by Rita Herron
She folded her arms. “Pull up directly in the center, and I’ll meet you outside.”
He gritted his teeth, then jogged outside to the car. Her independence was a good thing, he reminded himself.
Unless it made her do something stupid, like put herself in the hands of the killer.
CLAIRE TOSSED and turned through a fitful sleep. When she’d first arrived home after her accident, she’d argued with her sister about moving to Savannah. Paulette wanted Claire to stay in Atlanta so she could take care of her. As if Claire really wanted to be indebted to her sister.
Once again, she dreamt that she’d been locked in the house with Paulette, forced to endure her condescending attitude and feel like an invalid, a burden to feed her sister’s martyr attitude.
That nightmare had drifted into one of her accident. The bloodred water had sucked her under. She’d struggled and fought, the iciness gripping her until she’d finally floated into a surreal state, blinded by a sharp light. Then someone had pulled her from its clutches, dragged her to the surface and tossed her ashore, as if she should go on. But she hadn’t wanted to go on.
Save yourself, Claire.
But she couldn’t…
Mark suddenly appeared, battling enemy soldiers and being shot, then falling to his death. She saw the blood, so much blood, but there was no red, only black. Her scream boomeranged her back to the hospital where she’d awakened with a throbbing emptiness swelling inside her. She was all alone. So alone.
Another cry escaped her and she jerked awake, only to finally fall fitfully back to sleep and dream of the women callers, begging for help, their final cries ringing in her ears.
Then the killer was after her.
She was running blindly through the marsh, wondering if it really mattered if she lived or died…. So much had happened. She’d lost so much already.
She jerked upright, trembling and breathing hard, then froze, reminding herself her nightmares had held only partial truths. She reached for the picture frame and traced her fingers over the heart-shaped opening where her baby’s picture should have been. It was empty. Her baby was gone.
But Mark was still alive.
The woodsy scent he’d left behind wafted around her, and she gripped the tangled sheets with fisted hands.
Oh, Mark was very much alive.
Alive and strong and so damn masculine she wanted to scream every time she got near him. Scream for him to hold her, to take away the pain, to make love to her and magically change everything back to the way it used to be.
Dreaming of what could have been was futile.
Throwing off the covers, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and listened to the familiar early morning sounds that represented comfort and safety. The lull of the ocean outside. An occasional seagull soaring overhead. The whisper of the wind against the wooden frame.
This was her life now. Claire Kos—psychologist. Workaholic. Radio personality.
Loner.
Checking her clock, she realized she had only half an hour before Mark would arrive. Last night, they’d made plans to go to the police precinct and review the files on the victims before she met with her first patient. She headed to the shower, but she stumbled and nearly fell, barely catching herself on the rocking chair she normally kept in the corner.
It wasn’t in the corner anymostood in the center of the bathroom doorway.
Someone had moved it.
Claire’s breath caught in her chest, a sick feeling sweeping over her. Then a strange odor assaulted her—a medicinal scent. Someone had been inside her cottage. Was he still there?
HE WANTED CLAIRE.
He’d wanted her for so long. Even with her eyes glassy-looking with pain, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Beautiful and strong and gutsy and…alone.
Just like Dianne Lyons and Beverly Bell.
Who did they think they were shunning him?
Claire had, too. Even though he had saved her once…
Yes, he had, and he could forgive her for turning away. If she’d only listen now. If only she’d come to him.
He watched her curtains flutter in the wind and wondered if she’d awakened. Did she know he’d slipped inside her cottage to watch her sleep? That he had almost reached out and soothed away her cries, had nearly touched that silky hair, had almost brushed his lips across hers when she’d tossed the covers in her nightmares.
He knew all about nightmares.
Just as he knew Claire’s hidden desires. Her need for comfort in spite of her fierce independent nature.
Her need for a strong man.
And he was strong. In spite of his injuries, the past few days he had proven he was still fit.
He brought one of her scarves to his mouth, closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, then imagined his lips tasting hers, imagined taking off his clothes, having her healing touch slide across his skin. With her, he would be whole again. And he would make her whole, too.
