Count to Ten

by Karen Rose

  “Not that we’re bitter or anything,” Reed said and she poked him.

  The picture changed to Hope Center, an excerpt from the exposé Pope had aired months before. Bixby and Thompson had been determined to test therapy methods that had been rejected by every reputable group, so they’d started Hope Center. Further investigation had shown impropriety in handling state funds as well as kickbacks from pharmaceutical reps who wanted their meds to be exclusively administered. Teachers were fired before they could become suspicious. Then the unforeseen happened and Andrew Kates had brought the spotlight on Bixby’s life’s work.

  Pope had tracked Bixby to London where he’d hoped to lie low until excitement from the Kates case had blown over. Then he’d planned to quietly resume his work, but Pope’s story had resulted in the closing of the school and the placement of the kids elsewhere.

  “I hope those kids get a chance at real rehabilitation,” Reed said as Pope signed off.

  Mia blinked up at him, surprised. “I thought you didn’t believe in rehabilitation.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe for some people. It’s worked for Kelsey.”

  “But she’s still in.” Parole had been denied once again.

  He hugged her close to him. “Next time.”

  “Maybe.” Mia shook off her dark mood and crawled from the bed. “But it’s not a day for the blues. Get up and get dressed, Solliday. I can’t be late.” He didn’t move, instead rolling to his side to better watch her get dressed. “Reed, hurry. You know how long it takes you just to pick out your shoes.”

  “Shoes are an important accessory. You won’t wear boots to the church. Please?”

  “No, I bought these.” With a grimace she held up a pair of sexy little sandals with a killer heel. “I’m going to hurt my feet for a kid who won’t even remember it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll remind her when she’s old enough,” Reed said dryly, choosing his suit. “It’s not every day you become a godmother, Mia. Suck it up and wear the shoes.”

  Mia picked up the photo from her dresser. The infant was wrinkled, but to Mia she was beautiful. Faith Buchanan, Dana’s child. She’d be Aunt Mia to this baby, too. But it was okay, because to Jeremy she’d be Mom. He hadn’t called her that yet, but it was coming. She wasn’t sure what she’d do the first time she heard it. Probably the same thing she did the first time Reed told her he loved her, which was to cry like a baby herself.

  “Mia? Are you going to stand there looking in the mirror all day? I need help with my buttons.”

  She blinked, unaware that her gaze had lifted to her own reflection. Setting the picture back on the dresser, she quickly worked Reed’s buttons up to his collar, tied his tie, and secured his tie tack. “How did you manage before me?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “It took me a lot longer to get dressed. Plus I ate my hot dogs dry and slept alone.” He grinned down at her. “My quality of life has drastically improved.”

  She had to laugh. “So has mine.”

  About the Author

  RITA Award-winning author Karen Rose has always loved books. Jo Marsh from Little Women and Nancy Drew were close childhood friends. She was introduced to suspense and horror at the tender age of eight when she accidentally read Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” and was afraid to go to sleep for years, which explains a lot...

  After earning her degree in chemical engineering from the University of Maryland, Karen married her high school sweetheart. She started writing when characters started popping up in her head and simply wouldn’t be quiet. Now she enjoys making other people afraid to go to sleep! She lives in sunny Florida with her husband and their daughters.

  Karen was honored and totally thrilled to receive the Romance Writers of America’s highest award in 2005—the RITA for Best Romantic Suspense for I’m Watching You (Warner Books, 2004).

  Visit Karen’s Web site at www.karenrosebooks.com for more information on Karen, her books, and upcoming events. She loves to hear from readers, so please contact her at karen@karenrosebooks.com.

  “casper”

  did i mention that I live with a ghost

  we’ll call her casper

  she follows me

  everyday floating above my bed when I wake

  sitting in the shower soap dish

  perched atop my bedroom mirror

  staring back at me

  her eyes my eyes her eyes

  she’s stolen my eyes

  my nose my chin

  my dad, he’s the one who invited her in

  asked her to stay

  bribed her with promises of forever

  sometimes when he looks at me

  he winces

  like he sees her

  when it’s only me

  and i’m willing to bet he wishes

  he could make a trade if only for one day

  the story goes that casper was perfect

  the perfect wife, the perfect mother

  the perfect woman

  writing poetry with one hand

  while cross stitching with the other

  Donna Reed had nothin’ on this chick

  and that’s why he winces

  because me, i’m not perfect

  i can’t do geometry

  i don’t know the difference between

  cross stitch and cross walks.

  i’m just the doppleganger

  reminding the world of the better version that once was

  flitting through my father’s life

  almost invisible

  her eyes bluer brighter

  every day mine fade a little more

  every day my purpose less certain

  until i wonder who’s the ghost

  and who just deserves better

  Cristy Carrington

  2006

  “Rose is making her mark on the suspense genre.”

