The Good Samaritan

by Price, Melynda

  Not even playing out the fantasy in his mind could quell the rage detonating inside him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles blanched. It infuriated him that someone else had taken what belonged to him, stolen that virgin flesh he’d dreamt of tearing through as he slammed his cock deep inside her.

  She uttered a soft groan, the sound grazing over him like a lover’s caress. He reached down to readjust his erection and paused to stroke the hard length. After a quick check in the rearview mirror, he pulled off onto a side road and opened his glove box, taking out a bottle of Ketamine and a new syringe. He uncapped the needle with his teeth and drew up the rest of the pilfered bottle.

  After recapping the needle, he climbed into the back seat. Her heavy lids slowly opened when he accidentally jostled her, but her eyes were vacant, uncomprehending of how much danger she was in. He took a moment to study her—beautiful arched brows, high cheekbones and delicate features beneath flawless porcelain skin. She had the kind of mouth that made a man think of all kinds of sin.

  Just a quick taste. A small reward for my due diligence.

  Unable to resist, he laid his hand on her hip, leaned closer and pressed his mouth against hers. How long he’d waited for this moment. She felt like heaven, tasted like honey. He licked the plump flesh of her bottom lip and sucked it into his mouth as his hand slid beneath her shirt to capture her breast. Her tits were larger than he realized, and so fucking soft. He deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth. When she gave no response, he bit her bottom lip until the taste of briny copper slicked his tongue. His cock jerked against the fly of his jeans at her pained groan, the ache in his balls drawing them up tight.

  “Nooo,” she moaned, turning her head away, attempting to break their kiss.

  Her protest was slurred, her efforts to displace his grip on her breast weak and clumsy, but the rejection still pissed him off. Done wasting time, he uncapped the syringe, stuck the needle into her thigh, and depressed the plunger. That would keep her out until he got to his cabin, and then the fun would really begin.

  Chapter 38

  Sawyer slammed on the brakes, the Charger skidding to a stop beside a row of squad cars barricading the parking lot of the grocery store. He’d called G.M.P.D. after hanging up with Cade and sent an officer over to Emma’s parents’ house to make sure she was all right. It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that he got the call he was dreading. Emma wasn’t there.

  Her parents were in a panic when the cop had shown up on their doorstep. They told him she’d gone to the grocery store with Sam and hadn’t returned yet. Since then, horrific scenarios had been playing through Sawyer’s head like a broken record, all to the drumming beat of you’ve failed her.

  But he wasn’t the only one. His glare locked on the officers forming a semi-circle around the truck. The entire justice system had failed that woman, starting with these Three Stooges. Sawyer jumped out of the car and headed their way. Harris said something to the officer standing next to him, but Sawyer couldn’t hear over Sam’s riotous barking. Occasionally, the truck would rock as he repeatedly attempted to break through the passenger window. He’d never seen the dog this crazed or furious.

  Sawyer knew the feeling.

  Sam had probably witnessed Emma’s abduction and had been stuck in that truck. And just like Sawyer, he hadn’t been able to do a fucking thing to protect her.

  “Detective Gerrard…” The officer beside Harris came forward to greet him, but Sawyer was well past pleasantries. His glare flickered to the star on his chest, identifying the man.

  “Chief Woods,” Sawyer acknowledged. “Why hasn’t this area been taped off? You’re traipsing all over a goddamn crime scene.”

  The chief drew up short, his bushy gray brows pulling tight. “Listen, we don’t even know that a crime was committed here. Miss Larson could have gone over to Sven and Ole’s for lunch or be browsing the gift shops, for all we know.”

  Was this guy serious? It was because of this kind of shoddy police work and horseshit laziness that a killer had gone free for the last eight years, why four more women were dead, and Emma was now missing. Sawyer saw red—anger and fear culminating inside him, creating the perfect storm. He was about to lose his shit.

  “So far there are no witness—”

  “What about him?” Sawyer cut the chief off, nodding toward Sam as he stepped between Chief Woods and Officer Harris.

