Wrecked

by Cynthia Eden

  Ana spun on her heel and hurried toward the wall. She stared at all of the pictures of herself. Her lips, her eyes—her nose. Most of the pictures were of her face. The sketches appeared to have been drawn with the same heavy hand, lots of dark shading. Lines drawn in the paper so deep, again and again.

  Deep, like a knife slicing deep into skin. So very deep.

  Most of the pictures were like that, except the image in the very middle of the wall. Ana’s hand reached out to touch the picture.

  “I told you to take all of the images down, Phelps,” Cash snapped out.

  Her hand stilled. Ah, so Cash didn’t expect me to see these. He thought I wouldn’t find out about lie number one.

  Tricky agent.

  “I didn’t have time,” Phelps replied, voice tight. “I have a prison to run and—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ana cut in. “I’m glad you left them right here.” It made things so much easier. She caught the edge of the paper for that center picture. Ana yanked the paper down, staring at the image.

  It was her, but a drawing of her whole body, not just of her face or some of her features. A rustic cabin was in the background. She was wearing jeans—and her battered jacket. The same jacket she was wearing right then.

  Bernie wouldn’t have known about my jacket. My brother gave it to me a year ago.

  “Better artist,” Ana murmured. “The lines are different. Softer.” They didn’t cut into the paper with angry slashes. The lines flowed and circled. Ana lifted the paper toward Cash. “Someone has been watching me.” But . . . “I’ve never been to that cabin.” She studied that cabin—single story, old-fashioned log-style with a lake to the left. She looked back at Ray. He gave the faintest of nods. “Right, we’re done here.” She pushed the paper at Cash. “Let’s get the hell out of this prison.”

  He blinked. “Ana?”

  “I hate prisons, have I ever told you that?” Her steps were quick as she headed for the cell door. Cash followed on her heels. “Can’t stand the idea of being confined.” Because when I was a kid, some sick assholes tied me to a chair and played a game of torture the girl. Since then, Ana hadn’t been able to stomach any sort of confinement. Even seat belts made her tense. Being in the plane, having to put that belt across her lap? Her whole body had stiffened.

  The warden led them back through the prison. There were catcalls, shouts, but Ana didn’t even glance at any of the prisoners, and Cash didn’t flip out on her and go into his überprotective mode, either.

  Then they were outside. The sunlight was bright, making her squint. Ana kept marching forward until she reached their rented SUV. Only then did she glance back. Cash was having a quiet, intense conversation with the warden. They kept glancing at her, then away.

  She just waited.

  A few moments later, Cash was heading toward her with the sketch secured in an evidence bag that he carried. She leaned back against the side of the SUV, watching him approach. The walls of the prison were so big, looming behind him.

  “If I had to spend the rest of my life in a place like that,” Ana said as his boots crunched the gravel in the parking lot, “I know I’d go mad.”

  “No, not you. You’re too strong for something like that.”

  “You have no clue.” She studied that prison. The heavy stones. The armed guards. The barbed wire. “I made it through hell once. I wouldn’t again.” Her mind would shatter long before that happened.

  “Ana?”

  She cleared her throat. What had she been thinking? She didn’t share with people—not with anyone but her twin. And she didn’t have to tell him stuff like that because Asher understood her so completely.

  Her head inclined toward the sketch he held. “Get the lab guys at the FBI to run every possible scan and test imaginable on that paper. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a fingerprint. Some DNA. Something. Because the person who drew that image? That would be Tate’s partner.”

  A furrow appeared between his brows.

  “The cabin is his hiding spot,” Ana continued. “We should get some maps of the area, look for property that fits the image there. A small log cabin nestled near a lake. Close to the prison, but not too close. I mean, he’d want to vanish fast but not be in an immediate search area.”

  “How can you be sure?” He was just inches away from her.

  Too close. Caging me in.

  Ana turned around and grabbed for the door handle. “Because like I said, someone has been watching me.”

  The lock disengaged. She knew he’d pressed the key remote in his pocket. She jumped inside but . . .

