by Rita Herron
His cell phone jangled and he quickly connected the call.
“Detective Blackpaw, I’m at the rehab facility where Williams has been,” Agent Whitehead said. “He has an alibi for all the murders. The woman who runs the halfway house confirmed he hasn’t left the premises for two weeks.”
“Nacona is our man,” Mason said. “Sherese, Cara’s assistant, said he worked as a janitor at the Winchester Clinic and at the clinic on the reservation, as well.”
“That fits,” Agent Whitehead said. “After receiving service awards and having medical training of his own, that job must have been demeaning to him.”
“I’m on my way to the address I have for him now. Ask your people to see what they can dig up on him. Maybe he has family or some property where he might take Cara.”
“I’m on it.”
“Anything on the phone yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ll check on it right now.”
He thanked her and hung up, then called his partner, Miles McGregor. He’d taken off a few days to be with his new wife Jordan, but he needed him now.
“McGregor,” Mason said without preamble. “Dr. Winchester has been kidnapped by the Navel Fetish Killer.”
Miles muttered an obscenity. “What can I do?”
“We believe the man’s name is Farr Nacona. He worked as a janitor for Cara. I’m on my way to his house to look for them, but since the first body was found on the BBL, it occurred to me that he might bring her back there.”
“I’ll call Brody and get his security teams to comb the property.”
“Thanks. I’ll alert the tribal police on the reservation.”
They disconnected, and he dialed Liam Runninghorse as he swerved onto the old dirt road. The hogan where Nacona lived was on the far end of the reservation in a deserted area that offered privacy.
And far enough from neighbors so no one could hear a woman’s cries for help.
The phone finally clicked as Runninghorse answered, and he quickly explained the situation. “Call Sadie and Carter and alert them. I’m almost to Nacona’s place now.”
“Do you want me to meet you?”
“Let me see if he’s there first. Meanwhile, you and the chief check other places on the res. Look for any deserted hogans and ask around. Maybe someone on the res knows where he might go.”
“Good idea. I’ll let you know if we turn up anything.” Liam paused. “And call if you need backup, Blackpaw.”
“I will.” Although if the bastard had hurt his son or harmed one hair on Cara’s head, he’d kill him with his bare hands.
He hung up, then pressed the accelerator and raced past shrub brush, barren soil, mesquites and a row of vacant hogans that were in disrepair. Suspicion nagged at him, and he slowed, looking for a car but didn’t see one anywhere in sight. Still, he scanned the bushes beyond in case he’d stowed it behind some trees, but nothing stuck out.
Deciding they were clear, he pushed the gas again and bounced over the ruts in the road, his teeth clenched as he spotted the cabin at the edge of the woods.
He didn’t see a car there, either.
Hell, the man could have ditched it, or maybe he knew a side road and left it there then walked in on foot to throw him off.
Gun at the ready, he climbed from his car and strode toward the wooden framed structure that looked as if it was rotting on its frame. An old tire rim lay to the side along with some gardening tools, the yard was overgrown, and two windowpanes were broken out.
Not a comforting sight.
He inched closer, ears cocked for sounds of Cara or Nacona, but the sound of the wind rocking an old porch swing screeched eerily like a ghost pushing it back and forth.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he slipped up to the window and peeked inside. Dusty furniture covered with old blankets filled the front room, liquor bottles were piled on the kitchen counter, and the bed was unmade.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his instincts telling him the place was empty, but still he had to be sure. So he crept around back and pushed at the door. Unlocked.
Nothing to steal in the place anyway.
He slowly entered, senses honed, but a quick sweep of the bathroom, then the bedroom and den, and defeat settled in.
The house was empty.
Where in the hell was Cara?
* * *
CARA SHUDDERED AS ANOTHER pain ripped through her, then she felt a gush of warmth on her thighs. She didn’t have to look down to know her water had broken. Nacona had shoved her into a chair and stood back and watched as she suffered one contraction after another.
“My water broke,” she said, lifting her chin with a defiant tilt. “Please let me go to the bathroom and clean up.”
He folded his arms and studied her for a moment, then walked over to a duffel bag, removed a hospital gown and pair of scrub pants and flung them at her. “All right, but make it quick.”
So he had come prepared.
The very idea that he’d planned this made bile rise to her throat.
He jerked her toward the bathroom. Cara cringed at his touch, the memory of what he’d done to those other women buried deep in her soul.
“You’ll have to untie me,” she said when he stopped at the bathroom door.
His gaze met hers, an emptiness in the depths that terrified her more than words. “You can’t escape, so don’t even try.”
He didn’t have to tell her that. For heaven’s sake, she was in the throes of labor, and too exhausted to run. Slowly he untied her, and she rubbed at her sore wrists, then she slipped into the bathroom and shut the door.
Grateful for a moment of privacy, she shrugged off her maternity pants, glad to get rid of the soiled clothes. Thankfully her maternity shirt had covered her phone so he hadn’t taken it from her. Knowing this might be her only chance, she called Mason’s number, but she heard Farr at the door and hid it back in the soaked pants then pushed it into the corner of the floor. Her shirt came next but she left on her bra, then dragged on the scrubs and tied them loosely at the waist.