  “The dog?” Harris chuckled.

  Sawyer used his sleeve to carefully lift the handle. As he opened the door, the dog barreled over the seat and leapt out of the truck. “Where’s Emma, Sam?”

  Sam ran over to the passenger side of the truck, stuck his nose to the ground, and followed her scent to a trash can next to the adjacent parking lot no more than twenty feet away. Sawyer ran to the can and found Emma’s phone lying on top of the trash. The invisible band around Sawyer’s chest tightened with dread when the Shepherd sat at attention and howled a gut-wrenching, mournful cry.

  “I’ve got your witness, now secure the damn crime scene! Tape this whole section off and get forensics here—now. The guy you’re looking for is Carl Edwards. He also goes by Mark Smith. I’m having Sheriff O’Malley send you everything he’s got on him.” Then to the chief, Sawyer said, “I need a property search of this whole area, all the way to the Canadian border. Find out if Edwards owns any land around here. Call the border patrol and tell them we’ve got a missing woman. Make sure they stop and search every vehicle trying to pass through.”

  “I know how to do my job, Detective,” the disgruntled chief growled.

  That was debatable and Sawyer was leaving no room for error. Not again. “Then do it!” he snapped, turning and heading toward his car.

  Chapter 39

  All the times Sawyer had made house calls, he’d always consoled himself with the vow it would never be to the home of someone he loved. It was strange, the lies people tell themselves to cope with tragedy. And now that was exactly what he was doing—living his worst nightmare. Nausea churned in the pit of his gut as he sat in the driveway of Emma’s parents’ house trying to prepare himself for the conversation he’d had so many times it was scripted.

  He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. His thoughts were consumed with fears of what Emma could be enduring at the hands of that sick bastard. What if Sawyer never found her? And dear God, what if he did and he was too late? Blake Weston’s accusation played in his head. Seems you’re always showing up about five minutes too late. He closed his eyes against the haunting images of all the women who’d fallen victim to the Good Samaritan.

  The fear would paralyze him if he let it. Drawing a deep breath, he slowly exhaled and forced the emotional part of his mind to shut down. Switching gears, he engaged the analytical, methodical side of him that made Sawyer so good at his job. Right now, he was not Emma’s boyfriend or her lover. He was a homicide detective working a case to find a missing woman. Emma’s life depended on it.

  Cutting the engine, he climbed out of the car and held the door open for Sam to exit. The dog was wound just about as tight as he was. The moment his paws hit the grass, Sam’s nose was to the ground. He caught Emma’ scent and was bounding up the steps before Sawyer reached the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Sawyer left the Larson house feeling frustrated and like a miserable failure. Emma hadn’t told them about the murders in St. Paul or the real reason she had returned to Grand Marais. They didn’t know who Carl Edwards was, or ever heard her talk of a Mark Smith. There had been no strange phone calls. They’d seen no suspicious vehicles around their house. For every question he asked, their answers were all a resounding “no.” Emma’s parents were beside themselves with worry over her, and there was little he could tell them to calm their fears.

  “Gerrard.” He answered the ring as he climbed back into his car.

  “This is Chief Woods. I’ve got three properties under the name of Edwards, none belonging to a Carl, but it could be famil
y-owned property and it’s a good place to start.”

  “Agreed. What about Smith?”

  “Yeah, that’s going to be a bit more exhausting. The name is common—got twelve more there.”

  Shit. This was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack. For every hour that passed, their odds of finding Emma alive decreased dramatically. “I’ll take the three Edwards locations. Send me the addresses. Divvy the Smiths among your officers and call in surrounding counties for back up. Did you notify border patrol?”

  “It was the first thing I did.”

  “That’s good. I’m heading out now.” Whatever chip the chief had had on his shoulder earlier seemed to be gone now, which was good because Sawyer had neither the time nor the patience to get into a territorial pissing match with this guy. “We’re losing daylight, and traipsing around the Boundary Waters in the dark isn’t going to be a picnic. Tell your men to stay sharp. Call me with any updates.”

