Force of the Falcon

by Rita Herron

  Sonya would realize that soon. Then she would be his.

  And though the girl the night before had satisfied a temporary fix, he already craved the taste of more blood and flesh.

  Tonight he would take another.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I have to talk to the guy who created this cartoon,” Brack said. “He fits the profile of our killer.” He punched in a few keys, waited, then in seconds, had the man’s home address. Vulture’s Point. Only a few miles from Tin City.

  He stood and faced Sonya and his sisters-in-law. Both Katie and Allison were watching him with wide-eyed interest. “Sonya, I’m going to question this guy.”

  Wariness crossed her face. “Be careful.”

  He nodded, then made his sisters-in-law promise to stay with Sonya until he returned.

  Hoping he’d hit on a good lead, he headed to the door. On the way, he’d call Rex and tell him to catch up with that environmental guy, Godfrey, and see if he’d discovered anything suspicious. And just to be on the safe side, he’d have him run a background check on the vet.

  As soon as he stepped outside, a dark sedan pulled up the drive. That overeager occult reporter again. The man climbed out, looking determined as he strode toward the front porch.

  Brack blocked his path as he had the night before. “I thought Ms. Silverstein made it clear that she didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Listen,” Darrien Tripp said, “I just want her account of what happened. I’ve been tracking strange occult and paranormal sightings like this all over the States.”

  “I researched your magazine, Tripp, and none of your stories have been substantiated with fact.”

  Tripp shrugged. “I believe the witnesses’ accounts. And I’ve witnessed enough odd incidents myself, enough puzzling deaths over the years, to make me believe that anything is possible.”

  Again, Brack contemplated the possibility that this guy might be imitating a mutant bird-man to garner attention for his own articles. “Are birds of prey your specialty?”

  “No. I’ve been to haunted houses, the raising of the dead ceremonies, even studied a possible werewolf once, but he turned out to be a fake.”

  Brack had no intention of leaving this man here with Sonya and the other women and children. “Ms. Silverstein and her daughter gave the police a full account of everything they saw. Now, if you don’t leave them alone, she’ll get a restraining order against you.”

  The man bristled. “Who the hell are you, buddy? Her keeper?”

  “Damn right I am.” Brack pushed his face into the thin man’s and watched his pasty complexion turn a buttermilk color. “My research also revealed that you like to hunt. That your father died in a strange hunting accident.”

  Tripp’s eyeballs bulged. “My father was mauled by a bear.”

  “And you were questioned about his death. You’ve also been arrested for violence.”

  “Those charges were dropped.” Rage tightened his thin lips. “What are you getting at, Mister?

  “Maybe you’ve turned your love of hunting toward bigger prey—like humans.”

  “That’s crazy,” Tripp said, but he backed away.

  Brack gripped him by the collar. “Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t stay the hell away from Sonya and her daughter, I’ll feed your skinny butt to the wild animals myself.”

  Fear, then a false bravado flared in the man’s eyes, but he ran to his car and climbed inside. Just before he sped off, he raised a camera and snapped a picture of Brack.

  Brack cursed. Dammit, now he’d end up in the Tween Zone magazine—no telling what kind of slant the reporter would give the story. He’d probably use Photoshop to paste his face onto the body of a beast.

  Not that he cared.

  The only thing that mattered was protecting Sonya. He’d break the little weasel in half if he had to in order to keep him away from her. And if he found out he’d attacked her, he’d kill him with his bare hands and let the vultures feed off his remains.

  SONYA TRIED to relax with her visitors, but her mind strayed to Brack. What if this cartoonist had created the Talon Terror based on himself? What if he hurt Brack?

  “Rex and Deke told us about the attack,” Hailey said, dragging her from her silent reverie. “You and Katie must have been terrified.”

  Sonya’s chest squeezed. “If Brack hadn’t found us, and then Katie…” Her voice trailed off, and Elsie and Hailey offered sympathetic looks.

  “That sounds like the Falcon brothers,” Elsie said. “Always protecting everyone else instead of themselves.”