  —Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine

  For an exclusive sneak preview of Karen Rose’s next riveting thriller, just turn the page!

  DIE FOR ME

  available in mass market Fall 2007.

  Prologue

  Philadelphia, Saturday, February 12

  The first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant...and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids. Heavy. They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, than again with more force until a flickering light came into focus.

  It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. He lifted his eyes. So was the ceiling. I’m in a cave. His heart began to race. What the hell is this? He lunged forward and white hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard.

  He was tied. Oh God. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked. Trapped. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted and pulled like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. He stilled, drawing deep breaths through his nose to control his breathing. Disinfectant and...

  His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting. Something died here. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. This isn’t happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I’ll wake up.

  But he wasn’t dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms stretched up and behind his head. Why? He tried to think, to remember. There was something...a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached...He winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn’t been drinking. Had he?

  Coffee. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He’d been cold.
He’d been outside. Running. Why was he running? Slowly he rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope. He felt the smallest degree of hope. Rope was better than handcuffs. He could escape from rope.

  “So you’re finally awake.”

  The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie. I’m an actor and we were making a movie. A history documentary. He’d been running with...With what? He grimaced, focusing. A sword, that’s it. He’d been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield...even chain mail, for God’s sake. The entire scene came back now. He’d changed his clothes, even his underwear for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He’d had a sword, a really big, heavy sword that took all his strength to carry as he ran through the woods outside Munch’s studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He’d felt like a damn idiot, but he’d done it all because it was in the damn script.

  But this, he jerked at the ropes again with no success, this was not in the script.

  “Munch.” Warren’s voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. “What the hell is this?”

  Ed Munch appeared to his left. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

  Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man’s face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he’d been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone and his hair was no longer white.

  Munch wasn’t old. Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious—it was a lot of money for a history documentary they’d show on PBS if he was lucky. But he’d agreed. One odd old man was no threat.

  But Munch wasn’t old. Bile rose, choking him. What have I done? Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying. What will he do to me?

  “Who are you?” Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze.

  “It’s just water this time,” Munch ground out. “Drink it.”

  Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man’s face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged.

  “You’ll drink eventually. I need your throat moist.”

  Warren licked his lips. “Why?”

  He disappeared behind him again and Warren could hear something rolling. A video camera, Warren saw when Munch rolled it past him, stopping about five feet away. The camera was pointing straight at his face. “Why?” Warren repeated, louder.

  Munch peered through the lens and stepped back. “Because I need you to scream.” He lifted a brow, his expression surreally bland. “They all screamed. So will you.”

  Horror bubbled up and Warren fought it back. Stay calm. You’ll never get away if you don’t stay calm. Munch was insane. Treat him nice and maybe you can talk your way out of this. He made his lips curve. “Look, Munch, this isn’t really my thing, y’know? I’m a pretty straightforward guy. Let me go and we’ll call it even. You can keep the sword fight scenes I did already at no charge.”

  Munch just looked at him, his expression still bland. “I never planned to pay you anyway.” He disappeared again and reappeared, pushing another video camera on wheels. This one he placed to Warren’s right.

  He planned all this out, Warren thought, and dammit, I fell for it. He remembered the coffee, remembered Munch’s insistence that he drink it. It’s just water this time. Rage geysered up inside him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. “You drugged me, you fucking pervert,” he hissed, then filled his lungs with air. “Help! Somebody help me!” he yelled it as loud as he could, but the hoarse sound from his throat was pathetically useless.

  Munch said nothing, just set up a third camera on a boom so that it pointed down. Every movement was methodical, precise. Unhurried. Unconcerned. Unafraid.

  And then Warren knew nobody could hear him. The hot rage drained away, leaving only fear, cold and absolute. Warren’s voice shook. There had to be something...some way out. Something he could say. Do. Offer. Beg. He’d beg. “Please, Munch, I’ll do anything...” His words trailed away as Munch’s words replayed in his mind.

  They all screamed. Ed Munch. Warren closed his eyes. His chest constricted, despair making it difficult to breathe. “Munch isn’t your real name. Edvard Munch, the artist.” The painting of a ghoulish figure clutching its face in agony flashed into his mind. “The Scream.”

  “Actually, it’s pronounced ‘Moonk,’ not ‘Munch,’ but nobody ever gets it right. Nobody gets the details right,” he added in a disgusted voice.

