by Herron, Rita
He rose to clear the dishes, and her gaze strayed to the bookshelf, where a dozen or more wooden carvings filled the shelf. On the table, a deer stood, staring at her. She hadn’t noticed it last night.
Not that she’d noticed much. Her nerves had been frayed, her senses on overdrive. All she’d thought about were Rafe’s hands and mouth on her.
“Do you carve the wooden animals yourself?” she asked.
An odd expression flared in Rafe’s eyes, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Yeah. It’s a hobby.”
“They’re beautiful,” Liz said. Primitive and rough looking, just like him. “Do you sell them?”
“I make them for the kids at the Boys’ Club.”
Liz’s heart skipped a beat. “You volunteer with the Boys’ Club?”
Rafe shrugged. “Yeah. One of my social workers took me when I was a kid. I met an older guy who mentored me and kept me out of trouble.” He ran his finger over the head of the deer. “He taught me how to whittle.”
Liz’s heart melted. Rafe had always held his emotions close to the vest. He was so dedicated to his job, so good at tracking down evil, that she’d never imagined him with children at all, much less volunteering to spend time with them.
He set the deer back on the table, with a sigh. “There’s a little kid there now, Benny, about four, just lost both parents. I thought he might like it.”
Tears nearly blinded her. Beneath that tough, steely veneer, Rafe was tenderhearted.
He might want a family of his own some day. Something she could never give him.
Rafe stepped onto the porch to phone Jim Laredo, the sheriff who’d investigated the social worker’s murder.
The subject of his volunteer work made him feel raw, exposed. Maybe because he related to the troubled kids so well—to their personal tragedies, to the violence they’d suffered at the hands of people who were supposed to love and care for them.
Sheriff Laredo answered on the third ring, his breath rattling. Rafe explained that he needed to talk to the sheriff, and Laredo gave him directions to his house.
His cell phone rang just as he hung up. “Agent Hood.”
“Rafe, it’s Jake. Have you heard from Nick?”
“No,” Rafe said. “Brenda asked Liz the same thing last night, but neither of us have talked to him.”
“Hell,” Jake muttered. “Brenda’s frantic. He didn’t come home last night. And he’s not answering his cell. Can you get the techs to trace his phone for a location?”
“Sure.” Trepidation mounted in Rafe’s belly. Nick had been chasing a lead about the Commander. Maybe he’d gotten too close and stumbled into trouble.
He had no doubt the Commander would kill his sons to protect himself and his secrets.
They hung up, and Rafe punched the number for the lab and requested the trace. “Call Sheriff Blackwood if you find him.”
Liz returned from the bedroom with her purse, her face strained, and they headed out to the SUV together. The memory of the erotic pleasure they’d shared teased him, tempting him to love her again.
Not going to happen now. He had to focus.
Sun fought with the storm clouds in the gray sky, the temperature dropping to the thirties as they drove around the mountain toward the neighboring town of Patchy Rock. A saloon, a saddle and tack shop, and a western boot store flanked one side of the street. Signs advertising trail riding and a dude ranch were tacked all over town. Other signs announced a whitewater rafting company and outpost a few miles on the other side of the mountain.
Apparently Sheriff Laredo had retired ten years ago and moved near the outpost, so Rafe passed through Patchy Rock and wound onto the country road leading to the river.
Farmland sprawled between the town and outpost. A junkyard and flea market sat on top of a hill, along with a country store boasting Native American crafts.
Two miles down the road, Rafe made the turn to Laredo’s. The former sheriff lived in a small cabin nestled at the foot of a hill, near a creek that flowed into the river. Rafe parked, and he and Liz waded through the weeds to the man’s front door. When Rafe knocked, a dog barked, its toenails clacking on the floor inside.
“Hang on,” a man shouted.
A minute later the door swung open and a short, chubby man with wiry hair greeted them. “You got to be those feds.”
Laredo rubbed a hand over his belly, which strained against a dark gray T-shirt. “Come on in. I pulled up that file after you called. Been a couple years, and my memory ain’t what it used to be.”
They followed him inside to the den, a small room overloaded with hunting and fishing magazines. Pictures of three children, ages toddler to teenager—obviously grandchildren—sat on top of a pine table, behind a plaid couch.
“Nice-looking family,” Liz commented.
Laredo gave them a blustery grin. “Yeah, I’m right proud of ’em. Just wish my Haddie was still around to enjoy them. Lord, how she loved little ones.”
Liz bit her lip, a wave of sadness showing in her eyes, but it disappeared a second later.
“Do you remember the Lintell case?” Rafe asked as they claimed wooden chairs around a round pine table.
“It was about two years ago.” Laredo opened the file on the table and skimmed it. “The Lintell woman was a social worker for the county. She did school and home visits for a while, then took a job placing kids in foster homes and arranging adoptions.”
“How exactly did she die?” Liz asked.
Laredo jammed a pair of reading glasses on. “Stabbed in the chest with a steak knife.”
“A knife from her own kitchen?” Rafe asked.