  Cash didn’t move. He stepped closer to her. “Explain.”

  “My jacket. It was a gift on my birthday. I know it looks old as hell . . .” Now her rusty laughter came out in a weak laugh. “But it’s supposed to look that way. It’s vintage, a special order gift for me.” Asher had given her the jacket and teased, See, Ana, it already looks all hard-core. Perfect for you. “Tate had someone watching me. Someone who saw me in the jacket. He didn’t draw that picture, his partner did.” She eased out a slow breath. “Ray told us his behavior changed—”

  “Ray wasn’t saying jack.”

  He’d said plenty. Just not always with words. “Tate was excited after he got the image. He knew he was going to that cabin. We find the cabin, we find him.” She stared into Cash’s eyes. Then, not even sure why she was doing it, Ana’s hand rose and her fingers pressed to the shadowy line of stubble on his jaw. “Don’t be mad,” she whispered, “because I figured it out before you.”

  His eyes widened.

  She smiled at him.

  “Ana Fucking Young.” Cash shook his head. “I saw those pictures of you—and I wanted to attack.”

  Her smile faltered. This wasn’t Cash bullshitting her. This wasn’t any one-upmanship game. This was . . .

  Something more.

  Her fingers started to slide away from his jaw, but his hand rose and locked around hers, holding her fingers in place.

  Confinement, I can’t—

  “It pissed me off to see those pictures of you. I ordered Phelps to have them removed.” His head turned and she felt the quick press of his lips against her palm.

  Her heart thundered in her chest.

  But Cash took a step back.

  “If he’d done that, if he’d followed my orders, then we’d be screwed.” He shook his head. “How the fuck did I miss this?” He started to spin away.

  Ana grabbed his hand. “Stop.”

  Cash looked up at her.

  “Get your team to check the paper. Get the warden to see if he can find the record of who sent this to Tate.” She should have talked more to the warden when they were inside, but she’d started to suffocate in there. Too much confinement. Too many bars.

  Too many nightmares.

  “And while they’re doing that,” Ana continued doggedly, “you and I will hunt for that cabin. Partners, right? Let’s go find that sonofabitch.” Because he isn’t going to get me. I won’t be his prey.

  Tate thought that he would kill her?

  No. She’d find him, then she’d toss his ass back into that prison so that Warden Phelps could make Bernie Tate’s life a living hell.

  Chapter Three

  The log cabin waited, nestled beneath pine trees and sitting on the edge of the lake. A perfect, picturesque scene.

  It was the third cabin that Cash had visited that day. The third that matched up, based on topographical maps, with the image from the sketch that had been in Bernie Tate’s cell. They were deep in the heart of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, a beautiful area, but one that hid too many isolated spots.

  “Fresh tire tracks,” Ana said softly, her body brushing against his as they stood on the driver’s side of the SUV. They’d gone out there with two local deputies, two nervous-looking young guys who were currently gripping their weapons as tightly as possible.

  Cash had wanted backup for the cabin search, but the deputies weren’t exac
tly inspiring confidence in him.

  His gaze dipped toward the tire tracks that Ana had noticed and he nodded. They were fresh, but there was no sign of a vehicle at that cabin right then. The place was a rental, and according to the rental property management company, it should have been empty.

  He had the keys to the place in his pocket and he also had the all-clear from the owners to search the cabin. “Stay here,” he told Ana.

  Her expression hardened. “Come on, Cash, let me cover your ass. Not those guys.” She jerked her thumb toward the deputies. “Wouldn’t you feel safer with me at your back?”

  He’d feel safer knowing she wasn’t anywhere within Tate’s firing range. Not that the guy had ever used bullets on his prey. A knife had been his weapon of choice because he liked the intimate kills.

  Slow.

  Bloody.

  “Stay here,” he told Ana, and he put his backup gun in her hand. “If you see Bernie Tate run out of that cabin . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t hesitate to take him down.” But worry flashed in her eyes. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Always.” He motioned to the deputy. One deputy would go inside with him, one would stay with Ana. That had been the method they used at the last two cabins. And they’d turned up jack shit at those places but . . .

