by Rita Herron
A few locals began the search in town, while others formed small groups to check the foothills of the mountains and get word to residents on the periphery. There were so many places to search—vacant chicken coops scattered among the hills and valleys, abandoned cabins and outbuildings tucked away in the middle of nowhere, two or three storage warehouses, old farm silos, barns and bins, even a dozen small caverns that would make a good place to hide.
Grady kept hope that Kerry would be found safe and alive, but with every passing hour, his hopes faded. The other women had been found around midnight.
It was already twelve-thirty.
He and Logan had begun with the churches, leaving someone to watch each of the two in town while they drove to the smaller country churches on the outskirts. The first one, the small Presbyterian church on Route 9, was empty, save for a vagrant they found sleeping on a front pew.
“Don’t run me off,” the old man whined. “I ain’t hurtin’ nothing.”
“Come morning, find a new place,” Grady said.
“Why are you out here, anyway?” the old man snapped.
“The preacher knows I come, and he don’t mind.”
Logan explained about the serial killer and the missing woman in town.
The old man shivered. “Maybe I will find some other place. I don’t want to be here if some maniac comes up.” He rose and staggered outside, disappearing into the woods.
Grady and Logan headed to the Church of God in the foothills. The sounds of the night echoed in the strained silence as they swung onto the dirt road that led to the wooden church. Clusters of oaks and pines surrounded the chapel. The location was so isolated, Grady wondered how the attendees ever found it. But the people who belonged were a tight group, all finding housing in the lower half of Crow’s Landing, all reveling in the simplicity of the setting. A wolf cried in the distance as they climbed out. Logan scanned the darkness as if checking for bobcats or bears.
“If this killer isn’t from the area, I don’t see how he’d even know about this place. Doesn’t he usually leave the victims so they can be found easily?” Logan cleared his throat. “I thought part of the sickness was showing off and not getting caught.”
“Usually.” Grady grunted and walked up the steps, checked inside. Nothing. Logan combed the property, but he, too, came up empty.
Maybe Violet had been wrong. Maybe Kerry would appear back in town, and everyone would laugh about how they’d exaggerated her situation. She’d probably had a secret rendezvous with some new lover.
“Should we check the one at the top of the peak?” Logan said.
Grady nodded and once again took the wheel. His stomach knotted as they climbed the mountain, memories returning of that night twenty years ago when they’d ridden the roads hunting for Darlene. They’d found her at Shanty Annie’s, the old well house, not a church, though.
But that piece of bone still bothered him.
Ten minutes later, he wound along the dirt road toward Black Mountain Church. The wind whistling through the window tried to cool the air, but only shifted the heat around him. He was sweating, his palms damp, his heartbeat accelerated. He parked the car, his hand on his gun, his instincts alert as he and Logan scanned the woods. Ten steps toward the white wooden church and he saw her.
She was sprawled facedown on the front stoop, as if she’d been left there for the gods, her neck twisted at an odd angle, a sheet wrapped around her.
“Christ.” Logan removed his sunglasses. “It’s Kerry.”
* * *
VIOLET STARED INTO the darkness, the feeling that she’d actually seen into the killer’s mind plaguing her. Why would she connect with a madman?
A board creaked in the front room. She searched the shadows. She wasn’t alone.
Someone was in the house now. Was it the killer?
Shoving the covers away, she reached for her cell phone, then tiptoed to the den to listen, blinking to acclimate her eyes to the darkness. Moonlight softened the corners of the room. The desk in the corner had been disturbed. Drawers hung open.
A shadow flickered. Moonlight splintered across the room, illuminating him.
She backed toward the door and opened her mouth to scream. He lunged toward her and covered her mouth. Violet kicked and swung her fists, but he gripped her tighter.
“Be quiet. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She froze, the blood roaring in her ears. The reporter.
“I just want to ask you some questions.”
She kicked at him, but he jerked her arm so hard she buckled.
“Don’t push me, Miss Baker.”
Deciding to play along, she nodded.
“Now, if I release you, promise not to scream.”
She nodded again, deciding she’d have to choose her moment.
He released her mouth and she gasped. “What are you doing here? I could have you arrested for home invasion and assault.”
“I told you I just want to talk.”
Her gaze shot to the door. He was blocking it. “How did you know where I lived?”
“It’s my job to investigate things.”
“Then why did you lie to me in Charleston?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d talk to me if you knew the truth about who I was.”
“You’re right.” Their eyes met, locked. His smile held an evil glint. He liked knowing she was scared.
“Why are you following me?”
“Looking for information. I think you’re the key to my story. And I might be able to help you.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.” She glanced around. “You told Sheriff Monroe you were following the serial killer case.”
“I am, and I think it’s linked to you.”
Violet inhaled to steady her breathing. “What makes you think that?”
His thin lips spread into a grin. “I’ve heard about your gift. And I understand that you tried to save Darlene Monroe twenty years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
He wheezed a breath, the sound echoing in the tension. “I grew up outside of town here. I remember the stories.”