  Hailey sipped herbal tea. “It infuriates me that some small-minded folks in town still don’t trust them.”

  “Old prejudices are hard to shake,” Elsie agreed. “But Deke and Rex have both proven themselves. Unfortunately, since Deke and I are building this teen center, some residents are worried that we’ll attract derelicts and troublemakers. There’s also been some vandalism at the renovation.”

  “What you’re doing is a good thing for the town,” Hailey argued. “If you provide the kids with a viable place to hang out and socialize, they won’t be as tempted to get into trouble.”

  “I’ve tried to convince the sheriff of the value of crime prevention, but he has reservations,” Elsie said. “He was harassing Deke the other day.”

  “Sheriff Cohen seems to have it in for Brack, too,” Sonya admitted.

  “It all goes back to their father’s arrest. Cohen is embarrassed that he screwed up.” Hailey sighed and placed her hand on her protruding belly. “I guess Brack told you that my parents were murdered years ago, and that his dad was falsely convicted of the crime. If Rex hadn’t pushed to clear his dad, I would never have known the truth about what happened to my family.”

  “What a shame that the Falcon family lost those years together,” Sonya said. Just as she’d lost years now with her mother because of her own stubborn pride. Today she would try to make amends. “How did you two meet? Through the brothers?”

  Hailey squeezed Elsie’s hand. “Elsie and I were friends when I was little. The night my parents were murdered, her father kidnapped her. We only reconnected a few months ago.”

  “Thanks to Deke,” Elsie said. “He saved my life, helped me slay old ghosts, and then he found Allison for me.”

  The house suddenly vibrated with the force of the gusty wind outside, the wood floors and walls moaning, reminding Sonya of the ghost stories about the person who’d died on the property behind her farmhouse. Sometimes she wondered if his ghost lingered, wanting retribution for his death.

  Sonya shifted uncomfortably. “You said Deke saved you?”

  Elsie gave her daughter a long, doting, motherly look. “Yes. My dad claimed that my mother died, then he left me in an orphanage for unwed teen mothers. The man who ran the home was abusive.” She paused and sipped her coffee, a faraway expression in her eyes. “I gave birth to Allison there, but the doctor told me she died at birth. I went back last year to turn the abandoned orphanage into a teen center, but the caretaker who’d run it years before tried to kill me. Deke helped me expose the truth about the man’s abuse.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I can’t tell you how much it means to have my family back together.”

  Sonya’s cup rattled as she placed it on her saucer. She hoped her mother could forgive her, and that she could accept Katie as Elsie’s mother had obviously accepted Allison.

  She glanced up and both Hailey and Elsie were watching her. Had they come on a mission to convince her that the Falcon men were trustworthy?

  She knotted her hands together. She’d already reached that conclusion on her own. But she didn’t want to admit that she was starting to like Brack. Or that she was beginning to fantasize about more than his friendship.

  No, she couldn’t allow herself to want what they had with their husbands….

  ANXIETY PLUCKED at Brack as he knocked on Jameson Viago’s door. He hated leaving Sonya alone, but surely she’d be safe in the daylight with
two visitors at her house.

  The madman seemed to prefer to strike in the dark. He waited for his victims to be alone, until they were vulnerable, then attacked without conscience.

  Exactly the way the Talon Terror did in Viago’s comic strip.

  The fact that the Web site had earned a huge following and attracted millions of readers unsettled him. Even if Viago wasn’t their man, some lunatic might be imitating the character, copying the creature’s MO.

  Maybe that guy, Tripp. Or perhaps a fan of the Talon Terror.

  He pounded on the door again, studying the man’s home. Situated on the top of Vulture’s Point at a central peak in one of the smaller mountain ranges, it was a contemporary V-shaped cabin with skylights and dozens of windows. Dense woods surrounded the property, the isolated location reminding him of his own house on Falcon Ridge. A perfect place for an outdoors person to commune with nature.

  Or for a dangerous culprit to hide.

