by Elle Kennedy
She stared at his face, wondering how this plain-looking man had become a crazed killer. Then she turned away, unable to look into those eyes a second longer.
“Don’t turn away from me,” he snapped. “And answer the damn question. Does he make you happy?”
“Does who make me happy?” she said hoarsely.
He sat on the edge of the cot. She tried not to cower. “Ted. Does he make you happy, Anne?”
God, who the hell was Anne?
Sam had read enough thrillers to know that stalling a killer usually worked about as well as dry glue, but she gave it a shot anyway. “Anne isn’t here,” she choked out. “But if she were, I’m sure she’d tell you that Ted didn’t make her half as happy as you did.” There. That sounded reasonable. Maybe he’d be placated by the words and let her go.
Fat chance.
His eyes darkened as he absently ran his fingers over shoulder. She shuddered.
“Then why did you slice your wrists?” he challenged, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness as he grinned at her.
It was obvious that he was disturbed, delusional, and Sam had no idea how to talk to him when he kept referring to her as another woman. When he looked at her with those tortured eyes and saw someone else.
But she had to try. The longer she kept him talking, the more time Blake would have to find her. And Blake would find her. She was absolutely sure of that.
Sam cleared her throat. “I don’t know why she killed herself.”
He slid his hand from her shoulder to her neck, and for one terrifying second she thought he would strangle her. He didn’t, just touched her cheek so gently she almost threw up, and held her chin in place so that she couldn’t look away.
“Twenty years, Anne. I gave you twenty years of love and marriage and friendship and companionship. And then you went out and screwed a man who didn’t even care about you.” His fingers tightened over her jaw. “I’ll bet you feel foolish now, don’t you, sweetheart? I’ll bet you want my forgiveness.”
Her throat was so tight she couldn’t get any words out. Not that it mattered. This monster had obviously stopped listening to reason a long time ago.
“Well, it’s too late. I won’t forgive you, but I will—” he lifted his thin lips in a smile “—punish you.”
Blake, where are you?
Fear paralyzed every muscle in her body, that strong front she’d tried holding on to slipping away as each agonizing second ticked by. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to talk to this insane killer whose empty eyes scared her and tugged at her sympathy at the same time. She didn’t want to go through this again. She didn’t want any of this.
“I probably would never have found out about Ted, you know,” he said pensively. “If the idiot hadn’t decided to send you flowers from my shop, I would have never known what you were up to, Anne.”
He rose, his too-big shirt rustling. She understood now why the uniform didn’t fit him. It wasn’t his.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she wondered if he’d killed a cop to get that uniform.
She watched as he headed for the door, praying that he was leaving. Maybe this was all he’d wanted, to talk to his dead wife for a bit, and now he was gallivanting off to do something else, like go bowling, or ice skating.
Right.
A strangled laugh tore out of her throat as she lay there, inhaling the scent of roses and staring at the doorway. She’d almost convinced herself that he’d left when he reappeared. He held a knife in his hands.
No. No, no, no! Her heart pounded violently against her rib cage. She flailed on the cot, blindly grabbing at the ropes on her hands while hot tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t go through this again. She couldn’t have this happen to her again.
She couldn’t.
In the large conference room, Blake turned to Hodges and snapped, “Have you managed to track down the address of that greenhouse yet?”
“No, but Samson is on it as we speak. I’ll go see if she’s made any headway.”
Hodges left the room with hurried strides. When he returned a few minutes later, with Detective Carol Samson by his side, he wore a victorious expression. “We’ve got it,” he announced.
Running her hand through her curly hair, Samson spoke. “The greenhouse was purchased under Grant’s mother’s name.”
She recited the address and before she could get another word in, Blake took off.
“Blake, wait,” Rick called after him. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going after her.”
As he slid out the door, his partner scrambled to keep up with him. “You can’t just charge in there.”
“Like hell I can’t.”
Looking as if he wanted to shoot something—namely his partner—Rick grabbed his arm. “For God’s sake, just wait a second. Let me talk to Fantana and then I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll be in the car.”
In the driver’s seat of the SUV, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as adrenaline continued to pour through him in bucket loads. He didn’t want to wait for Rick, didn’t want to wait one more second when he knew Sam might not have that much time. But going in alone would be reckless, irresponsible. He couldn’t risk making a mistake, because one wrong step could be the difference between Sam living and Sam dying.
“Fantana’s team will follow us in an unmarked car,” Rick said as he slid into the passenger seat. He held a sheet of paper in his hand. “Samson printed out a map for us. We won’t be able to approach the greenhouse from the road. The area’s too open. If he’s near a window he’ll spot us coming.”
Blake pointed to another section on the map. “We can come in from the woods over here.”
“The detectives will park down the road and we can radio for backup if we need it. Fantana’s also arranging for the paramedics to be nearby, in case…” Rick never finished his sentence.
Blake’s lips tightened. No, there would not be “in case.” Sam was not going to be hurt.
He was about to say that when Rick’s cell rang. Blake watched as his partner listened, then hung up.
“That was Fantana. They tracked down Paul Benson, the officer Grant was impersonating.”