“So,” Violet said, her temper flaring, “you want to write about the crazy girl?” She stalked by him, tried to punch in 911 on her phone.
He hesitated, then grabbed her again and yanked the handset from her. “No, I want to find out the truth, just like you do. I haven’t pieced everything together, but there’s a research center, a hospital near here. There was talk of some unusual experiments going on twenty years ago, ones some of the townspeople knew about, ones they covered up.”
Violet stared at his hand, willing him to remove it from her arm. He finally released her. She met his gaze again. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father’s murder. Darlene’s. They had something to do with your mother.”
“My mother died when I was born.”
“No, she died when you were two. She was in a mental institution.”
Violet gaped at him in shock. “Where did you hear that?”
“I told you I’ve done my research. But I’ve only scratched the surface. Whatever this secret is, it could be big, and I’m going to blow it wide open.”
Violet folded her arms. But she was so desperate for answers, she had to listen. “Go on.”
“I suspect your father was murdered because he knew too much.”
Violet racked her brain for a reply, but so far the reporter seemed on target. “How do I know you didn’t kill him? And that you’re not here to kill me, too?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”
She hesitated. “If you are telling the truth, what happened twenty years ago? And why would someone kill my dad over it now?”
He ran a hand through his scraggly hair, mouth twitching. “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll find out.” He slanted a cold gaze at her. “But it seems too coincidental that you were connected to a little girl’s murder, and now this seri
al killer.”
Violet’s heart pounded. How could he know she was connected to both of them—unless he was the killer?
* * *
“WE HAVE TO FIND this killer.” Grady’s gut pinched as he photographed Kerry Cantrell’s body. No woman deserved to die like this. To be left naked, wrapped in a sheet, treated like some sacrificial animal.
He radioed the other search parties to relay that they’d discovered Kerry, although Grady insisted he not reveal their location. The last thing he wanted was for half the town to show up in a panic and contaminate the crime scene.
Then Logan scribbled details about the body’s position and the scene as Grady recited his findings. Finally Grady read the note. The same native expression had been written as a farewell to Kerry. And Violet had known about it. There was also a sliver of a bone beside the body.
The bone whistle.
“People in town are going to panic when this gets out,” Logan said.
“I know. Her disappearance has already created some hysteria.” Guilt over his dismissal of Kerry’s interest in him added to Grady’s temper. “We’ll have to do what we can to control the crowds, especially those Barley boys.”
Logan nodded, then strode to the edge of the woods, searching for footprints.
Within an hour, the Nashville CSI unit barreled up to Black Mountain Church, along with the FBI. Grady braced himself for the posturing he expected over jurisdiction and who had priority on the case. The FBI didn’t think much of small-town law enforcement. They probably thought he was inept, too.
Special Agent Nick Norton, who was spearheading the task force, introduced himself along with a female profiler, Special Agent Adams. Agent Norton scowled at Logan. “What are you doing here?”
Logan’s hand balled into a fist. “I’m the deputy in town.”
Norton cast his eyes toward Grady for confirmation, and Grady nodded. “You two know each other?” he asked.
“We met on another case,” Agent Norton said in a clipped tone.
Logan rocked back on his heels, his gaze unwavering.
“Have you touched or moved anything?” Agent Adams asked, breaking the tension between the men and bringing them back to the task at hand.
Grady frowned, curious about Norton and Logan’s history, but that would have to wait. “No. We may be small town, but we know how to do our jobs.”
Agent Norton raised an eyebrow. “Good, we’ll need your cooperation.”
Agent Adams studied Kerry’s body and began to assess the scene while the crime scene techs began to work.
“She was left like the others?” Grady asked.
“Identical,” Agent Norton said. “Even the note is the same.”
“Have you traced where the killer bought the sheets he wraps the victims in?” Logan asked.
Norton didn’t bother to look up. “Not yet, but we’re working on it. What’s the victim’s name?”
“Kerry Cantrell,” Grady said. “She’s a local, worked as a waitress at the diner in town.”
“Was she from around here?”
He shook his head. “She moved to Crow’s Landing about a year ago.”
Norton jotted down notes, recording their conversation. “Married?”
“No.”
“Boyfriends? Lovers?”
Grady hesitated. “Not that I know of.”
“She’s attractive. You mean there was no one?” Norton asked again.
“That native was interested in her,” Logan said, piping up. “Although Kerry turned him down. She was interested in the sheriff.”
Grady glared at his deputy, but Special Agent Norton perked up.
“When was the last time you saw her, Sheriff?”
Grady crossed his arms. “Yesterday at the diner.”
“I assume you have an alibi for the last few hours.”
He gritted his teeth. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Listen, Monroe, you know the drill. Play the game so I can eliminate you, and we’ll get along fine.”
