Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  A friend? Did she still have any of those? Other than the people she worked with, she hadn’t taken the time to cultivate any relationships. Not in years. Not since Greg’s death.

  Nic filled the pot with fresh water, poured it into the coffeemaker, then put in a new filter and added the ground coffee. After flipping the switch to start the brewing process, she returned to the living room, sat down in the middle of the floor, and picked up the photos of Amber Kirby taken at the scene.

  She had spoken to Mrs. Landers only a couple of days ago to ask about her grandaughter Maddie, the six-year-old who had discovered Amber’s body.

  “She still hasn’t said more than a few words and she’s having nightmares,” Mrs. Landers had told her. “But the child psychologist we’re taking her to says that it will just take time for her to recover.”

  Nic could only imagine the trauma to the child. Imagine being six years old and seeing a woman hanging upside down from her bound ankles in a tree in your grandparents’ apple orchard. A dead woman. Covered in dried blood. Part of her face missing and her head scalped.

  Nic moaned. God, even an adult would have difficulty recovering from something like that. But Maddie was a child, practically a baby.

  Murder always had a ripple effect, as practically every event in life did. Every word, every action, even every thought had consequences.

  For at least the millionth time, Nic wondered if something she had said or done had contributed to Greg’s mental instability. Had she said the wrong thing that morning? Had her long hours and dedication to her job been factors? Hadn’t she loved him enough?

  She had loved him a great deal when they first married, and had foreseen a bright, successful future ahead for them. They had been a young, up-and-coming, career-oriented couple with government jobs. Greg had been the type of man she’d been looking for, someone sensitive, kind, and supportive, as well as bright and ambitious. Everything had been so perfect that first year. Almost too perfect. They seldom disagreed, never argued.

  When had things begun to change?

  She couldn’t pinpoint a specific time. No one day stood out in her memory as the day her marriage had started falling apart. At first, she had pretended nothing was wrong, had chalked up the subtle hints of trouble to nothing more than both of them being overworked. By the time she had admitted to herself that their marriage was on the rocks, that they needed help, it had been too late.

  Oh, Greg, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. If only …

  No, she wouldn’t do this to herself. Not again. Definitely not now. There was nothing she could do for Greg, but she still had seven days to save Dru Tanner.

  Gasping for air, Dru doubled over and allowed her aching chest a moment of relief. But only a moment. She didn’t dare stop for a second longer than absolutely necessary. If he caught her in less than four hours, he would punish her. Oh, God, she didn’t think she could bear it. Not again.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here, the prisoner of a madman. Probably a couple of weeks, although it seemed more like years. The days were endless, spent alone in the woods. Running and hiding, then running some more. And the nights weren’t much better, except that she could rest for a few hours, even sleep for a while. He wouldn’t allow her to sleep all night. He set an alarm that went off after four hours.

  At dawn every morning, he brought her up from the basement and gave her food and water. Less and less each day. Then he took her deep into the woods and released her.

  “I’ll be back later,” he’d told her those first few mornings. “Don’t let me catch you too soon. If you don’t play the game so we can have fun, I’ll have to punish you.”

  That first day, she had thought she actually had a chance to escape. Even with handcuffs on, she could run. And that’s what she’d done—run like crazy. In every direction, seeking any sign of an escape route. But she’d found only more woods. He had returned later and hunted her down.

  “Very good,” he’d told her. “You managed to elude me during the hunt for over an hour. Tomorrow, you must do that for two hours.”

  Each day he had increased the length of time he let her run free, extending the hunt. He had rewarded her with her choice of food and water or a bath, if she managed not to get caught in the allotted amount of time. But if he caught her too quickly, he punished her.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t. Just keep running.

  She heard the roar of his dirt bike.

  No, no! He’s getting close.

  Run, run, run!

  Griffin and Yvette took an afternoon stroll along the lake-shore. The warm September breeze caressed Yvette’s shoulder-length hair that shimmered a striking blue-black in the sunlight. He thought again, as he so often did, what an incredibly beautiful woman Dr. Yvette Meng was. Small. Slender. Exotic. A delicate porcelain doll.

  She had paid an exorbitant price because of her rare beauty. York had chosen only the best. The very best. He had searched the world for a woman as unique as Yvette. But he had misjudged his little china doll, mistaking gentleness for meekness.

  Griffin had learned from York’s mistake—looks can be deceiving.

  “It’s already autumn.” Griff finally spoke after they’d been walking for nearly ten minutes. “It’s beautiful here year-round, but in October just looking out my bedroom window can take my breath away.”

  Yvette smiled. “Sometimes, Griffin, you can be almost poetic.” She paused, reached out, and held her hand over his arm, but didn’t touch him. “You have a poet’s soul and the heart of a warrior.”

  He stopped, turned, and smiled at her. “There’s an old saying—takes one to know one.”

  “Ah, so it does.” She lifted her hand from where it hovered over his arm and then began walking again. “When I was a child, I loved summer. Now, I appreciate each season for what it has to offer.”

  “Is there advice in that comment?”