  This place could be different.

  He wanted it to be different. He wanted to find Bernie Tate and eliminate the threat the man posed to Ana. He approached the cabin quickly, his gaze scanning the area for any danger. Cash wasn’t about to be caught off guard. When he reached the cabin, Cash flattened his body against the wood near the entrance. The young deputy followed suit, but the deputy’s breathing was loud, heaving in and out in deep bursts.

  Cash reached for the doorknob. His fingers brushed against it, and he stilled.

  Unlocked.

  He looked back at the deputy, then Cash’s gaze slid toward the parked SUV. He couldn’t see Ana over there. She was supposed to be crouching down, staying covered. It looked as if she were following orders, but with Ana . . . well, a guy could never be too sure.

  Cash nodded once, grimly, to the deputy. Then he rushed inside the cabin, with his gun ready and his grip dead steady.

  The smell hit him first. Thick, coppery, cloying.

  Blood.

  Waste.

  Human waste.

  The deputy started gagging. Cash didn’t have that luxury. He ran forward, following the stench, terrified that they’d arrived too late. Had Bernie Tate taken another victim? Ana had said that the killer would be itching to use his knife again.

  Sonofabitch, I don’t want to be too late.

  He flew down the small hallway. Saw the door. Halfway open . . .

  With his left hand, Cash pushed that door open fully, and with his right hand, he kept his steady grip on the gun, ready for a threat from Tate. Ready—

  “OhmyGod!” The shocked cry came from the deputy who’d followed Cash into the back room.

  Cash didn’t make a sound.

  His gaze was on the victim. A victim who’d been stabbed, again and again and again. Blood spatter filled the walls. A thick pool of blood had congealed beneath the victim.

  “It’s like a damn slaughter,” the deputy gasped, and then Cash heard the deputy vomiting.

  Contaminating their crime scene.

  Cash shoved the guy back. “Go outside, hurry!”

  The deputy stumbled out.

  And Cash looked at the horror show around him.

  Sonofabitch.

  When the deputy came flying out of the cabin, his face bleached of color and his hands waving frantically in the air, Ana knew they’d hit pay dirt.

  Bernie Tate, you bastard. We’ve got you.

  But the deputy was panicked. Terrified.

  And where is Cash? Ana didn’t hesitate. She jumped up from her safe spot and ran straight toward the cabin. Cash’s backup weapon was held securely in her hand.

  The young deputy who’d fled the cabin fell to his knees and started vomiting.

  Ana still didn’t stop. Cash. Where is Cash?

  She burst into the cabin and the smell hit her. Nausea rose in her throat, but she choked it right back down. “Cash!” His name tore from her as she ran down the hallway. Then he was lunging toward her, appearing to jump right from the room at the end of that narrow hall.

  “No, Ana, stop!”

  She staggered to a stop. Her breath heaved, but her gun didn’t so much as tremble. “What happened? Are you all right?” Her frantic gaze flew over him. Cash seemed fine. No wounds that she could see.

  “I’m okay.” He didn’t holster his gun. “I need to check the perimeter and make sure the perp isn’t still nearby.”

  “Tate?” She glanced over her shoulder. There weren’t many places the guy could hide inside the cabin. And that smell . . .

  Who did the bastard kill? Another victim . . . Ana knew another victim waited in the room behind Cash. Her stomach knotted. I was too late. I didn’t stop him.

  “Not Tate.” Cash shook his head. “He won’t be hurting anyone else.”

  He sounded so certain. It took a moment for her to realize exactly how he could know that truth and then she was shoving against him and stumbling forward.

  “No, Ana.” He grabbed her, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her against him. “You don’t need to see that.”

  Her head turned. Their faces were separated by inches. “It’s not my first dead body.” No, her first dead body had come when she was fourteen. She’d watched the bastards who’d taken her die before her eyes. The first abductor’s blood had splattered onto her.

  But I didn’t scream.

  “Ana . . .”

