Deadly Abandon

by Kallie Lane

His sister had been a behavioral sciences profiler with the RCMP for three years before turning her formidable talents to mystery writing. After the incident, as she liked to refer to it, the one that almost took her life.

  Now, he worried she had another incident in the making, if the hate e-mail glimpsed by her assistant was anything to go by. But, he would not have that particular conversation with his sister. Besides, his friend Hawke was keeping an eye on her.

  Joelle answered his call on the third ring. “Hey, little sister, don’t hang up. I need your help, big time.”

  “Just as long as you aren’t trying to drag me back from Houston, Sully. I’m a big girl now. I don’t need any of you macho males trying to run my life.”

  “Hey, not me, kid. Pop told me he has already tried and it was a no go.” Sully leaned back in his chair, his voice lowering a notch. “Seriously, Joelle, I may have a serial killer working the area and I need your expertise.”

  The line was quiet for a second. “I’ll give it a shot, but I’m a little rusty. It’s been a long time since I’ve done profiling for a living. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  He brought her up to speed on the cold cases, as well as Rainey Dubé’s murder and potentially, Miranda Greene’s. There was silence again on the telephone line.

  “Well, that’s not much to go on. Do you have any communication from the creep? Notes left at the crime scenes? Phone messages or emails? Maybe some mementos left with the bodies?”

  “Nothing has turned up so far. The fire has me stymied, too,” Sully admitted. “Five of the deaths simulated drowning, if I include Dubé and Greene. I’m not even sure the fire death is connected.”

  “Motive is important here, not the killer’s methods,” his sister offered. “Serials need to satisfy their sadistic fantasies. And they will play out those fantasies to achieve some kind of sexual gratification. In the cases you’ve described, water and fire are both symbolic cleansing rituals. If you do have a serial operating in your area, and I think it’s possible, I suspect he’s justifying his kills by thinking of the women as unclean. It’s his reason for preying on them.”

  “How does he choose his victims, Joelle? None of these women were prostitutes, or had criminal records.”

  “Why does a serial killer choose one woman over another? Why is she the one? Sully, those are questions profilers have asked for years. Sadly, it can amount to very simple things. For example, it could be the color of her hair, the clothes she wears, or maybe he just has easy access to her. He stalks her for days—sometimes months—before he attacks her, because it’s all part of the thrill for him, part of his fantasy.

  “He learns everything there is to know about her, goes inside her home, touches her belongings, and may fondle himself in her bed. He plans several escape routes. And when he tires of hunting her, he moves in for the kill. He probably also keeps souvenirs of each victim to help him relive his sexual highs.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “A geographic profiler will tell you he usually kills near where he lives. It’s his comfort zone and he won’t stray too far out of his territory, which should make him easier to find. By the way, if these killings started thirteen years ago, you’re searching for a male in his mid-thirties to early forties now. I think he’s Caucasian, the same as his victims. He is also probably quiet and very ordinary in his private life, because he won’t bring unwanted attention to himself. This is why he’s been so successful, because he blends in so well. And he is highly organized. Otherwise, he would have been caught years ago.”

  Sully heard her suck in her breath over the line. “Watch your back, bro. You get in the guy’s way and he will come after you with both barrels. He may enjoy the sudden recognition of his talents, but he doesn’t want to be stopped. He’s been getting away with murder for a lot of years and now he’s escalating, judging from the short timeframe between Dubé’s and possibly Greene’s murders.”

  “Yes,” he acknowledged, “The unsolved cases seem to be spaced much farther apart. Unless he’s committed other atrocities in between we don’t even know about.”

  “It’s possible. And if there is a serial killer operating in your area, he’s worked undetected under the noses of the Mallard Bay police force for a lot of years.”

  “Yeah, which surprises me,” Sully admitted. “You’d think someone would have clued in.”

  “Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me at all,” Joelle said. “Forensic techniques and DNA collection were still in their infancy when these killings began, not to mention police databases weren’t around to share information. This killer’s smart—smart enough to kill in the boonies where local police had jurisdiction. None of these cases were ever brought to Montreal Homicide, were they?”

