“Of course,” Butcher said, his voice edged with impatience. “When do I get to squeeze her?”
“Soon,” Hunter said, distracted as the woman completed her paperwork and took the keys that were handed across the narrow counter.
There was a buzzing silence in his ear before Butcher spoke the words that had presumably been hovering on the tip of his tongue.
“Executioner says we shouldn’t have to wait.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. The older disciple had never been as easy to control as the others. They’d known each other from the beginning. From the days before he’d established the Kill Club, and he often resented taking orders. Thankfully, the man wouldn’t be a problem for much longer.
“Remind him what happens when people piss me off,” Hunter warned, casually strolling toward the nearest door as the woman headed for an exit on the other side of the rental desk.
Butcher sucked in a sharp breath, perhaps remembering the sight of Hunter casually putting a bullet through the head of the thug who’d tried to carjack him in Memphis. It’d all been over in less than a split second, with the young man crumpling onto the road with half his skull missing. Hunter had even run over the limp body as he drove away. More as a lesson for the men in his car.
Don’t screw with him.
“It’s hard to wait,” Butcher at last whined.
Hunter stepped into the frigid morning air, quickly crossing to the short-term parking lot. The cost was nothing less than criminal, but the placement allowed him quick access to his car.
“You could spend the next fifty years waiting in a jail cell if we’re not careful,” he reminded the younger man, shivering as he reached his boring tan sedan and slipped inside.
He switched on the engine, his gaze focused on the woman who was climbing into a shuttle bus that would take her to the car she’d just rented.
There was a crackling on the cell phone, as if Butcher was pacing from room to room.
“When are you coming to Baltimore?” the younger man asked.
Hunter smiled. He’d actually been on his way to join his disciples when the hacker he’d blackmailed into keeping electronic track of his private muse had contacted him with the information that she had just purchased airline tickets to Kansas City. He’d been instantly intrigued.
Was it possible she’d discovered that one of the kills had taken place in this area?
It seemed unlikely, but then again, what other reason could there be for her to fly to Kansas City?
The desire to toy with his prey in person was too tempting to pass up, so he’d made a swift U-turn and headed straight for this airport north of town.
“Soon,” he said in soothing tones, putting his car in gear and driving to the exit of the parking lot. Once in position he watched the shuttle as it came to a halt and the woman stepped out. “First I have to make sure our last party is cleaned up and the garbage buried deep enough it will never be found.”
There was another pause. “Is Assassin with you?”
A smile twisted Hunter’s lips. It had been a sweet relief to press his gun to the side of Assassin’s head and pull the trigger. The disciple had been weak. A fool who craved the thrill of the hunt without the spine to accomplish the final deed.
But like all his followers, he’d served his purpose.
If the authorities managed to locate the abandoned farmhouse in the middle of Kansas, they would discover the bodies of the five prostitutes tossed into the basement and Assassin in an upstairs bedroom with a bullet in his head. Any cop would assume that he was responsible for the deaths and had taken his own life out of guilt.
Murder/suicide.
A convenient way to close the case.
“No.” He laced his voice with surprise. “He isn’t in Baltimore?”
“No one has seen him since we left Kansas City,” Butcher said.
“Odd. I’m sure he’ll show up,” Hunter said, anticipation curling through the pit of his stomach as he watched the woman climb into a white SUV. “He might have decided to spend Christmas with his family.”
“I suppose,” Butcher said slowly, as if not entirely convinced.
“I have to go.” Hunter ended the call and tossed his phone on the seat beside him.
His prey was backing out of the parking place and heading toward the exit.
The hunt was on.
* * *
The December day was what weathermen called “blustery” and what people who actually had to be out in it called “shitty.”
The late morning sky was hidden by a thick layer of clouds that hung low and ominous, drizzling ice and spitting out the occasional flake. At the same time, the wind was zipping over the flat plains at a speed that picked up the recently fallen snow that coated the ground, swirling it around the parking lot like frozen tornadoes.
Welcome to winter in the Midwest.
Carmen grimaced, pulling her rented SUV into the parking lot of the Fairview Hotel.
The one-story L-shaped building had seen better days.
Her gaze skimmed over the structure that was miles from the nearest town. The white paint was peeling, like a snake sloughing off its skin. The doors that had once been a bright yellow had faded to a dull mustard color. At the far end, a small brick diner had been added with a large window that blinked with a neon sign that said OPEN.
Parking in front of the office next to the diner, Carmen climbed out of the SUV and shivered. The cold was more cutting here than in the mountains. Or maybe her brief trip to California had reminded her that there were places where you didn’t have to worry about your face freezing when you stepped outside.
She entered the office and closed the door behind her.
The space was cramped and coated in the sort of cheap paneling that was popular in the sixties. The carpet was a weird orange color and the ceiling had dark splotches that had accumulated over the years from a leaking roof.
But the two wooden chairs in the alcove that made up the lobby had been recently polished, and there was the faint scent of bleach in the air.
The place was at least clean.