The sheriff nodded. “Never found the weapon, though. Assumed the killer took it with him and got rid of it.”
“What about other forensics?” Liz asked.
Sheriff Laredo used his finger to find his place on the page. “A stray hair, short. Dark. Male. Never matched it to anyone.”
Rafe folded his arms on the table. “Did you have any suspects?”
“No one who panned out. Neighbor said she heard shouting and saw a black Jeep leave the place the night before the murder, but nothing on the day of the murder.”
“Did you trace the Jeep to anyone?”
“Yeah, some drug addict girl who had her kid taken away because she was a junkie.”
“A good motive for murder,” Liz said.
Sheriff Laredo shrugged. “Yes, it was. Except that at the time of the murder, the girl was in a cell.”
“I imagine she wasn’t the only one angry with Ms. Lintell,” Rafe said.
Laredo made a low sound in his throat. “Naw, the woman had a tough job. But everybody she worked with said she was fair. She tried her best to get the druggies and alcoholics to clean up so they could get their kids back. Believed in family and worked hard to reunite the birth parents. She was a foster herself.” He hesitated. “She always followed up with the families to make sure they took good care of the kids she placed.”
“But one of the foster parents or birth parents could have had a beef with her,” Liz said.
“Goes with the job. But there wasn’t enough evidence to pin down the killer. And nobody wanted to dole out names, especially in adoption cases.”
Rafe knew the drill. Everyone guarded their secrets. The addicts who got clean wanted their kids back but had to prove themselves. The adopted parents wanted privacy and to know that their children couldn’t be jerked away and given back to the parents who’d screwed them over in the first place. And confidentiality issues with adoptions were always an issue.
“How about a man named Brian Castor?” Rafe asked. “Did his name come up in your investigation?”
The sheriff looked back over the file. “Matter of fact, it did. Found a note at Lintell’s house with Brian Castor’s phone number on it.”
&nbs
p; “Did you question him about Lintell’s murder?”
“Yeah, but he had an alibi. Was out of town at some premed function. A couple of other students verified it.”
Students could have lied for him. “Did you learn anything about Brian’s brother?”
Sheriff Laredo shook his head. “Not much. According to Lintell’s notes, his name was Jeremy. There was something else that was weird, though.”
“What?” Liz asked.
The sheriff lit a cigar. “Crime tech found DNA on the victim they thought belonged to the perpetrator.”
Rafe’s heart jumped a beat. “Whose was it?”
“That was the strange thing. DNA had an odd genetic marker to it.”
“What do you mean?” Liz asked.
“Lab said it looked like the person’s DNA had been altered.”
Rafe clenched his jaw. “We found a similar drop of what we believe is the killer’s blood on Ester Banning.”
“Were any of the Lintell woman’s body parts removed?” Liz asked.
Sheriff Laredo shook his head.
Liz frowned. “Maybe she was his first kill, then he got a taste for it and perfected his MO.”
“We need to compare those samples,” Rafe said. “If they match, we’re looking at the same killer.”
He taped pictures of the major organs of the body along the wall by the shelf holding his trophies. The brain, lungs, bladder, small intestine, large intestine, kidneys, heart . . .
The heart pumped blood through the body and gave it life.
But there were other expressions about the heart.
Brokenhearted. What did that mean? Was the heart broken? Or were feelings just hurt?
He loved her with all his heart. But the heart was an organ, a physical entity. It had nothing to do with love.
He was good-hearted. That meant he was kind and loving. But did kind and loving really have anything to do with blood pumping through the body?
He had no heart. Which meant the person was evil.
That saying he believed in.
The woman he wanted to take next had no heart. Not like a mother should. She had taken him in, then thrown him away. She only loved one of her children.
And that child hadn’t been him.
So she’d sent him to an institution where that monster the Commander had poked and prodded him, turned him into a number instead of a man.
She had to pay.
He removed the photograph he carried of her from his pocket and studied it. She was younger than the others. Maybe mid-forties now. An attractive woman, with wavy brown hair, green eyes, and a smile for the camera and the man beside her. Yes, she looked at him with doting eyes and a puffed-up chest.
But she’d forgotten him as if he’d never existed.
Soon she would remember everything.
And if she cried for help or forgiveness, he’d carve out her heart. Then everyone would know she didn’t have one.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sheriff Jake Blackwood studied his brother’s computer, searching for clues as to where Nick might have gone.
The fact that Brenda had shown up at dawn at the cabin where he and Sadie, Ayla, Gigi, and Amelia were staying had freaked the hell out of him.
Worse, if Nick hadn’t found a way to contact Brenda, Jake was damn worried, too.
Determined to get answers, he scoured Nick’s history on his laptop. The last open file was a website for a group supporting the Commander—apparently the bastard had garnered followers.
Jake’s gut tightened with disgust.
It seemed that Nick had researched several names, hunting for more information on individual forum posters.
A militia group calling themselves the SFTF—Soldiers for the Future—caught his attention with the force of a brick in his gut. Many of the comments boasted about the government needing cutting-edge thinkers like the Commander, citing dozens of examples of suspected terrorist activities, conspiracy theories, alleged experiments, and military acts by enemy countries.
