Alex Kava Bundle

by Alex Kava

  “Actually there’re quite a few things. Her mouth was taped shut with duct tape and a piece of paper was found shoved down her throat. There’re handcuff marks on the wrist and several ligature tracks on her throat.” Again, she pulled out more scanned photos, close-ups of a mutilated neck and welted wrists.

  “Was the hyoid crushed?”

  Maggie ran her index finger down the coroner’s report until she came to the notation. “Yes. And check the photo. There’s a lot more bruising than from a cord. This guy likes to use his hands when he’s ready for the kill.”

  Ganza held up a full-length scan. “Looks like livor mortis on her backside. She may have been sitting when she died. Would have had to be sitting for hours before he came back and tossed her in the water. But why toss her? Our guy likes to pose his victims.”

  “He may not have tossed her,” Maggie said. “The Wake County sheriff told me they had some flooding in that area about two weeks ago. The lake came up over its banks.”

  “Well, she’s washed pretty clean. Any DNA samples found at all? How ’bout under her nails?”

  “Nope. All washed away.”

  “I have the preliminary DNA results from the Brier girl,” Ganza said while he shifted through the documents Maggie had laid out.

  “And?”

  “There was some foreign DNA under her fingernails, but it doesn’t match the semen.” Ganza didn’t sound surprised. Maggie wasn’t, either. Whether Senator Brier wanted to believe it or not, the evidence seemed to point to consensual sex, probably earlier in the evening.

  “Also found some foreign fingerprints on the Brier girl’s purse. We’ll check them against what we have in AFIS,” Ganza continued. “’Course, the way you girls share your belongings with one another, it might not lead us anywhere.”

  “Goes to show you what you know about girls, Ganza. I don’t share my things with anyone, let alone something as personal as a purse.”

  “Goes to show what you know about girls, O’Dell. When was the last time you carried a purse?”

  “Okay, good point.” She felt her cheeks flush, surprised that he had noticed such a detail about her. Yes, she hated to admit it, but it was true that she had been anything but the typical teenage girl, and it looked like she was far from the typical woman. Still, it was embarrassing that this scruffy, weathered, forensics relic knew more about women and their accessories than she did.

  “One other thing.” This time he went to the metal cabinet in the corner and brought back a plastic evidence bag. Inside, Maggie recognized the slide with a piece of transparent tape attached. It was the slide she and Stan had made from the residue found on Ginny Brier’s neck. “Hang on to that for a minute,” he told her as he walked to the door and reached for the light switch. “Now, keep in mind that whatever cord or wire or rope this guy is using has to be covered with this crap, okay?”

  He shut off the light and the glittery substance on the slide began to glow in the dark.

  “What in the world?”

  “If we can figure out what it came off of, it might be able to tell us something about our guy.”

  He snapped the lights back on.

  “What about something used in a magic act or for a theater production?” Maggie asked. “Maybe some novelty store or costume shop might be able to tell us.”

  “Could be. But I’m wondering, does he use it because it’s a nifty prop or because it’s something he has handy all the time?”

  “My guess is it’s a nifty prop.” Maggie held up the slide again. “This guy likes attention. He likes putting on a performance.”

  When she looked back at Ganza, he was picking through the assortment of documents again. He pointed to the fax copy of the crumpled piece of paper found in the floater’s throat. “No ID, no cyanide capsule, no quarters. What was this?”

  Despite the wrinkles and creases, it looked like some kind of schedule with a list of dates and cities. Maggie pulled out another piece of paper from her jacket pocket.

  “Recognize this?” she asked as she unfolded a copy of the Church of Spiritual Freedom’s pamphlet. The one Tully had found after Reverend Everett’s Saturday night rally. On the inside was listed the dates and cities for the organization’s fall schedule of rallies. “Take a look at the first of November. That week’s designated rally was at Falls Lake State Recreation Area in Raleigh, North Carolina. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, because you know—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t believe in coincidences. So how does the homeless woman fit into all this? There was no rally close by. And if Prashard’s early assessment is correct, she was also killed Saturday night.”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “Maggie, you know all this means is that someone wants us to make a connection to Everett. The murder of Senator Brier’s daughter looked like it could be revenge for the deaths of those boys in the cabin. But the rest—the floater, the homeless woman…” Ganza waved his hand over the spread of photos and reports and faxes. “All it means is that someone wants us to make a connection to Everett. Doesn’t mean he’s involved.”

