by L. T. Ryan
Into The Darkness
Mitch Tanner Book Two
L.T. Ryan
Liquid Mind Media, LLC
Copyright © 2017 by L.T. Ryan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. For information contact:
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http://LTRyan.com
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Also by L.T. Ryan
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Amy, Barbara, Caryn, Karen, Marty, Melissa, and Pati.
Chapter One
He sought refuge under the canopy of the centuries-old live oak. The leaves couldn't stop all the rain, though. Thin and fat, drops passed through unscathed and pelted the top of his head. Wet, matted hair clung to his forehead. The Spanish moss hung low under the weight of the storm, whipping sideways in the gusts.
Thunder cracked and lightning lit up the land as it scratched down from the heavens and clawed up from hell to meet somewhere in the middle, revealing a sky the color of a week-old corpse.
The living avoided the graveyard tonight. Most other places, in fact. Few were crazy enough to be out in this kind of weather. Samantha might be Category Three by the time she hit the border of Georgia and South Carolina. Savannah would get nailed, but Charleston would see far worse.
He didn’t care.
Though the living refused to go near the graveyard, the souls of his victims were out to play.
In all, five of the women he’d murdered — although if one were to ask him, he’d say they were liberated — were buried in the ground here. More than any other local graveyard. Of course, thirteen of them between the two port cities were still missing. The bodies of those ditched at sea had not yet washed ashore. And no one had come upon the women he’d dumped deep in the low country woods.
Nor had they connected those from his travels throughout the country.
Through the hammering rain he saw their translucent souls dancing, free and naked, relishing every time lighting and thunder ripped apart the silence and darkness.
As much as he fed on the energy, even he had his limits. After an hour of playing with the dead, he stopped to visit Lucille. He stood in front of her tombstone for several minutes. Like the other graves, he didn’t need light to know what was written there.
The police wanted him badly enough that they devoted a team of detectives to finding him, and he had lived unnoticed, right under their noses, for years.
Until they caught him.
It all started with a visit to Lucille, years ago.
“Lucille,” he said. “Even in death, you’re such a bitch. It was all because of you.”
He dropped to his knees. With his eyes closed, he ran his hands through the damp grass, allowing each blade to choose a path on either side of a finger. Though cold, he imagined the liquid to be fresh blood pouring from his victim. A new one, perhaps. It had been so long that memories of those he had killed did little to excite him.
Except for one woman. The one who had bled on this very same spot. He’d stabbed her one time shy of enough. If only he’d plunged his blade once more, deeper, twisting and cutting and tearing until she faded, things would have been different. He would have been allowed to continue carrying out his work. Ridding the area of the dark-haired whores who pervaded the streets and squares.
He could have carried his mission further across the country. More connections would have been made. He wanted to add to the five men who now helped to achieve his goal. His vision. His dream.
The wind died down to a breeze. The voices of the trees quieted. A lull in the storm engulfed him.
He lifted his hands from the earth, brought them to his face, and wiped the blood of the ghosts on himself. He smelled it. Tasted it. The coppery sensation sliding down his throat felt so real. His hands and fingers tingled. Something stirred in his stomach. A feeling that hadn’t been there in months. Excited at the prospects of killing, his erect penis pressed hard against his zipper.
Tonight, he would not discriminate. There was no time to plan.
He began his retreat as the storm resumed, leaving trails in the mud as he struggled to maintain footing while he descended the small hill to the road leading away from the cemetery. The deserted street offered no refuge from the torrential downpour. Why would anyone visit the graveyard or anywhere else tonight? The storm was the reason he felt safe coming out of hiding.
Fifteen minutes later he walked along Skidaway against the wind toward the river. The streets were deserted and dark. He saw no traffic lights, street lamps, or house lights. The power had gone out. Preemptively, he presumed. Those lazy bastards didn’t want to work during a hurricane. He was the only one with that kind of work ethic.
A car turned from East Anderson Street. The headlights caught him in a spot where he had no cover. The driver flashed hi-beams. He continued walking forward. The car cut across the street and slowed to a stop in front of him. He shielded his eyes from the rain as the driver’s window descended, revealing a twenty-something brunette and her three companions. They were similar in looks, but none as perfect as the woman driving.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said. “Hurricane is going to hit soon.”