  Details. The man had been all about details earlier, frowning when Warren argued against the scratchy underwear. “Who’s gonna know?” he’d asked and Munch’s face had darkened, ominously now Warren realized. “I’ll know,” he’d said coldly. “Just do it.” The sword had been real, too. I should have used it on the bastard when I had the chance.

  “Authenticity,” Warren murmured, repeating what he’d thought had been the ramblings of a crazy old man.

  Munch nodded. “Now you understand.”

  “What will you do?” His own voice was eerily calm.

  One corner of Munch’s mouth lifted. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Warren dragged in each breath. His heart was pounding so hard. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”

  Munch said nothing. A moment later he pushed another cart with a television just beyond the camera at his feet. He fiddled with the switches on a box below, checking the angle and focus of each camera with calm precision.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Warren said desperately, once again pulling at the ropes, struggling until his wrists burned and his arms strained in their sockets. He fell back against the hard board, panting. And still tied. The ropes were thick, the knots unyielding. He would not break free.

  Munch didn’t turn around, just kept checking the cameras methodically. “That’s what all the others said. But I have, and I will continue to do so until I am finished.”

  Others. There had been others. The smell of death was all around, mocking him. Others had died here. He would die here, too. No, please. He had too much left to do and all the things he’d never done, all the words he’d never said filled his mind. From somewhere deep inside him, courage rallied. He lifted his chin. “My friends will come looking for me. I told my girlfriend I was meeting you.”

  Finished with the cameras, Munch turned. His eyes held a contempt that said he knew it was a last, desperate bluff. “No, you didn’t. You told your girlfriend you were meeting a friend to help him read lines. You told me so when we met this afternoon. You said this money would pay for a surprise for her birthday. You wanted it to stay a secret. It was the reason I chose you.” He lifted one shoulder. “Plus, you fit the suit. Not everyone can wear chain mail correctly. So no one will be looking for you, Mr. Keyes. And if they do, they’ll never find you. Accept it—you belong to me.”

  Everything inside him went deathly still. It was true. He had told Munch the money was for a surprise for Sherry. And he’d told none of his friends about the part because he didn’t want them horning in on his chances. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody would come to save him. He thought of Sherry, of his mom and dad, of everyone he cared about and knew he’d never see any of them again. They’d wonder where he was. His mother would cry. A sob rose in his throat. “You bastard,” he whispered. “I hate you.”

  One side of Munch’s mouth quirked, but his eyes lit up with an amusement that was more terrifying than his smile. “The others said that, too.” He shoved the water bottle at Warren’s mouth again, pinching his nose until he gasped for air. Wildly Warren fought, but Munch force
d the water down. “Now, Mr. Keyes, we begin. Don’t forget to scream.”

  Chapter One

  Philadelphia, Sunday, February 20, 10:45 A.M.

  Six years as a homicide detective had taught Vito Ciccotelli that there were no simple murders, just varying degrees of hard ones. As soon as he stopped at the edge of the grave the crime scene unit had just unearthed in the snow--covered field north of the city, he knew this would be one of the harder ones.

  Neither Vito nor his partner said a word as they studied the victim who may have remained hidden forever were it not for an elderly man and his metal detector.

  Their Jane Doe had been small, five-two or five-three. Short dark hair framed a face too badly decomposed to be easily identifiable and Vito wondered how long she’d been here. From the condition of the body and the putrid odor of death that permeated his senses, he guessed a few weeks at a minimum. He wondered who she belonged to. If anyone had missed her. If anyone still waited for her to come home.

  He felt the familiar surge of pity and sadness to which he’d long become accustomed, and as usual pushed it to the edge of his mind. For now he’d focus on the body, the evidence. Later, he and Nick would consider the woman herself—who she’d been, where she’d been and who she’d known. They’d do so as a means to catch the sick sonofabitch who’d left her nude body to rot in an unmarked grave in an open field.

  The sick sonofabitch who’d violated her even after death. Pity shifted to outrage as Vito’s gaze returned to the victim’s hands.

  “He posed her,” Nick murmured beside him and in the soft words Vito heard the same outrage he felt. “He fucking posed her.”

  He had. Her hands were pressed together between her breasts, fingertips pointing to her chin. “Permanently folded in prayer,” Vito said grimly.

  “Religious murderer?” Nick mused.

  Vito had thought the same thing. “I hope not.” But it was possible. The field measured maybe two acres and at one time could have been a large garden, but it didn’t appear to have been used for anything in a long time. Except for a grave. Hopefully just one, he thought, but a buzz of apprehension tickled his spine. Religious murderers tended not to stop with just one. “You think there are more?”