In a Heartbeat

by Rita Herron

  Sweat beaded on his skin and trickled along his jaw. His body throbbed with the need to take her. It had been so damn long he thought he might burst.

  Then she opened her eyes. It took her a second before his face registered. “Curtis?”

  “I’m back, baby.”

  She swallowed, licked her lips. “You got the papers I sent?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Her eyebrow rose a fraction. “You signed them?”

  “I came to make you change your mind.” She started to protest, but he placed a finger to her lips and halted her reply. In one deft movement, he discarded his clothes. She inhaled sharply, moved to roll off the bed, but he pushed her back down, inhaling the scent of her fear as well as sex. She watched, instantly mesmerized as he’d known she would be, when he shucked his jeans and underwear. Sure, he had a few new scars. A long one down his chest. Two jagged ones on his belly. The one on his side where he’d sold that kidney.

  Prison did a number on a man. But as far as he was concerned, his battle scars made him more virile.

  And the scars couldn’t detract from the size of his sex.

  “You’ve been lifting weights?” she said in a sultry voice.

  He nodded. “Man has to be strong to defend himself.” And he planned to do that right now with her. In fact, his body was one of his best weapons. The past few months, he’d worked out day and night and had muscles that belonged on a bodybuilder.

  He jerked the covers away from her, exposing the rest of her naked body for his hungry eyes. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before desire tightened her face, then she opened her legs wider as if in invitation. He licked his lips and toyed with the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs, wondering how he’d gone so long without a woman.

  He wanted to make it last, to savor the sex, but she was already wet and willing, and he was throbbing. What the hell—he’d take it slow next time.

  With a groan deep in his throat, he crawled onto the bed and straddled her. He didn’t bother with a kiss, just sank his rigid cock into her tight sheath, kneaded her breasts in his hands as he began to thrust inside her. She raised her hips and met him, rotating her body to take him in deeper, her guttural cries of pleasure ripping his own from his chest. A minute later, he came, his body quaking with the strength of his release. She joined him, bellowing his name and clutching his back until he finally collapsed on top of her.

  His breathing rushed in and out, sweat coating his body, and he rolled over and looked at her, wiped a drop of perspiration from her forehead with his finger.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Chartrese said. “I told you I’m leaving you.”

  “Nobody leaves Curtis Thigs, baby.” His steely gaze trapped her just as his hands manacled her wrists above her head. “Now, why don’t you fix me something to eat before we go a second time. Some of your biscuits and gravy would be great.”

  She yanked at his arm, and he released her, then slapped her butt. She simply laughed, and sauntered toward the footboard, breasts swaying, his love juices still dotting her belly as she dragged on a thin cotton robe. “Breakfast, then you go. The police are looking for you, Curtis, and I don’t aim to get in the middle of it.”

  He cursed. “They talking about that copycat killer?”

  She nodded, a frisson of fear darkening her eyes. “Why are they questioning you, Curtis?”

  He laughed, glad she was afraid. “Because White was my cell mate. He told me all his secrets.”

  She tightened the robe around her with a shiver. “You didn’t kill that Worthy woman, did you?”

  He laughed again. When the headlines about that copycat killer hit the stands, he’d known the police would come knocking at his door.

  But he ignored her question, stalked to the bathroom, used the facilities, then loped toward the kitchen, still naked. He wanted to punish her now. Make her worry. Sweat. Wonder just how far he would go.

  “Answer me, Curtis,” Chartrese said as she removed eggs and milk from the refrigerator.

  “What do you think, baby? That I got out of the pen and took to killing?”

  Her chin quivered slightly, and he grinned. She deserved to be scared. After all, the bitch had sent him fucking divorce papers in prison instead of showing up for a conjugal visit.

  Nobody walked away from Curtis Thigs. Especially not his woman.

  White and he had shared that feeling.

  Their quiet conversations late at night ran through his head as he filled a mug with coffee.

