Of course she was still alive. Killing her was only part of Dryden’s fantasy. And acting out the fantasy was paramount. “He’s going to hunt her.”
“The Young cabin?”
“Maybe.” Trent hoped it was that easy. “Have the men you sent reached the cabin yet?”
“Not yet. Local cops might have.”
Trent spun on his heel and headed for the door. Young’s cabin was nearly thirty miles away. He had no time to lose. “Call me when you hear anything. I’m going to meet them there.”
Negotiating around the ambulance and emergency medical team attending to Schneider, Trent made it to his car and then out onto the highway. His mind raced, fast as spinning wheels on pavement.
It didn’t feel right. None of this felt right.
If Dryden had set Nikki up to make the phone call, he would have known law enforcement was on the way. He’d have counted on them wasting time staking out the house, evacuating the surrounding neighbors, setting up their assault. He’d have figured out that the operation would drain the deputies and FBI personnel from Lake Loyal, leaving only the normal skeleton crew of LLPD officers.
But that wasn’t all.
Dryden also would have known that once they found Nikki, she would tell them about the cabin where he’d hunted Farrentina. She would tell them he’d left right after her phone call. And they’d rush back to the police station to find Schneider’s and the other officers’ bodies and Risa gone.
Dryden could have easily prevented all of that. All he’d had to do was kill Nikki. But he’d chosen not to.
Why?
Certainly not love. A psychopath like Dryden wasn’t capable.
And why would he take Risa to the cabin he’d used before? The one Nikki knew about? The place law enforcement would look first?
He wouldn’t.
But if not Young’s cabin, where?
Trent’s head pounded. His heart ached so hard it took his breath away. If ever there was a time for him to think how Dryden thought, to feel what Dryden felt, to be part of Dryden, that time was now.
He swung the car onto a wide area of the highway’s shoulder designed for drivers to appreciate the view. Below him, through a space in the trees, Lake Loyal resembled hammered pewter. The town lined the eastern side of the lake, a mix of old cabins slowly being overtaken by mini mansions dotted the north. A park and forest preserve circled the rest of the lakeshore. Beautiful, natural, the type of place people weary of modern life could go to recharge.
Last night, for a moment at that bed-and-breakfast, Trent had felt as if he and Risa were carefree tourists. Relaxing. Recharging. Reclaiming their lives.
Now he felt empty.
Trent pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
Think.
He needed to think.
Trent had studied Dryden. Surely he could come up with the place the psychopath would take Rees—the object of his obsession—to play out his fantasy.
When Dryden had killed his wife, he’d taken her to his hunting cabin in the north woods. A place where he had escaped the humiliation of his life. A place where he’d hunted prey weaker than himself. A place where he was king and master.
He no longer had such a place.
So where would he go?
Trent opened his eyes and raked a hand through his hair. The answer had to be there. Buried somewhere in Dryden’s mind. Somewhere in his past behavior. Born from his insecurities, his desires, his twisted rage.
He’d taken Farrentina to Young’s cabin to stage his hunt, because he knew the guard would “bust a gut,” as Nikki had said. He’d displayed Farrentina’s body on Rees’s front porch to scare her. To taunt law enforcement. And then the locket they’d found… Dryden’s way of announcing to Trent that Rees was already his. That he was going to steal her out from under their noses. And with his bold entrance into the hotel, his slashing of the hotel clerk’s and Deputy Perry’s throats—he’d almost succeeded.
This time he had.
Trent gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. The answer was there. He could feel it.
Before Dryden had gone to prison, his choice for a hunting site had been deeply personal. A place he felt strong. A place where he was the master. All that had changed after he’d broken from prison. Now it seemed his choices were all designed to exact revenge. On Young. On Risa. On law enforcement.
Who would Dryden revenge himself against this time? Who would Rees’s death hurt the most?
Trent’s heart stilled in his chest. A pain erupted behind his eyes, so sharp he lowered his forehead against the steering wheel. He knew just who Rees’s death would hurt the most. And so did Dryden.
Trent himself.
He slammed the butt of his hands on the steering wheel. Pain thundered up his arm. He knew where Dryden had taken Rees. Trent had set up the place himself and had made an effort to show Dryden right where it was. And now the killer had taken Risa there, planned to let her loose, hunt her, kill her, and display her body.
Trent lost a part of himself to Dryden two years ago, but he wasn’t going to lose Rees. He’d die first.
And he’d take that murdering son of a bitch with him.
Risa
Hands bound by handcuffs, Risa stared out the rain-spotted windshield at the canopy of trees stretching over the road and struggled to force the images of Farrentina Hamilton’s body from her mind. She couldn’t think of what Dryden would do to her if she didn’t get away from him. She had to focus. She had to play this right.
If she didn’t, she was dead.
Next to her, Dryden draped a hand over the wheel of the stolen police car and wove around the curves as if he were on a Sunday drive without a care in the world.
But Risa knew his nonchalance was only a show. She could feel the violence coiled under his skin. See the contempt burning in his eyes every time he looked at her.
And she could taste the fear, like rusted tin creeping up her throat, gagging her, choking her.
