Love is Murder

by Sandra Brown

If he stuck to his usual M.O., he would drive to a remote location, demand rough sex, including ropes and other paraphernalia, then he would pound a stake through my heart. After a freaky cleansing ritual, he would leave me with my hands folded prayer-style and secured to the stake protruding from my chest. A real prince. Off the record, Nance and his crew had dubbed him the Vamp Slayer. I didn’t find their attempt at humor amusing at all. These were women: daughters, sisters, mothers; they deserved respect the same as any other victim.

  My job was to draw out the inevitable for as long as possible and to use my wiles to ply incriminating information from this psycho. Ultimately I needed him to pull out the wood—the stake that is. That element of the murders had been kept under wraps for just this moment. We needed to be able to connect him to the murders if we wanted to take him all the way down.

  The cops and my partner were listening to every word via the communications link. Backup would be as close behind the Lexus as feasible and would get into position in time to ensure this ass wipe didn’t go too far. The tracking device in my sunglasses supposedly guaranteed there would be no hiccups.

  That was all well and good but my daddy didn’t raise no fool. He used to say, “Jackie, always keep your wits about you. Never trust anyone to take care of you. You take care of you.” A good Texas girl always listened to her daddy’s advice. That’s why I tucked Shorty into the top of my right boot while no one was looking. Smith & Wesson .38 Special, three-inch barrel and seven ready rounds. A girl’s best friend.

  Dawson should know me well enough by now to anticipate that I never went anywhere without Shorty.

  “What’s your name, handsome?” Might as well get this party started.

  He glanced at me, his only answer was to punch the accelerator a little harder, pushing the speed limit without the slightest visible fear. Didn’t matter. I knew his name. Scott Gant. Software engineer. Loner. No wife. No kids. No family.

  He maneuvered the Lexus quickly and expertly through the dark streets, his goal apparently to escape the city limits in record time. The headlines heralding HPD as being stumped by this case had obviously gone to his head. He wasn’t even worried enough to watch his mirrors for a tail. Not surprising. I had watched his one interview with the police. More than a dozen men had been questioned about dealings with one or more of the victims. This guy was the only one who had fessed up to having had sex with three. Still, the police hadn’t had one damned thing to connect him or anyone else to the murders. Until they discovered the website. Actually, Max Caldwell, Houston’s resident computer guru and friend of my son’s, had found the naughty little project. The bastard had promised the victims a part in a documentary on prostitution he’d been commissioned to do by a hotshot producer in Hollywood. The website had been his way of looking legit to his prey.

  One of the victims had shown the website to a street sister who had refused to come forward at first. Even with the website, the best forensic experts available couldn’t connect the site to the killer. Gant was that good at covering his tracks. The idea that he was the only person of interest in the case who possessed the necessary skills wasn’t enough. But we all knew. Nance and his crew had opted to watch him rather than attempt to slip him up in an interview. A good move in my opinion. This one wouldn’t be tripped up easily.

  I might have breathed a little easier at the idea that his reckless driving indicated he fully believed no one was on to him yet, except that I knew this guy was way too smart to make a stupid move out of an overabundance of confidence. He knew what he was doing. He was in the zone. Most likely he was already picturing me dead.

  “My friends call me Jenny.” I swung my booted foot and smoothed a hand over my bare thigh. “What kind of games do you like to play, handsome?” I leaned against the headrest and smiled at him. “I like games where I get to pretend I’m someone else.”

  He slowed and made a turn that took us farther away from the city’s lights but he said nothing.

  Creep. Undeterred, I reached across the console and trailed a finger through his hair. “I could—”

  He jerked away from my touch. “No talking.”

  I withdrew to my side of the car, pretending to sulk. I couldn’t help thinking that this ugly emotional distance must have terrified Kelli. Fury ignited in my veins. Had all his victims been treated as if they weren’t worthy of conversation before being brutally murdered?

