by Paige Tyler
Trace frowned. “How the hell is it possible to come up that empty?”
“I’m thinking maybe you can answer that better than I can.”
Muncie looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Trace to say something. When he didn’t, the other man let out a sigh.
“Before you ask, there’s no connection between the four women that we can establish,” Muncie continued. “Not that remarkable, I know, since lots of serial killers have patterns that are hard to figure out. All four victims were killed in their homes. Again, not that remarkable. The strange part is that we can’t identify how the assailant gained access to any of the homes or even how he got the hell out afterward. All the doors and windows were locked from the inside and there was no indication he picked the locks.” He grabbed his cup and took a swallow of coffee. “With the first murder, we figured that meant the victim either knew her attacker or he had a key to the residence.”
“What made you change your mind about that theory?”
“The second victim was killed inside the panic room in her apartment, but she never opened the door again after she went inside. If it wasn’t for her blood seeping through the floor and into the apartment below, we would have never even found her. We still haven’t figured out how the killer got to her in a locked safe room. It took our guys an hour to get through the door with a blowtorch.”
“Maybe she was wounded before she went in, then died while she was inside,” Trace suggested.
Muncie shook his head. “That’s what we thought at first, too. There wasn’t any blood anywhere else in the apartment but the panic room, though. In addition to that, the security system she had installed has the ability to track and record activity, like one of those electronic hotel door locks. The door to the panic room was only opened once and the medical examiner puts the time of death at somewhere around an hour after the door was locked. And before you ask, the door didn’t open again until we opened it, so no one was in there with her. She was the room alone and still ended up dead, sliced to ribbons.”
Trace didn’t like what he was hearing. “You said you didn’t have any physical evidence. What about witnesses?”
“When I said we have nothing, I meant nothing, and that includes witnesses. Nobody saw or heard a damn thing. This guy picks the perfect time to commit the murders. All the neighbors are either out or otherwise occupied. The neighbor of the third victim was home, but she as listening to her iPod while the woman next door was getting sliced to pieces and didn’t hear a thing.
“What about defensive wounds on the victims?” Trace asked. “Any of those?”
“Plenty. Their hands were slashed up, just like their bodies.”
That wasn’t unusual. “You said before that you didn’t know what the murder weapon was, but if they were stabbed, it’s obviously some kind of knife.”
Muncie let out a snort. “In theory.”
“What do you mean, in theory?”
“Just that if it’s a knife, then it isn’t like anything any of us has ever seen before. It’s sharp enough to cut through bone and yet leaves zero particulate residue behind. Forensics is saying it’s impossible to stab someone and not leave some kind of trace evidence. After the first murder, they swore the evidence had been tampered with. Since then, they don’t have an explanation. There’s no way the murderer should be able to do this.”
Unless the murderer wasn’t human. No matter how much Trace wanted to believe Cassidy was wrong about this, it was starting to look more and more as if she was right. He wasn’t sure if it was a ghost because he’d never heard of a ghost that could slice people up, but it was definitely some kind of paranormal creature. He just didn’t know what kind.
He leaned forward. “I’m going to ask you some questions that are going to sound damn weird, but just answer them, okay?”
The other man hesitated, but then nodded.
“Did you smell sulfur around any of the crime scenes?”
Muncie’s brow furrowed. “Sulfur?”
Trace nodded. “Yeah, sulfur. You know, like rotten eggs.”
Muncie shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
“How about cinnamon? Or a bitter jalapeno smell?”
“What the hell is this? A joke?”
Trace gave him a rueful smile. “No, it’s not a joke. I wish it were, believe me. So think, did you smell any of that stuff I mentioned?”
“No. I didn’t smell anything at all. Just blood and death.”
“Okay. Did you see anything that looked like fine black pepper scattered around any of the apartments, maybe in the corners of the rooms?”
“No, nothing like that, either.” Muncie scowled. “Trace, what the hell are these dumbass questions all about? Are you as crazy as everyone says you are?”