“And?”
Rick shook his head unhappily. “Dead in an alley off the Loop. Wearing nothing but his underwear. Fantana’s put an ABP out on Benson’s missing cruiser.”
Rather than respond, Blake clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached from the pressure. Swallowing back his rage, he put the car into gear and sped away from the station. With the sirens on, he figured they could make the forty-five-minute drive in half the time.
“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”
Rick’s voice was quiet, but his words were so startling Blake’s foot jerked on the gas pedal, pushing it down harder and causing the car to shoot forward.
“That isn’t any of your business,” he ground out, steadying the car’s speed.
“It is if you plan on going all Rambo to save the swimsuit model in your bed.” Rick released a heavy breath. “Jesus, Blake. What were you thinking? You know better than to get involved with a witness. No, a victim.”
His eyes flashed. “She’s not a victim. She’s a woman. And she’s stronger than the both of us, you son of a bitch, so talk about her with respect.”
Rick blanched. “Hey, hold up, man. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Samantha Dawson. Don’t go twisting my words around.”
He changed lanes without signaling, whizzing onto the highway ramp while avoiding his partner’s shocked—and hurt—gaze. He didn’t give a damn if Rick’s feelings were hurt. Sam was the one hurting at the moment.
“I’m sorry,” Rick finally burst out. “I’m sorry it sounded like I was lecturing or reprimanding you. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page so we can rescue Samantha without any screwups, okay?”
Blake drew in a calming breath. Difficult, seeing as he
was feeling anything but calm. Frantic, was more like it. And scared. So goddamn scared he couldn’t even focus on the road in front of him.
“We’re on the same page,” he finally squeezed out. “I won’t screw this up. I won’t let what happened to Kate happen to Sam, all right?”
Rick looked shocked. “That wasn’t what I was implying.” He sighed. “What happened to Kate wasn’t your fault. I was hoping you’d figured that out by now.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t do this right now. Couldn’t think about Kate and what took place in that warehouse a year ago. If he did, he would lose the last shred of control he had left, and at the moment, that control was barely a thread and it was ready to snap.
His silence ended the conversation and fortunately Rick didn’t push it. The drive took them thirty minutes. The greenhouse was located north of the city, in an isolated area flanked by forest on one side, and near a stretch of farmland and a handful of industrial buildings, including a lumber mill that had been closed for years.
They left the SUV half a mile from their destination and entered the woods from the road. It couldn’t have been five minutes before the trees cleared and the greenhouse came into view.
Though old and isolated, it was an amazing structure. The afternoon sun bounced off the enormous windows, the layer of dirt covering the glass sparkling under the light. The scent of flowers carried in the wind and wafted toward them, making Blake’s nostrils burn. Sam was being held prisoner in there, at the mercy of a man whose reason and sanity had gone missing years ago.
His hand rested on his .38 and he slowly slid the weapon from its holster.
“I’ll take the front,” he said in a low voice. “You go around the back.”
Rick nodded. His boots scarcely made a sound as he moved across the twigs and snow to the edge of the greenhouse.
Blake inhaled the chilly air. He found himself saying a silent prayer, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.
Then he crept toward the glass structure, his fingers curled around the gun in his hand.
Sam gulped for air, desperately trying to swallow the debilitating horror glued to her throat. With a chuckle, the monster moved closer and closer, until he was kneeling down beside the cot.
“I’m sorry, Annie, but I have to make you pay.” Regret flashed across his face. “I hate to do this.”
“Then don’t.”
She batted at him with her bound hands but he easily avoided the useless blows and pushed her fists against her stomach with one hand. “Don’t make this difficult,” he hissed, his regret morphing into fury.
The red eyes. Oh, dear God, those red eyes.
She cried out as his other hand, the hand holding that gleaming knife, dipped lower and lower until it hovered inches from her collarbone. “I loved you.” He dragged the blade over the collar of her cotton T-shirt. “But you betrayed me. They all betrayed me—the army said I wasn’t needed anymore, cops kept me from being one of them—but your betrayal, Anne, yours was the worst, and now you’ll have pay.”
He sliced the top of her shirt with the tip of the knife. The seams hissed as they tore apart. He placed the cold steel against her trembling skin.
“So I have a present for you,” he continued, those wild red eyes searing her. “Last time I tried to be generous. I only gave you one rose, in honor of the tattoo—you know how much I hated that tattoo, Annie?” His voice hardened. “This time I’m going to give you twenty-four roses, just like your lover did. But my roses will be the ones that last forever.”
“Please.” It was all she could choke out, but this man was beyond hearing her words.
“And this time, I’m going to sit here and watch you die.” His jaw stiffened. “You won’t survive this time, Annie. You won’t be on the news and flaunt your adultery to all those reporters and screw yet another man who isn’t your husband. Do you hear that, Anne? This time I’m going to kill you right.”
“Let her go, Grant.”
At first Sam thought she’d imagined Blake’s voice, that she was so desperate to escape this sick scenario that she’d conjured up the voice of the man she’d prayed would save her. But when the knife froze over her chest, when the madman’s head cocked in the direction of the door, she knew she wasn’t hallucinating.