  “Look, mister—” he didn’t bother looking, just kept driving “—if you changed your mind you can take me back. It’s no big deal.”

  “Don’t blow this, Mercer.”

  I twitched at the sound of Nance’s voice in my ear. Cursed myself for the reaction.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  I snapped back to attention. “Now?” Adrenaline followed the path of the fury, effectively nullifying its bravado-inspiring attributes.

  “Now.” He shot a look my way. “Everything.”

  “This is weird. Are we going to do this driving down the road?”

  “Shut up and do it.”

  I untied the simple knot between my breasts and peeled off the skimpy top, revealing my lacy red bra. I wasn’t worried about him noticing the com link. It was scarcely bigger than a nickel, paper thin and invisible just like the fancy little earpiece that inserted so deeply into my ear I figured it would take an ENT to remove it. I dropped the blouse onto the console and reached for my skirt.

  “Throw it out the window.”

  My gaze collided with his; before I could argue, he growled, “Do it.”

  “Whatever you say, handsome.” The window lowered far enough for me to shove the blouse out, then I raised my bottom from the seat and dragged the skirt over my butt and down my thighs. The lacy red thong left little to the imagination but that was the least of my worries at the moment. Carefully stretching the skirt over the boots was my focus. If he demanded I take off the boots, I was screwed.

  The black mini went out the window.

  In my earpiece I could hear Dawson arguing with Nance. Good thing the volume was modulated to ensure sound went into my ear only.

  “The boots, too.”

  Oh, hell.

  “Dude,” I argued. “These boots cost me a whole night’s work.” Actually I had borrowed them, but Shorty had cost a shitload. “Maybe you should just pull over and let me out. This is getting a little freaky for me.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket. I resisted the urge to go for Shorty. I had to ride this out…nail this bastard to the—

  The pistol was in my face before I finished the thought.

  Awesome.

  “Take off the boots.”

  My hands went up in mock panic. “Please don’t shoot me.” I had no idea if this guy could hit the broad side of a barn at point-blank range but I also had no desire to find out. More debating over the com link. Dawson was pissed and ranting at Nance to end this now.

  “Take off the boots, you stupid bitch,” the driver roared.

  Hands shaking for his benefit, I started with the left. How the hell would I get the right one off without him spotting Shorty? The left boot went out the window. I held the part of the right boot where the weapon snugged against my leg with one hand, hoping to keep it from plopping out, as I dragged the boot off with the other hand.

  Didn’t work.

  Shorty hit the carpet.

  “What the hell is that?”

  The car swerved dangerously. My heart skipped a beat or two. Reluctantly, I reached down and picked up the gun, holding it by the butt with my thumb and forefinger so as not to set off the wrong chain reaction. He snatched it out of my hand and tossed it to the floor on his side of the car. More swerving ensued. Damn, I should have buckled up.

  The muzzle of his pistol stabbed into my temple. “Why do you have a gun?”

  I turned my face to him, ignoring the jab of the business end of his pistol. “For protection from freaks like you.”

  “Toss the sunglasses.” His voice was ice-cold
and rock hard. He was through playing now.

  I did as I was told. The fake Versaces went out the window.

  I was screwed.

  The tracking device was history.

  Shit.

  “Take off the rest.”

  No way in hell. I was through playing, too. I crossed my arms over my middle. “Pay me first.” I moved my head resolutely from side to side. “I ain’t showing you the goods until I see the money.”

  He grabbed my purse and tossed it out the window then pushed me forward and ran the hand with the gun over my back in a half-assed attempt to feel for any surprises. Did he suspect that I was working with the cops? The other victims’ clothes had been missing, that was true. Was this the way he made that happen? Did he retrace his route and pick up the clothes? Or was he just lucky since not a single article had been found?

  His encumbered hand groped around my shoulders and chest.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Despite my question, I moved my arms and let him have free reign. The more cooperative I appeared the less suspicious he would grow.

  I hoped.