“Maybe,” Trace said. “Did you find any bags of herbs in the apartments? Any sigils or markings painted near the bodies?”
Muncie shook his head again. “No and no.”
Trace nodded. That was good. “How about the electrical stuff in the houses? Anything strange there? Burned wiring maybe, or appliances still running?”
“No. That’s…” The words trailed off as Muncie frowned. “I was going to say that’s crazy, but maybe it isn’t. At the time, I figured it was a coincidence, but there were a lot of light bulbs burned out in the apartments.”
“Shit,” Trace muttered.
“Why? What the hell do burned-out light bulbs mean?”
Trace clenched his jaw. “It means bad, that’s what it means.”
“Do I want to know what kind of bad?”
Trace shook his head. “No, but if you ever end up in a situation where you get to a crime scene and the lights are still flickering, wait for backup before going in. You got me?”
“Yeah, I got you.” Muncie picked up his coffee cup. “Since the asshole murdering these women isn’t the average run-of-the-mill serial killer, where does that leave us?”
Trace thought a moment. “I don’t know. I have to find out what’s special about the four victims or I’ll never get ahead of this thing. You sure there’s no connection between the women? Nothing at all?”
Muncie shook his head. “Nothing. They didn’t have the same jobs or the same friends. They hung out in different social circles, had different income levels. Two of them were college students, one worked in an architect’s office, and the other was a CPA. Hell, they didn’t even belong to the same online chat groups. There was no connection between them. Except for the way they looked, of course.”
“What do you mean, the way they looked?”
“They were all tall and slender with long, blonde hair, and all of them were pretty. Real pretty. Beautiful even. At least they were before that sonofabitch got to them and carved them up.”
Trace felt as if someone punched him in the gut. Shit.
“What is it?” Muncie asked when he didn’t say anything. “Is what they look like important?”
It sure as hell was. Getting to his feet so fast he almost knocked the chair over, Trace tossed a ten dollar bill on the table and sprinted for the door.
Muncie caught up with him outside. “What is it?” he demanded. “Why is what the victims looked like important?”
“Because I know someone who looks exactly like they do,” was all Trace said before he took off at a run for the Hummer. And she was in a hell of a lot of danger.
Chapter Six
After Trace left, Bella and Robert tried to get Cassidy’s mind off Del Vecchio by having her help them do research on the past residents of the haunted house they’d gone to the night before in Delhi. She wasn’t sure why the information was important, but they said it would be helpful when it came to exorcising the ghost later. She figured it was just something to try to keep her occupied.
She was grateful for their effort, but could only read through so many old tax records and newspaper archives before Del Vecchio intruded on her thoughts again. Thinking maybe working on her book would hel
p instead, she finally told Bella and Robert she was going to head home.
“Do you want me to come with you and wait until we hear from Trace?” Bella asked.
Cassidy shook her head. “Thanks, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ll be fine. I’m going to work on my book.”
By the time she got to her friend’s place a half hour later, though, Cassidy wished she’d taken Bella up on her offer. Even though the building complex probably had hundreds of people in it, she felt as if she was alone in the quiet apartment.
“Stop being such a scaredy-cat,” she muttered to herself.
Tossing her purse on the kitchen counter, she put water on for tea, then went around and turned on all the lights in the apartment. It wasn’t dark outside yet, but it would be soon.
Changing into a tank top and a pair of shorts, she took her mug of tea over to the kitchen table and turned on her laptop, then tried to lose herself in her romance novel. It worked for a little while, but the moment the sun went down, she got nervous again. Every time someone slammed a door or honked a car horn, she almost jumped off the seat. It didn’t help that she was writing a scene where the heroine was being chased by the evil ghost dead set on possessing her.
