering the court case against Ellie’s father, thrust her mic at Ellie.
He braced himself for a story about the dismissal of the charges against Randall Reeves, or one focusing on the victims’ families, who’d screamed incompetence at law enforcement in the Ghost case. Not that he could blame them.
His own family had suffered at their hands for years. His sister was Hiram’s first victim twenty-five years ago, prompting his father to kill himself out of guilt because he’d been the primary suspect at the time.
“Isn’t that the detective you worked with?” Bennett asked.
“Yes.” Derrick grimaced. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d left Crooked Creek.
He’d suspected Reeves had covered for Hiram and he’d torn her family apart in the investigation. Still, he’d do it again if he had to. He’d gotten justice for Kim and nearly a dozen other little girls.
He and Bennett both quieted as Ellie responded to the reporter.
“Well, that was brief,” Bennett muttered, as Ellie pushed the mic away.
The ice in his glass clinked as Derrick swirled it around. His curiosity was definitely piqued. The investigation had obviously just begun, but Ellie already looked worn down.
“Why don’t you call the detective and ask for the details?” Bennett asked.
Derrick shook his head, tension forming a knot in his belly at the thought of talking to Ellie again. Too much had happened between them when he was in Crooked Creek. They had nothing to talk about now.
He was a by-the-book agent, and her parents had crossed the line.
Then again, he’d crossed it himself by sleeping with her. It wouldn’t happen again.
Nineteen
Crooked Creek
Stopping for a late lunch at the Corner Café on the way back to Crooked Creek, Ellie’s phone buzzed as she climbed from her Jeep.
It was Kennedy Sledge. She let it go to voicemail, then listened to the message before she entered the café.
“Ellie, this is Kennedy Sledge. I thought you were taking some time off work, but I saw your interview this morning. If you want to talk about what happened, please feel free to call me anytime day or night.”
Putting her phone away, Ellie briefly considered a chat, but had no time now. Whispers and stares met her as she entered the café, Meddlin’ Maude and her brood growing hushed as Ellie seated herself at the counter. The nosy busybodies had nothing better to do, she guessed.
“I can’t believe she’s still working for the police department after what her daddy did,” Maude groused.
“How can we trust her?” one of Maude’s hens murmured.
“You saw her on the news. She wouldn’t tell anyone what’s going on,” Fanny Mae, one half of the Stichin’ Sisters who owned the quilt shop in town, muttered. “For all we know, all our daughters and granddaughters are in danger now.”
Ellie curled her fingers into fists. She wanted to tell the gossipmongers to back off, but losing her temper would only feed the rumor mill. Someone had already gotten hold of the fact that she’d seen a child therapist and it had snowballed. It was a game of Chinese whispers, the story growing more dramatic each time it was shared. The latest was that Ellie had had a nervous breakdown and was going to be institutionalized. That was another reason she’d kept her sessions with Kennedy Sledge to herself.
“What’ll you have, hon?” Lola, the owner asked with a sympathetic smile.
“A chicken salad sandwich to go.” There was no way would she eat in here with those ladies. It was a wonder she didn’t totally combust as their fiery stares pierced her back.
Lola returned a moment later with a bag and a Diet Soda. “I threw in a slice of peach pie for you, Ellie. You look like you need it.”
Ellie bit back a laugh. Southern folks thought food fixed everything. Casseroles and pies and sweet tea were staples delivered to your door whenever someone d
ied. Widowed men were buried beneath them before their wives’ bodies even got cold.
Tossing some cash, including a generous tip, onto the counter, Ellie snatched her food and hurried back outside. Ten minutes later, she wolfed down the sandwich and pie in her office, then filled Heath and her captain in on what she’d learned from Renee Wooten.
“I’ve already checked Renee’s alibi, and it’s rock solid, but the other women who filed lawsuits against Courtney have motive,” Ellie said. “We need to find out who they are.”
