by Cynthia Eden
Luke pulled out a notebook and scribbled down the information. “And his dad is?”
“Hell if I know.” May shoved aside some books and sat down on the end of the sofa. “My sister Margaret—she didn’t know, either. Some guy she met one night. Idiot who promised her a new life, but screwed her and left her to rot with a kid.”
Ah, not the most warm family moment there. “So Kyle never knew his dad?”
“Nobody ever knew him. My brother said he was gonna hunt him down when he found out that Margaret was pregnant, but Henry never did. Couldn’t find the bastard. Hell, maybe Henry didn’t even look.”
Right. Henry. That would have been Sheriff Henry Patterson. Monica began to walk casually around the house. The papers were at least ten years old. And most of the books were covered with dust. May wasn’t reading the books, just keeping them.
And, apparently, almost everything else. “What about Kyle’s mother?”
As she turned back to watch her, Monica saw the other woman flinch. “Dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Luke said smoothly. “It must have been hard for you, losing your sister.”
A jerky nod.
“And how did you lose her?” he asked, as he stepped closer to May. A slow, easy move. No threat. Just compassion there, on his face, in his eyes.
May frowned at him. “A f-fire. She died over fifteen years ago in a fire on Brantley. Hey, don’t go messin’ with my stuff!” A hard bark toward Monica.
Monica eased away from the papers. “May, do you happen to have any letters from Kyle? Maybe, I don’t know… even some of his old school work?” Highly likely, given the state of the house. May seemed to keep everything. And maybe they could get their hands on a sample of Kyle’s handwriting for comparison.
May blinked and rubbed her head. “What? Why’d you be wanting that?”
So I can see if he’s a killer. “It relates to an investigation we’re pursuing,” she told her.
“You investigatin’ Kyle?” Her head shook, back and forth. “No, no, he ain’t done nothin’!”
“Easy, May, it’s all right,” Luke said.
But she backed away, ramming her elbow into a stack of newspapers and sending them crashing to the floor. “M-my head… startin’ to hurt again. Need my medicine…” Her lips twisted and she muttered, “Be mine, Valentine.”
What? Monica cleared her throat.
“Um, where is your medicine, May?” Luke edged closer to her “Tell me and I can get it for you.”
“No! No! I don’t need you. I don’t—”
“All right.” He tossed her a light smile. Still so easy. “Was Kyle with Margaret when the fire started?” Luke asked.
The color bleached from May’s face. Fear flared in her light green eyes. “I want you to leave, you hear me? Leave. I’m a sick old woman. You shouldn’t be here, messin’ with me.”
“Sorry, May,” Luke said immediately, “we didn’t mean—”
“Leave!” She jumped to her feet, and her hands fisted.
Monica met Luke’s stare and inclined her head. “Thanks for your time.” Soft. “And if we could just get those old letters of Kyle’s…” Because she needed them.
May’s thin lips twisted. “No. I know my rights. You can’t take anything from me!”
Not without a warrant. But if that was the way they needed to play, so be it.
They headed for the door. Luke stopped and offered May his card. “Just in case you hear from Kyle, give me a call, would you?”
She snatched the card. “Won’t hear from him. Haven’t heard from him in a year, ungrateful little bastard.”
Right. A “little bastard” that the woman sure seemed to be protecting. “Thanks for your time,” he told her.
But Monica hesitated. Be mine, Valentine. Where had that come from? And why? May’s voice had softened, saddened when she said it. “When was the fire—I mean, what date?”
“Val—Valentine’s Day.”
Monica managed to keep her eyes steady on May. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Leave.” A whisper now, holding the edge of desperation.
Monica knew they wouldn’t be getting any more help from May. She crossed the threshold, with Luke walking out into the night ahead of her.
May slammed the door shut behind her. Almost got her foot.
“Not a lot of Southern hospitality there,” Luke murmured.
No, and Monica sure would have liked to learn just what “medicine” May was taking.
“Think she’s telling us the truth?” He headed toward the car.
Monica glanced back at the closed door. “Probably not.” But her fear—that stark flash when she’d asked about Kyle and the fire—that had been real.
“Don’t go back to the motel, not yet.”
Luke had thought Monica slept beside him as he drove. The SUV had eaten up the interstate, leaving the cypress trees and the heavy moss behind.
She had lain back beside him and closed her eyes, leaving him. For sleep?
No, he should have realized her mind was still working. Always working.
“Did you hear me?” She stirred a bit, straightening. “Don’t go back to the motel yet. Take us to the Moffett crime scene.”
“What?” His gaze slipped toward her, just for a second, then back to the road. But he could still see her from the corner of his eye. She pulled at her seatbelt, then rubbed her forehead, the back of her hand pushing back that silky soft hair.
“It doesn’t make sense. I mean, the tree, I get. Saundra’s kill was personal; he wanted her to die seeing what she’d lost.” A quick sigh. “And the car wreck—it was the exact same place. He was forcing the vic to relive the worst night of her life.”
Monica had been working the case during the drive. He’d thought she was dead on her feet, and she’d been mulling over the case.