  “Oh, he’s involved,” Maggie said, surprised by the hint of anger in her voice. “I don’t know how or why, but my gut tells me the good Reverend Joseph Everett is somehow responsible. Maybe not directly.”

  “Or maybe even directly,” Racine said, appearing at the doorway. Her spiky blond hair looked windblown, her face flushed, and she seemed a bit out of breath. She came in and held up a copy of the National Enquirer. The front-page photo showed Ginny Brier holding hands with Reverend Everett. Without looking at the newspaper, Racine read the headline aloud. “Moments Before Her Death, Senator’s Daughter Attends Prayer Rally. Photo credit by our good pal Benjamin fucking Garrison.”

  “Garrison?” Maggie wasn’t surprised. Though she had met him only briefly at the monument Sunday morning, she hadn’t trusted him or his reasons for being there. “Okay, so Everett met Ginny Brier. No incriminating evidence there. And no harm done. We already knew she was at the rally. Why so steamed, Detective Racine?”

  “Oh, it gets much better.” Racine practically ripped the pages, flipping to the inside, creasing the fold before turning it back around. This time both Maggie and Ganza came in for a closer look.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ganza muttered.

  “I should have known I couldn’t trust that bastard,” Racine said through gritted teeth.

  Maggie couldn’t believe it. The page was filled with crime scene photos, photos of Ginny Brier’s dead body, black boxes strategically placed over her private parts, but nothing to hide the horrible, brutal rest. Nothing to cover those terrified eyes—frozen in time, eyes wide open.

  CHAPTER 44

  Eric Pratt could hear and feel the chipping and splintering of his fingernails as he dug them into the grooves of his handcuffs. It had become a new habit, useful only in that it prevented him from digging the jagged nails into his own flesh.

  He should have been grateful that the guard had let him keep his hands together instead of locking them at his waist to each side. He knew his captors had misread his polite behavior, perhaps even thought he was harmless. Though not entirely harmless—he rattled the shackles on his ankles, reminding himself they were there, readjusted himself in the chair. He needed to stop squirming. Why couldn’t he sit still?

  As soon as the woman entered the room, Eric had felt a wet chill sweep over his body. She had introduced herself as a doctor, but Eric knew better. The woman was small, well dressed, about his mother’s age, but very attractive. She carried herself with confidence and ease despite the high-heeled shoes she wore. He found himself watching her legs as she crossed them, making herself comfortable in the steel folding chair. She had smooth, firm calves, and from what he could see of her thighs, she was really nothing like his mother.

  She was explaining why she was here. He glanced at her mouth, but he didn’t need to listen. He knew exactly why she was here. He had known the s
econd she walked in the door.

  She was the woman clothed with the sun. Her reddish-blond hair had been a dead giveaway. It circled her face like the rays of the sun. Of course, she would possess warm green eyes and a quiet, captivating manner, a polite and hypnotic voice and a body that could distract and tempt. Father Joseph had outdone himself this time. He had sent a vision straight out of John’s description of the Apocalypse. Had he honestly believed Eric wouldn’t recognize her?

  Sweat trickled down his back. Her voice hummed in his ears, the words no longer separate but strung together as melody—Satan’s death song, lovely and mesmerizing. He wouldn’t let it hypnotize him. He wouldn’t let her draw him in and incapacitate him. But she was good. Oh, she was clever with that kind smile and those sexy legs. If Brandon’s visit hadn’t prepared him, he may very well have been taken into her web, ensnared before he realized what the true purpose of this visit really was.

