The intended victim was the Reaper himself. He was going to commit suicide. Now. Right now, live on the Internet.
Utterly helpless, they watched as Seth Covey, dressed all in black, pulled a noose down from above, sliding it over his head. He stood on an old-fashioned wooden box; the walls surrounding him were rough-hewn and faded, the floor bare dirt.
Seth smiled at the camera. And, without hesitation, kicked the box.
Stacey flinched as the body dropped and began to writhe on the end of the rope. But rather than covering her eyes in horror at seeing her friend’s son end his life, she smacked her hand flat on the desk.
“He’s in Dad’s old barn! It’s within reach of the wireless.”
They stared at each other for a split second, then rose and ran like hell up the stairs. He could see the barn in the distance. The EMTs were getting ready to bring the boy out and needed the ambulance. A siren was coming up the road, drawing closer, but still at least a minute or two away. More precious seconds would be lost to a trip up the driveway, back down, then two miles up the road.
Straight across the fields was shorter. A mile at most.
Neither of them hesitated. They both ran, flying across the ground, oblivious to the weeds and rocks covering the rough countryside. They reached the bottom of the hill, pounded through a small stream, up the other side.
How long? He didn’t want to think about how many minutes it had been, whether Seth’s body still twitched and spun. And how many sick fucks around the world were tuning in to watch.
God knew, if there was anybody who deserved the death penalty, it was probably the Reaper. But Dean wanted him to face justice. Not to escape by his own hand, his own way, on his own terms.
He found a reserve of speed and picked it up, covering the final quarter mile a few seconds ahead of Stacey. The barn door was closed, but he burst against it, shattering the old wood, splintering the planks into pieces as he stumbled inside.
He spied the killer immediately. The man hung still. Completely still. But still Dean charged forward, tripping over something-the infernal camera. He kicked it away, dove for Seth’s dangling feet, lifting and trying to remove the pressure. Stacey was right behind him, shoving the wooden box back in place, and they both heaved up.
But even before they’d moved to cut him down, Dean knew they were too late. The body was deadweight. Covey’s face was purple, his neck bent at an odd angle. It had broken in the fall. And then he’d suffocated.
It was over.
The Reaper was dead.
17
Hope Valley had boasted a famous citizen or two in its day. Some World War II hero had hailed from the town, as had a semisuccessful country singer. Even a former Virginia congressman.
The Reaper, however, topped them all.
As soon as word about the case got out, the media descended upon Stacey’s small hometown, covering every inch of it like fire ants on an anthill. She couldn’t get away from them. She held formal press conferences right away, with Dean and his boss by her side, but the vultures still parked outside her house at night. She felt like a bug under a microscope as they all watched, hoping something new would happen to serve as the teaser for the next broadcast.
There was nothing new left to happen. Covey was dead. His last victim, little Nicholas Logan, would survive physically unscathed, though probably mentally scarred.
They’d even found the final piece of the puzzle they’d been looking for all along. While processing the scene at the barn, Dean had noticed a slightly sunken area in the ground in the back of one of the old stalls.
Lisa.
And that was the end of that.
Still, the reporters pried into all the angles, titillated beyond belief by word that the first victim’s mother had killed her husband. And that the Reaper’s father was hospitalized but facing charges for theft when he was released. Somehow Rob-the-Perv Monroe had even gotten tangled in there-Sheriff Who Catches Killer Stalked in Her Own Home. The mayor had quietly resigned, not stepping forward even once to take advantage of the spotlight. And his sick, miserable excuse for a son was sitting in a mental ward, hopefully being tormented with the memories of what he’d done to poor Lady.
The FBI tried to keep Satan’s Playground out of it, but the media had wanted the full details of the Internet connection, and they’d found them. The site had gone black, for good this time, within twenty-four hours of Seth’s suicide.
Sick bastards. She could only hope that the FBI would catch them when they inevitably resurfaced.
“Finally got a minute alone, huh?” a voice asked from the open doorway of her office late one weekday afternoon.
Spying Mitch there, she forced a weary smile. “I think it’s my first in a week.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
It was true. Not great, but she was holding up. She’d just be better if she didn’t have to hold up alone. Oh, she was surrounded by friends, supported by her father and her brother, who’d finally gotten past his own situation to help his sister, his town, and his best friend through the ordeal. Her deputies had been rock-solid, the town residents sincerely grateful for a job well-done.
Even Warren Lee had done his civic duty, turning up at the station with some surveillance images from the night Lisa had been killed. He said he’d just discovered them, having gone looking after the case was blown open. She didn’t know that she believed him. Still, all was good.
But she went to bed alone every night. She had for several nights, ever since Dean and the rest of the Black CATs, as even the media was now calling them, headed back to D.C.
He’d called. She’d called. But somehow, something had changed. He hadn’t had to say it; she’d figured it out.
The case was over. He had no reason to be here. She’d been the one who had demanded a “meaningless,” emotionless fling for as long as he was around. Now, the only reason he would have to be around was if she wanted him to be, if this thing they had became personal. Emotional. Real.
It was. Oh, God, it was. She just didn’t know whether she could handle that.
A self-protective voice told her she was better off letting him drift away. It would be safer, less painful down the road. Another voice said it was time to let go of the fear and the regret, and take a chance on really living again.
