by Alexa Grace
“Start from the beginning, Allison.”
“My boy, Danny, got involved in the youth activities that Evan ran at the church. He trusted Evan, and one day after Evan questioned Danny about a new set of bruises on his arms, Danny told him about his father’s drinking. It took a lot of courage for Danny to tell the family secret. We were so ashamed; we didn’t want anyone to know about Wayne’s problem. I feared his employer would find out and he’d lose his job. Then what would happen to us?” She paused for a long moment, looking out the front window.
“My husband, Wayne, is a good man with an evil addiction to alcohol. When Wayne’s drunk, he becomes a different person — one who is angry and violent. Though he’s been drinking a long time, it’s only been the past year that he hit us. I used to be able to protect Danny by sending him to his room, but the older he gets, the more he wants to protect his mom. He puts himself right in front of me and he bears the bruises to show for it.”
Allison glanced at Jennifer, her brow furrowed. “Danny came home the day he talked to Evan and begged me to meet with the youth minister, too. So we started family counseling. I begged Wayne to go with us, and at first he refused. When he saw how much it meant to Danny, he joined us.
“Evan talked to us about getting Wayne into rehab. Easy thing for folks with money, but that’s not us. Wayne drives a truck for Holden Dairy, and as you know, I’m a cashier at the 7-Eleven. We make enough for the essentials, but the costs of rehab were beyond our reach. But Evan found a place that would take Wayne and worked out payments based on our income.” She paused, visibly trembling with intensity.
“Jennifer, that’s what we were discussing the night Tiffany Chase went missing. Danny, Wayne and I were with Evan until after ten that night. Because Wayne had been drinking and I’d just worked two shifts, Evan was worried about us driving home, so he followed us in his car. Evan couldn’t have abducted Tiffany — he was with us. So you see, Fred Thomas may have killed Evan, but it was my fault. If I had come forward sooner, he would have never been considered a suspect.”
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From the window, Jennifer stood watching Allison walk to her car; the woman’s shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world rested on them. No matter what Jennifer said, Allison remained convinced she caused Evan’s death. Jennifer felt guilt of her own. She turned to see Blake standing near her.
“Blake, is there anything we could have done differently to prevent Evan’s shooting?”
“I’ve thought a lot about that. In a perfect world, we could have prevented the media from discussing and speculating on Evan’s guilt or innocence, thus preventing Fred Thomas from knowing about Evan’s involvement in the case. Grace Cohn may market her program as informative, but when she uses talking heads to speculate on an active investigation, she seriously jeopardizes the case and puts viewers, like Fred Thomas, at great risk.”
“But what would our country be without freedom of speech?”
“It’s a question of professional ethics,” Blake said, glancing at Jennifer, and noticing the dark circles under her eyes. “Honey, sit on the sofa or go upstairs for a nap. The doctor told you to rest.”
“I’ll take a nap upstairs if you take one with me.” Jennifer’s eyes glittered mischievously.
“Not a good idea. We both know if I go up there with you, we won’t be napping.”
“Okay, you’re right. I am a little tired,” Jennifer said as she headed for the stairs.
“Good, get some rest. There is someone I want you to meet later.”
She stopped in her tracks, and turned to face him. “Who?”
“You’ll see. Just get some rest.”
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He pulled his Jeep in front of the empty house for sale, which sat about a block from Jennifer Brennan’s house. He surmised she must be home from the hospital since a police cruiser was parked in front. The lucky bitch was like a cat with nine lives. If that damn detective hadn’t barged in, he would have unloaded the syringe in her neck. As it was, it was sheer luck that any of the Rohypnol was injected. Not that he knew, since he’d panicked and left the syringe in the bitch’s neck.
Finding an empty patient’s room when Blake Stone was chasing him was a godsend. He’d locked himself in the bathroom, stripped off the scrubs and dumped them in the waste can. Then he removed the fake mustache and glasses, depositing them in his pocket. By the time he reached the hospital lobby, the place was crawling with cops. He stayed calm, walking right past them and out the door. Once he reached his Jeep, he nearly vomited from the tension.
