Never Look Back

by Mary Burton

  That short-lived victory incinerated as a rush of pain seared his right thigh. The unexpected pain caught him off guard. What the hell?

  He recoiled automatically. His grip slackened as he looked down at the knife embedded in his leg. He scrambled to regroup. The second syringe was taped to the back of the passenger seat. If he could just get her to the van . . .

  With a grunt, he tightened his hold on her hair, closing the distance to the door. His first Date Night girl had also given him trouble, but he had been inexperienced in those days and she had gotten away. It had taken him weeks to find her again. This one would not escape.

  Screaming, she gripped the blade handle, rotated it, and tore into fresh flesh. His blood was on her hands, her face, and his chest.

  He dragged her toward the car as rage raced through his veins like liquid lava. Punishment! She needed to learn her place.

  A set of headlights appeared and raced toward him. He was four feet from the van. Four feet separated him from freedom. From fun in the mountains.

  Date Night girl drove a knee into his crotch. Reflex had him turning but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow to the jewels. He caught his breath. His fingers slackened. She jerked free, pulling the knife with her and leaving him with only strands of her hair and his own pain and fury.

  She stumbled back. Her eyes locked on him as she gripped the handle.

  Go after her, or get away?

  The question repeated in his head over and over as the headlights grew brighter. A horn blared.

  Beep! Beep!

  He growled his frustration. He hated relinquishing control but knew he had to cut his losses. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, just as they had when dear old Dad’s mood had shifted. He had survived at this game long enough to know when to fold. Always another day to fight.

  He jumped into the van and slid behind the steering wheel. He put the van in drive and looked toward the woman, now illuminated by the headlights.

  Date Night girl stumbled backward, teetered in her red heeled boots so wildly her right ankle bent sideways and would have snapped if she had not corrected quickly. Those perky breasts heaved up and down as she gripped the knife.

  There was always a tomorrow.

  Revenge was sweet.

  He punched the gas and drove. Tires peeled against the asphalt. The automatic door banged closed. A rushed glance in the rearview mirror caught the girl one last time. She had pulled a gun and stared at the van as if trying to memorize his plates.

  He rounded the corner as his brain fixated on staying free. He had altered his appearance enough, so if she got a cop to listen, they would have no idea what he looked like. Still, it might not be long before a BOLO went out on a windowless white van.

  He did not drive far before he pulled into a preselected warehouse. He jumped out of the van, inhaled the scent of bleach, and hobbled to another vehicle. He would come back for the van soon. He glanced down at his leg and the blood soaking his pants. The wound was throbbing.

  Belt and suspenders.

  Sitting in his car, he gripped the wheel with gloved hands. He winced as he started the engine. The van’s seat was wet with blood, but it was hidden well enough.

  He drove out the other end of the warehouse, took another side street, and ten minutes later pulled into a crowded parking garage near one of the chain hotels. Another car switch and he was on his way to freedom.

  He slowly tamed his breathing and racing heart. His thoughts doubled back to Ms. Perky Breasts.

  No one got the better of him. He would find her, and she would feel his fury in every bone and nerve in her body. By the time he was finished with her, she would beg him for mercy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, August 17, 10:45 p.m.

  The van’s wheels screeched around the corner and as its headlights faded, Melina tightened her fingers on the SIG’s grip. She shifted the weapon’s sights away from the now-empty road toward the second vehicle. In the pregnant moments filled with blinding light, adrenaline, and pain, she could not determine if the driver of this second car was the cavalry or a friend of Lover Boy’s.

  The car’s front door opened, and a female driver rose up, hands held high. “It’s me—Sarah.”

  Panic sharpened Sarah Beckett’s characteristically serene voice as she stepped forward. In her midthirties, Sarah ran the Mission, a kind of halfway house for prostitutes. The girls on the streets called her the Mother of Lost Souls.

  Headlights silhouetted Sarah’s shapeless blue shirt, worn capris, and god-awful Jesus sandals. Red hair coiled into an unruly topknot already ringed by too many escaped curls.