  Dawson shouting in my earpiece snagged my attention. Where the hell is he taking you? There was a distinct crackle that rendered inaudible whatever he said next.

  Fear slammed into my brain.

  The tracking device was history.

  I glanced at the dash, the increasing speed registered. The communications link would fail if there was too much distance between them and me. Without the tracking device there was no way to locate the Lexus once a visual was lost.

  Think, Jackie. Where the hell were we? I blinked. Scanned the landscape flying past in a dark blur. An eerie silence in my ear forced the evacuation of the oxygen in my lungs.

  Could they still hear me?

  My panicked gaze latched onto a familiar landmark as the bastard slowed for another turn. I knew exactly where he was taking me. The cemetery…but was it too late to pass the word to my backup?

  “Can you turn up the air?” I fanned myself. “I’m suffocating in here.” Dawson and I had almost suffocated in this very cemetery not so long ago.

  Ass wipe didn’t react to my request.

  “Please, mister. Can we let the top down again? I’m feeling a little claustrophobic?” Spending those few minutes trapped in a cheap coffin made for one with Dawson had given new meaning to claustrophobia.

  What else? Something Dawson would understand for sure…

  An epiphany made me smile. “I have a Hispanic friend. His name is Rocky. We could call him up and arrange a threesome.” The rock and a dead Hispanic man had launched the investigation that resulted in our little buried-alive experience. I felt fairly confident Dawson hadn’t forgotten. I hoped like hell he hadn’t.

  “Shut your filthy trap.”

  “What’s wrong?” I snapped, bored with his control trip. “Your mommy do bad things to you when you were a kid? You have to play big bad boy to work up an erection?”

  The back of his hand connected with my face. I rode out the burn of pain.

  The com link was dead. Otherwise I would have heard Dawson arguing with Nance again.

  There was a strong possibility that I would be gone as well in about fifteen minutes. Images from the crime scene photos I’d studied flashed in front of my eyes like a bad horror movie.

  He roared into the old cemetery and parked beneath one of the ancient trees.

  I stared up at the tree, my throat going dry. Each victim had been propped against the base of a large tree. Raped then staked.

  Sucked to be me right now.

  He popped the trunk and got out of the car, his aim never deviating from me. He’d gotten good at this. “Get out.”

  Didn’t take a genius to figure out that he had his bag of tricks in the trunk. The very evidence we needed.

  I reached for the door handle and opened the damned door. Somehow between him knocking the crap out of me and now, my outrage had gotten its second wind. I emerged from his fancy car and shoved the door shut. The way I saw it, I had two options here. I could go with the flow and hope backup got here in time or I could run like hell the first chance I got.

  Couldn’t run just yet. I wanted to get this guy.

  He rounded the hood, a steady bead on me, and manacled my arm. When he’d dragged me to the trunk of the fancy car, he ordered, “Pick up the bag.”

  A black gym bag sat in the trunk. There was other stuff. A bottle of bleach spray cleaner, towels—the kind that didn’t leave behind fibers—garbage bags. Evidence. Exactly what was needed to prove he was the killer. Anticipation blasted away any lingering fear. This low-down piece of shit was going down. I just hoped he didn’t take me with him.

  He poked me with the gun and I picked up the bag. I looked directly into his eyes and prompted mine to go big and round. “I don’t want to die, mister.” Might as well play the game. Keep him off guard.

  He hauled me to the tree and shoved me against it.

  “Drop the bag and get on your knees.”

  Whoa, wait. Not that I wanted to go that route, but wasn’t the sex supposed to come first? Serial killers did change their M.O.’s from time to time… .

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You can’t get it up?” I licked my lips. “I can help.”

  “Get on your fucking knees!”

  This was the moment.

  The barrel of the pistol was leveled on my torso.

  “Please, mister,” I pleaded, summoning tears.

  He opened his mouth to snarl something else. I slugged him with the bag and darted around the tree, then ran like hell.

