by Rita Herron
“We have identified her as thirty-year-old Vanessa Morely.” Waters paused. “We also have identified the first victim found. Her name was Gillian Roach.”
His phone rang and he saw it was Ellie. Keeping one eye on the TV, he answered. “Hey, I was just watching your sheriff on the news.”
She grunted. “Then you know we have another murder?”
“Yes.”
“Vanessa Morely… I grew up with her.”
His lungs tightened at the raw pain in her voice. “I’m sorry. You think you’re dealing with one killer?”
“Yes, and I need your help.”
He swirled his bourbon around in his glass, watching the dark amber liquid as the scent of caramel and vanilla greeted him. Hearing Ellie’s soft voice brought an image of her silky hair and sky-blue eyes to his mind and made his body harden, a reminder of the night they’d slept together on the first case they’d worked on. A night he couldn’t repeat. Emotions didn’t belong in the job. And he had too much baggage for a relationship. “What can I do?”
“The MO varies slightly, but the scenes are all similar. After death, he places the victims in the center of a stone circle and burns their bodies.”
“Overkill, or he’s destroying evidence?”
“Not sure.”
He sipped his drink patiently, savoring the earthiness and feeling the warmth seep down his throat.
“The killer has a signature. He carves a tiny hourglass behind each of his victims’ ears.”
“That’s distinctive.”
“I know. Can you search for other murders with a similar signature?”
“Of course,” Derrick said. That was a logical first step. “I take it that you aren’t releasing this information to the press.”
“No, I’m not,” Ellie said. “Right now, we’re focusing on each individual, their lifestyles, enemies and families. There has to be a commonality between the three victims, but I haven’t figured it out yet. There’s something else that’s disturbing.”
More disturbing than another serial killer stalking the Appalachian Trail? “Go on.”
“The first victim’s name was Gillian Roach. She’s the social worker who handled my adoption.”
He ground his teeth. “Were you in contact prior to her death?”
“No, but I had left a message saying I needed to speak with her,” Ellie said in a low voice. “But she disappeared a few days before that.”
Derrick set his highball glass onto the corner desk. “I’ll run that search.”
She thanked him and hung up before he could ask anything personal. Like how she was doing. If she was having nightmares about the Weekday Killer. If Vera and Randall knew she was looking for her birth parents. The unspoken words were stuck in his throat, and he washed them down with more whiskey.
60
Somewhere on the AT
The scent of smoke lingered from the recent fire, and his eyes felt gritty as he walked mile after mile. He was best alone in the wilderness, away from the sights and the sounds he couldn’t drown out. Things that tormented him and triggered the pain and the nightmares that clawed at his sanity.
Except he couldn’t exactly call them nightmares. Nightmares happened when you slept, and sleep was the demon he chased at night.
But he continued to fail, spending endless hours staring into the dark, hoping it would come for him and give his body a rest. Endless hours that stretched into days where he couldn’t remember where he’d been and what he’d done.
Endless moments of waking up and finding himself in strange places with blood on his hands and clothes and the nasty scent of death permeating his soul.
If he had a soul. Sometimes he didn’t know.
He’d been suffering from insomnia ever since he was a child. The night terrors had started when he was five and consumed him ever since, burning into dark fantasies.
They’d gotten so bad he’d climb from bed, walk through the house like he was half dead and stand over his mother, staring into her face yet seeing nothing, screaming as if the devil had gotten inside him.
One night he’d grabbed a butcher knife and shredded the curtains in her bedroom. Even her terrified shouts had not shaken him from the trance. She’d thought he was possessed and started tying him to his bed at night, locking him in the tiny dark room and leaving him alone to imagine what he would do to her if he escaped. Maybe the fire would be real, and he’d set her hair ablaze. Or maybe he’d push her into the street until a car came along and crushed her like a bug, splattering her guts over the asphalt.
One stormy night when the wind shook the house and falling tree branches banged the windows, something had snapped in his mind. The screeching sounds had tormented him, fueling his strength, and he’d managed to yank the wooden bed post from the frame. Then he’d ripped the ropes from his hands and beaten the door with his baseball bat until the wood splintered and he crawled through the opening. His daddy had run off long ago, but he’d left his shotgun behind. His mother kept it locked in a cabinet, but he smashed the glass, grabbed the gun and slipped into her bedroom. He’d seen nothing but the fluffy white bedding and the lump beneath the covers so he’d fired the gun straight at the wall above the bed where his mother was sleeping.
She’d jumped up, screaming like a banshee, and he’d fired the gun at her head. She’d ducked, running from the room and out the front door. Still lost in the place between sleep and coherency, he’d fired one cartridge then another at her.
Before he knew it, the police showed up, and he heard his mother yelling that he was a monster. Sometime later, he’d come out of the trance and found himself locked in a hospital for sick boys.
The smoky odor of burned lumber and brush swirled around him, and his vision was blurring. There were weeks when he lived among the normal folks and weeks when he disappeared into his head and the woods and lived among the animals and the shadows.