  The last four years, he’d lived vicariously through White’s mutterings about what he’d done to those women. What he would do to Lisa Langley when he escaped.

  The details of White’s fantasies had been etched into Curtis’s mind with grueling clarity. He’d craved the excitement of the kill.

  What would Chartrese do if he dug a hole and put her in it?

  If she didn’t straighten up, she’d find out. After all, it would serve her right for embarrassing him in front of his buddies in the joint.

  * * *

  A HAZY SCATTERING of dust motes floated in the gray light like tiny white ghosts against the dark, inky room. Lisa flipped on the lamp to make certain the intruder was gone, then locked the door and closed the window. Heart still pounding, she searched the room for a weapon, but found nothing, so she grabbed a can of aerosol deodorizer from the bathroom and poised it in front of her in case the man returned. His scent still lingered. She could almost feel his fingers touching her skin, closing around her neck.

  But she refused to let fear paralyze her. If he came back, she’d fight for her life.

  A siren suddenly wailed in the distance, and she forced herself to take even breaths to steady her nerves. Her gaze was glued to the clock as the seconds ticked by.

  Outside, tires screeched to a stop. Car doors slammed shut. Voices broke through the haze of her shock. The bedroom window faced the back, so she couldn’t see if it was Brad or a local cop, but at least someone had arrived.

  Seconds later, Brad pounded on the door. “It’s me, Lisa. Open up!”

  She pitched forward and unlocked the door. He jerked it open, then gripped her by her arms. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, but foolish tears sprang to her eyes, and he hauled her up against him. She fell against his chest.

  “Shh, it’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry. I was so scared,” she whispered.

  “I’m here now. You’re safe.” He stroked her back in slow circles, his voice low and husky as he murmured nonsensical words of comfort. Her tears soaked his shirt, the terror that had clutched at her slowly dissipating, although reality kept it close enough to remind her that she hadn’t imagined the intruder.

  Or the fact that the copycat killer was on the prowl again, stalking and taking women’s lives.

  Another man’s voice broke through her hushed cries. Special Agent Ethan Manning, Brad’s partner. She’d met him four years ago at her trial. “I’ve checked the perimeter, Booker. He’s gone,” Manning said.

  Embarrassed, Lisa pulled away, drying her eyes with the back of her hand. Brad glanced at his partner, but curved an arm around her waist and led her to the sofa. “Tell me exactly what happened, Lisa.”

  He continued to stroke her back as she relayed her dream. “When I woke up, he was standing over me,” she whispered. “He…reached out as if he was going to touch me, then…I jerked away and he ran.”

  A frown creased Brad’s brow. “He ran? He didn’t attack you?”

  Lisa shook her head, realizing the man’s behavior had been odd. “No, I grabbed the phone and rolled off the bed to call 911. He flew out the bedroom door, then outside. I heard the front door bang shut behind him.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy’s face?” Agent Manning asked.

  “No. It was too dark, and he was in the shadows.” She hesitated for a second, thinking. “I smelled him first….”

  “What kind
of smell?” Brad asked.

  “Some kind of menthol aftershave,” she said. “It seemed familiar.”

  Brad and his partner exchanged curious looks. “Where did you recognize it from?” Brad asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Lisa twisted her fingers in her lap, the sickening odor familiar.

  “Did Vernon Hanks wear that brand?” Agent Manning asked.

  Lisa bit her lip and glanced at Brad, denial mounting. “No…William did.” She suddenly gripped Brad’s hands. “You don’t think he could still be alive, do you, Brad?”

  * * *

  BRAD CLASPED LISA’S HANDS between his own. “Lisa, I told you before, I saw White’s body myself. I went to the morgue just to make sure he was dead.” And that you were safe.

  The sound of another siren cut through the tension, the local police car roaring up.

  Ethan cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll meet them outside.”

  Brad nodded, then realized Lisa still wasn’t dressed. She seemed to realize it at the same time, and her face flushed. “Let me put on some clothes.”