  He hung up then called Cade, giving him the phone number for her parents, and had a trace put on his cell and theirs. If by some miraculous chance Emma got free and to a phone, maybe they could locate her.

  Chapter 40

  Emma opened her eyes to darkness. The fog of bliss had lifted, ushering in a sensory overload of stale air, bitter cold, and silence. Confusion swamped her as her sluggish mind worked to connect her thoughts. “Sawyer?”

  Silence answered. Something sharp dug into her lower back and she shifted her weight. Bed springs squeaked. A mattress—she was lying on an old mattress. Emma tried to sit up, but something bit into her wrists, preventing her from lowering her arms. Her bonds scraped against a metal bed frame, the hollow rasp of grating metal screeching in the silence.

  Her heart beat a chaotic staccato. How long had she been here? Long enough that her shoulders ached, but not long enough for hypothermia to set in because she was still shivering. So, maybe an hour, two at the most?

  The darkness was disorientating, ratcheting her fear. On the periphery of her panic was the nagging sense she was forgetting something important, some vital detail. The last thing she remembered was talking to Molly in the parking lot, then something—no someone—had slammed into her. There had been a sharp prick in her neck and then… Wait. A sharp prick?

  The Good Samaritan!

  With renewed effort, Emma struggled against her bonds, ignoring the pain cutting into her wrists. The bed squeaked in protest as a sob of frustration broke free. Dread tightened its icy talons around her throat as she fought to breathe. The rush of adrenaline flooding her veins did nothing to ward off the chill seeping into her bones or the soul-deep knowledge she was going to die.

  “Help!” she screamed in desperation, praying someone would hear her. “Help me!”

  * * *

  “I need a map of the Boundary Waters.” Impatience sharpened Sawyer’s tone, startling the girl behind the counter of the Trail Center.

  She reached over and plucked a map from the display and he snatched it from her hand with a grumbled “thanks,” then spread it out across the counter.

  “You don’t happen to know of a guide around here, do you?” It was a long shot but worth asking.

  “Sure do. He’s at the bar next door. Want me to go get him?”

  “Please.” Sawyer responded, turning his attention back to the map. He found the first location and marked the spot before moving onto the next set of coordinates the sheriff had given him. It was only forty-five minutes from here. He located the second place, marked it, and was pinpointing the third when the cashier came back with a Paul Bunyan look-alike behind her. “This is Ian Carter. He’s a Boundary Waters guide. Best in these parts.”

  “I’m Detective Gerrard from the St. Paul Police Department. We’ve got a missing woman,” Sawyer told him, getting right to the point. “She was taken from the grocery store parking lot in Grand Marais a few hours ago. We’ve got three cabins I need your help in locating. Here, here, and here.” When the guide followed the Xs marked on the map with his finger, Sawyer noticed the tattoo on his forearm of an eagle perched on an anchor with a trident clutched tightly in its talons—Navy SEAL.

  Ian’s steely gaze flickered to the badge on Sawyer’s hip when he opened his coat to reach into his back pocket and pull out the photo of Edwards. “Does this guy look familiar to you?” he asked, setting the picture on top of the map.

  The cashier came around the counter to study the image. She and the guide shook their heads no. “I’m sorry, he doesn’t. But Ian’s led a lot of search and rescues around here,” the cashier offered.

  “That right?” Sawyer asked, grabbing and pocketing the photo.

  “Yeah, I’ve led some. Mostly searching for lost citiots playing weekend warriors, thinking they can come up here and treat this land like their backyard. Doesn’t work that way. The Boundary Waters is its own animal—untamed and vicious.” He studied the map. “I know these places. She won’t be here, though,” he said, pointing to the second location Sawyer had marked.

  If that was true, then Ian had just saved him a couple of precious hours. But if he was wrong… “How do you know that?” Sawyer asked.

