Tripp

by Irish Winters

  “Like a doll or a purse. A shoe,” Tucker added grimly, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “She works like a bloodhound?” Tripp asked.

  “In a way, yes,” Ky replied, still holding onto his wife. “Eden’s psychic gift acts very much like a bloodhound when it picks up scents from clothing or in the air. But we’ve already gone over the other crime scenes. Trust me, she’s been on her hands and knees with her fingers in the dirt this jerk walked on—”

  “The same dirt his victims bled into,” she added quietly.

  “And we’ve got zilch,” Tucker ended, his exasperation loud and clear. “I’ve got the best team in the whole United States, and we can’t get a feel for this one crazy bastard.”

  Tripp was dying to ask Eden what she now knew about him that he didn’t want in the FBI’s possession. Like the identity of the vigilante. Or anything about Trish. The instant that insecurity ghosted through his mind, she looked straight at him. She knew everything. Damn. She was on to him.

  He shrugged that annoying development off, rolled his shoulder, and grumbled, “This is all real interesting, but I came here to investigate the crime scene.” Not to get cross-examined over something I’ll never admit.

  “Right this way,” Tucker quipped. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone from The TEAM.” He colored those last two words with enough sarcasm to choke a horse.

  “Smart thinking,” Alex’s deep baritone rumbled behind Tripp and Jameson.

  “Alex,” Tucker replied with a tinge of embarrassment.

  “Tuck,” Alex bit out, his sarcasm on full power.

  Tripp turned sideways as Alex approached. “Hey, Boss. Just got here. What do we know?”

  Like the rest of his TEAM, Alex had dressed in jeans, a TEAM polo, work boots, and a light jacket to cover his double holster and the SIG Sauer pistols he always carried.

  “Can I ask you something first?” Eden directed that question at Tripp. Her eyes were green like his, yet more than just green. It wasn’t so much the color of her eyes or the size of her pupils, which seemed bigger and blacker than everyone else’s at the moment. It was more the way she used her eyes, as if they were high-powered microscopes, seeing far deeper than everyone else.

  Tripp felt like a bug pinned under glass for closer inspection, maybe dissection. Damned unsettling. Swallowing his guilt for what she probably knew about him, he shook his head, needing to stay focused on the current crime. “Sorry, no. Only got time for our serial killer or the victim. We got a name yet, Boss?”

  Alex, Tuck, and the others were walking up to the scene. Jameson was hanging back with Tripp, when a soft, warm hand settled over his forearm. Tripp looked down at Eden. It was her hand and her touch burned. “The victim is Tommy McMurray,” she told him.

  His breath caught. “Tommy? Are you sure? He’s the maintenance guy for my apartment complex. Fuck! And you’re just telling me that now?”

  “I didn’t know you knew him until I shook your hand, but our connection was so strong, I almost passed out. Go home, back to your apartment. I’ll drive. My car’s—”

  Tripp grabbed Jameson’s elbow and ordered, “Truck, now. Keep the fuck up.”

  He had to get to Ashley.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Peewee shrieked again. Poor boy was probably tired of being ignored. Ashley had been in the kitchen baking and cooking since Tripp left. She’d just put the finishing touches on the peach cobbler she’d whipped up to go with the chicken and dumplings. Some days were all about comfort food, and one more sprinkle of cinnamon sugar would make this cobbler her best yet.

  “Shush, sweetheart, I’m coming,” she called out, dusting her palms on a nearby kitchen towel, as she checked the crockpot one last time. The carrots and shredded chicken were now drowning in rich gravy. The second she lifted the lid, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her apartment always felt more like a home when she baked or cooked.

  She’d set three casserole dishes with lids on her counter, one for Tripp’s mom, one for Mrs. Harrison, the other for Tripp. He was running on empty and would need a decent dinner. As soon as he returned, she was feeding him, then bedding him. She couldn’t wait to get him back in her arms and her hands all over him. It was her turn to make him feel good.

