She decided that maybe ice cream was called for now, to go with the cookies, instead of chocolate milk. As she reached to open the small pantry where the cookies were stored, she noticed that the back door was cracked open ever so slightly. How was that possible? Shelley always locked the outside doors, soundly securing them, before she armed the alarm system and went to bed. Had Shelley heard something outside and gone into the yard to check the grounds?
Shaking nervously from head to toe, Lorie forced herself to go straight to the back door and check the alarm keypad. The green light winked at her, warning her that the system was deactivated.
Don’t panic. Shelley’s outside. There’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all. But what do I do? Go outside to find Shelley? Close the door, lock it, and telephone Jack?
Lorie stood behind the partially closed door and called Shelley’s name several times, but did not get a response of any kind. She eased the door open wide and looked outside. Moonlight washed the backyard and nearby woods with a faded yellow-white hue. Pallid gray shadows hovered at the corners of the house and the trees spattered cadaverous silhouettes across the lawn, their tips splintering into thin, finger-like shards.
Lorie shivered.
Dear God, where are you, Shelley?
Had the Midnight Killer come to Dunmore? Had he lured Shelley into a trap? Had he killed her?
Don’t assume the worst.
Shelley was a trained professional. She wouldn’t be easily duped.
Something is wrong. Close the door and lock it!
Lorie’s heartbeat pounded in her head. Her pulse rate revved up as fear-induced adrenaline flooded her system.
When she reached for the door handle, she looked down and in her peripheral vision saw a dark puddle on the back porch. The light from inside the kitchen cast a dim glow over the red liquid.
Blood?
God in heaven, it was a pool of blood!
She stared at the dark stain, her gaze riveted to the spot.
It was blood. No doubt about it.
Was it Shelley’s blood?
Off in the distance, a dog howled again. Lorie cried out, the unexpected sound startling her. Hesitating, uncertain what to do, she stood frozen to the spot, her unsteady hand hovering over the door handle.
Had he killed Shelley? Was he out there waiting to strike again?
But it was way past midnight. And he always killed at midnight, didn’t he?
Something rustled through the brush in the nearby wooded area, the sound echoing in the predawn quiet. Lorie looked away from the bloodstain and searched the semidarkness for any sign of Shelley—or someone else, possibly the Midnight Killer.
Whatever has happened, you can’t help Shelley. Do what she would want you to do—protect yourself.
Lorie slammed the door and locked it. And then she raced to the telephone. With trembling fingers, she dialed Jack and Cathy’s number.
Chapter 22
Deputy Buddy Pounders lived a quarter of a mile from Lorie, so Jack had gotten in touch with him immediately. When he arrived, Buddy instructed Lorie to stay inside with the doors locked until he canvassed the area around her house. She peered through the living room windows, watching, waiting, and holding her breath. She had turned on every outside light—porch lights, security lights, and even the miniature lights surrounding the patio. Five minutes later, Jack pulled his car up behind Buddy’s. Cathy got out and rushed toward the front porch while Jack stopped to talk to Buddy. Lorie unlocked the door, and the minute Cathy came barreling into the house, Lorie grabbed on to her friend for dear life. Trembling uncontrollably from head to toe, she clung to Cathy.
“You’re safe.” Cathy hugged her fiercely. “I’m here and I’m not going to leave you.”
“Shelley has disappeared and there’s a pool of blood on the back porch. Putting the two together means that he’s killed her, doesn’t it? He’s here in Dunmore and I’m his next victim.”
Rubbing Lorie’s back soothingly, Cathy said, “You don’t know that for a fact. We don’t know anything, not yet. Jack and Buddy will come in and tell us as soon as they finish checking the yard and—”
“How could he have gotten into the house? Why didn’t the alarm go off? How did he outsmart a trained bodyguard?”
Cathy grasped Lorie’s hands. “Listen to me. We do not know that Shelley is dead. Right now, she’s only missing. And we do not know that the Midnight Killer is in Dunmore.”