  “If one chooses to hear the advice, yes. If not …”

  “There were two Beauty Queen Killers.” Griffin kept walking and did not look at Yvette.

  She kept in pace with his slow, easy saunter. “I see.”

  “Special Agent Baxter and I put the pieces together once we saw the ballistics reports and realized that Cary Maygarden had been hit twice, by two different riflemen. I chose not to pursue the matter because of Lindsay and Judd. Nic tried to get someone in the bureau to dig deeper, but when the killings ended with Maygarden’s death, there was no other concrete evidence that a second man had been involved.”

  “And now there is evidence.”

  “He called us,” Griff said. “He’s playing a new game and he decided he wanted us to play with him, to be a part of his game.”

  “Opponents in the age-old war of good versus evil.” Yvette stopped as they neared the curve leading to a path that continued around the lake and veered off toward a dilapidated old boathouse on the estate.

  “He’s killed five women in this new game of his and has kidnapped a sixth.” Griff glanced up at the azure sky, bright and clear, with only wisps of fragmented clouds here and there. “He keeps each woman for three weeks, then he puts a bullet in her head and afterward, he scalps her.”

  Yvette didn’t even flinch, but Griff knew that she was not immune to the horror, simply desensitized by past experience. He doubted that anything would shock her.

  She held out her hand to him. “May I?” she asked.

  He understood that she was asking for permission to take his hand in hers, to touch him. Only a select few knew Yvette’s secret talent, one she considered as much a curse as a blessing. She was an empathic psychic. Before he met her, he had never believed such a thing was possible.

  Griff held out his hand to her. He trusted Yvette as he trusted only one other human being—Sanders.

  She took his hand in hers and closed her eyes. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Griff felt only the soft warmth of her hand, but he could tell by the tension in Yvette’s face that
she was experiencing far more.

  She released his hand suddenly and stepped away from him. After taking several deep, cleansing breaths, she opened her eyes and stared directly at him. “You fear he is playing a game that is all too familiar to you.”

  “He calls himself ‘the Hunter,’” Griff said.

  “And you refer to him as ‘the Scalper.’”

  Griff nodded.

  “You care about her,” Yvette said, her voice a mere whisper.

  “Who, Nic? No, you’re wrong. I don’t have any feelings for her. I just got used to having her around, that’s all.”

  “No, that is not all. She is not what you thought she was. You like her.”

  “She grows on you.”

  Yvette’s full, pink lips tilted ever so slightly in a fragile smile, then the smile quickly faded. “You have been having nightmares again. York has returned to torment you.”

  “Yeah, and just when I thought he was gone for good, that I had managed to bury him so deep he could never resurface.”

  “The only power he has over you is the power you give him.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Griff hadn’t meant to raise his voice, hadn’t meant for his words to sound so harsh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  She waved her hand in an it-doesn’t-matter gesture. “I wish that I had been able to help you more, but I am too close to you, too involved in what happened to be totally objective as a good therapist should be.”

  “You’ve helped me plenty.”

  “If you could have trusted another psychiatrist, he or she might have been able to help you more than I have.”

  “No.” He would never allow anyone else inside his head, would never share that monstrous part of himself with any other human being.

  “Exercise more. Meditate more. Talk to Sanders. Talk to me. And go back to work. Become actively involved in this case again.”

  “I promised Nic—”

  “You will work with her, never again in competition against her.”

  Griff widened his eyes inquisitively. “She’s going to hate like hell to see me show up again.”

  “I would not be so sure of that.”

  “Is that some sort of psychic revelation?”

  “Actually, it is simply woman’s intuition.”

  Griff chuckled.

  “Can you stay a few days?” he asked.

  “I will stay as long as you need me.”

  “We could take one of the boats out tomorrow and cruise downriver. Sanders and Barbara Jean could go with us.”

  “That sounds lovely. If it is what you would like to do, then we will—”

  “What I want is to find the Scalper before he kills another woman.” Griff curled his hands into tight fists. “I want him dead so that he can never torture anyone else. I want his rotten soul to burn in hell.”

  “Along with York’s wicked soul.” Without asking permission this time, she reached out and took Griff’s right hand in hers and slowly, gently unfolded his fist, then did the same with his left hand. “York has no power. You are the one with all the power. Don’t give him any.”

  “Why won’t he stay dead?”

  “Because you keep bringing him back to life. Only you can make his death permanent.”

  Damar Sanders stood on the patio alone and looked out at the peaceful lake. He had approved of the choice Griffin had made when he picked this land on which to build his home. Not only was the estate secluded, but the location was serene and peaceful. After so many years of struggle and turbulence, of fighting to survive and reinvent themselves, they had needed a tranquil sanctuary.

  He did his best to never think of those years, but a man had only so much control over his thoughts. Even the strongest person could hold the floodwaters at bay for only so long. When the darkness washed over him, he had learned that the only way to come through it and into the light on the other side was to face what he feared most.

  Griffin knew that was what he, too, must do. And Yvette would help him.

  Some battles had to be fought again and again, the same enemy vanquished repeatedly. And with each victory, the enemy grew weaker. Perhaps someday he would become so weak that he could no longer wage war.