He would make her forget Mark Steele.
Claire would see it that way one day, too.
Until then, he’d have to be content to watch her from afar. And he’d take what he could from the others, proving his strength as his hands tightened around their slender throats, drawing the life from them….
Chapter Four
Mark hadn’t slept all night for thinking about Claire. He scrubbed a hand over his bleary eyes, parked in front of Claire’s cottage and climbed from his Thunderbird. Early morning sunlight fought for existence through the hazy sky. Mark could relate. Ever since he’d been carried from that prison camp and honorably discharged from the military, he felt as if he’d been slogging through a dark fog searching for his way.
Searching for a reason to live.
Claire.
Keeping her safe gave him purpose. But it was all tangled up with this new job and the past. Only she wanted nothing to
Perspiration dotted his forehead as he approached her front door. For just a moment, he allowed himself to move back in time. He had come to pick her up for their second date. He’d worn his uniform. She’d opened the door, her hair blowing in the breeze, her lips parted in invitation, her eyes lit with anticipation.
Tonight, those eyes wouldn’t be able to see him.
He braced himself for the disappointment, along with the war that raged within him over not touching her.
Finally, shaking off his own selfish need, he punched the doorbell. A second later, Claire appeared.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mark.”
When she swung the door open, she was still wearing a white linen nightshirt that caught in the morning breeze and fluttered around her thighs. Sunlight shone through the sheer fabric, giving him a glimpse of her sleek body, of golden skin, narrow hips, a flat stomach, then lower to the heat that had once sated his desires.
God help him, but he wanted to push up that gown and sink himself inside her now.
“Mark…I’m not dressed.”
“Obviously. Do you always answer the door like that?”
She jerked her head up, defensive. “No.”
He was just about to lecture her on the fact that a killer was stalking Savannah when he noticed she was shaking. Her face was pale, too. “What’s wrong?”
“I…I think someone was in my cottage.”
He gripped the doorjamb, instincts alert. “When?”
“Now,” she whispered, “or…maybe last night.”
He instinctively drew her against him, using his body as a shield between her and the inside of the cabin. “Are they still inside?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Fury iced his veins. Of course she didn’t. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
“No, let me go with you.”
She clutched his arm, and for the first time since he’d seen her again, she held onto him. He hated that fear had brought them to this point. “All right, Claire, but stay behind me. And if I say run,
you damn well better do it.”
She clung to the back of his shirt as he drew his weapon and moved inside, her body pressed against him. The living room was dark, as was the rest of the cottage. Claire didn’t need lights, a bitter reminder of her condition.
He scanned the kitchen, then moved to the bedroom, his throat working when he saw the tousled covers and imagined Claire stretched out on the pale yellow sheets. Had someone been inside, watching her sleep?
The room was empty, though. So was her tiny bathroom.
Finally, he lowered his gun and turned to her. She stumbled into him, then pushed away to regain her balance. “Why didn’t you call for he”
“I was going to, but then you showed up.”
He paused, calming himself, reverting back to professional mode. “Why do you think someone was inside?”
She took a calming breath and squared her shoulders as if she realized she’d shown a weakness. “The chair in my bedroom was moved from the corner.”
He frowned.
“Someone had to have moved it,” she clarified as if she’d seen his expression. “It’s important that I keep everything in its place.”
He knew it cost her to admit that.
“And in my bathroom…” she said in a low voice. “My perfume, cosmetics, they were all moved around, left open on the counter.”
“Anything else?”
She nodded and hugged her arms around herself. “Some scarves were missing from my drawers.”
Mark gritted his teeth. The other women had been strangled with scarves. Had the intruder taken Claire’s as a memento or did he plan to use them to choke his next victim?
“And…” her voice broke. “I found a rose.”
Dammit. The killer had also left a crushed rose in each victim’s hand.
His stomach churned as he spotted the flower on Claire’s pillow. Was it some kind of calling card to let her know she would be his next victim?