  “Cuz I know the couple who live there. They’re permanent residents. We’ll hit this cabin first.” Ian pointed to the farthest spot on the map. “It’s the more secluded of the two. Then we’ll go to this one.”

  It was the opposite route Sawyer had planned to take. If there was a chance Emma was at the closer site, he didn’t want to leave her in that bastard’s hands any longer than he had to, and a reroute would delay him several more hours. Fuck, he was going to have to decide if he trusted the guide to take lead on this, or if he was going with common sense, because that little voice was telling him to head north instead of west. Ian Carter could be the difference between Emma’s life and death.

  Chapter 41

  “Somebody help me!”

  Emma’s throat was raw, her voice hoarse. She fought the bonds holding her prisoner until they slicked with blood.

  At some point during the last hour the realization dawned that no one was coming for her. It was pitch black outside which meant she’d been missing for over eight-hours. Shivers racked her body, whether from fear or the cold, she couldn’t tell. A sob broke free from her throat.

  “Help me!”

  “No one can hear you, you know.”

  She startled at the smug voice echoing in the darkness.

  “You can scream all you want. Actually, I prefer it.”

  Emma’s heart seized. She knew that voice. Turning her head toward the sound, she squinted in the darkness. As if a veil lifted, her illusive memories returned with razor-sharp clarity. Molly’s worried call because she hadn’t spoken with Emma in a few days.

  The strike of a match whisked beside her. A small burst of light glowed, silhouetting the back of a man as he lit the lamp across the room, then slowly turned to face her. Mark… Emma’s gut churned as she defiantly held his smug stare, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her fear.

  Instead, she asked him the question that had been on her mind since the day Matthew had died. “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He walked over to the bed, watching her with eyes that held so much insanity they sparkled with madness. “I love you.”

  Bile rose up her throat and she gagged on the bitterness. “What about Molly?” she asked, grasping at threads to reel in his crazy and ground him to reality. “She cares about you.”

  “Molly was but a pawn. A means to an end—your end.” He reached down and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  Her skin crawled with revulsion and it took all of her self-control not to shrink back. She had to keep him distracted. It would buy her time to think, time to try to come up with a plan to escape.

  “She was a way to get to you, Eve. Of course, you had to go and fuck things up by leaving your apartment to stay with that detective. If you would have just stayed home, this would have been over by now and one less woman would
have had to die.”

  She was going to be sick.

  “I thought you were different,” he mused, his hand slowly twisting into the length of her hair. “But in the end, you’re nothing but a whore. Just like the rest of them,” he growled, giving the length a sharp tug.

  Emma gasped at the sharp bite of pain, and his pupils dilated in delight. He was getting off on this—sick bastard. He wanted to hurt her, and the more response she gave him, the more it would fuel his fire. She needed to stop reacting, had to quit showing him fear, or she would usher in her own death.

  “I told him I’d punish him for this.”

  “Who?” She couldn’t keep track of his crazy.

  “The detective of course!” he barked. “He took what belongs to me!”

  Mark shoved his hand between Emma’s legs and squeezed. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

  “This was mine! I’ve earned it!”

  No fear. Show him no fear. Her anger was starting to burn and she fanned that flame, clinging to the emotion, anything other than the stark terror threatening to consume her.

  “You earned it how?” she shot back. “By killing Matthew? By raping and murdering innocent women?”

  “I stopped Callahan before he could steal your virginity. Don’t you understand? I saved you, you ungrateful little bitch! I heard him talking to his friends in the locker room. Bragging about how he was going to ‘pop your cherry.’”

  Locker room? Who was this guy? They didn’t go to high school together. How could he have been there to overhear anything? Then it dawned on her…the janitor in the yearbook. The one with the missing photo Sawyer was trying to track down. Carl Edwards, wasn’t it? It had to be him. Hope blossomed inside her chest. If this was the guy, then Sawyer might figure out who’d taken her. If he discovered Carl Edwards was Mark Smith, there was still some small chance of him finding her. She just needed to stay alive long enough for that to happen.