The muscles in Grady’s neck bunched. He’d been on the verge of telling them about Violet’s vision. Shit. If he did that, they’d think he was nuts. “As a matter of fact, I was in town all day. Half the citizens saw me. I’ve been with my dad, then the mayor, then my deputy and I rode in together to break up a fight at the diner.”
“And this native?”
“Joseph Longhorse is his name. His mother owns the Redbud Café. He was involved in the fight.” Grady explained about the reporter and the panic he’d created, along with the hysteria over the profile reported on the news. “The Barley boys are prejudiced bullies. They never liked the Native Americans in town and have been ruthless to Joseph Longhorse for years. The profile gave them an excuse to go after him.”
“But he does fit the profile.” Norton made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Then I say we talk to Mr. Longhorse. Find out just how angry he was that Miss Cantrell rebuffed him.”
Grady nodded reluctantly. He might not get along with Longhorse, but he didn’t see him as a killer. Then again, the man did hike off into the woods for days. He liked to hunt. He had some peculiar customs, a lot of anger bottled up. And he collected those damn bones.
But even if he’d hurt Kerry, why would he have killed those other women?
Unless he was simply copycatting the murder to make it look as if the serial killer had killed Kerry.
* * *
THEY HAD FOUND HER BODY.
A sense of elation warmed his blood as they scurried around with their cameras and notepads. Kerry Cantrell had been so easy. So ready to fall into his hands.
So far from perfect that he had almost spat in her face.
And her blood…oh, it held secrets.
Secrets that she had kept from her lovers. Secrets that labeled her as damaged goods. Such imperfections made her so wrong for his father that he had been tempted to leave her completely naked and exposed. She didn’t deserve the cleansing ritual or the soft sheet he had wrapped her in to cradle her in death.
But his mother had taught him to be clean. To wash the blood away, scouring the evil from deep within as the dry flakes of dead skin fell away.
And his father was the blessed one. The one who spoke of sin and repentance. Of redemption and life everlasting.
He saw Violet Baker’s eyes in his mind and smiled, thinking about the test tubes. He had so carefully printed each of their names on the labels.
She was last on his list.
His body hardened at the thought of taking her. Of watching her blood seep into the test tube. He could hardly wait to tighten the tourniquet around her arm.
And to feel the silky softness of her throat as his hands closed around it….
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE KILLER’S HANDS were closing around her neck.
Violet raised her fingers, massaging the tender skin, wishing she could run away. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Couldn’t leave these other women to die.
Bernie Morris’s questions had spiked her curiosity about her past even more. Was he right? Had something happened twenty years ago between her mother and father and Darlene’s parents? Morris had hinted it had something to do with a research center. But her father had never been into research. Although Darlene’s mother had once been a nurse…
She needed to talk to Grady.
Unable to sleep, she fought the choking sensation and once again drew the images she’d seen. When she finished, she stared at the woman’s face, knowing it was Kerry.
Frantic, Violet paced the floor, praying she was wrong, that Grady would find the waitress alive. He’d been searching for hours. But she could see the woman’s face now, pale with death, her fingers closed around the sliver of bone. The killer had carved it while Kerry had been forced to watch.
Then Violet saw the blood again. Long fingers lined up the test tubes in a row, one by one. Three tubes of blood now. Three women he had killed.
But he had more. She saw
the test tubes. Tried to read the names.
The reporter’s comment returned to taunt her. Something about a research center. Where was it? Nearby?
She struggled to make out the room where the killer was, but she couldn’t see specific details to draw it. It wasn’t a hospital room and it wasn’t sterile. No, it was darker. More like a bedroom in a house. But, it wasn’t his bedroom. It was a secret hiding place. Someplace in the forest. A place no one knew about.
The killer had taken the blood with him there. They were his trophies. She drew the test tubes on the sketch pad, outlined the labels.
She had to read the names. See who was going to be next. Try to save her.
But the killer’s fingers traced over the labels, obliterating her view. It was almost as if he knew she was watching. As if he was teasing her.
He turned them around and around, then held them up to the light, toying with the blood and watching it swirl. Finally, his fingers traced along the bottom of the case. Another empty test tube sat waiting. Then another. And another. She counted seven more.
His finger rested on the final one. He traced his finger around the edge of the label as if savoring that last tube. His souvenirs.
A smile spread on his lips. Then laughter erupted. Eerie, sinister laughter.
He slid his finger to the left.
She saw the name.
Violet Baker.
Dear God, he knew she could see him. And he wanted her to know she was on his list.
* * *
THE KILLER WASN’T THROUGH. He had only begun.
Grady knew it in his soul. He just wished he could pinpoint the man’s identity before he claimed another life.
Violet.
Fear burned through his lungs as her face filled his mind. No, he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.
He drove like a bat out of hell into town, wanting desperately to stop by her house. But he couldn’t, not with Special Agent Norton on his tail. Still, he saw her lights on, reassured himself she was safe at home. He would see her later.