  Click, click—his fingernails picked at the metal. One of them was bleeding. He could feel it, but he kept his hands in his lap, pretending to be calm, pretending the fear wasn’t clawing inside him, ripping at the walls of his stomach and trying to race up his throat to strangle him.

  He looked into her eyes, saw her smile and quickly looked away. Was that her secret weapon? If she couldn’t hypnotize him with her voice, would she use her eyes? He wondered how she might kill him, and his eyes scanned the length of her, looking for bulges in her clothing.

  The guards would have allowed her in with anything she cared to conceal. They would want no part of the mess, even if they were able to stop her. After all, Father had told them the woman clothed with the sun had special powers, according to the gospel of John, St. John the Divine, Revelation 12:1–6. She was light. She was dark. She was good and evil. She was a messenger of Satan and could disguise herself easily.

  Suddenly, Eric remembered a newspaper article Father had read them just months ago. No member was allowed newspapers or magazines. There was no need when Father took the burden upon himself to relay those news items that were relevant and from sources that could be trusted.

  But now Eric remembered the story of a foreign diplomat who had been visiting the States from some evil empire. Eric couldn’t recall the country. The diplomat had been slain in his hotel bed and reports were that the woman who killed him did it while straddling him, waiting for him to come and then slitting his neck. Father Joseph had used it as an example of justice being done. Was that where he had gotten the idea of sending this woman?

  Eric noticed her tapping the pencil, the eraser smacking the notepad—the notepad, a decoy left on the table, not a single note scrawled on it. The pencil had been freshly sharpened, its lead a dagger’s point. He could distinguish some of the words that came out of her mouth, words like help and cooperate. He knew better. He refused to be sucked in by her code words. They could just as well have been words like kill and mutilate. He knew their true meaning.

  Tap-tap, tap-tap—he watched the pencil and tried to ignore the panic squeezing the air out of his lungs. The room felt smaller. Her voice droned on. Tap-tap, tap-tap. His heart pounded in his ears. Or was that the pencil?

  He made himself look into her eyes. He had cheated Satan once before. Could he do it again?

  CHAPTER 45

  Gwen shifted in her chair and recrossed her legs. Pratt was watching her again, staring at her legs. The horny bastard wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Had she misread his initial reaction, that look of absolute fear in his eyes when she entered the room? If it hadn’t been fear, what the hell had it been? Had she been wrong about him wanting to survive, wanting to find a safe haven?

  He hadn’t answered a single one of her questions. Instead, he looked everywhere except into her eyes, as if she were Medusa and doing so would turn him to stone. Or did he simply hate psychologists? Maybe the kid was sick of shrinks or didn’t trust any authority figures. Yet deep down she wondered if the real reason for his distraction, for his avoidance, was because he was worried she wielded some sort of power he couldn’t stand up to.

  If their theory was correct, Eric Pratt had been manipulated and controlled by someone other than himself for some time now. He had been a puppet willing to kill and be killed. Perhaps that someone—the Reverend Joseph Everett, most likely—still had a strong hold on him, despite Eric being locked away. But something had made the boy spit out that cyanide capsule. Self-preservation had won. She needed to follow her instinct. And she needed to believe his instinct to live was stronger than his fear of Everett.

  “You are a survivor, Eric. That’s why you’re still here. I want to help you. Do you believe I can help you?”

  She waited, tapping out her impatience with the pencil against her notepad. The kid seemed mesmerized by the motion. She tried to remember the reports she had glanced at, whether or not toxicology had shown any drug use. Yet that was what he reminded her of; some spaced-out coke-head. If he’d look at her, she might be able to tell from the dilation of his pupils. Was that why he kept his eyes away from hers?

  “You don’t need to be in this all alone, Eric. You can talk to me.” She kept her voice low and soft, careful not to sound like she was addressing a small child. She didn’t want to insult him. And if he was afraid, she needed to convince him he could trust her. Right now that looked like a dim prospect.

  She noticed drops of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. A glimpse into his eyes made her wonder if he was even here in the room with her. An annoying clicking came from under the table. This would be a wasted trip, she realized, and she thought of all the billable hours she had rescheduled back at her office.