Moving toward the narrow counter, Carmen waited for a heavyset woman to heave herself out of a recliner that was set in front of a small TV.
She had salt-and-pepper hair that was scraped from her round face, and she was wearing a sweater in a shocking shade of pink with matching polyester pants. She looked like a grandmother from a Hallmark movie.
There was a gold tag pinned to ample bosom that told Carmen the woman was named Blanche and that she was the owner of the fine establishment.
“Need a room?” Blanche asked with a hopeful smile.
“Yes.”
“A single?” The woman glanced toward the window that offered a view of the parking lot.
“That will be fine.”
Blanche grabbed a pencil and the old-fashioned reservation book that was set on the counter.
“How many nights?”
“Just one. At least for now,” Carmen said, digging in her purse for her wallet. She pulled out her credit card, handing it to the woman, who was looking at her with an odd expression. It took Carmen a second to realize that a woman traveling alone didn’t stay in random hotels for unspecified amounts of time. “It depends on the weather,” she hastily added.
The woman gave a nod. People in Kansas understood the fickleness of nature.
“If it does turn bad, I can let you keep the same room,” she said, her voice dry. “This isn’t exactly a hot spot for the holidays, so I don’t expect we’ll have a sudden rush of guests.”
“This time of year I assumed a lot of people would be on the road,” she said.
Blanche shrugged. “They are, but travelers prefer to stop at a place that is part of a hotel chain. They’re always looking for reward points or free breakfast or Wi-Fi. It gets harder every day for regular folks to run a decent business.”
Carmen offered a sympathetic smile. The older woman had a worn demeano
r. Like running a mediocre hotel fifty miles from the nearest city was grinding away her soul.
“I prefer a place with some character,” she smoothly lied.
The woman shrugged, no doubt sensing she was being patronized. “Thankfully, most of our customers are truckers. All they’re looking for is a clean bed, a big parking lot, and a nearby café that’s open twenty-four seven.”
Carmen leaned against the counter in a subtle gesture of encouragement as the woman ran her credit card and filled out the register book.
“You know, I remember a friend of mine who stayed at a hotel in this area a couple of weeks ago,” she said, trying to sound as if she’d just been struck by the memory. “He mentioned that there was some trouble with someone stealing a semi from the parking lot. Was that here?”
Immediately the woman was on the defense, her cheeks flushing a dark red.
“I can promise you that this hotel is very safe.” She pursed her lips. “You should hear what happens to people who stay in Kansas City. Criminals break right into their rooms.”
Carmen held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply the hotel was dangerous. I was just wondering if they’d caught the thief.”
Blanche’s broad shoulders twitched. She looked like a hen who was trying to smooth her ruffled feathers.
“The truck was found a few miles away, so I don’t think anything ever came of it.”
“How weird.” Carmen tried to look confused. “Why would someone steal a truck and then just abandon it?”
“The cops assumed it was the work of some teenagers acting like fools,” she said, her voice tight with remembered annoyance. “Or maybe someone who thought they could steal the truck only to find out how hard them things are to drive.”
“What did you think?” Carmen pressed.
The woman shoved Carmen’s credit card across the counter, her flush deepening.
“I thought it was a bunch of crap,” she snapped.
Carmen blinked at the fierceness of the woman’s words. “Excuse me?”
“The driver who lost his truck was stomping around and cussing while the cops were upsetting our guests. Then they started pointing the finger at my husband, because the camera in the parking lot is just a fake.” Her expression was pinched, like she’d just sucked on a lemon. “It was a very unpleasant experience, let me tell you.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Carmen sympathized, swallowing a sigh as the woman yanked open a drawer and pulled out an old-fashioned key.
If Blanche had any information about the truck’s disappearance, she would have happily shared the information with the cops, or anyone else who asked. Anything to make certain that no one could blame her or her husband for the theft.
“Your room is in the middle. There’s a small fridge and extra blankets, but if you need anything else just let me know.”
“Thanks.” She pasted a smile on her lips and turned to head out of the office.
She would go back later that evening. There was a good chance the husband would be taking the night shift. He might have more information.
For now, she intended to get a few hours’ sleep. She’d spent the entire night waiting in the Phoenix airport for her connecting flight. She was exhausted.
The snow had picked up speed while she’d been inside. With a grimace she opened the door of the SUV and grabbed her overnight bag. Her room was just down the sidewalk. It would be more trouble than it was worth to move the vehicle.
Slamming shut the door, she locked it and then turned to hurry past the row of mustard-colored doors. Intent on reaching her room before her eyes froze shut, she didn’t notice the dark form that appeared from the edge of the hotel until she heard footsteps crunching through the layer of ice coating the sidewalk.
The stranger was hunched forward, as if trying to make himself a smaller target for the icy wind. Something that might have been easier if he wasn’t wearing a puffy black parka that looked three sizes too large. Hands were stuffed in his coat pockets. A heavy stocking hat was pulled low, and his face was buried in the scarf that was wound in a deep layer of cashmere around his neck.
She stepped to the edge of the walkway as he neared, but at the same time his foot slipped on the frigid pavement and he lurched to the side.