  Footsteps sounded inside, and the door finally swung open. A tall, brawny man in his twenties dressed in all black appeared, a stony expression on his long, angular face. His skin was so pale it looked as if it had never seen the sun, his bloodless lips were pinched into a frown and his fingernails were jagged and painted black.

  Heavy metal music blared in the background. Behind him, Brack noticed the dark brown walls, where devil worship symbols hung along with science fiction and horror movie posters. A life-size statue of an armored knight stood on one side of a stone table that held other science fiction memorabilia. Star Wars characters. Deep Space Nine.

  “Jameson Viago?”

  The man jerked his head to the side, then rolled his neck. “Yes, who are you?”

  “Brack Falcon. I’d like to talk to you about your comic strip series.”

  “I don’t invite fans to my home. You’ll have to e-mail me.”

  “I’m not a fan.” Brack stuck one foot in the door when Viago tried to shut it. Viago’s gaze flew to his. Alarmed, he jerked his head again, and rolled his neck.

  A nervous tic.

  The guy’s eyes were two different colors, as well—one a muddy brown, the other a pale green with yellow flecks. He looked like some kind of sci-fi or horror creature himself.

  On the surface, Viago fit the profile Brack was piecing together in his head. And he had the physical strength to attack a woman and rip her to shreds the way the killer had mauled that teenager.

  “We are going to talk,” Brack said in a voice that brooked no argument. “We can do it here, or we can drive down to the police station.”

  “What are you? Some kind of cop?”

  “A detective.” Brack shouldered his way inside the door.

  “What the hell is going on? You can’t just barge into my house like this.”

  “Your Talon Terror stories,” Brack declared, “are being used as blueprints for murders.” He watched the young man’s reaction. Nothing. “A woman was attacked, and a teenager is dead, both assaulted by a psycho who copies your Talon Terror’s crimes. I want to know if you’re responsible.”

  “Murder?” A flicker of excitement registered in Viago’s odd eyes.

  Disgust rippled through Brack. Viago actually sounded impressed. “This is not something to be proud of, Mr. Viago. Your series encourages graphic violence against women.”

  “My series is fiction,” Viago argued in a grating, icy voice. He rolled his neck again.

  Very telling. He was either guilty as hell, or he imagined his crimes on paper but didn’t have the guts to carry them out. Not that killing took guts, but lack of morals. Sometimes psychotics were confused, warred with their own sick personalities, even experienced moments of lucidity and guilt.

  Or he could be cold, calculating, lack any feelings of guilt, simply be anxious about getting caught.

  “What the hell? You don’t have any right to tell me what to think,” Viago snapped. “You don’t know anything about me, Mister.”

  Brack released a sarcastic chuckle. “Let me guess. You were a geeky kid. The teenagers in high school teased and tormented you, the bullies singled you out. They abused you. Hell, maybe your parents did, too. Maybe you’ve got some sob story, and your mother didn’t love you. Or maybe your daddy locked you in a dark closet for days at a time.”

  “Shut up. My mother did too love me.”

  Good. He’d punched the guy’s buttons. “You felt powerless all your life, so you’ve invented this superhuman animal to prove that you’re not a wimp.” The profile fit. He’d read about teen violence, school shootings, how the brutalized victims of bullies felt out of control. They internalized the pain and abuse, until their anger escalated to an insurmountable level. They finally broke and retaliated in a violent, brutal way, repeating the cycle, preying on the weaker.

  “You’re full of it, Mister. I simply draw the character and create his stories.” Viago pointed to the door with a jagged black nail. “Now get out.”

  Brack spotted the guy’s computer where his screen saver flashed a picture of a dead woman sprawled naked on a white sheet soaked in blood. His graphics and drawings of the Talon Terror were spread across a work table. All vile, degrading to women, each scene growing bloodier and more gory.

  On the walls of the large, vaulted-ceilinged room, pictures of birds filled the white space. Dozens of photos of rare species, the falcons hunting their prey, closeup shots of the raptor as it ripped into the flesh of a live animal. Others showed carcasses of dead animals, their insides exposed, blood covering the ground.