  “Are you all right?” Sarah demanded.

  Melina’s hands trembled as she lowered her gun. “Yeah, I’m fine. You saved the day.”

  Sarah reached for her, but Melina pulled back. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.”

  “It’s his blood. Not mine.” Her scalp hurt. Her ankle throbbed. She had lost a chunk of hair, and in a day or two her wrist would be bruised. But otherwise, no worse for wear.

  “Where the hell did that van come from?” Sarah asked.

  “Parked in the shadows. No one saw him. Where are the other girls?” Melina scanned the streets for any sign that he might return.

  “Back at the Mission. They’re fine.”

  “Good.”

  “You shouldn’t have been here alone.”

  “I called you, didn’t I? I figured a minute or two out here would be fine.”

  “It wasn’t fine.” Sarah raised a trembling hand to Melina’s hair. “What did he want?”

  “To kill me.”

  Sarah fisted long fingers more accustomed to cupping a chalice or playing the piano at Sunday service than throwing a punch. “This was a stupid idea.”

  Melina tamped down the adrenaline swelling in her throat. “Dangerous, maybe. Not stupid.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re covered in blood.”

  Blood coated her skin and her clothes. She hoped the guy did not have HIV or hepatitis. “I need to call the cops.”

  “My assistant already did,” Sarah replied.

  “Sam knows about this?” Melina asked.

  “He was there when the other girls came back without you. He was furious. He was on the phone with the cops before I could get out the door.”

  As if on cue, blue lights bounced off the nearby warehouses. “How did he get the cops to the Bottom so fast?”

  “Friends in high places, I suppose,” she said.

  It was Sarah and Sam’s favorite joke. She not only ran the Mission, but she was also an ordained Episcopal priest.

  Two police cars rolled up, and immediately two officers were braced behind their open driver’s side doors. Weapons pointed in her direction.

  The cops were young, fresh faced, and she would bet neither one of them had been on the streets more than a year. She knew adrenaline made rookies extra jumpy. Everyone wanted to go home at night.

  “Drop your weapon!” one officer shouted.

  Melina gently knelt on the concrete sidewalk, laying her SIG and knife near weeds jutting up through the sidewalk cracks. She stayed down on both knees, hands locked behind her head, and Sarah followed suit.

  One cop held back, weapon trained on them, while the other approached. “Identify yourself,” he said.

  Her ankle was really throbbing. Thankfully, it did not feel broken, but a sprain was the last thing she needed. “My name is Melina Shepard. I’m an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. My badge is in my purse.”

  The cop approached and kicked the gun and knife away from her.

  “Be careful with that knife,” she said quickly. “It’s covered with the suspect’s blood and needs to be bagged. Better yet, get a forensic van down here.”

  Silent, the young officer grabbed her purse, stepped back, and dug until he retrieved the leather wallet. He flipped it open. The badge’s gold glittered.

  “Agent Shepard, are you i
njured?” the officer asked.

  The adrenaline rush was fading, leaving her with an unsettled feeling. “No.”

  “And who is this?” the officer asked.

  “Reverend Sarah Beckett.”

  The officer eyed Sarah’s long arms still suspended above her head. “You run the Mission?”

  “That’s right,” Sarah said.

  “I’ve heard about you. You can put your arms down.” He extended his hand to help Melina up, but she refused it. “Thanks, but I’m covered in the suspect’s blood, and I don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”

  “I’ll radio for an ambulance,” the officer said.

  “It’s really not necessary,” Melina said.

  “Yes, it is,” Sarah said. “She’s been through a lot.”

  The officer returned to his car as the two women stood.

  News traveled fast, and this unsanctioned adventure/fishing expedition by Melina meant an ass chewing was headed her way. She had come to the Bottom at the behest of Sarah, who was worried about two girls who had gone missing from the streets in the past couple of weeks. Missing persons reports had been filed, but so far, the police had not spent much time on either case. Sarah knew the girls and had begun making headway with both toward getting them off the streets.