“Got caught at the cemetery,” he said, altering his accent and offering a slight smile. “Came all the way out from Kansas to see it.”
The woman looked back at her friend in the passenger seat. They kept their voices low, making it impossible for
him to determine what had been said. They looked like the kind of intelligent women who presented the type of challenge he enjoyed. But they would pull away without him. He was sure of it.
“Where are you staying?” She smiled while squinting against a heavy wind gust. “We’ll give you a ride there.”
He placed his hands on the windowsill and leaned forward so he wouldn’t have to shout against the noise of the storm. “Stupidly, I got off the bus and walked right down here. Figured I’d be able to find a room somewhere along the river.”
“You’ll never find a place now.”
He looked up into the rain, stood with his hands out, and shook his head. “I know, I know. You must think I’m the biggest idiot in the city, right?”
“Pretty much.” The woman bit her lip as she looked him up and down.
There was nothing menacing about him. He went out of his way to make sure of it. Clean cut, short hair, polo shirts, tan chinos. His face was always clean-shaven. Fingernails manicured. Neat and simple looking. His frame belied his strength. Wiry, but not overly muscular. Plenty strong enough to do the job, though.
She gestured toward the back door. “Get in. You can stay with us. It’s not the nicest place, but we’ve got a great couch.”
“You sure it’s wise to invite a stranger to stay in your house?”
Her grin widened. “Something tells me you’re a safe bet. Now get in.”
The rear driver’s side door popped open. He saw the two women there scooting along the bench seat to allow him room to sit. He adjusted his bag so it was on his outside shoulder.
The night wouldn’t be as fun if they discovered the knife and handgun it contained.
All four women introduced themselves. But he only remembered Alice, the woman driving. He told them his name was Rick Harrison. A lie. He then wove a tale of growing up on a farm, then leaving home for the Army — special forces, of course — only to wash out because of a broken leg that hadn’t healed properly. It had acted up again tonight while he fought the wind and rain.
By the time they reached the women’s home on the other side of Forsythe Park, the women had let their guard down completely in front of the guy they perceived to be an idiot who came to Savannah in the middle of a hurricane with no place to stay.
Perfection achieved. Almost.
They stayed up for another hour or so, drinking wine and warm beer. Talking and even a little flirting. He heard their stories. In one ear, out the other. He didn’t care what made them tick, what their life dreams were. Those dreams would end tonight. Only his dream could carry on.
He wished them all goodnight on their final night as they slipped down the hallway to turn in. He made note of which door each went into, then took thirty minutes to clear his mind. Meditation, it’ll help you achieve your goals!
Chapter Two
Two of the women bunked in the same room. He had to be quick about killing them. He hated being quick. A cockroach deserved a quick death. Not a woman. For she was a play thing in her final minutes.
He stuck a pillow over the first woman’s face, both hands over her nose and mouth until she stopped squirming. Her muffled cries for help barely reached his ears. Then, using the same pillow, he smothered the other woman’s face, but only to stop her screams from drifting out of the room. He took his knife and used it to cut her shirt from the bottom up. She railed against him. The blade sliced into the flesh of her abdomen.
“Damn you,” he whispered as he cut her neck. Stupid whore. Covered him in blood. He couldn’t surprise Alice like he had planned. He pulled the pillow off the dead woman’s face. Her opened eyes glistened. “All you had to do was play along for a few minutes.”
The floorboards creaked in the hallway outside the room. He stopped and leaned back against the wall. At the end of the corridor there were two doors. But he found himself unable to recall which one led to which woman. The whore’s rebellion had thrown him off. Enter the wrong room, and everything was ruined. He’d have to kill Alice right away instead of playing with her first.
What a shame.
Alice tantalized him in all the right ways.
He continued down the hallway, walking close to the trim. It helped to reduce squeaking. He stopped at the end of the corridor between two doors. One to the right. One to the left. The house exhaled a steady hum, while wind and rain battered its shell. He closed his eyes, absorbed the sounds, and held his knife out.