The leafy canopy opened before them, revealing the Victorian bed and breakfast she’d left just this morning. But unlike the warm glow that filled the house then, now it was dark, the windows staring like soulless eyes. Rain glistened on the steep roof.
“The FBI has a more generous expense account than I ever imagined.” Dryden’s thin lips twisted into a smile. He turned to stare at her, his eyes as cold and deadly as the blade sheathed by his side. “Kind of them to clear out and leave the place to us now, isn’t it?”
“The FBI is going to figure out where we are.”
“You mean Burnell?” A bitter laugh sounded deep in his throat. “I hope he does. He’s going to like what I have planned.”
The image of Farrentina once again flashed through Risa’s mind. Dryden would display her body, too. Display her so Trent would find her. So the image of her mutilated corpse would haunt him the rest of his days.
“Would you like me to tell you about it?”
Risa bit the inside of her bottom lip until the coppery tang of blood drowned out the taste of fear. She knew Dryden’s game. He wanted to see terror in her eyes. Hear it in her screams. Revel in it. Feed on it.
She’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.
She pursed her lips together and stared straight ahead through the windshield. The hard metal edges of the handcuffs securing her wrists bit into her skin. Her scalp and knees throbbed with each rapid pulse of her heart. But none of it mattered. She wouldn’t let it. He could say whatever the hell he pleased. She wouldn’t play her role in his fantasy.
He stopped the stolen police car at the foot of the path leading to the bed-and-breakfast’s front door and turned toward her. “Don’t want to hear about my exhibit, eh?”
“Not particularly.”
Reaching a hand to her face, Dryden ran a cold finger along one cheekbone.
She tensed to fend off the tremor of revulsion.
“Oh, Risa. So brave. So in control
. You always have to control everything, don’t you? That’s your problem, you know. You’re a controlling bitch. Even your dim-witted sister picked up on that.”
Risa continued to stare straight ahead, letting his words hit her and bounce off.
“Well, you might as well give it up. You might as well let go. Because I’m in control now.” He moved his hand into her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers. His grip tightened.
Pain seared her scalp. Her eyes watered.
Opening the door, he forced her across the seat and out the driver’s side after him.
Her bruised knees hit pavement. A grunt tore from her lips.
He peered down at her, eyes gleaming. “Get up.”
Still gripping her by a fistful of hair, he yanked her to her feet and pulled her behind him, across the wet lawn.
Limping, she struggled to keep up. Blood oozed from her knees and stuck to the torn denim of her jeans. Her scalp burned as if it were on fire. Cold rain drenched her hair and trickled into her eyes.
He stopped at the edge of the woods and pulled her against him, his face just inches from hers. His breath fanned her, sharp with mint. “I’m not as inadequate as you thought, am I? Not as inadequate as you described in your article.”
She drew in a shaky gasp. “It was a psychological profile. It wasn’t personal.”
Even as the words left her lips, she knew she had made a mistake.
“Of course it was personal. I let you in. I talked to you. I was nice. And you? You weren’t nice at all. You were… inadequate. Wasn’t that what you wrote about me? Inadequate?”
Risa swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. She didn’t remember exactly what she had written in the article, but he was likely right about her word choice. Inadequate in his relationships with women. He felt belittled by his mother, humiliated by his wife. A man who believed that if anything didn’t go exactly his way, he was being victimized, and he fought back against perceived slights by victimizing others. She couldn’t deny what she’d written. What she’d written was the truth.
Still gripping her hair with one hand, Dryden reached to his knife with the other, sliding it from its sheath. “I’ll show you inadequate, Professor Risa Madsen. I’ll make you choke on it.”
Risa’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her throat constricted.
No.
She couldn’t let him see her fear. Couldn’t let him feel the tremors racking her body. She concentrated on breathing. In and out. In and out. She’d be damned if she’d give him what he wanted.
She’d be damned.
He raised the knife in front of her face. Rain dripped down the blade, turning red when it hit the remnants of blood. He smiled at her. “Have you ever been hunting?”
Risa fought to keep her breathing even.
“No?” His smile twisted into a sneer. “Well, let me tell you about it. It’s like a contest. A contest between man and beast. And the strongest—the most adequate, if you will—wins.”
“Go to hell, Dryden.”
“You first, Risa, darling. You first.” He untangled his fingers from her hair and released his hold.
She almost gasped. But her relief didn’t last long.
Circling one arm around her middle, he pinned her back against his chest. Against the length of his body. “First things first.”
He fit the sharp edge under the first button of her blouse. With a flick of his wrist, he sliced upward. The button fell to the grass and the fabric parted.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek. The coppery flavor of blood clogged her throat and almost made her gag.
He sliced off another button. Her blouse fell open further, revealing the top edge of her black lace bra. “Mmm. But I told you I prefer white. Clean, pure white. Or no bra at all.”
Risa forced herself to swallow the screams rising in her throat. She had to find a way to escape. To catch Dryden off guard. Before fear swamped her. Before Dryden’s knife put an end to everything.
He’d gone to great lengths to find the article she’d written for the academic journal. Maybe he would go to equal lengths to read more.