  He squeezed her hands, not quite ready to release her, but knowing he had to. “I’ll be in the other room.”

  The rookie, Surges, and another officer, named Tandem, walked into the den. “Sorry it took us so long,” Surges said.

  Brad glared at the men, cutting them off. “An intruder broke in. I want this place dusted for fingerprints, anything you can find. I need to know who it was.”

  Surges lifted a piece of paper toward Brad. “I found this outside. It looks as if it was stuck on the door, but the wind blew it to the ground.

  Brad unfolded the paper and grimaced.

  Dear Lisa,

  I have never stopped loving you.

  I am coming back for you soon.

  Then we’ll be together forever….

  There was no signature.

  Brad hissed in disgust, but his cell phone rang before he could ask more questions. He checked the number. Shit. Nettleton.

  He walked to the window and stared out at the gray, mottled clouds rolling over the lake as he answered it. For days it had looked like rain, but the sky never delivered. It was almost as if God was taunting them with false promises, holding it back to make them suffer. “Agent Booker.”

  “Booker, this is Wayne Nettleton—”

  “I know,” Brad snapped. “What the hell do you want?”

  “He has another woman. A girl named Darcy Mae Richards.”

  * * *

  DARCY MAE RICHARDS tried to open her eyes, but the maze of colors swirling in front of her made her dizzy. She blinked rapidly, then licked the corner of her lips, the cotton mouth from the drugs her assailant had given her gluing them together.

  Where in the hell was she? And where had her attacker gone?

  She listened, shivering at the sound of his voice. Was he on the phone? Or had he left the TV on?

  The room spun and twirled like a merry-go-round, and she reached for the wall to steady herself, but her arms felt heavy and leaden and she could barely move. She was too nauseous to sit up.

  Perspiration trickled down her cheeks. The heat was so unbearable that it felt as if the sun was beating her with its rays. But even though she was sweating like the dickens, an icy chill engulfed her.

  What was he going to do to her?

  She squeezed her eyes shut, although a mosquito buzzed close by, and something tickled her arm. Oh, God. It was a bug. Or a spider. Crawling up her skin. Inhaling a deep breath to steady herself, she opened her eyes again, trying to blink away the dizzying mirage of colors, but just as she did, the sound of a man’s eerie voice droned above her.

  “Just a rose will do….”

  It was an old religious hymn her granny Richards used to sing, one her family had sung at Granny’s funeral.

  The same one that first Grave Digger killer had sung to his victims. She’d read about it in the paper the day before.

  The night before drifted back in painful bursts of terror. Leaving that bar. Feeling woozy. Wondering if she was coming down with something, or if someone had slipped her that date rape drug. She’d known she had to get home fast, so she’d staggered to her car. Tried to get her cell phone and call her boyfriend to pick her up.

  Then something had slammed against the back of her skull.

  No wonder her head throbbed like hell.

  She wiggled her fingers and tried to move again, but when her fingers connected with wood, pure horror flashed through her as realization dawned.

  The sound of the voice, the singing, the wooden box…

  She was trapped inside her own coffin.

  She opened her mouth and screamed, blinding tears mingling with the sweat coating her cheeks. “Help me! Someone help me!”

  But the effect of the drugs and dehydration had dried her vocal cords and robbed her voice of any power. She tried again, this time the weakness overcoming her as nausea rippled through her. She was going to die. Be buried alive.

  Just like the other girls.

  And her family would sing “Just a Rose Will Do” over her grave just as the killer was now.

  Panic bubbled inside her, more hot tears spilling over.

  Why her? Why now?

  Darcy Mae Richards had always been a good girl. She listened to her mama. Didn’t go out at night by herself. Studied hard. Made good grades. Worked as a nurse.

  And she was kind to the patients. Waited on them hand and foot. Carried their bedpans and helped ’em bathe, and she didn’t do it begrudgingly like some of the others who were burned out. No, she tried to be understanding and compassionate, put herself in the patient’s place.