He clicked for more information but couldn’t determine the group’s physical location. But he did find photos of preteen boys being trained as guerilla soldiers.
Had Nick discovered the location for this place? Was that where he’d gone?
Jesus, why hadn’t he called Jake for backup?
He scrolled through a group of photos of military tactical training exercises, stirring memories of the rigorous training exercises the Commander had forced on him and Nick.
Another photo made his blood freeze. He leaned closer, studying the face. The photo was grainy, the man’s face smeared with mud for the training exercise, but Jake recognized him.
Chet Roper.
Jake had served with the man.
His pulse thrumming, he entered Roper’s name into the police database and ran a search.
Seconds later he fisted his hands by his side. Dammit to hell. Roper was a guard at the state prison.
Jake punched the number for the warden and asked if Roper was on duty.
“Yes, he’s here today.”
“Don’t let him leave,” Jake said. “I think he may have helped Arthur Blackwood escape. I’m on my way.”
The deputy phoned that Truitt was still missing, but Mazie Paulsen’s car had been found on Windmill Road. Rafe and Liz drove straight from Sheriff Laredo’s cabin to the site.
“How did you find it?” Rafe asked the deputy.
“A lady called in,” he explained. “Said she passed it on her way into the mountain, but she wouldn’t leave her name or number. Said she didn’t want to get involved.”
“How about caller ID?”
“A pay phone from a convenience store a few miles down the road. I talked to the owner, but he claims he doesn’t remember the woman.”
A dead end.
Liz walked over to examine the red Toyota. The front end had crashed into a ditch, glass had shattered all over the interior, and blood soaked the driver’s seat.
“This is strange,” Liz said. “First we find Mazie’s place trashed and blood inside. Now her car and more blood.”
The deputy shaded his eyes with his hand. “Maybe someone attacked her at her house, and she escaped. She could have been driving too fast, or maybe she crashed because she was weak.”
Liz leaned closer to look at the blood. “Then where’s the body?”
“Maybe her attacker was following. He ran her off the road, then abducted her.”
“You’re probably right.” Liz walked around the car and checked the trunk.
Rafe examined the tires, then the tire prints in the dirt and the skid marks on the black asphalt. “Odd. I don’t see tire marks for a second vehicle.”
“Call a crime unit,” Rafe told the deputy. “We need to process the car for evidence.”
Liz rubbed her forehead in worry. “I’m going to call the Castors. If the son they gave up is Six, he may eventually decide to punish them, like he punished the nurses.”
“Mrs. Castor in particular,” Rafe said. “She was supposed to be a mother to him, like she was to Brian. She could be his end game.”
Liz stepped aside to make the call, and Rafe and the deputy searched the area in case the killer had left Mazie’s body in the woods.
Liz paced beside the road. “Mrs. Castor, I’m sorry to disturb you again, but we need to talk.”
“How dare you interrogate my son as if he was some kind of criminal?” Mrs. Castor said in a shrill voice. “Brian is a good boy. He would never hurt anyone.”
“You should have told us his brother had emotional problems,” Liz countered. “We’re looking into the possibility that he resurfaced. That he may have a vendetta against your family. Has Brian spoken with him?”
“No. If he had, he would have told us.”
“Maybe not,” Liz said. “He was angry that you and your husband kept secrets from him.”
Fear laced Mrs. Castor’s voice, “You think Jeremy might hurt Brian?”
Liz silently debated whether to tell the woman her suspicions. “At this point, I can’t really say. But we think he may be responsible for killing three women, and that he is extremely dangerous.”
“You mean he’s that horrid killer they’re calling the Dissector?” Mrs. Castor cried.
Liz hated the names people gave serial killers. Naming them seemed to glorify them, which fed into the demented minds of the killers. Made them into legends, which was exactly what they wanted.
“We’re working on that theory,” Liz said calmly. “So far his victims have been nurses. We suspect that they treated him during the experiment, and now he’s taking revenge.”
A long pause, fraught with tension. “This is our fault,” Mrs. Castor said. “If we’d kept Jeremy, maybe we could have gotten him help, some therapy, and none of this would have happened.”
Liz inhaled deeply, her chest aching. The Castors were obviously nice people; they had done the best they could in a difficult situation. “This isn’t your fault, Mrs. Castor. And I certainly didn’t call to blame you. But I did want to warn you. It might be best if you and your husband went somewhere for a few days until we solve this case.”
“All right. Brian can leave town with us.”
“Mrs. Castor, Brian can’t leave town now. He may be able to help us catch Jeremy.”
“How? If Jeremy resents Brian, he might try to hurt him.”
Or they could be working together. “We’ll make sure he’s protected,” Liz assured her.
Even if they had to lock him up to do so.
As Rafe drove toward Castor’s apartment, Liz’s phone buzzed.
“It’s Anderson Loggins from the sanitarium,” she said before stabbing the connect button. “Agent Lucas speaking.” A pause. “Yes.” Another pause, and Liz’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Okay, thanks.”