  Tossing her robe over the back of her kitchen chair, she grinned at the lightness in her step and the silly jingle in her heart. Man, she was happier than she’d been in a long time. What was that saying? ‘Today is the best day of the rest of your life?’ Well, it was true. She knew what she wanted and the metamorphosis began with her. Right now.

  “You look better than I remembered.”

  That creepy voice jerked her head up. It’s him! He’s inside my apartment! That was why Peewee was squawking and beating his wings. The poor bird’s crest was standing on end. He was scared. And I’m in nothing but my underwear!

  Ashley crossed both arms over her chest, her mind jitterbugging back two years to that day. A burning wave of humiliation climbed up her neck at what this creep had almost done to her then. What he’d gotten away with.

  His eyes were the same eerie shade of gray. Spooky, like a ghost lived inside him. His gaze slid over her nearly naked body like ice water, dousing all those wonderful homey feelings, turning them into terror.

  “Looks like you’re finally ready to play,” he purred.

  For the third time in two years, Ashley faced a killer. Poor Peewee still flapped his wings and screamed. Feathers and dust flew everywhere. She wished she could scream as loudly, but every drop of saliva in her throat had evaporated. Her lungs were working extra hard, but she wasn’t getting any air. No potty-mouthed guardian angel would drop out of heaven this time.

  “Shut that shittin’ bird up,” her nightmare ordered, “or I’ll wring his neck and gut him.”

  “Okay, okay, s-s-sure,” she stuttered, her poor heart banging against her ribs. How stupid that she was only wearing her bra and panties.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

  Here we go again. Ashley’s fingers trembled, as she kept an eye on her would-be killer, while she side-stepped to her poor baby’s cage and covered him for what would be the last time. Peewee didn’t need to see what would happen next. She couldn’t do that to him.

  “Answer me, Ashley Cox. Want to pla-a-a-a-ay?”

  Cringing at those familiar words, she closed her eyes, speechless. Hopeless.

  Until Tripp’s words came back to her. ‘When faced with imminent attack, act fast and decisively. Go in fast, hit hard. Never let them see you coming.’

  But I’m scared and he’s got a knife.

  ‘Eyes, nose, throat, balls…’

  And you were supposed to teach me how to shoot.

  ‘Eyes, nose, throat, balls…’

  Ashley glanced sideways at the monster in her home. The trench coat made this creep look professional and mysterious, the knife made him look evil. But he was still short. Average weight. Average build. Not anything like Tripp or Jameson or his boss. His trench coat was stained and dirty. The hems of his jeans were ragged. His pea-green running shoes were muddy, the laces frayed and dirty. His gray eyes weren’t as scary as they’d been the first time she’d seen him. He was nothing special. He was ordinary.

  ‘Fight for keeps, Ashley. Fight to kill. Gouge your attacker’s eyes, punch the heel of your palm into his nose, or make a good, hard fist and punch his fuckin’ throat. Knee his balls, kick, scream, whatever you have to do to stay alive. Just do something.’

  Fudge. Okay. Deep breath. Tripp wasn’t there, but Ashley was beginning to think she might just stand a chance. That she could live through this attack.

  ‘Might does not make right. Men who assault women are generally bullies and cowards. They’re weak. They think because they might be physically bigger and male, that women are easy targets. Now you know better. If you ever find yourself up against some jerk... Surprise the hell out of him and pro
ve that son of a bitch wrong.’ Those were Zack’s words in her head now. Tripp’s friends sure wanted her to live. They made defending herself sound doable. But she’d never hit anyone before in her life. Ever. Could she really keep this monster from hurting her?

  The jolt came out of the blue. She wanted to live. This guy intended for her to die. To borrow Tripp’s salty vernacular… No, fuckin’ way.

  Ashley might not be able to keep this guy from hurting her, but this time, she could hurt him back.

  Still facing Peewee, she curled her fingers around the apple wood perch she’d intended to put in his cage the next time she cleaned it. Terry Chandler had brought several hefty branches to work the last time he’d trimmed his trees, after she’d told him how cockatoos were voracious wood-chewers. Most extra branches were stored in her spare bedroom. He’d given her enough applewood to last Peewee a couple years, and he’d trimmed them all to the perfect length. Applewood took Peewee longer to chew. It was a hardwood. The would-be perch was dense and smooth. It felt really good in her hand.