  Then she accidentally dropped the pencil.

  His chair screeched as he lunged for the floor. The leg shackles clattered and his body flew so quickly, all Gwen saw was the streak of his orange jumpsuit. Her own impulse was to dive for the pencil, as well, sending her chair tumbling behind her. But she was too late. He had beaten her to it. She scrambled on hands and knees, trying to get to her feet. But just as she heard running footsteps and locks sliding open, she felt her head jerked backward.

  He was sprawled on the floor but had managed to grab a handful of her hair before she could pull away. He yanked her hard, throwing her off balance. He yanked her again, and she slammed against his chest. All she could see were three sets of shoes come sliding to a halt. That’s when she felt the pencil at her throat, the sharp point pressed against her carotid artery, threatening to penetrate through flesh and veins. And, despite the fear that shot through her, the first thing that came to mind was how stupid she had been to have sharpened the pencil just that morning.

  CHAPTER 46

  Tully kept his Glock aimed at the kid’s head. At this angle, it would be a clean shot. He could do it, but would the bastard’s jerking muscles still plunge the pencil into Dr. Patterson’s neck. Shit! Why hadn’t he thought of that damn pencil?

  “Eric, come on now.” Morrelli was trying to talk sense to the kid. From the crazed look in Pratt’s eyes, Tully knew there would be no talking him out of anything. But Morrelli continued. “You don’t want to do this, Eric. You’re in enough trouble. We can help you, but not—”

  “Stop it! Shut the fuck up!” the boy yelled, and yanked Dr. Patterson’s head back, exposing her neck even more.

  His cuffed hands only allowed him to hang on to a clump of her hair with one hand, keeping her close to him while his other hand held the pencil, its razor point pressing into her skin. So far Tully could see no blood. But one good shove, and he knew it would be a major gusher. Jesus!

  Tully tried to figure out the doctor’s position without taking his sight off Pratt. One of her legs was twisted under her body. One hand had instinctively shot up to grab at her assailant’s arm, and she kept her fingers tightly grasping the sleeve of the orange jumpsuit. Pratt either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That was good. She had some sense of control, though she was holding on to the arm that held her hair and not the pe
ncil. He glanced at her face. She seemed calm and steady. But then her eyes caught his, and he could see the fear. Fear was good. Panic was not.

  “What do you want us to do, Eric?” Morrelli tried again.

  It was obvious he was bugging the hell out of the kid, but at least he was keeping him distracted. Tully was impressed with Morrelli’s demeanor, hands quietly at his side, despite two men with guns drawn on either side of him. He talked to the kid as if he had a jumper on a ledge.

  “Just talk to us, Eric. Tell us what you need.”

  “Eric,” Dr. Patterson said quietly, “you know you don’t want to hurt me.” She said it slowly—making a noticeable effort to say the words without moving or swallowing—but she managed it without a trace of fear.

  Tully couldn’t help wondering if she had been through this before.

  “No, I don’t want to hurt you,” Pratt answered. But before any of them could relax, he added, “I need to kill you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tully saw Morrelli shift just slightly, and he hoped to God the prosecutor wasn’t thinking of doing something stupid. He glanced at Dr. Patterson again, this time trying to draw her eyes to his. When she did, he gave her a slight nod, hoping she would understand. She watched him, keeping her eyes on his face, then finally moving her gaze down the length of his arm and to his trigger finger.

  “Eric.” Morrelli had decided to try one more time. “So far there’s no murder charge against you. Only weapons charges. You don’t want to do this. Dr. Patterson only wants to help you. She isn’t here to hurt you.”

  Tully focused his aim and kept it steady. His finger wanted to squeeze now. He waited, checked Dr. Patterson’s grip on the orange sleeve.

  “She’s Satan,” Eric whispered this time. “Can’t any of you see that? Father Joseph sent her.” He adjusted his grip on the pencil, puncturing the skin and drawing blood. “She’s come to kill me. I need to kill her first.”