He looked in the rearview mirror and brushed his fingers through his hair, then opened a bottle of water and took a gulp. The whole hospital escapade was a joke; he shouldn’t have attempted in the first place. He had to do a better job of tapping his behavioral controls, or his next impulsive act could be his last.
Behavioral control. That’s what his old-bag fifth grade teacher, Miss Sing, had told his Mama after she caught him beating up Jerry Groden, then taking his new bike. “Your son has poor behavioral controls,” she’d said. “He doesn’t accept responsibility for his actions. Instead, he blames others.”
He’d gotten the crap beat out of him when Mama returned from school later. He hated Mrs. Sing after that, and kept a close eye on her house, which was one of those white houses with a manicured lawn and white picket fence that other people lived in — certainly not he and Mama. He discovered that the teacher loved cats and fed all the stray cats in the neighborhood. That’s when he’d taken the box of liquid ant killer in Mama’s cupboard and laced any cat food he found on Miss Sing’s porch. She must have found two dozen dead cats littering her lawn before she wised up and stopped feeding them. She called the police, too, not that they ever found anything.
Miss Sing had gotten off easy. If he’d been older, she’d have gotten a taste of a leather belt across her bare ass. He would have taught her a thing or two about behavioral controls, and she wouldn’t have lived to tell about it.
Chapter Nine
While Jennifer napped, Blake made a pan of homemade lasagna. Now it was in the oven, garlic bread ready to go in next, and a fresh vegetable salad waiting in the refrigerator. He’d sent a deputy to pick up his sister at the airport an hour ago, so Carly was due to arrive any minute.
Jennifer awoke to the most delicious aroma that had ever filled her home — spicy and Italian, just like the gorgeous man downstairs in the kitchen. He’d obviously whipped up something amazing. She couldn’t wait to get downstairs to thank him.
In her bathroom, Jennifer showered, dried her hair, applied fresh makeup and finished with a swipe of rose gloss across her lips. She changed into a sexy black knit shift she’d never worn, and obeying doctor’s orders, slipped on a pair of ballerina flats instead of the sky-high heels she liked to wear. As she brushed her hair, she heard the doorbell and remembered that Blake had mentioned a surprise guest.
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Blake answered the door and pulled his sister into a hug, while the deputy who had driven her stood awkwardly on the porch holding the handle of her rolling suitcase.
Once the deputy left, Blake pulled her inside the living room and looked at her. Carly was five feet and ten inches, like Jennifer, but she was too thin and lacked Jennifer’s curves. She’d always been slender, but Carly looked like she’d lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose.
Like Blake’s, her eyes were the color of espresso, and filled with intelligence, but today there were glints of sadness. Her tanned skin was more the result of her rich Italian lineage than the hot Florida sun. She was only twenty-seven-years-old, but the worry lines across her forehead suggested she’d already known more trouble than people twice her age.
“Are you hungry? I made lasagna. Gram’s recipe.”
“It smells delicious. Thank goodness, one of us learned how to cook like Gram.”
Blake led her to the kitchen, where he pulled the lasagna out of the oven and pushed in the cookie pan of garlic bread slices.
> Jennifer burst into the kitchen ready to launch herself into Blake’s arms, but stopped short, rooted to a spot on the tile floor. There were two people in her kitchen and the second one was female with long ebony hair and a body that was runway model thin. The woman was laughing, as if she and Blake had just shared a private joke and Jennifer’s other-woman radar went on alert. Her mind raced. What if Blake’s special guest was a fiancé he’d neglected to tell her about or worse a pregnant ex-lover, carrying his baby?
She cleared her throat to get their attention and stiffly accepted Blake’s hug.
“Hello, Jennifer. I’m so glad to meet you. Blake’s told me a lot about you.” The woman said as she extended her hand.
Blake spoke next, “Jennifer, this is my sister, Carly.”