Deciding to skip ahead and work on a sex scene instead, Cassidy scrolled down to a new page. She’d written the chapter heading and was about to start typing when the screen suddenly went black. Frowning, she checked the power button and saw that the little blue light was still on. That was odd. Then again, the computer was a few years old. Praying it hadn’t picked now to quit on her, she was moving her finger back and forth over the touch pad hoping to coax her laptop back to life, when she saw Del Vecchio’s reflection suddenly appear in the screen.
Letting out a scream, she whirled around in her chair, expecting to see the psycho killer’s ghost standing behind her, but there was nothing there. Telling herself she was imagining things, she turned back to her laptop. Whatever glitch had made the computer act weird must have been gone because her word processing program was back up, the blinking cursor right where she’d left it.
Sighing, she leaned forward to start typing only to freeze when words suddenly began to appear on the screen of their own accord. Cassidy stared at them in horror.
Time to die, bitch.
Cassidy began to tremble. Oh God, Del Vecchio was there in the apartment with her.
She leaped to her feet and backed away from the computer, terrified the bastard’s ghost was going to jump out of it and grab her. She probably would have backed all the way to the door if she hadn’t smacked into something. Startled, she turned around to see what she’d bumped into and was shocked to see Del Vecchio standing there.
He looked as frightening as he had that night in her apartment, only now he had a set of ugly scars running down the side of his face from where she had scratched him. For some reason, they made him seem even more menacing. It was the look in his eyes that terrified her the most, though. They were cold and black and lifeless as they regarded her, and something told her if he got his hands on her this time, there would be no escape.
Cassidy swallowed hard. Maybe there was no way for her to get away from him this time, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.
She darted a glance at the door, trying to gauge the distance between her and it when the suddenly lights flickered, then went off. She went rigid, afraid to so much as even breathe. Even more terrified than before, she strained her ears, listening for some sound in the darkness that would tell her where Del Vecchio was. But all she could hear was the sound of her heart pounding.
Then she felt a cool breeze against her skin, followed by the unmistakable ice cold feel of a knife blade touching her upper arm. She gasped and jerked away, instinctively reaching up with her hand to see if he’d cut her. She didn’t feel any blood, but knew that was probably only a momentary respite. He was toying with her just as he had that night in her apartment. He would tire of that soon enough, though, she was sure.
Knowing she was as good as dead if she stayed where she was, Cassidy was about to take off blindly in the direction she hoped the door was when the lights abruptly came back on. She looked around wildly for Del Vecchio, but the apartment was empty. Not wasting any time, she ran for the door only to stop in her tracks when the lights flickered again and Del Vecchio’s ghost suddenly materialized in front of her, blocking her path.
Cassidy’s first thought was to charge right through him, like she’d been going to do with the ghost in Delhi last night, but then she remembered how solid Del Vecchio had felt when she’d bumped into him before and she instinctively knew he wasn’t like the other ghost. She wasn’t going to be able to run right through him. But there was no way to get around him, either.
She chewed on her lower lip, racking her mind for everything she’d learned from Trace and Wes that weekend about fighting ghosts as she squared off against Del Vecchio. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a shotgun loaded with hematite and rock salt like Trace did. She did have regular old table salt, though. Praying it would work as well as rock salt, she turned and ran back into the kitchen as fast as she could.
Unable to remember which cabinet she saw the salt in, she jerked open almost all of them until she found it. Grabbing the container, she raced to the kitchen doorway and frantically dumped a line of salt across the entryway like Trace had done on the bedroom of that first house they’d taken her to. When she was finished, she retreated back into the kitchen until she was against the counter farthest away from the door.
Del Vecchio either didn’t know he was supposed to have an aversion to salt or didn’t care because he strode across the living room toward the kitchen as if it wasn’t even there. Cassidy’s pulse raced as she watched him come closer. If the thing with the salt didn’t work, she was dead.
But when Del Vecchio got to the doorway of the kitchen, he jerked to a halt inches from the salt and took an uneasy step back. Cassidy sagged back against the counter in relief.