Continue to hide in her small cocoon, playing it safe so she wouldn’t get hurt? Or allow herself to rejoin the rest of the world and open herself up to loss? But also to such tremendous possibility. Excitement, passion. Love.
“Is there anything you need me to do?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Mitch stepped inside the office, his hat, literally, in his hands. “Just wanted to say, uh, if you want my resignation, I’ll understand.”
Stacey merely stared, taken completely by surprise.
“I should have told you about me and Lisa when she first disappeared.”
So much had happened, she hadn’t given that another thought. “Yes, you should have. But Mitch, honestly, I couldn’t do this job without you.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah, you could. In fact, you could do this job anywhere. You are the best cop I’ve ever known, and I think your phone’s gonna be ringing off the hook with offers.” With a shy smile, he nodded, slipped his hat back on his head, and ducked out, leaving her to sit alone in silence.
She had fielded a few calls. But she hadn’t given much thought to them. They’d lurked in the back of her mind, just as this whole thing with Dean lurked in the back of her mind. Something to think about. Something to ponder.
Something she had to decide. And soon.
Dean might have been the last person in the known universe to have discovered Chuck E. Cheese, but in the past couple of weeks, he had more than made up for it. He’d just come from his third Wednesday in a row there, and frankly, if he never saw that big singing rat again, he’d be very happy.
After dropping Jar
ed off at his ex’s, he made his way home, glad, at least, that it was late enough to avoid the unrelenting city traffic. It was dark by the time he pulled into the small parking lot beside the old school- turned-apartment building a few blocks from the Capitol. His place was small, but the location was convenient and the neighborhood had a lot of charm. It had an old-fashioned feel that wasn’t often found in D.C. Not exactly Hope Valley standards, but quaint.
He wondered, not for the first time, what Stacey would think of it.
Then he saw the squad car parked in his reserved spot. And he realized he was about to find out.
His palms started to sweat as if he were some teenager about to get laid for the first time. And his heart did that crazy flippy thing it had done since he’d first met her.
He’d missed her. Had thought a thousand times about getting in the car and going to her, demanding that she admit what he’d known for quite a while: that she had done the crazy and unthinkable and fallen as much in love with him as he had with her.
It had taken every bit of his strength not to do it. She needed to be the one to figure things out. And he hoped her presence here meant that she had.
Parking beside her, he got out of the car and raised his brow. “You’re in my spot.”
“Sheriff on official business,” she said as she stepped out to join him. “I can’t be ticketed.”
“You sure?”
A smile broadened her pretty mouth and, beneath the light cast by the lamppost, her eyes glittered with humor. And something more.
“I’ll take my chances.”
Four words. They could refer to her car, but he knew they didn’t. The double meaning hit him dead center, and he smiled back.
She was ready to take her chances with him.
Without another word, he stepped over and grasped her shoulders, bending slightly to catch her mouth in a hot, openmouthed kiss. When they’d been together, Stacey had filled all the empty places, made him feel satisfied and whole for the first time in ages. He’d missed that feeling. Missed this. Missed her.
She arched against him, pressing her soft body against his in pure feminine welcome. Lifting her arms, she tangled her fingers in his hair, kissing him back with just as much hunger and, he hoped, just as much happiness as he was feeling.
When they finally broke apart and looked at each other, he saw she still had that smile on her beautiful face. “Official business, huh?”
She nodded. “I came to talk about my future. My career as sheriff.”
He lifted a hand to her silky hair, loose and hanging in a curtain over her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing her uniform tonight. Dressed in a soft yellow blouse and white jeans, she looked sunny and feminine. But he’d bet anything she had a backup piece strapped to her ankle.
He couldn’t wait to get her inside and find out.
“You’re a great sheriff,” he said.
“I know.” There was no conceit, just that irresistible confidence. “But I’m thinking maybe I’d be a better detective. Maybe somewhere around here.”
He cupped her cheek. “Stacey, you don’t have to change a thing for me. Hope Valley’s not that far away.”
“It’s the other end of the earth,” she replied. “And after my dad’s term is up in a few months, I want to come back to this side of it. I’m thinking Sheriff Mitch Flanagan sounds really good.” She leaned up and rubbed her soft cheek against his grizzled one. “I’m done. It’s over. I’m finished hiding.”
“I knew that the minute I saw your car,” he said, covering her mouth with his again. This kiss was softer, gen tler, infinitely more tender. And when their lips parted to exchange a warm breath of night air, he murmured, “I love you, Stacey.”
Her soft sigh of happiness told him before she gave the words back. “I love you, too.”
They stood there kissing for a while longer, then, in silence, moved toward the building. Her arm hooked in his, she stayed tucked by his side, fitting against him so perfectly it was as if she’d been made to be there.
“Dean?”
He paused at the door.
Her lip caught on her bottom teeth for a moment, and she looked up at him, her eyes swimming in indecision for the first time since she’d arrived. “I’m looking forward to meeting your son.”
He knew what had put that indecision there, and knew he could offer no promises that everything would always be safe and she’d never experience pain or anguish. So he could only tell her what he told himself every single night when he hung up the phone after sharing the monsters-go-away poem with Jared.
“It’s worth it. For as long as you have it, no matter what might happen down the road, loving like that is worth it.”
She nodded once, not making any promises, not claiming to be ready to dive headfirst into all the things she’d been telling herself she didn’t want. Kids, marriage.
They had love. That was the start. And for now, that was enough.
Leslie Parrish
***
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