  “No. Most of them appeared to be accidents, at least on the surface.”

  “See what I mean?” Joelle’s fingernails tap, tap, tapped on her headset through the line and caused him to wince. “He can’t stop now, Sully, even if he knows you’re on to him. And he won’t want you hunting him down and depriving him of his fantasies. He places absolutely no value on human life.”

  In other words, he is one sick son of a bitch. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate the heads up.”

  “Yes, well, be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Same goes. By the way, I’ve been reading your books. You won’t believe it, but I actually caught a guy who faked his own death by following the plot of your first novel.”

  His sister’s voice rippled with laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day you would actually read my stuff, let alone learn anything from it. Then again, a lot of what I write is loosely based on actual case files I studied while with the RCMP.”

  “Oh, I’m learning a lot, kid. Maybe we can talk about it when you come home for a visit? I love you, and I’m just starting to figure out what makes you tick. Take care of you, little sister.”

  “You take care of you. Sully? I love you too.”

  “I know, kid. I know.” He sighed as she hung up; praying to God she would stay safe and come back home so they could work on being a family again. They had a lot of catching up to do. Wounds needing to heal had festered far too long.

  ****

  Breeana was exhausted when she arrived home late that evening. As manager of her son’s hockey team, she attended every hockey meeting. The meeting tonight had turned into a free-for-all, once the kids’ parents started arguing about fundraising and the team budget. The get-together droned on for hours.

  A headache throbbed behind her eyes. She needed some aspirin. The truth was, she still hadn’t heard from Sully and there wasn’t anything on the radio about Rainey’s death. Couldn’t the blasted man keep her informed? Was it too much to ask?

  She sighed, recognizing the unfairness of her complaints. He had a job to do, after all, and it didn’t include reporting back to her about the case. If she was really honest with herself, she would admit she wanted to hear the sound of his voice.

  Plugging in the kettle, she sank to a chair while waiting for the water to boil, willing all wayward thoughts of the lieutenant out of her mind. Tea and aspirin in hand, she eventually dragged herself upstairs and along the hallway.

  Opening the door to Cody’s room, she peered inside. Always the mother bear, she needed to see her cub tucked in his boy cave, even if the cub in question was fast becoming a man, already five inches taller than her and outweighing her by fifty-five pounds.

  Bruiser and Bear lay sprawled on the opposite side of the queen-size bed where Cody snored softly. The dogs lifted their heads and eyed her through heavy-lidded gazes. It was pointless to demand they get off the bed. Boys will be boys and dogs will be dogs. It was easier to turn a blind eye and save her battles for the important stuff.

  After showering, Breeana tumbled into her own bed. Lying in the dark, she listened to a June squall gusting across the lake and the rain pounding the dormer roof in a staccato rhythm. She loved the smel
l of rain, but not tonight. She rose and cranked the windows closed, locking them, an uneasiness gripping her as she gazed across the lawn and down to the black expanse of Lac St-Louis.

  The normal sounds of the house settling took on an ominous feel. She was grateful for the distraction when her phone rang; however, she did breathe a sigh of relief to hear her answering service.

  “Dr. McGill, I’m sorry to bother you so late but there’s been an accident. We have a report of a dog hit out on Highway 20 in the storm. The police are requesting to transport to you for surgery.”

  Breeana slid open the wardrobe door and hauled out some clothes. “What’s the status on the dog?”

  “A probable broken leg and several lacerations.”

  “Tell them to come ahead. I’ll be at the clinic in fifteen minutes.” She disconnected, tossed the phone on the bed, and dressed in sweats and a rain jacket before scribbling a fast note to Cody to leave under a magnet on the fridge.

  The storm battered her SUV as she drove. Lightning cracked, illuminating the road ahead as she white-knuckled the drive along Lakeshore in record time. She swerved into the parking lot and braked to a halt. No sign of the police transport vehicle yet.