  She clasped it against her chest. Her heart was still climbing up her throat, but her grip was solid, and she meant to fight back, even if it killed her.

  “Game time,” the creep who thought she was still a timid little waif said. “Get your ass over here.”

  Even his voice was nothing special. More whiny than masculine. A pitch too high to be dominant. Nothing like Tripp’s gruff baritone or his boss’s husky bass. Ashley closed her eyes, shaking with fear. This jerk wanted to play? She was ready.

  Ashley faced the creep with Peewee’s perch in her sweaty hands, her heart a flock of scared hummingbirds fluttering up her throat. “Who are you?”

  His face wrinkled into a snarl. “Your worst nightmare.”

  How cliché? This girly guy wasn’t much bigger than she was. She could take him. So what if he had a sharp knife? She had a perch that she’d turned into a club, and it was longer.

  Ashley raised it over her right shoulder and charged. She screamed like a banshee. Peewee screeched along with her. The jerk turned sideways. Good move. She bashed the bat into the side of his skull. His cheek shifted over his teeth like a loose rug in the wind. Spittle flew out of his mouth. Was that a tooth? Man, she hoped so.

  “I’ll kill you for that!” he bellowed.

  “Get out of my home!” She hit him again on the upswing. That blow wasn’t as strong. It landed too high on his shoulder.

  “Why you fuckin’ bitch!”

  She battered up again, her club cocked like a baseball bat over her shoulder. But she’d gotten in too close. If she’d had more room to swing, she could’ve knocked his head off. Instead, his fist snaked out and hit her chest. Dead center. He knocked the wind out of her.

  Ashley stumbled, shocked at the pain sucking her breath away. Black shadows danced at her peripheral. She’d landed on one knee. He was still a man and bigger; she was still learning how to fight. He came at her with his knife raised next.

  She stuck her club into the carpet and used it like a walking stick, needing to get back on her feet.

  He kicked it aside and shoved her to her back.

  Fighting for her life, Ashley rolled to her side and wrapped her hand around the perch, not that she could swing it. But not letting it go, either. This was war, darn it!

  He was on her, weighing her down and straddling her hips. His hands on her neck, choking her, his thumbs digging into her throat.

  Ashley wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d set his knife down to strangle her. With one hand still on the club, she slapped her other palm to the floor, needing to locate his knife before he did. Needing with all her heart to stab this creep in the eye!

  Hissing, he cocked an arm back and slapped her. The force of that hit knocked her head to the side. Fudge, that hurt! She lost her club. So much for finding his knife.

  “You’re all alike!” Her attacker spat saliva into her face. “Conniving, lying bitches. Every last one of you!”

  “Yeah, well, you’re an ass!” she yelled back at him. Two years ago she would’ve cowered. Not today.

  That slap must’ve dislodged something in her brain. The guy Friday night had said he’d just wanted oxycodone, but he’d sat on her and called her a slut, too. What was wrong with men these days. Slut? Bitch? Were they all threatened by strong, intelligent women? Not that she was in any position of strength at the moment, but—

  The ass slapped her again!

  “Ouch! Stop it, you jerk!” she cried, her attacker blurry and possibly bleeding, if those dark spots on his face were what she hoped they were. If they were, that meant she’d drawn first blood. It was hard to know for sure with all the black dots dancing at the corners of her eyes. The possibility that she really could win this battle powered Ashley’s confidence.

  Grunting, he lifted to his feet, reached down, and grabbed a fistful of her hair.

  “Let me go!” she ordered.

  He didn’t answer, just twisted her around and dragged her to her door, the carpet on her nearly bare backside burning her skin.

  Terror rolled up Ashley’s throat when he stopped to pick up his knife. This guy was the serial killer everyone was looking for, the one who’d nearly killed Tripp’s sister last night.

  “I’m going to kill you!” Poor Peewee shrieked along with her. All that noise should attract someone. Anyone!