His watch buzzed, and he checked the time as the chime echoed in his head, sending him back in time. He was strapped to the table, the light burning his eyes, the ticking of the clock reverberating around him. A sharp stinging pain screamed through his head. An earsplitting screeching sound took over him.
The sand began to slip through the hourglass. Ticktock, ticktock.
His fingers dug into his pockets and one hand brushed the knife he used for carving while the other fingered the matches.
It was time. Another woman had to die.
61
Laurel Springs
Sarah Houston dragged herself up from the floor, her arm hanging limply by her side, the pain so intense that nausea bubbled in her throat. Blood dripped from her lip and her eye was nearly swollen shut.
She had no idea what had happened, but after she and Ryder had come home from finding that woman’s body, he’d acted as if he was possessed. She’d been upset and wanted him to hold her, but he’d shoved her away with such force she’d fallen and banged her head against the corner of the kitchen table.
At first, she’d thought it was an accident, but then he’d jerked her arm and twisted it behind her back until she heard the bone snap. Pain had ricocheted up her arm and shoulder, and she’d screamed and doubled over. His fists became lethal, and he’d hit her over and over as if she was nothing more than a punching bag.
She’d pleaded, begged him to stop, but his eyes were so glassy, it was almost as if he wasn’t looking at her. As if his mind was somewhere else.
After he’d purged his rage, she’d collapsed into a puddle on the floor and he’d stalked out, slamming the door behind him. She was terrified he’d come back.
Tears mingled with the blood on her cheeks, and she struggled to crawl to her phone. She needed help.
But the room was spinning and twirling, and bile clogged her throat. She cried out, forced herself another inch. Her phone was in sight, just over there, on the kitchen counter. Her ribs ached, a stabbing pain splintering her every time she took a breath. Another inch. Another. But as sh
e reached for the chair to drag herself up, the chair toppled over, and she fell backwards again.
Pain seared her as the world went dark.
62
River’s Edge
Before Ellie had left the police station, Bryce texted that one of the waitresses had seen a man named Ryder Rigdon talking to Vanessa. He’d failed to mention that he knew her when he’d discovered her body. Ellie wanted to know the reason.
His home in River’s Edge overlooked the eponymous river, surrounded by oaks. Ellie scanned the yard and driveway but didn’t see a car in sight. The scent of smoke from the fires hung in the still, muggy air, and the lights were off inside as she walked up to the door. Hand on her weapon, she punched the doorbell.
She tapped her foot, raised her fist and knocked, listening for signs that someone was inside. Except for the buzzing of mosquitoes everything was quiet.
“Mr. Rigdon, it’s Detective Reeves, I need to speak to you.” She waited several more seconds, then shined her flashlight through the front window. There was no movement or lights on. She jiggled the doorknob, hoping it was unlocked, but no luck. Using her torch to illuminate the way, she walked around the exterior of the cabin, checking the windows and back door, but they were all shut tight.
She would have to get a search warrant, but she needed more evidence for that.
She returned to her Jeep, cranked the engine and headed toward Sarah’s. The night sky was so black that Ellie had to crawl around the winding switchbacks, her unease mounting as she climbed up the mountain. The ten miles to the small community called Laurel Springs seemed to take forever.
A sliver of moonlight seeped through the black but quickly disappeared behind a cloud. She finally reached Sarah’s small rustic house. It was set on a hill, with mountain laurel dotting the backyard. There was a white picket fence and ferns hung from the front porch, while metal yard art in the shape of sunflowers lined the cobblestone path to the porch steps.
A light was burning through a window to the right of the steps, and a white SUV emblazoned with the logo Scents by Sarah sat in the driveway. No other vehicle, which meant Ryder might not be here.
She parked, her senses honed as she let herself inside the gate then walked up to the porch. The wood boards squeaked as she climbed them. The door was ajar.
Instantly the hair on the back of her neck prickled. “Sarah, it’s Detective Reeves,” she called out. Slowly she inched inside the hall, pausing to listen, but dead silence stretched around her, thick with the sense that something was wrong.
“Sarah, it’s Detective Ellie Reeves, are you here?”
The pine floor creaked as she crept toward the kitchen area where the light was burning. Water dripped from the faucet, and a low moan broke into the night.
Ellie’s heart sprinted as she spotted Sarah lying on the floor, blood pooling around her head, her fingers stretched out in a cry for help.
63
Cherokee Point
The late-night news segment repeatedly played in Janie Huntington’s mind, sending terror through her. As soon as it ended, she’d called her brother and asked him to come and get Will. She needed to save her son.
The sheriff of Bluff County was close-mouthed about the three murders that had occurred in the county. Bodies all found on the Appalachian Trail. Bodies he’d given no details on—except for their names.
Katie Lee Curtis was Agnes’s daughter. And Gillian Roach… she knew that name, too.
It was happening just like she’d feared. She’d kept her mouth shut but someone else must have opened the can of worms by asking questions. Questions that would get them all killed.