  Other photos included a white-tailed kite, a bald eagle, a northern goshawk, an adult gyrfalcon, an aplomado falcon and a eurasian hobby. Brack was drawn to the photo of a peregrine falcon. It was such an awe-inspiring raptor to watch because of its power, grace and speed in flight. One photograph captured the falcon as it performed a vertical dive from atop a cliff, striking at a bird in midair and capturing it with his feet.

  But Brack saw the beauty in the animal, whereas Viago saw the violence.

  “You’ve obviously studied the habits of the falcons in great detail,” Brack said.

  Viago shrugged. “Yeah, I did my research.”

  “Do you know Sonya Silverstein?” Brack asked.

  “Who?”

  “Sonya Silverstein.”

  “Never heard of her. I told you, I’m not this killer. I make up my stories to entertain and that’s all there is to it.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, do I need to call the cops and tell them you’re harassing me?”

  Brack glanced around the room, looking for signs that Viago might be lying. Maybe a falcon costume or talons he’d ripped from the birds and kept for himself. But the place appeared orderly, monochromatic, all blacks and whites.

  Frustration knotted his neck. He wanted to search the house, the hidden corners, the man’s bedroom for something to incriminate Viago. Maybe he had taken pictures of his victims, stalked them in advance. And he needed a sample of the guy’s DNA.

  But all he had was supposition. And no authority.

  “I’ll leave for now, but if you aren’t the Talon Terror, then maybe one of your fans is.” Brack paused, his voice hardening, “Go through your mail. He might have written you, sent you some kind of message. He’d want to brag about the fact that he was acting out your fiction in real life.”

  Viago scratched a ragged nail down his neck as he eyed the overflowing bin of mail on the table.

  Brack removed a card from his wallet and slapped it on the desk. “If you find something, call me. You might be able to help us stop this guy from killing again and be a real hero.”

  Viago simply stared at him as he walked to the door. Brack cursed as he climbed in his SUV. He wanted to read that mail. Go through Viago’s house and computer and look for a lead.

  But he needed the police on his side with a warrant to do so. He’d talk to Cohen. But what if he refused to help?

  Then he’d go above his head. Cohen wouldn’t like it, but Brack didn’t give a damn
. He had to find this guy before he tried to hurt Sonya again. And he didn’t care who he pissed off or offended in the process.

  Lives were at stake. And this psycho had just gotten started with his game of hunt and kill. He had an obsessive personality.

  Now his appetite was whetted, he’d hunt again.

  And each kill would get more vicious until he was caught.

  JAMESON VIAGO paced the confines of his den, battling an onslaught of the tics. He hated that he couldn’t control the stupid nervous habit he’d developed over the years.

  The doctors, countless ones that he’d seen, had told him he needed medication. And he’d taken it for a while, but drugs made him lethargic. Made him sleep all the time. And they caused sexual side effects.

  Killed his drive so he couldn’t perform.

  And he needed sex. Just like he needed the Talon Terror and the blood and guts to give him life.

  He paced from the corner to his desk, wondering how that Falcon man had found him. How had he sensed that Jameson had a violent side? That his bloodlust ran to animals and the hunt.

  That he had been abused.

  And that he had created the Talon Terror to prove to the world that he was somebody. Now he was finally gaining the attention he deserved. Finally building a following.

  That Falcon man couldn’t ruin it for him. He wouldn’t let him.

  The young boys and men…they admired his imagination. Liked the power the Talon Terror held. The total control.

  And the women…some of them wrote him, as well. They thought he was a genius. A creative saint.

  A few had even confessed they liked rough sex. That he could have them anytime he wanted. That if he wanted to rake his talons across them, that they would welcome the pain. They liked the game.

  He jerked his head sideways. Rolled his neck. Stared at his hands. Then the latest story line of the Talon Terror came to him.

  In this version, he would add a twist.

  The prey the Talon Terror had chosen—another falcon had also chosen as his mate.

  They would have to engage in battle. There would be pain and bloodshed as they fought.