Another pain seized her, and she leaned over the sink and breathed through it. When she glanced at the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair was wildly disheveled and sweat-soaked, dirt from the trunk of the car streaked her face, and her eyes were red and puffy from holding back the tears she desperately wanted to cry.
But she refused to give him the pleasure of showing her fear.
She splashed cold water on her face, then noticed a dry cloth hanging on the towel rack, doused it in cold water and pressed it to the back of her neck.
Suddenly the door swung open, and his gaze scorched her with contempt. Grasping for control, she ignored him, rinsed her face again, then clutched the washcloth in her hand as he yanked her from the bathroom and shoved her toward the metal bed in the corner.
Tears threatened but she blinked them back. She might have her baby here, but she would not die today.
Somehow she’d find a way to save herself and her son.
* * *
DESPAIR THREATENED TO knock Mason to his knees. His phone buzzed and he snatched it up, relieved to see Cara’s number. He answered immediately. “Hello, Cara, are you all right?” But no one was on the line. Still, hope budded. If she’d tried to call him, she was still alive.
He put the call on hold, then called Julie and told her to have the call traced. “I’ll get back you ASAP,” Julie said.
He hung up, his chest tight. Cara wasn’t in Nacona’s house. So where the hell had he taken her?
God, please don’t let me be too late.
Knowing he didn’t have time to fall apart, he forced himself through the house, looking for clues as to where the man might have gone.
He checked the kitchen drawers, the cabinets, the desk, then looked inside the closet for clues about the man.
His blood ran cold at what he found. Pictures of each of the victims’ burial spots had been tacked inside the door. Remembering that he took a souvenir o
f their hair, he checked the shoebox inside and an old cigar box but found nothing. He hunted for the buffalo skinner knife but it wasn’t there, either.
Because he had it with him to use on Cara.
The realization made his head roll.
Remembering he’d woven the hair into the navel fetish pouches, he scanned the wall. His gaze fell on the bow above the man’s bed, suspicions kicking in, and he crossed the room to it, his heart stuttering at the sight of the different colored strands.
One from each of the murder victims.
Dammit. Cara’s hair would not go in there.
His cell phone jangled, a sharp sound that jarred him from the disturbing evidence that confirmed in his mind that Nacona was their man.
Agent Whitehead’s name flashed on the caller ID, and Mason stabbed the button to connect. “Please tell me you have something.”
“We’ve tracked the car to a deserted road near Devil’s Creek.”
Adrenaline surged through Mason. “I know where that is. I’m heading to my car. Text me the coordinates.”
“They’re coming to you now. I’ll try to meet you there, but it may take me a while. There was an accident up ahead, and traffic is at a complete standstill.”
Mason ran to his car, explaining about the bow as he started down the drive.
“I’ll call McRae and have him send the crime unit there. When we catch this creep, he needs to fry,” she said.
Mason mumbled agreement, then pushed the gas to the limits. Devil’s Creek was only a few miles away, but very much off the beaten path.
The fact that Nacona had taken Cara there reminded him of the words he’d written in blood and left on her pillow, and made his heart harden.
He barreled down the road, spitting gravel and dust, half on, half off the mangled road as he followed the GPS. A quick turn to the right, another dirt road, a sign for the old fishing lodge that used to cater to hunters and fishermen who wanted an escape.
It had been shut down long ago although he’d heard talk that one of the Natives was thinking of restoring it.
He wove along the narrow road, his lights shining across the desolate terrain, the occasional sound of a night creature echoing in the night. Seconds stretched into precious minutes that made him so anxious nausea swirled through him.
He had to make it to Cara in time.
He couldn’t lose her or his son tonight.
* * *
THE CONTRACTIONS WERE coming one on top of the other. Cara barely had time in between them to catch her breath.
“Please, take me to the hospital,” she said. “I’ve delivered enough babies to know that anything can go wrong.”
Farr made a tsking sound. “There you go again, not trusting me.” He jerked her arm, pulling her up from the chair. “You’re going to have this baby the natural way, just as God intended.”
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he dragged her toward the door.
“You’ll see. Your baby is part of our people. He will be brought into this world as he should be.”
Cara gritted her teeth as another pain struck her. But Nacona had no sympathy. He pushed her outside and hauled her through the woods. She doubled over, breathing through the agony, and searched the darkness as he forced her into the woods.
If Mason didn’t find her before she delivered the baby, what did Farr intend to do? Kill her and take her child?
* * *
MASON FLEW OVER THE graveled road, hands sweating as he gripped the steering wheel to keep the car on the road. Dirt and gravel spewed behind him, but storm clouds rolled across the sky, the sound of thunder bursting into the night.
He prayed the rain held off. A downpour would slow him down, and every minute counted.
Swinging the vehicle to the right, he wove down the tree-snarled road, racing past woods and casting his eyes around in case Nacona had set up a watch somewhere. Five miles deep into the thicket, the old dilapidated fishing lodge came into view.
He spotted an old beat-up car to the side, and relief warred with fear. They had to be here.