  “No, you’re not,” the killer replied as he opened her door and dragged her into the hall. Then, as if he’d forgotten something, he stopped, twisted his fist in her hair, and told her, “You’re not going to live long enough to do anything but scream and cry. Now shut up!”

  Instead of fighting his hold on her hair, Ashley reached out and grabbed the club while she could still reach it. “You won’t get away with this.”

  He dragged her farther down the hall. “That’s what they all said. But this time, we won’t be interrupted, and you won’t get away. We’re going to play the rest of the day, and trust me…”

  They were nearly at Tripp’s door. What was he going to do? Drag her down the stairs? Her stomach lurched up her throat. If only Tripp were home!

  “I’m not moving you like I did the others. Not this time. This is personal. Your boyfriend’s gonna cry when he finds what’s left of you. Like a pussy-whipped, helpless, little boy who wants his mama, he’s gonna scream and rage, but it’ll be too late. By then, I’ll have played with her, too.”

  She didn’t understand. “What do Tripp and Andy have to do with anything?”

  “She’s his mother. He’s her only son, isn’t he? Don’t you get it?”

  “No. Explain it.”

  “The freak’s in love with his mother!”

  “So?” Ashley jerked to her side, fear for Tripp and his mom hammering at her nerves as she struggled to escape. “What’s he ever done to you?”

  “He made me look bad!” Her killer stopped dragging and turned to look down at Ashley, her long hair still knotted in his fist. His gray eyes were flat and unfocused, like he was looking through her to somewhere else. “I didn’t know she was his sister. She was just there, in my way. But it makes sense now. It was destiny. She was there for a reason, because she led me to him, and he led me to you. If you think about it… if you really stop and take the time to connect all the dots… me finding her… me following him… me killing him for taking her away from me… for loving her… me finding you on the street where he works… in the dark… me following you all the way home…” The jerk ran his tongue over his bottom lip, like he was savoring something. “Just imagine what he’ll do when I play with his mother like I’m going to play with you.”

  “You can’t hurt her! No! What’s she ever done to you?”

  “She loves him! Don’t you get it? Isn’t that enough?”

  Ashley dug her bare heels into the carpet, but it was no use. She couldn’t reach him with her club. Just one good hard hit, that’s all it would take. “No, I don’t
get it. Damn you, I don’t know the rules of this stupid game. Explain them to me!”

  At Tripp’s door, he finally let go. Her head dropped to the floor, as his full weight settled onto her hips. He tipped forward, his ugly lips nearly touching her nose, and something small but hard as a rock grinding into her pelvis. She closed her eyes in horror at the thought of being tortured while he jacked-off.

  “There are no rules to the game of love, Ashley Cox. You just need to scream how much you love me, when I tell you to, if you still can. Not like anyone will hear you because there’s no one else on this floor but us. Trust me, I checked. It’s just you and me and—” he ran his tongue up her cheek “—it’s time to play. On your knees, bitch.” The tip of his knife nicking the underside of her chin. “First move is yours. You’re going to crawl into your boyfriend’s apartment and beg me to love you. Bring your little stick with you. You’ll need it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The son of a bitchin’ elevator was down again! Like a heat-seeking missile, Tripp changed course and aimed for the stairwell. The second he jerked the door open, ready to run, Mrs. Harrison stumbled out and all but fell into his arms.

  “Oh, Tripp. I’m so glad to see you,” she said, patting his chest like he was a good boy while she caught her balance. “Is Ashley with you?”

  “No, ma’am, she’s not,” he replied, taking polite hold of her biceps and setting her aside.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’ve been listening to some old records this morning, and I’m afraid I had the volume up too high. Maybe I upset her bird. It’s certainly making a lot of noise. I thought—”

  “Peewee’s screeching?” At this time of day?

  “Yes, it’s been going on for a while now and—”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’ve got to run.” Tripp didn’t have time to explain. If Peewee was upset, something was dead damned wrong at Ashley’s place.

  Inside the stairwell, he looked up through the ceiling of zig-zagging handrails.