He bumped into her with enough force to make her lose her balance, but before she could fall, his hands shot out to grab her arm. She felt a pressure, as if he was holding her too tight.
She jerked her arm free, ignoring his muttered apology as she hurried to unlock her door and step into the room. With more force than necessary she slammed shut the door and slid home the deadbolt.
The encounter had thoroughly unnerved her. She wasn’t sure why. She was at a hotel, so strangers were bound to be scurrying around. And it was slick enough that anyone could lose their footing.
Still, she couldn’t halt the sudden tremors that raced through her body.
She switched on the light and dropped her bag and purse onto a chair that was near the window nearly hidden behind heavy curtains. The dim bulb battled against the gloom that shrouded the cramped room, revealing the double bed that was covered by a worn blanket and the pressboard dresser holding a TV that was older than Carmen.
Not exactly the Ritz, but once again she noticed the scent of polish and bleach that assured her it had been recently cleaned.
That was good enough for now.
She reached to unzip her coat, frowning at the pain that burned through her upper arm. She peeled off the heavy garment and allowed it to drop onto the shag carpet. Then, she lifted her arm to discover what was wrong.
Her breath hissed through her teeth as she caught sight of the blood staining the sleeve of her sweater.
Damn.
She’d been cut.
* * *
Griff wasn’t a fan of traveling during the holidays. He was even less a fan after endless hours of crowded airports, planes stuffed with cranky children, and a drive through a raging snowstorm from Kansas City to the small hotel on I-70.
More than once he told himself to turn around and go home.
Why ruin his Christmas by chasing after Carmen Jacobs? It wasn’t like she was any of his business, thank God.
But after she’d left, he’d been unable to scrub the image of her pale, worried face from his mind. There had been a brittle tension that had hummed around her body, and shadows beneath her eyes. She was truly worried.
He’d tried everything. A hot shower. Lunch out with a beautiful woman who’d hinted she wouldn’t mind spending a lazy afternoon in his bed.
At last annoyed with his inability to enjoy his day, Griff had driven home and stomped into his office. Maybe if he sent the photos on to his FBI contact, he could shove Carmen out of his head.
Collecting the Polaroids, he’d been in the process of stuffing them into a padded envelope when he was struck by a chilling thought.
After spreading the pictures across his desk, he’d studied them for a long time. Then he’d grabbed a book off his shelf and flipped to the page he wanted.
Suddenly any attempt to dismiss Carmen and her worries was shattered. Damn. He needed to warn her what he’d found.
He’d tried a dozen times to call her, only to have his messages go straight to voice mail. No surprise. She hadn’t been very happy with him when she’d left.
He would have to track her down the hard way.
Contacting his friend in the FBI, he’d sent the pictures with an overnight carrier service and then settled in front of his computer to work his magic. With ruthless precision he hacked into Carmen’s privacy, discovering the credit card purchase of an airline ticket from Los Angeles to Kansas City.
Shit. It was worse than he expected.
She’d not only ignored his advice to return to her home, but the stubborn woman was heading to the precise spot the killer had struck just two weeks ago.
Calling himself all sorts of an idiot, he’d shoved some clothes in a bag and headed to
the airport for his hellish journey.
It was near three o’clock the next afternoon when he’d pulled into the icy parking lot of the Fairview Hotel. He’d already done another hack into Carmen’s credit card to make sure she was actually staying there.
Entering the office, he’d discovered that the middle-aged woman in the office was easily distracted with one simple request for directions to the nearest gas station. While the woman was plucking a roadmap from a wire rack hung behind the counter, Griff easily managed to peek at the registration book.
Carmen Jacobs, Room 7.
With a vague thanks for the directions, Griff left the office. A part of him was relieved he hadn’t had to resort to knocking on each door, while another part was furious that anyone could have discovered where she was staying.
And that she was there alone.
Moving the four-wheel-drive truck that he’d rented at the airport, he parked it directly in front of Carmen’s room. Reaching across the seat, he grabbed his backpack and climbed out. Then, with long steps he moved through the snow that continued to drift from the sullen sky. With a frown, he glanced toward the distant security light that was blinking off and on.
It was no wonder a thief had targeted this hotel.
One surveillance camera that even a rookie could tell was a fake. One light pole that left most of the parking lot shrouded in shadows. And one manager on duty who no doubt fell asleep behind the desk by ten o’clock.
With a shake of his head, he lifted his hand and rapped on the door. Silence. He rapped again. And again.
Was she out? Maybe she’d walked to the nearby diner to get a late lunch.
But what if—
He was in the process of reviewing the wide variety of evils that might have befallen a young woman on her own when the sound of steel scraping against steel warned him the deadbolt was being pulled aside. A second later the door was opened a half inch to allow Carmen to stare out at him in blank shock.
Had she been expecting Santa Claus?
“Griff?” She shook her head, as if he was a figment of her imagination that would disappear in the swirling snow. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped forward, hoping there might be some heat leaking through the narrow opening.
What Are You Afraid Of? Page 6