Lorie took a deep breath and then nodded. Cathy was right, of course. But if the Midnight Killer wasn’t responsible for Shelley Gilbert’s disappearance, then who was? And if she wasn’t dead, why was there a pool of partially dried blood on the back porch?
“Let’s go in the kitchen and I’ll fix you some hot tea or cocoa.” Cathy tugged on Lorie’s hands.
Lorie fell into step beside Cathy. “Just go ahead and fix coffee since none of us will get any more sleep tonight. And it wouldn’t hurt if you put a little whiskey in my cup.”
“Do you have any whiskey?” Cathy asked as they entered the kitchen.
“In the cabinet over the microwave.”
The following fifteen minutes passed slowly, each second unbearably long for Lorie as she sipped on the whiskey-laced coffee and prayed that Shelley Gilbert would be found alive. She and Cathy sat at the table, Cathy doing her best to make idle conversation in order to take Lorie’s mind off the worst-case scenario. Suddenly, they heard the front door open and footsteps trod down the hall. It had to be Jack since he and Cathy were the only other people who had a key to her house.
“Where are y’all?” Jack called.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Cathy told him.
The door swung open and Jack came into the room with Mike Birkett directly behind him. Lorie’s heart skipped a beat when her gaze met Mike’s. She had never been so glad to see anybody. Despite the comfort Cathy offered and the protection Jack and Buddy provided, to her, Mike’s presence meant safety and security.
“How’s it going in here?” Jack glanced at Cathy.
“We’re okay,” Cathy replied. “Drinking coffee”—she eyed the whiskey bottle on the counter—“and doing our best not to jump to any erroneous conclusions.”
“That’s good,” Jack said.
Mike came over to Lorie, dropped to his haunches, and looked into her eyes. “There’s no sign of Shelley, but there is a blood trail from the back porch to the wooded area behind your house. I’ve put in a call for more men and a couple of dogs to search the woods.”
“What about the blood on the porch?” Lorie asked. “Oh, Mike, there’s so much blood out there.”
Mike nodded. “Yeah, there is.” He reached out and laid his hand over Lorie’s. “Cathy is going to stay here with you and I’ll have a couple of deputies watching the house. You’re safe. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I’m safe. But what about Shelley?”
“I don’t know,” Mike admitted. “But as soon as I know something, you’ll know it. I’m not going to keep anything from you.”
“Thank you.”
Lorie watched Mike as he rose to his feet and motioned to Jack. The two men went out the way they had come in, through the front entrance. Lorie figured they didn’t want to risk disturbing anything on the back porch since it was probably the site of a homicide.
In that hazy, cotton-wrapped vagueness of being only partially awake, he lay there and gazed up at the ceiling. He knew that it would be necessary to alter his plans and speed up the process before the Powell Agency and the FBI closed in on him. Perhaps he had given himself too much credit for being able to outsmart them. When he had formulated his plan, he’d had no idea that the Powell Agency would become involved. Their resources were practically unlimited and their success rate was off the charts.
The sooner I act again, the better. They won’t be expecting another kill so soon. They believe they have until May before the Midnight Killer strikes again. They’re wrong.
Now completely
awake and alert, he flipped on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. 4:45 A.M. He rose from the bed and walked barefoot across the wooden floor, then eased open the door and made his way quietly down the hall. After entering his study, he locked the door behind him before going to his desk. He opened the bottom right drawer and removed a rectangular metal box secured with a combination lock. No one ever bothered his personal items, but the contents of the box would be lethal for him if anyone accidentally discovered them.
He rotated the lock, easily pausing at each secret number until the catch popped open, allowing him to carefully remove the lock and set it aside for the time being. After lifting the lid, he reached inside and removed a thin stack of letters secured with a rubber band. He fingered the envelopes, each one containing the identical message.