  Melina had suspected she was chasing a pimp who did not want to lose his best moneymakers. They were likely being held in a run-down crack house. A smart pimp would not kill a working girl, but instead would lock her in a room and bring johns to her.

  The smell of bleach lingered in her nostrils, as did the memory of the van’s padded walls. She mentally cataloged details about this assailant, including the syringe, the perpetrator’s blond wig, and his efficient, practiced assault. This was not his first attempt to kill. The setup was sophisticated and clearly reflected very dark fantasies.

  She stared at the scuffed tips of her boots and thought about the missing girls. A shiver ran over her scalp.

  “Who attacked you?” the officer asked.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting that kind of trouble.” A sigh shuddered through her. “The driver was a white guy. Clean cut. Blond hair, but it was a wig. Gloves. Dark jacket. Jeans. Boots. Not the type you would expect to meet in a place like this.”

  Sarah snorted. “Rich or poor, married or single, religious or atheist . . . all kinds troll these waters.”

  “I need that evidence bag,” Melina said. “The knife needs to be secured.”

  The second officer pulled on latex gloves and retrieved an evidence bag from his cruiser.

  “What are you doing out here alone, Agent Shepard?” the officer asked.

  Doing the exact thing training officers told them not to do in the academy. “Reverend Beckett was worried about two missing girls. I was trying to find them.”

  “Alone?” the officer asked, his voice sharp.

  “With me.” Sarah spoke clearly, as if confessing her sins.

  The officer’s attention shifted between the two. He shook his head in disbelief. Even as a rookie, he knew it was a crazy stunt.

  “I was wrapping up my questioning with the girls,” Melina said. “I then called Sarah and was preparing to leave. Then the van started moving toward me.” She recounted her remaining observations of the attack. There was no masking that she had been reckless.

  “Where did you get the knife?” the officer asked.

  “It’s part of my belt buckle.” She rubbed her hand over the red scratch marks now marring her olive skin. The second officer bagged the knife that had been a gift from her dad when she’d graduated the academy. “Be careful with that.” Again, she recalled the scent of bleach. This guy was no amateur. “It’s got a killer’s DNA on it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday, August 24, 6:00 a.m.

  Head pounding. Ankle faintly throbbing. Alarm clock blaring.

  Melina grabbed the phone charging on her nightstand and shut off the buzzer that had yanked her from a deep sleep that had only come after too many hours of staring at the ceiling. She had seen 1:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., and finally 4:00 a.m. before she had drifted off. She had barely slept in the last seven days.

  She sat up, pushed back thick strands of hair. Her scalp was still tender to the touch, but thankfully, her attacker had not ripped out massive clumps as she had first feared.

  She closed her eyes, immediately picturing the inside of the van. Handcuffs. The syringe. The sharp scent of bleach.

  The images had haunted her all week, as had the threats from her boss, Agent Carter Jackson. Jackson’s normally controlled southern drawl had sharpened with anger as he had watched the doctor examine Melina’s ankle in the hour after the attack.

  “You’re lucky!” he yelled. “And the reverend is no smarter! Protocols are in place for a reason!”

  “It was worth it,” she countered.

  “You do not speak, Agent Shepard. You listen.” He began to pace the room. “You’re confined to your desk while I decide if I reassign you to Records Division for the remainder of your career!”

  She understood Jackson had been so upset because he was worried. She only hoped in a week or two he would cool off.

  Yesterday, she had stopped at a coffee shop and picked up a triple espresso for him. She had set the peace offering on his desk and dawdled, hoping he would look up from his computer. He had not acknowledged her.

  She was not only way up Shit Creek, but Jackson had snapped her paddle in his big bare hands.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed while staring at the digital time. “Fifteen more minutes of sleep.” She whispered the words like a prayer, mentally calculating how fast she could dress and be out the front door.

  Handcuffs. Syringe. Bleach.

  Her heart thumped faster in her chest. Who was she kidding? Sleep, if that is what she had attempted last night, was not returning anytime soon.