  Punching her code into the security system, Breeana rushed inside, switched on lights as she jogged down the corridor, and hurried to do the surgery set-up. The walk-in buzzer sounded as she retrieved surgical instruments from the autoclave. Seconds later, the lights went out, plunging the surgery into darkness.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  No answer.

  Her eyes cut to the angled blinds where streetlights still penetrated the slats. Her brain kicked into gear, her sixth sense sounding the D-A-N-G-E-R alarm. This was no ordinary power failure.

  Someone had cut the electricity inside the clinic, someone out in the pitch-black reception area where the breaker box was located. And she’d bet her bottom dollar…he hadn’t brought in a dog with a broken leg for treatment.

  Breeana berated herself for being so careless, for not verifying the emergency before heading into the night and making herself a sitting target. She knew in her soul Rainey and Miranda had been murdered. Was their killer after her now?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! The frantic slamming of her heart rang in her ears. She prayed whoever was in the outer office wouldn’t hear it.

  How would she escape the maniac? The windows to the surgery were sealed shut due to the heat pump installation. The phone died in the power outage. She realized she forgot her cell phone at home.

  She didn’t dare make a break for the hallway leading to the back and front exits of the building. In other words, she was a sitting duck in the arcade of her own clinic. Adrenaline punched her system to a whole new level of survival.

  Slipping into the small stockroom off the surgery, she snicked the door shut behind her. It was so dark she could hardly see her hands in front of her face. She fumbled on the shelves for anything she could use as a weapon. A disposable scalpel was her weapon of choice, but Laura had reorganized the shelves during a cleaning spree and everything had been moved.

  Her fingers touched a box of wooden matches. Those could work. If the security system overrode to battery power as it was supposed to, the matches could be her ticket out of there. Inching her way up the stockroom ladder, she lit a match under the smoke sensor located in the ceiling. The match flashed for a second and died. Breeana cursed under her breath.

  A draft nudged her spine as the stockroom door flew open and smacked against the outer wall. She choked back a scream, gripped the top of the ladder, and froze.

  The shaft of a penlight danced across the small space before coming to rest on the ladder. On her. With fumbling hands, she struck more matches, held them like a flare beneath the sensor, and prayed for a miracle.

  As if on cue, the haunting lyrics of a hymn filled the room. Breeana couldn’t believe her ears. Her obscene caller had escalated from telephone intimidation to physically assaulting her within the space of a few days. His malevolent voice behind her, the beam from his penlight blinded her when she twisted on the ladder.

  “Say your prayers, Breeana. You’re about to meet your maker.”

  The matches burned her fingers but she held fast. She could use them as a weapon to poke out his eyes. An instant later, a piercing squeal filled her ears as the smoke sensor responded above her head. Its deafening screech rebounded off the walls.

  Her attacker roared, shoved the nearest shelving unit, and sent it flying. It crashed against the ladder and toppled her to the floor. Frantic, Breeana tore at the sharp edges of metal pinning her down, slicing her hands. The twisted pieces wouldn’t give an inch. It was useless.

  The slamming of the stockroom door barely registered until she smelled the acrid stench of smoke. Crap! The sprinklers weren’t working. He must have turned off the water main outside the building. Wide-eyed, terror slammed through her as she watched flames lick upward from the base of the door, a pool of burning accelerant streaming toward her from the surgery beyond.

  “Help! Help me!” She beat back the flames with a blanket that fell from the shelving unit. Choking on smoke, she fought dizziness, praying for the sounds of running feet, the clamor of voices, and the swoosh of fire extinguishers. The wail of the fire detector was the only sound she heard.

  Help would never arrive in time.

  Chapter Four

  Sully was the first to reach Breeana, flashlight in hand and gun ready as he forced the supply room door. Air filtered in, clearing the smoke. His heart lurched when he saw her, pale-faced and gasping for breath on the floor, tears streaking her cheeks.