Charlene Strickland was to be his next victim, but when he had begun making inquiries about her this week, no one seemed to know where she was. He had been so sure that he had tracked her down to her most recent residence. As of eighteen months ago, she had lived in New York City, and that was where he’d sent the letters. Apparently, she had moved and left no forwarding address. He had to find her. As long as one Midnight Masquerade actor remained alive, he wouldn’t be free. If all other search avenues failed, he would hire his own private detective to hunt down Charlene. Naturally, he would not reveal his true identity to the detective and he would pay him in cash.
He removed a photograph from the metal box. As his gaze moved slowly over the snapshot, tears gathered in his eyes. Things might have been so different for him, if only…
There was no point in looking back. The past could not be altered to suit a person’s personal desires. A person had to accept his part in the grand scheme of things, in the divine plan that assigned a purpose to each human being. It had taken him a long time to understand what his true purpose was. He had fought against his thoughts and feelings, believing them perverse, but now he understood that he must not only accept the ruthless side of his nature, but embrace it. Others would see him as a heartless killer, but he knew the truth. He had been given the ability to kill without remorse. That was a rare and special gift, one that should be accepted without question and used for the good of mankind.
He had eliminated four of the nine. Wicked. Immoral. Vile. Wanton. The devil’s minions. They were creatures not content with reveling in their sins privately, but were evil-doers who excited and tempted, who coerced and lured, flaunting their sins for the world to see.
Lacey Butts, also known as Charlene Strickland, was to have been his next kill. But all his efforts to find her had failed. However, he had no intention of allowing this minor setback to stop him from continuing with his important work. He would simply exchange one for another, swap their names on his list. Surely before he reached the final name, he would have located Charlene. He could alter minor items in his plan, but not the major things. All nine must die.
If at all possible, he wanted to save “her” until last. After all, she was the most important one. At least she was to him. All he had to do was close his eyes in order to see her as she had been in Midnight Masquerade. His body reacted the way it always did when he thought of her naked beauty being ravished by other men.
The voice inside his head, that incessant, condemning voice, tormented him. Look at her. So beautiful on the outside and yet so very rotten inside. Black-hearted rotten. Watch her. See the way she moves, the way she talks, the way she smiles. She likes what those men do to her. And she enjoys what she does to them.
Covering his ears with his hands, he tried to shut out the voice. But he couldn’t.
Stop fighting it. Listen to what he says. He knows the truth. She is evil. They’re all evil. Once you’ve killed every one of them, the voice will stop. He won’t ever say those things again. There will be no reason for him to make you listen.
He closed his eyes and dropped his hands from his ears. The voice softened to a whisper.
Look at her breasts. Full and round and lush. Her nipples are tight and berry pink and begging to be sucked. Watch the way she spreads her legs, unashamed to reveal the most secret part of her body to those men and to every man who watches her. Listen to the way she moans and sighs as they do all manner of unspeakable things to her.
As the voice spoke to him, the movie played inside his mind as vividly as if he was watching the newly released DVD. He had seen Midnight Masquerade so many times that the images were seared into his brain.
By daybreak, a dozen deputies, along with two bloodhounds and their trainer, were scouring the woods behind Lorie’s house. Mike had assigned two deputies to stay behind and guard Lorie and Cathy and keep the back porch cordoned off as a crime scene, while he and Jack joined the search party. He had spoken to Wade Ballard less than half an hour ago and the chief had offered Mike however many Dunmore police officers he needed.
“If we don’t find Shelley Gilbert within an hour, I’ll contact you again and you can send your people to help us widen the search.”
While he’d been on the phone with the police chief, Jack had called Maleah to inform her that Shelley was missing and they felt certain foul play was involved.
“Maleah is going to contact Nicole Powell,” Jack said. “I expect the agency will send in some people, even if we find Shelley alive and well.”
“What are the odds of that happening?” It had been a rhetorical question. Mike knew that the odds were not in their favor. If that was Shelley Gilbert’s blood on Lorie’s back porch, then more than likely the Powell agent was dead.
“Do you think the Midnight Killer overpowered Shelley?” Jack asked as they entered the woods.