Sister? Blake has a sister? “Hi, Carly,” she said weakly as she grasped her hand and squeezed.
“Dinner’s ready and we have a lot to talk about,” said Blake as he cut the lasagna into squares. He pulled the garlic bread out of the oven. “Why don’t you ladies sit in the dining room and I’ll serve dinner?”
“I never pass up a chance to be served by a man,” joked Carly as she smiled at Jennifer.
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“In the kitchen, you thought I was Blake’s girlfriend,” Carly stated, staring at Jennifer with impenetrable dark eyes.
Jennifer just stared back, struggling to keep her expression blank.
“Yeah, you did. I could tell by your deer-in-the-headlights expression.”
Blushing, Jennifer looked down at her lap as she unfolded her napkin. When she looked up she met Carly’s wide smile.
“Don’t look so embarrassed. I’m delighted you care about my brother. He’s a pretty amazing guy.”
With a sheepish expression, Jennifer replied, “Sorry about that.”
“No problem. Blake’s dated a lot of women. With his looks, he could have any woman he wanted. But you’re the first woman he’s ever talked about to me, so I knew you were special.”
Jennifer glanced at Carly and wondered why Blake had never confided to her about having a sister.
“Blake never mentioned me, did he?”
Jennifer squirmed in her seat, then answered, “No.”
“Not surprised. He’s always been ultra-private about his family. Did he tell you about our parents’ divorce?”
Jennifer nodded in the affirmative.
“Then you know it was a hard time for us as children. Mom and Dad argued all the time, using us as bargaining chips. All we had was each other, so we became close. After the divorce, we lived with Mom, but she and Dad continued their war. It changes your perspective about relationships. I think it’s the reason Blake has, until now, avoided a serious relationship with a woman. It’s hard for him to trust.”
Jennifer secretly smiled. Blake was serious about her. Not that she didn’t already know that, but it was nice to have it confirmed. He hadn’t left her side since the hospital.
Blake walked in with a loaded plate for Carly and one for Jennifer. He returned with a plate for himself, as well as a bottle of red wine that he poured into each glass.
Tearing her garlic bread into pieces, Carly said, “Blake, remember the time when we told Mom and Dad we were both going into law enforcement. I thought Dad was going to have a coronary.”
“Really?” asked Jennifer. Her father had reacted the same.
“Dad assumed we’d work the family business. Can’t blame the guy,” said Blake. “He’d worked hard over the years to build a couple dozen condo and apartment complexes. I think Dad had planned from the day we were born that we would someday take over.”
Jennifer looked at Carly. “So you’re in law enforcement, too?”
“Yes, I’m a special agent in the Criminal Investigation Division of the FBI division office in Tampa. Right now I’m on leave, so I’m available to help you and Blake with your case.”
Clearly surprised, Jennifer looked at Blake. “What?”
“Your dad, Lane and I talked at the hospital. We think we have a serial killer on our hands and we need help. I knew Carly was on leave so I got your dad’s permission to bring her in on a consultant basis. She has experience with serials and has a good profiling background.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes.
“Because your health is more important than this case, Jennifer. Your doctor said no stress.” He met her glare head-on, expecting her reaction, but he stood by his decision. How could she not realize how important she was to him? That she was much more than just a partner.
At that moment, Jennifer said nothing. She didn’t want to make Carly uncomfortable with a disagreement between Blake and her right then. As soon as she and Blake were alone, she’d have plenty to say, including the fact she was his partner and had a right to be clued in — concussion or not.
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It had been another shit day at work. They’d had a department picnic and the whole boring gang of assholes was there. He suffered through it and couldn’t wait until quitting time.
Inside his cabin, he pulled two cans of beer out of the refrigerator then plopped in his favorite chair. He gulped the beer and crushed the can with his hand when it was empty. Picking up the remote control from the end table, he aimed it at the television and clicked the on button.
The Grace Cohn Program was on CSN and the bitch was blowing her mouth like usual, “This Indiana community can rest now that the serial killer in its midst is dead.”