  Damar had once loved and been loved. By his parents. By his wife. He had lived a good life, had been a proud man, had been greatly blessed.

  “Damar … Damar …” For a brief moment, he thought that the soft feminine voice calling to him belonged to Elora.

  “I am here,” he replied and turned to warmly greet Barbara Jean Hughes. She was a lovely woman, only a few years younger than his Elora would be now, and with the same vibrant red hair and pensive dark eyes. The physical resemblance between the two women was minor, but the gentleness of Barbara Jean’s spirit was almost identical to Elora’s.

  “I thought we were going to play chess,” she said.

  “Yes, of course, we are.”

  She wheeled her chair farther out onto the patio, then halted several feet from him. “I don’t mean to pry,” she said. “But you and Griffin have been awfully quiet all day, ever since Dr. Meng arrived. Is everything all right?”

  He walked over to Barbara Jean, leaned down in front of her wheelchair, and looked into her eyes as he took both of her hands in his. “You mustn’t be concerned about Griffin or me. Griffin is worried about this new case, the Scalper murders. And when Griffin worries, I worry.”

  “And when you and Griffin worry, Yvette Meng shows up.”

  “Griffin telephoned her.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Barbara Jean said. “I know that you … you and Griffin both care about her.”

  “We love Yvette,” Damar said. “She is our sister. Do you understand?”

  “I understand the concept,” she told him. “But unless you choose to explain your past relationship with her—”

  “The past is not only my past. I share it with Griffin and Yvette. I cannot share it with you or anyone else unless they, too, are willing for me to speak of it.”

  She squeezed his hands and smiled, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I don’t need to know all there is to know about you. You’re a good man. And you’re my friend, as is Griffin. I don’t like to see either of you unhappy.”

  “Playing chess with you, my dear Barbara Jean, will make me happy.” He stood, moved behind her wheelchair, and grasped the handlebars. Indeed, spending time with her made him exceedingly happy. It did not matter whether they played chess, prepared a meal together, or simply sat quietly and listened to music.

  Until Barbara Jean came to Griffin’s Rest over a year ago, a woman alone and frightened of the monster who had brutally murdered her sister, Damar had thought he would never care for another woman in the way he had cared for Elora. But day by day, week by week, month by month, as she worked for the Powell Agency and gradually recovered from her ordeal, he had come to know Barbara Jean for the special lady she was. And he had slowly fallen in love with her.

  She did not know his true feelings for her.

  For now, it was enough that they were friends.

  Dru tripped over a dead tree limb that lay across her escape path. Tumbling forward, she held out her arms, trying to break her fall. But her weak limbs gave way to the weight of her battered body and she fell flat on her face.

  No, God, please …

  Get up, damn it, get up. Run. He’s close. So close.

  But her tired, weak arms and legs refused to cooperate. The earth was cool, the bed of dried leaves soft beneath her. She wanted to rest, to curl up and sleep for hours.

  She was so tired.

  The deadly roar of the dirt bike alerted her that he was almost upon her, too near for her to escape. But if he caught her, he would punish her. No, no, she couldn’t bear another night in the cage or another day without food.

  “Game’s end,” his soft, menacing voice called out to her, as if echoing from a great distance.

  She managed to lift herself to her kn
ees.

  When she looked up, he stood less than ten feet away, a scowl on his face, his rifle pointing directly at her. She struggled to stand, but didn’t have the strength. Dropping back down on her knees, she stared at him, a mixture of sweat and tears clouding her vision.

  “It’s almost over,” he told her. “Just a few more moves in the game and then the conclusion.”

  “Please, don’t … don’t kill me. I have a child. A little girl who needs me.”

  “Oh, poor Dru, so pitiful.”

  Before she realized what he intended to do, he fired the rifle. The bullet hit her in the shoulder. Crying out in pain, she clutched her shoulder as she doubled over. Blood gushed through her grimy fingers.

  “Just a few more shots, just a little more suffering, and our game will be concluded.”

  Game! That’s all this had been to him. Her life meant nothing to him. The fact that she had a child, a husband … He didn’t care. She wasn’t a woman to her captor, not even a human being. She was nothing more than his prey.

  He shot her in the opposite shoulder. She fell forward onto the ground, the pain unbearable, and yet she had no choice but to bear it.

  Two more bullets entered her body in rapid succession as he marched steadily toward her. One shot entered the back of her left calf and the other the side of her right thigh.

  When she was on the verge of passing out from the agonizing pain, he reached down, jerked her up by her hair until she was on her knees again. Then as she toppled over, he shot her for the final time.

  Pudge leaned his rifle against a nearby tree, then using his foot, he rolled Dru over and inspected his kill. Bending down, he grabbed a handful of her silky, auburn red hair, blood from the wound in the back of her head still sticky and wet matted against her scalp. He ran his fingers through her damp hair. And smiled.

  He removed the Razar knife from its leather sheath attached to his belt. The carbon steel blade shimmered like molten silver in the afternoon sunlight. He took his time removing her scalp, savoring every second, memorizing the exhilarating feel of ultimate victory so that he could relive these heady moments over and over again.