He just prayed he wasn’t too late.
Pulling his gun from his holster, he parked and climbed out, scanning the perimeter. If Nacona was inside the lodge and had heard the car, he’d be waiting.
His weapon was a knife. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a gun, as well. Only that he preferred to use the knife on his victims.
At first glance, everything seemed quiet. So quiet that his heart began to race. If he wasn’t inside, where the hell had he taken Cara?
Breath stalled in his chest as he crept forward. He inched up to the side window and glanced inside, but the room was dark. The building was a one-story structure with rooms on each side of a center welcoming area. He peeked inside each window as he went, but it appeared empty.
The creek gurgled behind the lodge, and he slipped through the back door, frowning at the sight of the decay and dirt in the abandoned rooms. Something creaked, and he hesitated to listen, then crept toward the noise.
A side room off the main lobby had been an office at one point, but there was a cot in there and a bathroom was attached.
He poked his head in, but no one was there.
But Cara’s soiled clothes were piled in the corner of the bathroom.
A choked sound caught in his throat. What had Nacona done to her?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anger mingled with rage as Mason searched each room of the lodge. But the room where he’d found Cara’s discarded clothing was the only one with any sign that they’d been there.
Adrenaline fueling him, he forced himself to think like a detective, not a man who might have just lost the two most precious people in the world to him.
Falling back on his tracking skills, he spotted footprints leading out the door. Scuffmarks also darkened the wood flooring, an indication that someone had been dragged. Emotions thickened his throat as he imagined the scenario, but he quickly blocked them out.
He followed the prints outside, noted that they led to the right along the water through the woods. Using every tracking skill he possessed, he followed them, searching for a broken twig, leaves crunched beneath the weight of the footprints.
A torn piece of clothing. Blue.
Like the scrub suits he’d seen at Cara’s clinic.
The man’s footprints continued, Cara’s oddly varying in depth, then an occasional spot where it looked as if she might have fallen to her knees.
Was she hurt?
He flashed back to the soaked clothing, and his gut tightened. She was in labor.
Dear God...
A second later, he pulled himself back together and forged on. A few more feet and he heard voices.
Then a gut-wrenching scream of pain.
It tore at his heart, but at least Cara was still alive.
Determination heated his blood, and he ran toward the direction of the sound. He pushed aside brush and weeds, flying over rocks and broken limbs from a storm, the sound of thunder mingling with the harshness of his own breath.
Another scream, and he realized he was close. He jogged toward the sound, then halted when he spotted a teepee set up next to the river.
Cara was on her hands and knees, writhing in pain. “Please, the baby is coming.”
Nacona stood above her like some ancient war-fighting Indian, the buffalo skinner knife glinting in the dark. “Crawl in the teepee and we’ll deliver the child,” Nacona barked.
“Please don’t hurt my baby,” Cara pleaded.
Mason’s lungs volleyed for air. He couldn’t startle Nacona, or he might drive the knife into Cara and kill her and the baby.
Padding as quietly as he could, just as he’d been taught on the reservation, he crept through the brush, anguish searing him when Cara released another cry.
“The baby’s crowning,” she said through a labored breath. “Please, promise me you won’t hurt my son.”
“Don’t worry. I will raise hi
m as my own.”
Nacona was so caught up in his evil, twisted plan that he didn’t hear him approach.
Mason raised his gun and aimed, but suddenly Nacona pivoted toward him. Holding the knife above Cara’s head, he shoved her into the teepee on her hands and knees.
Fury emboldened Mason, and he circled back to the other side to throw off Nacona. Cara cried out, then Nacona turned and scanned the woods as if he sensed he was there.
Mason lunged forward and jumped him, throwing his weight into the man. Nacona bellowed out in their Native language, and Mason knocked the knife from his hand. It skittered into the dirt a few feet away, and Nacona punched him and crawled toward it.
But Mason pressed the barrel of his gun to Nacona’s temple. “Move and I’ll shoot you, you bastard.”
Nacona looked up at him from the ground and spit. “You are a disservice to our people. My father was a staunch Comanche. He taught me to hunt and kill when I was a boy.”
“He taught you to kill women?” Mason growled.
“He taught me that Comanches looked upon their children as their most precious gift. They were supposed to be protective of their young and rarely punished them.” He spewed venom from his eyes. “The girls were taught to sew and cook and take care of their babies.”
“Dr. Winchester helps women do that,” Mason snapped.
“No, she encourages them to throw children away. When I went on my vision quest at fifteen, I saw my future. I was meant to rid the world of mothers who did not follow the ways.”
“How dare you use our culture to condone what you did,” Mason said. “You’re nothing but a common murderer.”
His eyes blazed with hate and a sickness that had obviously stolen his mind. “I was honoring our traditions. The mother—”
“Is supposed to be revered for giving birth and taking care of the family,” Mason said. “Not butchered like an animal.”
Cara cried out again, and his heart pounded. The baby was coming.
Nacona took that second to try to escape and shoved Mason. They rolled into the dirt, exchanging blow after blow. Nacona fought like a wild animal, kicking Mason in the gut and crawling toward the river.