Monica’s nails drummed on the armrest. “That’s what he was doing—forcing them all into the past. With Saundra, with Patty, with Sally—he took them to a place from their pasts. And he made them fear.”
His hold on the wheel tightened. “Then why’d he bury Laura behind that house? How was that important to her?”
He steered off on the exit ramp, turning north and heading for the house of death.
“We missed something out there,” she said. “I know we did.”
“You really think we’re gonna be able to find anything tonight?” They should just go back in the morning, with plenty of light, and maybe she’d be able to do her voodoo and figure out what message that twisted creep was trying to send them.
No, not to them. The message was to the victims.
“This guy does everything for a reason. The people he picks, the way he kills them. The places he chooses—and when he kills,” Monica said. “I want to see the scene the way he saw it.”
She’d come to play his game. He watched the lights of the agents’ SUV cut through the darkness.
Back so soon.
She hadn’t even been in Gatlin a full twenty-four hours. Not time to learn any good secrets. Disappointing. He’d expected more from her. She was supposed to be the best.
But she’d hardly presented any challenge so far.
He pulled onto the road behind them and kept his lights off. They’d never know he was there, getting so close.
Tonight wasn’t a kill night, not for her—because he didn’t know yet what Monica Davenport feared. So many things could chill. So many things could wake her up in the night, screaming. But what was the one thing that scared her the most?
He had to know. He would know. It was his mission. Find out, break her.
They didn’t turn toward the motel. He tensed a bit at that. He’d expected them to go back. Maybe to screw. Because he’d seen the way the man, Dante, looked at her.
Lover’s eyes filled with possession, heat, and lust.
It would be too easy to figure out Dante’s fears.
But Dante wasn’t his prey.
They tu
rned up ahead, taking Peter’s Junction, and his foot eased a bit on the accelerator.
That way—it led to the Moffett house. Why go there? Why tonight?
He pulled off the road, taking a deep breath. No, that wasn’t the taste of fear on his tongue. He wasn’t afraid. Never afraid.
But maybe Agent Davenport had learned more than he thought in Gatlin. If she’d stumbled onto his secret, someone would pay. Someone would scream and beg and bleed—and pay.
Behind him, a muffled groan broke the silence.
He smiled. Pay.
They took the flashlights from the back of the SUV. Big, thick Mags that were like mini-spotlights, cutting through the darkness that surrounded them.
“The woods,” she said, jogging ahead and pretty much seeming to talk to herself. “Why these woods?” The woman always hurried ahead of him.
He pulled out his weapon. He wasn’t about to take any chances on a killer’s hunting grounds.
His light swept the perimeter and caught the glittering stare of a possum.
Luke kept close to Monica, his gun ready. Branches bit and tore at him. An owl hooted somewhere far in the distance, and crickets chirped from the cover of darkness.
And Luke couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a very, very bad idea.
Monica halted just outside of the secured yellow police tape. Stars glittered overhead, and the moon was out, thick and full, giving them more light. She circled the grave. Her flashlight flickered over the ground.
Piss poor idea. He should have told her that, but no, he’d been drawn along with her. Always had been. Like a fucking moth to the flame.
Her light rose to the trees. He smothered a sigh. “You’re not going to see anything.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. She crouched on her knees. The light swung some more.
“Monica?” The back of his neck was tingling. Time to get to the motel. There were too many places for someone to hide in the darkness. Being in the open like this didn’t sit well. Not a damn bit.
She turned off her light.
Oh, that was just brilliant. He inched closer to her. Someone had to watch her ass. That was what a partner was for, right?
Her head tipped back. “I think—I think I can see a window from the house.”
What? The trees were too thick. The pines too tall. No way could she see—
He cocked his head—well, damn. It looked like lightning had struck a pine about ten feet away, knocking down the top section of the tree.
And giving a dead-on view of what was left of the house’s second story. The attic maybe? Or was that a window glinting—
“Laura’s parents said she got locked in a closet playing hide and seek.” She rose to her feet and brushed off her knees. “I think you need to talk to them again… and find out just where that closet was.” Her light flashed on. “Give you ten-to-one odds that Laura knew Patricia Moffett, and that they were playing at the Moffetts’ when that closet got locked.”
Well, shit. “You’re good.”
One shoulder lifted. “Maybe I just know killers too well.”
Maybe. But knowing killers could help her save victims and that was what mattered.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Right.” She fell into step beside him. It was easier getting out, but Luke kept his weapon close just in case. The sooner they left this death house the better.
No, the sooner they caught the perp, the better.
Monica paused near the house and glanced up at it. “Probably was a happy place once.” She shook her head, then kept walking. “I’ll call Hyde. Let him know what we’ve found and adjust the profile. Maybe we can get a warrant for May’s place and find some of Kyle’s letters for a handwriting comparison. That’d be damn lucky if we could.”
Luke stilled. His eyes swept toward the SUV. Something was wrong. That tightening knot in his gut told him things were about to go to shit.
The scene was off. He couldn’t see how yet, but…“That’s wrong.” A few cautious steps forward then, “Sonofabitch.” The tires were slashed. All fucking four of them.
No wonder the SUV had looked odd; it was sitting too low to the ground.