Del Vecchio glared at her, his lip curling into a sneer. He didn’t say anything, but simply looked at her with an expression of pure hatred. She hoped when he couldn’t get past the salt, he’d get frustrated and leave, but now she realized how foolish that was. From the look on his face, it was obvious he wasn’t leaving until he got what he came for.
Cassidy spotted her purse on the counter. It was a lot closer to the door and Del Vecchio than she would have liked, but she had no choice. Taking a deep breath, she slowly inched her way over to it.
Del Vecchio followed her movements as he paced back in forth outside the kitchen. When she got near the door, he eagerly took a step forward, but again the line of salt stopped him. Keeping one eye on him, Cassidy stretched for her purse. Grabbing it, she hurried back to the far side of the kitchen and dug through it until she found her cell phone. She automatically started to dial 9-1-1, but then stopped. What the hell were the cops going to do, shoot a dead guy?
She stared down at her phone, wondering what she should do, then remembered the business card Robert had given her that first night. Why the heck hadn’t she thought of it before? Hand shaking, she rooted around in her purse again until she found it. Holding it in one trembling hand, she dialed the twenty-four-hour number with the other.
Someone picked up on the second ring. “McCord.”
Cassidy sighed with relief at the sound of Trace’s voice. “Trace, it’s Cassidy. Del Vecchio’s here.”
“Shit,” Trace muttered. “Okay, just calm down. Where are you?”
“I’m at a friend’s apartment,” she said, quickly giving him the address and the apartment number. “I did the thing with the salt, but Del Vecchio’s got me trapped. I’m scared, Trace. He’s going to kill me.”
“I’ll be there in five. Sit tight.”
Five? How the heck was Trace going to get there in five minutes from Sleepy Hollow? Then she realized he must still be in Stamford. Thank God.
She opened her mouth to tell him
to hurry, but the sound of a chuckle brought her head up. Her eyes went wide as she saw Del Vecchio materialize through the wall to the left of her salt barricade and walk right into the kitchen.
Cassidy’s heart seized in her chest. Crap, she hadn’t thought about a ghost being able to do that.
* * * * *
Trace was only a few miles from the address Robert had given him for Cassidy when his cell phone rang. At first he wasn’t going to answer it, but some sixth sense made him change his mind. Now he was glad he had.
He was about to disconnect the call when he heard a muffled scream on the other end of the line. It was quickly followed by a loud clatter, then nothing.
“Cassidy!”
No answer.
Trace felt his chest tighten. Swearing under his breath, he shoved his cell phone in the pocket of his jeans and floored the pedal on the Hummer, running a red light to get through the intersection. The other drivers honked their horns as they squealed to a stop, but he ignored them. There was no way he was going to let Cassidy die.
Five minutes later, he slid into the parking lot outside her apartment, running over an ornamental fence and a flower bed to come to a screeching halt a few feet from the front door. Jumping out of the Hummer, he ran around to the back and grabbed his duffel bag full of gear. Throwing it over his shoulder, he raced up the steps and charged through the door into the building, scaring the hell out of two women carrying laundry baskets.
“Where the hell are the stairs?” he demanded, not wanting to waste time with the elevator.
The women timidly pointed around the corner.
Trace didn’t thank them as he ran in that direction. He hit the steps hard, taking them three at a time. Once on the fourth floor, he ran down the hall, checking the room numbers on the doors. When he came to the right one, he didn’t even bother to slow down. Instead, he kicked the door in as hard as he could, reaching into his bag for his shotgun as the frame splintered and the door flew open.
He looked left and right as he entered the apartment, but there was no sign of Cassidy or Del Vecchio. Trace’s blood ran cold at the scene that met his eyes. The living room looked as if a cyclone hit it. The couch and throw pillows were sliced to shreds, stuffing still floating through the air. The coffee table was lying on its side, as were the two end tables, and the lamps that had been on them were smashed to pieces along with practically everything else in the place. Even the walls had been slashed.