“I’m writing a book, Ed. A book about you.” Her voice sounded remarkably steady, as if this was an ordinary man she was talking to, an ordinary conversation.
As if he hadn’t heard her, he fit the knife under the next button and sliced. The button popped in the air.
“Even if you kill me, people will find it. They’ll read it. In fact, killing me will probably make it a bestseller.”
His mouth twitched. “And why should I care about that?”
“I thought you might want to read it before it was published.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” His farm-boy face twisted in disgust. He shook his head slowly. “You don’t matter anymore, sweetheart. You can’t control things. You’re nothing. And when I get done with you, you’ll be less than nothing.”
He cut off another button. Her blouse gaped open to her navel.
She had to get away from him. She couldn’t wait until he played out his hunting scenario. Once that happened, it was all over.
Once that happened, she was dead.
Dryden licked his thin lips and eyed her bra. He pulled the knife back and craned his neck as if to get a better view. His grip on her arms relaxed slightly.
And that was all she needed.
Coiling all her strength in her legs, she lurched back against him, breaking his grip and sending him sprawling backward onto the lawn. By some miracle, she stayed on her feet, whirled and, in two strides, plunged into the woods.
Raspberry bushes ripped her skin and snagged her blouse. Trees and bushes tore at her face and pulled her hair. Rain pelted her face. She fought on, racing through the woods. Scrambling to put distance between herself and Dryden.
His curses split the air like gunshots. Bushes crashed behind her. His footfalls thundered in her ears, even over the pounding of her heart.
Animal panic clawed inside her. She forced her feet to move faster over rain-slick ground.
He slammed through the brush behind her. Faster. Closer. His fingers clawed at the sleeve of her blouse.
She yanked her arm free, rending the fabric.
He grabbed again. His fingers closed around her flesh. Biting into her arm. Bruising. Holding.
Oh God, he had her.
Risa’s feet skidded out from under her.
Dryden held her up, keeping her from falling to the forest’s floor. His fingers bruising her arm, he slammed her against the trunk of a tree and pressed his elbow into her back, pinning her.
Rough bark ground into her cheek and chest.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” His guttural growl rasped in her ears. “You’re not a person. You’re a beast. An inadequate beast. You’ll do whatever I say. And when I’m finished with you, you’ll know who your master is. Your master is me.”
White noise rang in her ears and blotted all thought from her mind.
His hand closed around her throat, he pulled her back against his body. In the corner of her eye, she saw the knife, the wet steel flashing red. He touched the blade to her chest, just below the notch in her collar bone. “And this is how I’m going to do it, Risa. This is how I’m going to cut you.” He drew down on the knife, the cold edge slicing into her skin.
A scream erupted from her throat, wild and piercing and raw.
Trent
A scream gashed the air.
Trent stomped the brake and slammed to a stop behind the black-and-white Dryden had stolen from the police station. Throwing open the door, he leaped out and hit the ground running.
Trent had called 911. He’d called Subera. The FBI and the county sheriff’s department were on their way. But he couldn’t wait for them. He couldn’t wait for anything. He had to find Rees before it was too late.
He didn’t even glance at the towering Victorian house. Dryden wouldn’t take her there. Not until she was dead. Not until he was ready to exhibit her
body, probably in the still-rumpled sheets where she and Trent had made love.
The bastard would never get the chance.
Trent raced across the lawn, the grass slick with rain. His shoes skidded with each stride, but he managed to keep upright, keep running.
Another scream.
The image of Dryden’s hands on her—his knife cutting her skin, stealing her precious life—throbbed behind his eyes.
No.
Trent’s hands broke out in a cold sweat, the grip of his Glock slippery in his fist. He raced in the direction of the scream. When he reached the edge of the woods, he slowed. He couldn’t just crash through the trees. He needed to get the drop on Dryden. He needed a clear shot so he could take him out without hurting Risa.
Trent surged into the woods, moving as fast as he dared and as quietly as he could. Thorns ripped at his suit jacket. He tore free and pushed on. Rain mixed with sweat, soaking his hair, dripping into his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and strained to see through the brush. Through the thick cloak of leaves.
Up ahead he could hear the low tones of Dryden’s voice. An eerie, almost musical sound. But he couldn’t hear Rees. No screams. No soft hum of her voice. Not even whimpers of pain. Where was she?
His heart seized in his chest.
Was he too late? Had it taken him too long to figure out where Dryden had brought her to stage his hunt? Was she already dead?
No.
He couldn’t lose Rees. He couldn’t. She was his light. His hope.
Dryden’s voice still hummed through the twisted branches of oak and hickory, breaking the quiet patter of rain on leaves.
Drawing a deep breath then holding it, Trent struggled to make sense of the killer’s words over the pounding of his pulse. He struggled to hear a sound from Rees. Any sound. Any sign she was still alive.
Nothing. Only the rain. Only Dryden’s voice.
Damn Dryden. Damn him straight to hell.
If Dryden had killed Rees, he wouldn’t come out of the forest alive. Trent wouldn’t wait for the courts to dispense justice this time.
Lethal (Small Town Secrets Book 1) Page 19