  As she scooted to the edge of the mattress, her oversize T-shirt twisted around her waist. Bare feet skimmed a cold hardwood floor, and she remembered the shag carpet was still waiting in the virtual shopping cart, along with a dozen other items she could not afford until payday.

  She was slow to put weight on her right ankle. She could walk now without a limp, but there was still some swelling.

  She stood, padded down the long hallway to the galley kitchen, and turned on her coffee maker. No matter how tired she was or how late she got home the night before, she always set up the coffee. One-quarter cup of grounds to four cups of water. The perfect blend that soothed her cranky morning self.

  Melina grabbed almond milk from the fridge and poured a small amount into an oversize UT mug. The handle was a little too big for her hands, but the twenty-ounce capacity saved her return trips. She dug a frozen bagel out of the freezer and put it in the toaster oven. Ten minutes at 350 degrees promised what would taste like an almost freshly baked bagel.

  A scratching sound at her back door had her turning to see a cat peering under the edge of her blinds. She retrieved a can of tuna fish from the cupboard and tried not to get the contents on her hands as she placed it onto a clean plate.

  She unlocked the patio door secured with three locks her father had installed. She tiptoed barefoot toward the patio table, where the small calico cat patiently waited for her daily meal.

  “It’s the good stuff, Wild Kitty,” Melina said. “I promise no more generic brands of tuna.” She had learned that lesson when the cat had taken one sniff and pushed the plate off the table. Snob.

  The cat now took a nibble, as if testing. Satisfied, she began to eat, growling as she bit into large chunks of tuna.

  How did the saying go? “Dogs have masters and cats have staff.” She carefully ran her hand down the cat’s back once or twice, knowing any more displays of affection would not be appreciated.

  “Eat up, kid. See you tomorrow.”

  The cat did not even look up. Melina retrieved yesterday’s dish and went back inside and set the plate in the dishwas
her. She filled her mug to the brim with coffee and headed toward the shower. She switched on the tap and, as it heated, sat on the side of her bed and read emails on her phone.

  Agent Jackson had sent her a text last night, demanding an early-morning meeting. Shit. This was day seven since her encounter, and she had no idea what Jackson had planned for her next.

  She pressed the hot mug to the side of her head.

  Melina rose, dug a clean white shirt and black pants from her closet. The good thing about desk duty was that she had time to go to the dry cleaner and linger in the grocery store. It was nice to have a stocked kitchen and a dresser full of clean clothes. The extra workouts had been a bonus, too.

  If her schedule got any more consistent, she was going to go insane.

  She shrugged off the T-shirt and stepped into the shower. Carefully, she dunked her head under the spray while avoiding the sensitive spots.

  Stupid stunt. Juvenile. Dangerous. Agent Jackson’s words rattled in her head, until finally she tuned out the sound of his voice.

  She had screwed up.

  Time to move on.

  He would get over it.

  Out of the shower, she gently dried off her thick hair, wrapped herself in a towel, and wound a second towel around her head. It smelled of lavender, and she liked it better than the lemon scent.

  “Oh, God.” She caught herself before she shifted to a critique of cinnamon bagels versus poppy seed. “I’m already turning soft.”

  Time to get dressed and face the music. Agent Jackson was still aloof. When he passed her office, he sometimes stopped and shook his head, but he did not bother to engage.

  As she buttered her poppy seed bagel, her thoughts shifted to her attacker.

  Who the hell was this guy? His little horror-show-on-wheels had not been thrown together on a whim. It had been the fulfillment of years of fantasy and countless hours of work. The slight smell of bleach she had detected still made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

  She walked to the back window and noted that Wild Kitty had vanished. She had places to go, mice to kill. The $1.29 of tuna was gone.

  As she turned from the window, her thoughts went to the girls who worked the streets around the Mission. During Melina’s very predictable lunch hours this week, she had visited Sarah. There had been no sign of the two missing girls nor of the white van modified to inflict pain.