Her heart hammering, she dragged her suitcase from the closet, then snatched jeans, T-shirts and underwear at random, not bothering to fold them as she shoved them into the bag. Her toiletries were piled in next, then she laid down on her belly on the floor and retrieved the shoebox where she kept her emergency stash of cash. Yanking it out, she thumbed through for a quick count. Nine hundred. She shoved it in her purse.
It was enough to get by on until she could figure out what to do.
He would be coming for her next. Some of the girls didn’t remember, but his face was etched in her mind permanently. She’d never forget that musky odor. Never forget his breath on her. Never forget the sinister warning in his eyes.
Talk and you die.
For a second, her hand hovered over her phone, and she considered calling that detective. But that might put her son in jeopardy. And then he would find out the truth.
She’d protected him from that so far and she didn’t intend to give up now.
She snagged her stuff and crept to the door. Pulse racing, she slipped outside and dashed toward her car.
In the darkness, a figure moved toward her, and she lunged for the car door. He grabbed her from behind, but rage fueled her adrenaline, and she jabbed her elbow into his chest then turned and sprayed him in the face with the mace.
Bellowing, he staggered backward for a second, loosening his grip on her. She took advantage of that second, and dove into the car. He lunged at the door, but she fired up the engine, pressed the accelerator and sped from the driveway, tires screeching as she slung gravel.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, the moonlight illuminated his evil face. He’d find her eventually. And when he did, she’d kill him.
64
Laurel Springs
Ellie stooped down beside Sarah and stroked her hand. “I’m here, Sarah. It’s Detective Reeves. I’m calling an ambulance.”
The woman moaned, her eyes lolling back as she passed out. Ellie felt for a pulse as she rang for help.
“911,” the emergency responder said.
“I need an ambulance.” Ellie identified herself and quickly recited the address. “Female, approximately thirty, severely beaten. She’s lost a lot of blood, appears to have a broken arm, possible head injury.” She raced to the kitchen and opened drawers, grabbing kitchen towels.
“Help is ten minutes away. Can you stay with the woman?”
“I’ll be here. Am applying blood stoppers now.” Her breath panted out as she hurried over to Sarah, knelt, gently lifted her head and pressed the cloths to her injury to stem the blood flow.
“Sarah, honey, hang in there. Tell me who did this to you.”
The poor woman’s breathing grew even more shallow, and Ellie wondered if she’d make it through the night. Needing to act, she phoned the sheriff.
“Sheriff Waters,” he mumbled, his voice slurred.
Rage shot through Ellie. She thought he might have learned a lesson on the last case, but it seemed like the bottle was getting the best of him. “Sorry, butt dial.” She hung up, ringing her boss instead and explained what she’d found. “Medics are on the way to Sarah Preston’s house. We need to issue an APB for Ryder Rigdon and a warrant for his house. He may be armed and dangerous.”
“On it,” Captain Hale said. “I’ll get Deputy Landrum to find out what kind of vehicle he drives. And if he has another property where he might go to hide out.”
A siren wailed in the distance. “I’ll follow the ambulance to the hospital and stay with Sarah to see if she can identify her attacker.”
65
Bear Mountain
Janie mopped her forehead as heat lightning sizzled above the hills. A car had followed her for miles. She’d taken every shortcut and side street she knew, and she thought she’d escaped him.
Panic made her head swim, and she swerved into the parking lot for the gun and ammo store tucked on the corner of Bear Mountain. A shiver coursed through her.
She wasn’t far from where it had all happened. Where her life and her future had been stolen.
You have Will.
He was her life now. Her future. Protecting him was all that mattered. She’d warned him to stay away from Katie Lee. But he hadn’t listened, and now the girl was dead.
Her son would not die, though.
Nervous energy made her alm
ost run over the curb and she barreled over a tin can. It was surprising that the parking lot was empty, but at least no one would see her make her purchase. During hunting seasons, the targets out back were occupied with hunters. She’d heard cops liked to come here to practice, enjoying the wildlife and natural setting while they fired into animal-shaped targets.
Disgust filled her at the thought of killing any live creature.
Except for him.
She’d been running for years now, and she’d thought she was safe. But she wasn’t. She never would be unless she ended it.
Taking a fortifying breath, she threw the car into park, climbed out and hurried toward the entrance.
Her eyes scanned the road for the car, then the deserted woods beyond.
The trees suddenly shook, thunder rumbling and dark clouds moving overhead. A feral cat screeched and darted around the side of the building as she broke into a jog, pounding on the door. But no one came. She peeked through the glass window and realized the place was closed.
Panic shot through her. She had to get a gun. Tonight.
Suddenly bright lights beamed in her face, tires screeching as a truck pulled into the parking lot.
She ran toward her car, but the door of the truck opened, and a hulking figure emerged from it. She dove for her car door, but he beat her to it. Terrified, she screamed, then turned and ran toward the woods.
She heard him behind her. His boots crushing the weeds and grass as he closed the distance. His breath on her as he reached for her.
66
Bluff County Hospital
The plain round clock on the sterile white walls of the hospital room struck 4 a.m., the drone of the nurses’ voices and footsteps in the hall echoing softly.