“He’s out here,” a whisper of sound from his lips. But Monica didn’t need to be told. He knew she understood.
He’s watching us. Hiding in the dark and watching.
“Might not be him.” Monica’s voice. Unruffled. Soft. “This is a known drug area. It could be anyone.”
Glass glittered on the ground near the passenger window. He inched forward. Maybe she was right. Maybe he’d find the radio jacked or the GPS gone or…
An envelope lay on the driver’s seat.
And, yeah, the radio was still there. So was the GPS.
“It’s him.” That had damn well better not be one of his twisted little scare notes. Oh, hell, no. First the calls to Monica, now this—
She brushed past him.
“Wait—what are you…”
She had her gloves on. Luke kept his gun up while she opened the door and snagged the envelope. He closed the distance between them, letting his shoulder brush hers. The light from the SUV spilled out, and he saw the familiar black scrawl.
Bastard.
But the name on the envelope—it wasn’t Monica’s.
No, she wasn’t the killer’s next fear puppet. The name on the envelope was his.
Agent Luke Dante.
Sweat slid down his back. Bring it, bastard. Bring it. “Let’s play,” he whispered. But you don’t know, do you, freak? You don’t know what scares me. “Open it,” he demanded, and his eyes rose to sweep the area.
“We need to call for backup. He’s got us trapped here and—”
“Open the damn envelope.”
Paper tore beneath her fingers. Something fluttered to the ground. He bent but she was there before him. Luke twisted, keeping his back to the vehicle, trying to keep her covered, keep them safe.
“Does he think he can scare me?” he snarled.
Silence.
He shot a glance back at her. There wasn’t a handwritten note. No, her fingers were curled around some kind of old newspaper clipping. One that had been folded and creased. She’d just opened it, and he could see the big, black headline:
Romeo Killer Captured. One Victim Survives.
There was a photo under the block words. A grainy shot of a man—good-looking, grinning—as he was shoved into the back of a patrol car.
“What the hell?”
She shoved the clipping back into the envelope. “We can’t stay out here.” Her voice trembled and so did her hands. “Let’s get closer to the house, get better cover. With that bastard watching, we can’t take chances.”
And they were sitting ducks right then. Yeah, they needed cover, so they could spot him and attack.
But going for a long shot with a gun wasn’t really the guy’s style. He was more the up-close-and-personal type. A man who enjoyed getting his hands dirty or covered in blood.
The Romeo Killer? He shook his head. That didn’t make a damn bit of sense. What the hell did that bastard have to do with anything?
“Let’s go,” she said, and spun away. She ran through the darkness, her light extinguished now, and her steps nearly silent.
And he was right behind her.
Because he didn’t know what kind of sick message the killer was trying to send, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The guy wanted to play, that was certain, and the game could begin anytime.
Or maybe it already had. Because he’s watching us. Waiting.
Game on.
CHAPTER Nine
The Romeo Killer.
Bile rose in Monica’s throat. She rocked back on her heels as her stomach knotted.
How had he known? No one should know. Especially not some sick, twisted bastard who…
“Yeah, we’re out at the Moffett scene. Tires are slashed. He’s here, Sheriff. What, how do I know? Because the freak left us a
message. No—just get us some transportation out here, got it?” Luke barked into his cell phone.
He didn’t understand the message because that clipping wasn’t meant for him. It was for her. Her nightmare, coming true.
Looked like the killer knew how to get to her. But how had he known?
Not Hyde. Hyde wouldn’t leak that information to anyone.
“What’s he doing, Monica?” Luke demanded.
She swung toward him. “I haven’t seen—”
“No—why’s he leaving me crap about Romeo? I remember that bastard. He got off on carving up girls.”
Yes, he had.
“What is it? Is he trying to tell us he’s another Romeo? Because as far as I can tell, this creep isn’t charming his victims; he’s attacking—cold, hard and quick.”
Charming? Yes, that had been Romeo’s style. At first. “I don’t—I don’t know what he meant with the clipping.” Lie. Lie. Sometimes, it was way too easy to lie.
She rolled her right shoulder. Caught herself.
“The sheriff’s coming,” Luke said, running a hand through his hair. “Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty with these back roads from Hell. He wants us to sit tight.”
“I don’t think he’s coming after us tonight.” No, he’d just wanted to leave his little message. Screw with her head, and let her know that he knew. And what would she do when Luke started putting the pieces together? Hell, was that what the killer wanted? For Luke to learn the truth about Romeo? “He’s just playing with us tonight.”
Building the fear. He wouldn’t kill them, not yet.
Luke crept past her, his gun in his hand. “Sitting back isn’t my style. Let’s see what we can—” His breath whistled out. “Sonofabitch. He’s coming.”
She crouched, bringing her gun up. No streetlights, but the moonlight trickled down, showing them.
“The bastard’s walking in the middle of the road. And he’s coming right for us.”
Her fingers tightened around the gun. She could see him. The thick bulk of a man stalking toward them. But that didn’t fit. The killer wouldn’t come right at them. Not his style.
She glanced at Luke. Too much darkness to see his face. “This is wrong.”
He was already heading for the steps, keeping his back close to the house. “Cover me.”