  She even went to church. Hadn’t missed a Sunday in years.

  She had only gone to that bar to meet a girlfriend and plan a party for her fiancé’s birthday. She and Dennis were going to be married in a church wedding in the fall. The fall when it was cool, and the leaves all changed to reds, oranges and yellows, brightening the sky, and a breeze would lift her veil and feather cool air along her cheeks. Cool air she desperately needed now. Just as she needed water.

  She was drowning in sweat. Heat was slowly sucking the life from her. And the bugs…there were more of them. Clawing at her arms and legs. Nibbling on her flesh.

  The rest of the evening rolled back with vivid clarity. Her screaming when she’d awakened, tied to some ramshackle bed. Her struggling to escape when he’d laughed at her cries.

  Her futile attempt to appeal to his conscience through prayer.

  Dear God. He’d laughed at her tears. Told her no amount of praying was going to get her out of this one.

  She’d tried all night, but this maniac had no emotions. When she’d mentioned the Lord, he’d actually proclaimed that he understood and believed.

  Because he had risen from the dead just as Jesus had.

  Except the devil possessed his body.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BRAD CURSED, then dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “When did you get the call?”

  “About five minutes ago.”

  “Did he say where the girl was?”

  Nettleton hesitated. “No.”

  “Listen, Nettleton, if you’re holding back, you’ll be sorry.”

  The reporter cleared his throat. “He thanked me for running the pictures of Mindy Faulkner and Joann Worthy in the paper.”

  “Sick bastard. He likes the attention, and you’re giving it to him.” Brad glanced at the bedroom door, dreading telling Lisa.

  “If it wasn’t me, it would be another reporter,” Nettleton said. “And he chose me because White did.”

  The verdict was still out on that. “Did he say anything else?” Brad asked. “Did you trace the call?”

  “No, and no. He’s probably using those throwaway cells.” Nettleton paused.

  “That’s what we’ve figured,” Brad admitted. In fact, the FBI had a tracker on Nettleton’s phone, but so far they’d failed t
o learn anything new.

  “Do you know who this woman is?” Nettleton asked.

  “You mean you don’t?” Brad headed to the desk to consult his files.

  “She’s not one of the jurors who convicted him,” Nettleton said, proving he did know, that he was testing Brad. “Joann Worthy was called for jury duty that week, but she—”

  “Got sick and was dismissed,” Brad finished. “We figured out the connection this morning and already have officers trying to locate and warn all the jurors, the judge and attorneys associated with the case.”

  “So how does this Richards woman fit in?”

  Brad scratched his chin. It didn’t make sense. Just when they thought they recognized a pattern, this guy had broken it. “I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure it out. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  He hung up without bothering to wait for a reply, then found Ethan overseeing the officers. Surges was dusting his front door, while Gunther worked the kitchen. Lisa reappeared, wearing a pair of denim shorts and a cotton T-shirt. Her hair still looked mussed, but she’d thrown it up in a ponytail. Coupled with the fact that she wore no makeup, she looked impossibly young and vulnerable.

  Brad’s insides churned. “Bad news.”

  Lisa folded her arms across her stomach. “He has another woman?”

  Brad hesitated.

  “Who is it?” Lisa asked.

  “A woman named Darcy Mae Richards,” Brad said. “That was Nettleton on the phone. He just received the call.”

  “Is she another juror?” Lisa asked.

  “No. She was a nurse like Mindy, but she worked at St. Jude’s, not First Peachtree.”

  Which didn’t make sense. White had never been taken to St. Jude’s. He’d died at First Peachtree where Langley worked.

  * * *

  LISA’S HAND FLUTTERED to her cheek. “We have to do something, Brad. We have to stop him.”

  Brad asked Ethan to call the agent tailing Nettleton, then lifted his own hand, indicating the note Surges had found. “He left this on the door outside.”