  Hell, she could have died in there. It took every ounce of willpower for him to keep his voice even. “You’re okay now. We’ll have you out of there in a minute.”

  He holstered his gun. When she didn’t respond right away, he started to panic. “Talk to me, Bree. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay.” She wheezed in a gasping breath and launched into a fit of coughing. One of the paramedics leaned through the toppled shelving and fit an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. In another moment, her breathing seemed to ease, her chest rising and falling with a natural rhythm.

  Sully’s concern relaxed a little, but it didn’t last long. He’d screwed up. He should have anticipated the attack on her. Jesus. With at least one of her friends murdered—maybe two—it stood to reason she’d be on the killer’s hit list.

  There was no way she had done this to herself. He’d seen the remains of accelerant-soaked towels shoved against the supply room door, her assailant’s parting gift before escaping out the back of the building. His mind also registered the empty bottles of Isopropyl Alcohol tossed in a corner, confirming the prick had used her own antiseptic supplies to try and burn her alive. She’d been lucky, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Curse words threatened to spill out of his mouth. He clamped his teeth together and swallowed hard. Swearing wouldn’t catch the psychopath. Only a full-scale police investigation would hunt the bastard down.

  As soon as the power was back on, firemen helped Sully drag the mangled shelving to the side. “Be careful,” he cautioned. “I have criminalists on the way to take evidence.”

  Breeana fell into his arms as he scooped her up and carried her to the reception area. EMTs examined her there, closing the cuts on her hands with butterfly bandages. It was a miracle she wasn’t burned, or suffering from serious smoke inhalation.

  Sully kept a hand on her shoulder to forge a connection. He doubted she would ever think of the clinic as a safe haven again. She glanced around the room while breathing in fresh, clean air. He could see terror reflected in her gaze. “How are you doing?”

  “I feel like I’ve been hit by a semi,” she rasped. “But all things considered, I’m okay. My throat hurts but the EMTs said they’re satisfied I haven’t inhaled dangerous levels of smoke. At least I don’t have to go to the emergency room.”

  He steadied her when she stood, placing
an arm around her waist. “Are you sure you didn’t get burned anywhere?”

  “The flames never reached me.” Breeana took a faltering step then straightened, visibly pulling herself together. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “Cody called me.” He held her against him and brushed the hair back from her face. Another few minutes and she wouldn’t have made it out alive. He didn’t want to think about it.

  “Good thing he found my business card and has a hell of a lot more sense than you do. He heard you drive off, saw the note on the fridge, and couldn’t raise you on the cell phone. With Rainey Dubé and possibly Miranda Greene murdered, he had good cause to be alarmed. I put out an APB on your vehicle, and was on my way to your place, when the fire call came through on the scanner. I recognized the address.”

  “I’d better call him, Sully. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

  “We’ll call from the car. I’m taking you home. This time you’re going to stay there.”

  The storm had tapered off when he handed Breeana into his unmarked and buckled her seatbelt.

  A second later, a sedan swerved to the curb right in front of them. Breeana held a hand in front of her face to shield her eyes from the glare of headlights, and peered at the driver. “It’s my dad.”

  “Okay. Stay put and let me talk to him for a minute.” Breeana’s father angled out from behind the steering wheel. Sully crossed the grass to meet him. He’d been in such a hurry to get inside earlier, he’d parked on the lawn. Forest noticed the badge clipped on his belt. “Are you the police lieutenant my grandson called?”

  “Yes, sir. The name’s Sullivan Sauvage. And before you ask, your daughter is fine. A few minor scrapes, but nothing serious to worry about.”

  “Thank God for that.” Forest heaved a sigh of relief. “What the hell happened? I got a call from the security company that the clinic was on fire.”

  Sully eyed him for about a nanosecond before making a decision. There was no point trying to stonewall a man like Forest with empty platitudes and bullshit. He wouldn’t buy it, even if it was gift wrapped. “Someone broke into the clinic tonight and attacked Breeana. He managed to set the fire before he escaped.”