Nice. Thanks to her the whole world thinks Evan Hendricks pulled off the unsolved murders of the century, as if the little prick had his cunning and forethought. It’d be a joke if it wasn’t so damn stupid. He may have to visit Grace Cohn after he took care of Jennifer Brennan.
He picked up the other can of beer and flushed it down his throat, not really enjoying the taste, but liking the buzz it gave him. Crushing this can, too, he tossed it on the table with the other one.
Restless, he wandered around his cabin until he reached the kitchen. The room was dismal with outdated appliances, Army-green painted cabinets, stained Formica countertops, and linoleum floor that had seen better days — maybe a century ago. What a dump. But it was free rent, so what the hell.
He did an inventory of his tools and lined them up on the kitchen counter: duct tape to secure prey to the table, leather belt, bath soap and towels. Opening the cabinet under the sink, he saw several gallons of bleach he’d need to wash down the table, the prey, and the room. He opened a drawer to reveal his stash of Rohypnol tablets and syringes. All items accounted for; he was ready for the next time he had one of his urges to troll for prey.
Going back to the living room, he sat back down in his chair and stared at the television. Grace Kohn had moved on to a story about a missing child in Louisiana. His mind wandered. He was almost sick to his stomach about his failure to kill Jennifer Brennan. But soon it would be a distant memory, he consoled himself, that would not be repeated. He was back on his game. Hell, when it came to his particular game, he was the master.
He wanted to kick it up a notch next time, and considered using one of Ted Bundy’s ruses. Good old Ted had some great ones, like the times he wore a cast on his arm. Bundy had looked so pathetic when he asked for help, those smart-ass college girls must have thought they were bestowing a random act of kindness on the poor guy — not knowing it would be their last random act of any kind.
He considered this trick, but discarded it. The cast on the arm could be cumbersome if the prey fought back. Maybe he’d use the disabled vehicle ruse on a country road. He’d used it successfully before. That might be fun.
The thoughts he was having about stalking and capturing prey resulted in some physical reactions that were all too familiar. His jaw clenched and he ground his teeth until pain radiated through his ears. Sweat trickled down his back, while a vein throbbed in his neck as he worked himself into a frenzy. The demons were back, clawing at his insides until the urg
es to kill emerged — relentless and overpowering.
Deep inside, the urge was so powerful that the thought of resisting didn’t enter his mind. He knew the longer he tried to ignore it, the stronger it got. He would track his prey soon, capture and torture her until she begged for mercy.
<><><>
After her shift ended at the Sugar Creek Cafe, Brianna Hayden did what she did every day: she took her two Labrador Retrievers, Salt and Pepper, for a walk down the country road that ran in front of her parent’s home. Only two-years-old, the dogs were energetic and delighted to begin their daily adventure.
Brianna’s two-year-old daughter, Mandy, was taking a nap while Brianna’s mother fixed dinner, so it was the perfect time to get some exercise and still be back before dinner was served. What a day she’d had. It hadn’t slowed down since breakfast at the restaurant where she waitressed. There were a lot of reporters in town since Fred Thomas shot Evan Hendricks. The whole thing was horrible and made her sick. People were so wrapped up in the shooting drama that they seemed to have forgotten that two young women were tortured and murdered in their midst. Didn’t anyone care about the victims? All people could talk about was Evan’s shooting and how glad they were that the serial-killing bastard was dead.
Brianna inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool country air, and laughed when she noticed that Pepper had picked up a stick and was prancing proudly with it wedged in his mouth.
It wasn’t that long ago that Catherine Thomas had followed her home from work when they were on the same shift, so that she could join Brianna on a walk. They’d discussed their day, their love lives, and their world in general. Catherine had been one of her few single friends, who seemed to enjoy hearing about the antics of her two-year-old. She missed Catherine, and there wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think of her, trying hard to remember the Catherine who giggled at her jokes, and not the Catherine who spent the final hours of her life in a tortured hell.