“Hell if I know,” Mike replied. “If he did kill her, then why did he drag her off into the woods? Why didn’t he just leave her on the back porch? And why didn’t he kill Lorie when he had the chance, the way he did the others?”
They heard the bloodhounds’ mournful wails off in the distance.
“They’ve picked up the scent,” Jack said.
“I don’t think the Midnight Killer is involved in Shelley Gilbert’s disappearance. It doesn’t fit his MO.”
“Yeah, I agree, but who else would want her out of the way?”
Mike shook his head. “I’ve got no idea.”
The deeper they treaded into Jernigan’s Woods, stomping across knee-high grass in the open areas and through damp sludge and over mossy tree roots, the more distinctly they heard the dogs. Their barking continued nonstop as Mike and Jack caught up with the deputies who were following the hounds. As they approached the circle of uniformed officers surrounding the dogs that had stopped near the riverbank, Mike and Jack slowed their pace.
“They must have found something,” Mike said to Jack, and then called out to Buddy Pounders, who had accompanied the hounds’ trainer. “What is it? Have they found something?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid they have,” Buddy said.
Mike and Jack exchanged this-can’t-be-good glances and moved forward to join the others. Buddy and another deputy stepped aside to allow Mike and Jack an unobstructed view. Mike halted, closed his eyes for half a second, and mumbled an obscenity. Jack stared at the body, then leaned down and inspected it more closely.
Mike dropped to his haunches and surveyed the woman’s butchered remains. Salty bile rose up his esophagus and lodged in his throat. Although Jack didn’t seem fazed by the gruesome sight, Mike suspected that this type of bloody mutilation disturbed even a seasoned soldier such as Jack. It sure as hell disturbed Mike.
“Call Andy.” Mike barked out orders, demanding the site be secured and sending all but a handful of deputies to regulate the flow of foot traffic into and out of the woods. It was only a matter of time before word of the grisly murder spread throughout the county. Reporters would eventually arrive, as would curious neighbors. Buddy Pounders and Ronnie Gipson would remain at the scene with Mike until Coroner Andy Gamble and his two-person crew arrived.
“Whoever did this didn
’t put a mark on her face,” Mike said. “He wanted us to be able to identify her.”
“Cut up the way she is, there’s no way to tell for sure what actually killed her,” Jack said, studying Shelley’s body. “But my guess is that he slit her throat to finish the job.”
Mike nodded. “Jack, I need you to go back to the house and talk to Lorie. Tell her that we found Shelley and she’s dead, but leave out the details.”
“Yeah, sure. And I’ll contact Maleah. The Powell Agency needs to know. But God help us, they’re going to descend on us like a swarm of killer bees.”
“Tell Maleah to have Mr. or Mrs. Powell contact me directly. And I need for you to call Hicks Wainwright and let him know what’s happened. My gut tells me that this has nothing to do with the Midnight Killer, but I’m no expert by any means.” Mike took a deep breath. “As soon as you can, get back here.”
“Want me to call Wade Ballard, too?”
“Yeah. Let him know that all hell’s about to break loose.”
Mike rubbed the back of his neck as he stood on Abby Sherman’s doorstep. It had been a long, difficult day and it wasn’t over yet. He hadn’t stopped for breakfast or lunch, had drunk too much coffee, and had finally gobbled down a sandwich Jack had brought him around four that afternoon. As his mama would say, he felt like death warmed over.
He had left the crime scene secure. Dozen of officers, from his department and the state boys to the FBI, had gotten in on the act. He just hoped he was doing a halfway decent job of coordinating the various investigators. Andy Gamble, the county coroner, had turned Shelley Gilbert’s butchered body over to the state, but not before he had examined the body at the site and taken it away in a body bag.
“We’ll know more after the autopsy,” Andy had told him. “But I’d say that the person who attacked her came up from behind and stabbed her in the back several times and possibly hit a kidney. The blood on the porch is from those initial stab wounds.”
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