“Oh, show me the way, my steeled companion,” he whispered.
When he looked down, the knife pointed to the left.
Of course, the door with the seashell sign hanging from a bent nail. Alice’s room. She had said she grew up on the beach in Florida before attending the Savannah College of Art and Design.
SCAD, he thought. What a silly name.
He opened the door on the right. It smelled floral. Overly so. And it was hot. A sheet covered the woman. As he neared, he noticed how tightly wrapped it was around her ass. She mumbled something indecipherable as she drew one knee up. He stepped into the room, spun in a half circle, and shut the door, holding the knob tight to the right to prevent the latch from clicking while he turned the lock.
At the side of the bed, he clawed for her face, but found her hair. He traced his fingertips along her body toward the foot of the bed. Felt the dip in her lower back. The shapeliness of her ass. His preference for her to be on her back diminished. The stomach would be even better. He wedged his fingers into the crease where her thighs met.
She tensed. Her leg snapped back and her thighs pressed tight together.
He snatched her pillow, wrapped it around her face. As he straddled her back, he tied the ends of the pillowcase together. She thrashed underneath him, but all it did was arouse him. He worked his hands along her arms until each gripped a wrist. He wrenched them back until they touched. The pillow muffled her choking sobs. He held her arms in place with one hand, and grabbed the bedsheet with the other, which he used to tie her wrists together. She continued to thrash, her back pressing against his testicles. He went still, closed his eyes, cocked his head and listened.
Her moans melted into the howling wind and pelting raindrops. There was no way they slipped past the door. The door which he’d shut. The door which he’d locked.
He had time to get some of the vitriol out of his system.
Alice would appreciate that.
Using his knee, he wedged her thighs apart. She twisted and bucked, but couldn’t force him away. He tore her panties down the middle. But then the sensations that stirred in the graveyard, and yet again while she fought underneath him, were no longer present.
As much as he wanted the release so that he would be in control when he went to Alice, that would not be the case.
“Shit. You stupid, stupid bitch. What’s wrong with you?”
He hopped off the bed. The woman rolled over and retreated to the corner. The pillow slipped down, revealing her darkened eyes, nose and mouth. She could have screamed, but she didn’t. Instead, she whined breathlessly.
“Please, don’t.”
Using the sheet he snatched off the floor, he wiped her friend’s blood off his blade. Then he lunged forward and gagged her with the bloodied sheet. With her arms bound behind her, she could do nothing other than kick to defend herself. Not an easy feat with his weight bearing down on her thighs.
He rose up, one hand behind her head, pulling tight on her neck. The other holding the knife in front of his crotch, inches from her throat.
One way or another, he’d have his release.
And so he stabbed her over thirty times. The blade penetrated her face, neck, chest, abdomen and thighs.
He left her to bleed out, the knife buried deep in her stomach. The doorknob on the other side of the hallway felt cold against his flushed skin. He gripped it. Turned it. Cracked the door. Felt a rush of cold air that smelled like lavender wash over him.
“Hello, Alice,” he said in his country accent. “I thought we might t
alk for a while.”
She rolled over. Her form cut through the darkness as she sat up. She switched on a flashlight aimed at herself. He could see from her exposed breasts and erect nipples that she was happy he’d entered her room.
“I was hoping you’d join me,” she said.
“I know you were, Alice.” His voice had changed. He was no longer the unassuming man caught in the storm. He was the man they wished they’d never run into. He was Novak. “But this night is not going to go as you expected.”
Chapter Three
I’d been awake for an hour by the time the alarm on my cell phone started blaring. I reached over my daughter Ella Kate’s slumbering body and silenced the horrid device. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the ends draped over my shoulder. She lay still, trapped inside a linen burrito made of sheets and a comforter. She’d managed to steal them all during the night. Didn’t matter much to me. It was late September, and the nighttime temperature was cool enough I could leave the windows open without freezing or overheating myself to death. Probably wasn’t a good idea to let her sleep in the same bed, but our lives had been turned upside down and right side over.