“That’ll be hard if what you said is true about the non-disclosure agreement,” replied Captain Hale, “although under the circumstances, we can probably convince a judge to issue warrants and force the lawyer who drew up the papers to talk.”
“You’d think he’d want to know who killed Courtney,” Ellie said. “But if he’s invested in the company, he may not want the truth to come out. The company might have to be shut down and that could mean big money.”
Captain Hale popped a mint into his mouth, his replacement for his life-long smoking habit. “I’ll handle that,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and leaving.
“I’m still looking at her social media for clues,” Heath said. “But so far, nothing from a man who might have been a stalker.” He hesitated. “You mentioned bruising that looked like a collar… I’ll see what I can find on sex clubs in the area. There’s an adult toyshop called The Love Shack on the highway near a strip club. Maybe our perpetrator bought something from there.”
“According to Laney, there wasn’t evidence of recent sexual activity or abuse,” Ellie said. “Although the collar could be about domination and not sex. Go check out that place and see what the owner has to say. Maybe he’s got a customer who’s into Dominatrix or S and M.”
Heath agreed, then left, and Ellie turned to her computer. The killer’s signature was important. He’d clearly chosen the plain, drab clothing because it was the opposite of Courtney. But what did the bed of daffodils mean?
Determined to understand what made this monster tick, she ran a search for the symbolism of the wildflowers.
Her eyes widened as she began to read.
Daffodils are known as a schizophrenic flower which symbolize resurrection and rebirth, or self-love and vanity. They are also the flower of the underworld.
Ellie threaded her fingers through her hair. This killer was definitely trying to tell them something about his view of the victim. Was he a religious man?
Her curiosity raised, she googled the meaning of thorny bramble. A quick search yielded results.
Thorns symbolize grief, difficulties and sin. The thorns represent minor sins. Bramble represents major sins.
Ellie sat back with a weary sigh. Did the killer see himself as some kind of saint who’d been chosen to dole out punishment to sinners?
Twenty
Red River, Georgia
The ice-cold water lapped back and forth against the riverbank—a peaceful, reverent sound against the call of the wild inside him.
He carefully laid the woman onto the moss-covered ground, his teeth clenched as he dressed her in the plain cotton panties. Before he fitted her with the bra, he made x’s with his knife on her breasts, x’s to expose the implants she’d gotten to enhance her chest. Another fake, just like Cathy. He punctured them with his knife, smiling as the saline began to leak down her tattered skin.
Then came the simple white bra. For her, he’d chosen a deep crimson dress which seemed fitting for her occupation, but he buttoned the dress up to her neck. The red color blended with the jagged bloody cut on her neck, and he carefully wound the bramble around her throat, then placed a red poppy in her hair. But instead of the silver sparkly heels she would have chosen, he completed the outfit with simple black flats. She had to be humbled somehow.
While she lay silently, eyes staring at the roving clouds above as if she could see the heavens but she knew she’d never make it there, he scattered the daffodils across the ground by the river’s edge. A beautiful blanket of yellow dotted the green, then he lifted the woman and placed her on the bed. Spreading more daffodils across her lifeless body, he buried her in the yellow petals until only slivers of red peeked through the wildflowers.
Folding her hands in prayer fashion, he tucked a Bible page between her fingers, then removed his needle and suture thread and sewed her lips together.
Smiling at his handiwork, he stood, then decided to send Detective Reeves a text.
Laughing as he hit send, he grabbed his duffel bag and headed back onto the trail with a hitch in his step. One still waited in the cage for him. She still hadn’t broken, and that meant more fun and games tonight.
Then tomorrow another woman would have to die.
Twenty-One
Crooked Creek
Night was falling, and Ellie was still at the office. Frustrated, she still had no real lead in the Courtney Wooten murder. Her phone beeped with a text. Hoping for good news from Heath, she quickly checked the message.
But her heart stuttered when she saw the wording.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace. Can you find her, Detective Reeves?
Her hand trembled, and her stomach pitched to her throat. It was him. He’d already killed again.
