Not long ago, a young woman had been found on the shore of the Potomac River. Naked, her throat and body ripped open. Police and forensic scientists were having a problem because river creatures had played havoc with her body. No “persons of interest” were being questioned in the death; the police feared they were dealing with someone suffering from a “mental disorder.”
Lord, she was stupid, taking off in the middle of the night like this! It was just that…
She’d been so upset, so indignant, so…perplexed that personal danger hadn’t even occurred to her!
She hardly dared to breathe. Why had she stood up and said she no longer wanted any part of it? Why had she taken off the way she had? Get a grip, she told herself again. The hard-core politicians she knew wouldn’t be stalking her; they weren’t suffering from any mental disorders. Wait—not true. Anyone in politics was suffering from a mental disorder!
She tried to laugh at her own joke. No sound came.
She quickened her pace; her feet, legs and lungs hurt. She kept her phone in one hand, trying to look fierce, as if she was ready to press 9-1-1 at a second’s notice.
Her heart was pounding.
It was a van.
Everyone who watched TV knew that evil men in vans caught victims on the street and dragged them in by a side door and then…
The van drove on.
She felt giddy with relief and smiled at her unjustified panic.
A moment later, she saw a sedan in the street. It slowed and she squinted, looking toward it.
“Lara!” The car slid to a halt, and a deep male voice called her name from the driver’s seat. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift!”
She had to know him; she should’ve recognized the voice. It must be muffled by the night air. She was being offered a ride by someone who was obviously official. Someone she knew, someone who knew her.
Maybe Ian had sent a driver out after her. Maybe he’d realized what time it was and that the streets might not be safe.
Her relief made her feel weak.
She dropped her phone into her purse and ran across the street, grateful and shaky.
But the man didn’t get out of the car. And for some reason—perhaps the warning voice inside her that reminded her she now knew too much—she grew suspicious.
Ian’s people would have gotten out of the car, opened the door for her!
She turned to run.
Where? Where should she run? The streets were empty, the Mall was empty…
Lara prayed the beat-up van would come back.
She nearly stumbled.
She paused briefly. She would not trip and fall and look back screaming the way idiots did in horror movies when giant reptiles were coming for them. She took the seconds required to kick off her heels while digging in her bag for her cell phone.
She did nothing stupid.
But that didn’t save her.
He was fast. Surprisingly fast.
He slammed into her and down on her like a tackle in a football game. She opened her mouth to scream.
Who the hell was it? She still couldn’t see him! Did it matter? Escape!
She couldn’t turn her head; he was behind her, forcing her down. And then…she felt his hand coming around her head. He was holding a rag. She smelled something sickly sweet and she began to see black dots. The smell gagged her. She had to keep fighting; she was going to die if she didn’t.
So she fought…
But as the scent overwhelmed her, she thought, Oh, God, no, I really am going to disappear.
The blackness took her.
* * *
He’d studied the information available on serial killers with the same concentrated attention he’d always given textbooks; what had to be done had to be done, and he had to do it the right way. He knew FBI men, behavioral scientists. He was careful never to talk too much, but he was an excellent listener. He never undertook any task lightly.
He’d invented an alter ego for himself, a man he called Slash McNeil. Slash McNeil was now fully part of his personality. Slash? Well, it made sense. McNeil? Why not? It seemed to go well with Slash. Not that he needed a name to sign to confessions or letters to the editors or police. He just liked it.
McNeil had been born off, as anyone who knew this manufactured alter ego would say. Even when he was a toddler, he’d enjoyed smashing bugs. As he’d aged, the bugs became small reptiles; McNeil liked to set snakes on fire. Once he grew older, the animals he tortured became kittens and puppies and then cats and dogs.
When he was sixteen, he committed his first murder. It hadn’t been particularly good, well planned or satisfying. He’d teased ugly Sarah Rockway, letting her think he wanted a make-out session with her, and lured her to a bridge. He’d kissed Sarah—and then tossed her over the bridge. In McNeil’s mind, at least, the girl had died happy.
But he hadn’t wanted Sarah Rockway—nor had he wanted the murder to be so swift. He’d wanted to slash her, cut her, as he had the kittens and puppies.
And he’d really wanted Celia Hampton. Celia, the cheerleader, the leggy beauty who would barely give him the time of day. He wanted her naked, doing anything he asked, begging him for her life.
But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.
It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out to the woods in Virginia, far from the city. He hadn’t had to strip her; he’d shown her his knife and she’d done everything he wanted. After that, he’d cut her. First her throat. Slowly. He’d let her bleed out…while he sliced open her gut.
He’d thrown her in a river—weighing her down by stuffing her with stones. By the time she was found…the river had washed away all evidence.
In the beginning he’d been able to live on the memory for years. Then, more recently, he’d felt the need to kill again. But now things were different. The need came faster. He got work that allowed him to travel, and it had afforded him opportunities for murder. He was controlled, always controlled and always careful. He studied his victims. They were never ugly again. They were the pretty ones. But he made sure that when they were found, he couldn’t be. They might know about him—since communications among law enforcement officers were pretty good these days—but they didn’t know who he was.
He always took a souvenir.
The tongue.
Serial killers often took souvenirs. He’d determined that would be his souvenir of choice.
They would recognize his work.
Then again, maybe not; he left his victims in water, weighed down with whatever he could find. And the water concealed any evidence there might be.
Yes, he had an alter ego. And he’d paved the way. Two dead already, just in the past month. Now…this one. And there’d have to be more.
He’d watched the first girl, Sarah, not with malice, but with purpose. He hadn’t done anything out of hatred or viciousness. He’d been inexperienced then, still learning. With Celia, the second girl, it had been easy. It wasn’t that he liked what he’d done. He’d seen the need early on and he did his job as he understood it.
It was just necessary. Like dressing every morning, driving, breathing, eating—making a living.
He wished he could be sorry. He wasn’t.
He did what he needed to do, and that was all.
He’d become Slash McNeil.
For a moment, he paused. It was messing with him this time. He had it figured out—and damned well, too. The girls, the type, the psychology.
But this one…
This one was different. The way he handled her had to be different. And he s
ure as hell didn’t like it, not one bit.
Still…
He was prepared. He’d prepared for this possibility months ago, and in actuality, there were things about it that were even more appealing than usual. This involved wits and careful machinations and a certain danger that made it all the more exhilarating; it gave him a high that was greater than the rest.
He smiled and thought about the woman—her flair, her grace, her confidence.
And he thought about what she’d be…
When it was all over.
ISBN-13: 9781460390207
The Hidden
Copyright © 2015 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
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ISBN: 9781488024672
Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters Series Volume 5
Copyright © 2016 by Harlequin Books S.A.
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
The Silenced
Copyright © 2015 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
The Forgotten
Copyright © 2015 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
The Hidden
Copyright © 2015 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5 Page 89