Blake. Here. A gun in his hand and his eyes so menacing, so determined and unwavering that she almost sobbed with relief.
She’d known he would come. That he’d save her. That she could trust him to protect her.
She’d known he couldn’t walk away.
Blake took a cautious step into the small dark room, breathing in the scent of roses and mildew.
History repeating itself.
His eyes registered Sam on the metal cot, hands and feet bound, gorgeous face rigid with fear. His eyes saw Francis Grant, sitting at her side, knife in hand.
But his mind…his mind saw something entirely different.
A dark cavernous warehouse with high-beamed ceilings and exposed piping. A skinny man with a gun pointed at Kate Manning’s back. Kate’s green eyes, wide with horror, then flashing with agony as the gun went off. Kate jerking forward as she got hit. Kate falling. Kate dying.
Blake blinked. Forced his brain to focus on the present. He wasn’t in the warehouse anymore. Sam wasn’t Kate. And this time there would be no room for hesitation. Not when another woman he desperately loved needed him.
“You’re under arrest, Grant. Drop the knife,” he said calmly.
Francis Grant stumbled to his feet, his lifeless eyes widening with…recognition?
“You’ve got some nerve, showing your face here,” Grant hissed out. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Blake took another step forward. “Drop the knife.”
Grant gave a humorless laugh. “Why? If I don’t kill her, you will. Either way she’ll die because of you, Ted.”
In his six years on the Serial Squad, Blake had spoken to a lot of killers. Sane ones, crazy ones, delusional ones. Grant obviously fell under category number three.
“Your wife died ten months ago,” he said quietly. “The woman in this room is not Anne.”
Grant whirled around to look at Sam, then glanced back at Blake. “You’re crazy. You think I don’t recognize my own wife? You think the time I spent in the Gulf screwed me up that bad? You think the pills the doc gave me are messing with my head? Well, I’ve got news for you, Teddy. I never took a single pill. I didn’t need to. I’m not crazy.”
“Of course you’re not crazy. You’re grieving for your wife.” Blake watched Sam from the corner of his eye. The ropes binding her to the cot looked strong. There was no way she would be able to undo those knots.
“I’m not grieving for her,” Grant said with a firm shake of his head. “I’m punishing her.”
With a bored look, the Rose Killer drifted toward the tall metal file cabinet leaning against the wall behind him.
“Don’t move!” Blake ordered.
Grant ignored him. Set the knife on the top of the cabinet. Pulled open the top drawer.
“She has to pay for what she did,” Grant mumbled, reaching into the drawer. “I won’t let you interfere, Ted. I won’t let you—” Without finishing his sentence Grant spun around with a small pistol in his hand.
“Drop it,” Blake commanded. “If you don’t, you won’t get out of here alive, Grant. So drop the gun, raise your hands and follow me outside into the squad car. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
Grant’s eyes flashed with blind fury. “She does,” he snapped, jerking his head at Sam.
Blake’s fingers hovered over the trigger of his weapon. He kept it aimed at Grant’s heart. “This woman isn’t your wife.”
A feral look replaced the fury on Grant’s face. He raised the weapon. “She needs to pay.” He pointed the pistol at Sam. “She needs to pay for what she did—”
This time there was no hesitation.
Blake fired two shots into Francis Grant’s chest.
With a strangled cry, the man stumbled forward. As he fell, he raised his gun and it went off, the deafening sound rocking the small room. Grant’s wayward bullet connected with the ceiling, sending big chunks of stained plaster crashing down to the floor.
Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Blake bounded toward the man and kicked the weapon out of his hand. Grant’s blood poured out of his chest like sticky cough syrup and stained Blake’s fingers as he bent over the injured man.
“She needs to pay. She needs—” Grant gurgled, coughed out a spurt of blood, then gasped.
The man’s dull eyes rolled to the top of his head.
Swallowing, Blake pressed his fingers to Grant’s neck and checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
The Rose Killer was dead.
Heavy silence fell over the dark room, except for Blake’s ragged breathing. Grant was dead. A wave of relief crashed over him, so violent that he nearly keeled over backward. It was over, finally over. Eight months of hunting, eight months of headaches and insomnia and—
“Blake?”
Sam’s small voice sliced into him like a knife to the jugular.
With shaky legs, he hurried over to the cot and started untying the knots binding her wrists. He freed her hands, then her feet, then crushed her into his embrace.
“Are you okay?” he whispered into her hair, holding her so tight he feared he’d crack one of her ribs.
She clung to him, her tears wetting his shirt collar, her hands icy when she wrapped them around his neck. “I knew you’d come.” Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face to his chest.
He planted a kiss on the top of her head before pulling back. “Did he hurt you?” he asked, sweeping his gaze over her.
Aside from the tears on her face, a purplish bruise at her temple and the red welts the ropes had left on her wrists, she looked uninjured.
She opened her mouth but Rick, Hodges and Samson burst into the room before she could speak.
“He’s dead?” Rick asked in a brusque voice, kneeling beside Grant’s motionless body.