And now he was taunting her.
She tried messaging back, but it was undeliverable, and just as before, when she called the number, it was unavailable. It was most likely another burner phone.
Her body tight with tension, she stood and hurried to inform her boss. “Captain Hale, look at this. He’s killed again.”
He ran a hand over his balding head as he glanced at the message. “By God, I was afraid of that.”
She had been, too.
“I’m still working on the warrants to find out who all filed lawsuits against Ms. Wooten,” the captain said. “Maybe the killer took another victim to throw us off?”
“Maybe,” Ellie conceded, although she sensed there was more to it. “But that would be risky. This man is methodical, a planner, detail oriented. It’s like he’s playing a game.”
Captain Hale sucked air through his teeth. “What is he trying to tell us with that rhyme?”
Ellie shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. But he left victim number one, a beauty expert, at the Reflection Pond, as if to imply she needed to look within herself.” She scratched her hair, mind racing. “Tuesday’s child is full of grace—does he mean she’s full of grace or lacking it?”
She paced across his office, struggling to understand the killer’s message.
“Falling from grace means losing God’s favor,” Captain Hale said.
Ellie snapped her fingers. “Right. Then perhaps he’s leaving her at a church or some place of religious significance.”
“I’ll call Sheriff Waters and let him know what’s going on. We need deputies out searching.”
“Ask him to put Shondra on it,” Ellie said. “And I’ll research local churches.” While he called Bryce, she returned to her office. Victim one had been found on the AT, and her gut told her to look there now.
She studied the map on her wall, using pushpins to mark the potential spots she recalled, but she couldn’t remember them all. On her laptop, she googled churches within a twenty-mile radius and came up with ten.
Her phone jangled. It was the sheriff.
“Ellie, what the hell!” Bryce yelled the moment she answered. “Captain Hale just called and said another woman has been murdered.”
“I think so,” Ellie said, relaying the message she’d received. “So far, we haven’t found her body, but we need to begin looking. We might catch him in the act. I’m sending you a list of churches to forward to your deputies. We need all hands on deck, Bryce. Including Shondra.”
“You don’t have to tell me how to run the investigation,” Bryce replied. “And FYI, Shondra didn’t show up to work the last two days and didn’t bother to call either. If you talk to her, tell her she’s on thin ice.”
Ellie frowned. Shondra must be really pissed at Bryce not to even call. Worry flitted through her, and she tried Shondra’s number. She got her voicemail and left a message.
Hanging up, her gaze scanned the names of the churches again, and her pulse clamored as one name jumped out. Tuesday’s child is full of grace. There was a church called Church of Grace at the edge of the Blue Ridge mountains, about fifteen miles north of Crooked Creek.
She phoned Cord, but he didn’t answer, so she left a message for him to spread the word to the park service to be on the lookout for a second body. She snatched her keys and jacket and went to tell the captain where she was going.
Twenty minutes later, the image of Courtney Wooten lying on the grave of wildflowers taunted Ellie as she maneuvered the drive to the Baptist church. Night had set in, stars glittering above the lawn, which was dotted with white tents.
The parking lot was packed with cars, and a sign welcomed people of all walks to the Tent Revival. Two tables selling homemade baked goods for the youth group sat in front, manned by teenagers passing out fliers about an upcoming mission trip to Honduras.
As she climbed from her Jeep, old-time gospel singing echoed from the large tent, drowning out sounds of the cicadas and crickets. Growing up, she’d attended revivals with her parents and always felt uncomfortable, as if the preacher’s sermon and Bible thumping were directed at her. The born-again preachers used to rove the aisles, preaching hellfire and damnation, eyes boring into her as if to call her a sinner and suggest she should throw herself on the altar for mercy. Even from the parking lot, she spotted parishioners waving hands in the air and shouting their “Amens” as the reverend began to suck wind.
According to the sign, the revival had started an hour ago, and judging from the enthusiasm, emotions were building. The killer would not have come near this place, not with this many people around.