  “Let me go, Cash.”

  “It’s a crime scene. You can’t touch anything. You—”

  “Let. Me. Go.” She wasn’t going to screw up the crime scene, but she was going to look into that room.

  His mouth brushed against her temple. “Some things stay with you. No matter how hard you try to banish the memory, you can’t forget.” His breath teased her cheek. “You don’t want this memory.”

  A memory that had driven a deputy to run from the house. And the guy was probably still vomiting outside.

  Cash slowly slid his arm away from her. “I’m going to check the rest of the cabin.” He hesitated. “Go back outside, Ana. Go back out with the deputies.”

  He eased away from her.

  Ana looked toward the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and she could just see the blood on the floor. She took a slow, gliding step forward.

  “Ana . . .” A warning was in Cash’s voice.

  “My picture was on his wall. Me. Over and over again. He was coming after me.” She looked back at Cash. “I have to see what’s in that room.”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then instead of backing away from her, he moved closer. Ana squared her shoulders and headed for that door. Such a thin, old door. The floor groaned beneath her feet.

  She crept closer. Slipped into that little room. The stench was stronger. Blood and urine and . . .

  He was on the floor.

  Bernie Tate.

  Bernie the Butcher. That had been the name the media gave him. A monster who’d used his knife to carve up women. But . . .

  This time, Bernie was the one who’d been carved up. Stabbed so many times that his body was a gory mass. Nausea rose within her again, sharp and twisting and she didn’t even realize that she’d reached out—

  Until her left hand grabbed tight to Cash. Her fingers curled around his arm as Ana held on to him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cash said.

  Her stricken gaze was on Bernie’s face. Someone butchered the butcher. Someone butchered the . . .

  She backed out of that room. Every breath she took . . . it was like she was inhaling death. But as soon as she was in that hallway, Ana shook her head once. Twice. She was not going to lose her control in that place.


  “You okay? Ana?”

  She tipped back her head and stared up at Cash. She was still holding on to him. “His partner . . . did that?” Such a brutal kill. So much rage. So much hate. Ana shook her head. “Not his partner.” No, Bernie might have thought he was working with someone he trusted, but it had been a trick.

  I know monsters.

  The killer hadn’t been able to get to Bernie while he was in prison. He’d wanted payback. The kind that could only be given with a pound of flesh.

  Wound for wound. A life for a life.

  So the killer had waited for the perfect opportunity. During Bernie’s transfer, that opportunity had presented itself. He’d gotten Bernie. He’d made sure that transfer van broke down. And then . . .

  Someone butchered the butcher.

  Blue and red police lights lit up the small cabin. Ana sat huddled in the back of a patrol car. More FBI agents were on scene, and the local sheriff was out, too, barking orders as teams searched the area.

  She’d done her part. She’d helped to find Bernie.

  Her gaze slid to the left. A black body bag was being loaded into the coroner’s van. Another one of the missing . . . found.

  Now that her job had ended, the Feds were taking over again. She was supposed to stay in the background. Cash had given that order, only he’d phrased it in his nice way.

  Just sit tight, Ana. We’ll search the scene. It has to be handled the right way. Officially. The press is going to be all over this thing.

  More of his teammates had come rushing in. All nice, friendly agents—but stiff in the typical FBI way. The agent she’d liked the most was Faye Comwell, a direct woman who’d said exactly what she thought and hadn’t played any sort of pissing-match game with the local authorities.

  “Uh, ma’am?”

  She turned her head and saw the poor deputy who’d vomited earlier. The guy was still a little too pale.

  “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”

  “Deputy . . . Welch, wasn’t it?” Ana asked.

  He nodded.

  “I need a ride back to town, deputy. As fun as it is to hang out at a murder scene . . .” Not fun, not fun at all. “I want to get into a motel room and crash.” Pulling that all-nighter hadn’t helped her any, but she’d hardly expected to find herself on this case. She was bone tired, and the adrenaline rush she’d felt before—before she’d seen the body—had bottomed out. She just wanted to escape the chaos of that scene.