  It was dark. Woods flanked this old cemetery. I stayed close to the tree line, zigzagging around trees and headstones. The blast of his weapon echoed in the air, a bullet thwacked into a headstone to my right. Close. Too close.

  I dived for the ground. Grunted with the impact, then I scrambled into the woods.

  He fired another shot.

  My hands fumbling in my haste, I ripped open the bag and searched for a weapon. My fingers closed around the wooden stake. I pulled it from the bag, stared at the sharpened end. A smile spread across my lips. This was the coup de grâce. This asshole was going down.

  I pushed to my feet, held the stake in my hands, dagger style. For a second I closed my eyes and cleared my head. Then I braced.

  He was coming.

  The distinct crunch of dry grass whispered across my senses.

  I held my position another moment, listened intently to his approach, then swung around, the stake aimed for any part of him I could hit.

  Shoulder.

  He howled in pain.

  The weapon discharged in the air.

  Headlights bobbed in the darkness. Engines roared. Backup?

  He hurled me to the ground. Knocked the wind out of me.

  I started to get up but his weapon was aimed directly at my head. The moonlight cut right through the trees and backlit his menacing profile. Not exactly the last image I’d hoped to see.

  A blast shattered the silence.

  For a second I couldn’t move.

  The bastard dropped his weapon and fell on top of me.

  I screamed. Scrambled out from under him.

  “You okay?”

  Dawson.

  He dragged me up, held me at arm’s length and looked me over. “You okay?” he demanded a second time.

  Before I could answer half a dozen vehicles zoomed onto the scene.

  And just like that cops were everywhere.

  * * *

  Later, an hour maybe more. The paramedics had given me a clean bill of health and an ice pack for my puffy cheek. One of the cops had found me a jacket since no one wanted to see my ass.

  My legs were still a little rubbery but at least I was alive. The bag and the car held all the elements used in the previous crimes, except the stake. That element was still lodged in the asshole’s shoulder only inches above his heart. He wasn’t dead. Dawson was a crack shot. He’d
made sure he got the guy good but not good and dead. The bastard had at least five murders to answer for. A search warrant had already been executed to search his home and place of business.

  Nance stomped around raising hell. He wanted Dawson arrested. The cop had a swollen eye and a crooked nose where Dawson had overtaken him to get control of the car when Nance wouldn’t listen. My partner had understood the clues I’d given. I glanced across the old pauper’s cemetery. One tended to remember an event like being buried alive.

  Looking no worse for the wear, Dawson swaggered over to where I waited near one of HPD’s cruisers.

  As exhausted and emotionally spent as I was, every part of me perked up to watch his approach and in anticipation of the sound of his voice. I could feel the “Hallelujah Chorus” coming on.

  “Since I’m not under arrest, Nance said I could take you home.”

  I went all hot and gooey inside. Idiot. “Good. I’m beat.”

  Dawson stared at me with those dreamy eyes, regret weighing heavy in them. “Don’t ever do anything like this again, Jackie,” he warned.

  For about five seconds I considered throwing myself into his arms and just letting him have his way with me. I was that overwhelmed and worn down. I could have died tonight and I recognized that scary fact.

  Thank God, good sense kicked in. “Maybe you’ve forgotten.” I went toe-to-toe with him. Held my breath so I didn’t have to deal with the usual foolish reactions to his scent. “My name is the one over the door at the office. That makes me the boss. Now—” I squared my shoulders “—take me home, Dawson. I’m done here.”

  I didn’t wait for his answer. I gave him my back and walked away. Sadly I had no idea which car we’d been authorized to use but I refused to let that stop my dramatic exit.

  “Maybe Nance has a good point,” Dawson called after me.

  I should have kept walking but my curiosity got the better of me. I turned around and glared at him. “What?”

  “You’re pretty hot as a blonde.”

  I gave him the finger and walked away. Sadly I realized there was just one problem with that, I so, so, so wanted to do exactly what that crude hand gesture alluded to.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.