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Detective Black arrived to process the crime scene, although he’d told Claire he doubted they’d find any fingerprints. She belted a robe around herself and made coffee, then clasped the cup to her while the men combed her cottage.
“You didn’t hear anyone last night or this morning?” Black asked.
Claire shook her head. “No. I…I don’t know how I missed hearing him. I’m a light sleeper.”
Mark grunted in disapproval. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” Detective Black said. “As soon as we’re finished, I want you two at the station to review the case.”
Claire agreed, grateful when they allowed her to spray the air with freshener to absorb the pungent medicinal odor. Finally she took a shower. Taking refuge beneath the spray of hot water was heavenly, a place to gather her control, away from the all-knowing eyes of her former lover. She hated being vulnerable, hated having to admit she was unaware that someone had been in her bedroom while she was asleep.
The thought sent a chill through her that no amount of hot water could dissolve. She’d thought her other senses would compensate for her lack of sight.
Composing herself, she toweled off and dressed in a denim skirt and cotton blouse. Thankfully, the therapist at the rehab center had tagged her clothes, so she didn’t worry about looking mismatched. She blew her hair dry and twisted it into a clip, then added a hint of powder and maMakeup was more difficult, but she’d practiced. A touch of lipstick came next. Heaven help her, but her hands were so shaky she almost missed her mouth.
Seconds later, she was seated in Mark’s car, the silence stretching between them as jarring as the juts in the road that led to Savannah.
“I really wish you’d leave town for a while,” Mark said as they entered the police station.
Now that the shock was wearing off, anger plucked at Claire. “I don’t intend to be victimized,” she said in a firm voice. “And when this man entered my house and moved my things around, that’s what he did.”
“Claire…”
Mark’s husky tone reeked of concern, tugging at feelings she didn’t want to revisit. “I’m not going to argue over this, Mark. Now, let’s look at those police reports. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
A sigh followed, his only reply.
Things turned even more awkward when they arrived at the station. She hated looking so helpless, having to take Mark’s arm as they climbed the steps.
Hated even more wanting not to release him.
Detective Black ushered them into a room, then spread the police reports of the two victims on the table. Mark began to study them, leaving her completely out of the loop and magnifying the fact that she was a burden now, not his equal.
“Read me the contents of the reports,” Claire said.
“You don’t need to know the details,” Mark said, that protective air vibrating around him.
Claire sighed. “How can I create a profile of the killer if I don’t know the facts?”
Mark hesitated, his reluctance obvious.
“You’ll have to be my eyes, Mark,” she said, frustrated that she needed him. “Now read me the report.”
He shuffled the papers, then read in a monotone. “The first victim, Dianne Lyons, was single, twenty-five, blond. She lived with her boyfriend and cat and worked as a waitress at a local diner in Savannah. She was found lying facedown in the sand at Serpent’s Cove, strangled and blindfolded with a scarf. Forensics is still analyzing the scarf.”
“What about the autopsy report?”
Mark exhaled in a rush. “Claire—”
“I need to know everything, Mark. I’m not going to fall apart.”
The papers rattled again. “Death by strangulation. No other injuries, no apparent signs of struggle, no foreign DNA found, including scrapings from under her fingernails.”
“So, she didn’t fight her attacker?”
“If she did, the M.E. didn’t find evidence. But she was injected with enough Percoset to make her sluggish, probably so she couldn’t fight.”
“That’s interesting. Some killers get off on watching their victims struggle.” Claire paused. “d Percoset? I wonder why the killer chose that particular drug and where he obtained it. Maybe he works in some kind of medical job, or perhaps he was injured and got hooked on pain killers while in treatment.”
“Or maybe he’s a junkie.” Mark drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll make sure we follow up on all those theories.”
“She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Do the police have any suspects?”
“Boyfriend’s alibi stands up. He was with another woman at the time.” Mark’s foot tapped on the floor. “They’re still questioning friends, relatives, acquaintances.”
“What about the second woman?” Claire asked. A surge of emotions crowded her throat at the thought of the poor motherless baby left behind.
“M.O. is the same. She was found facedown, blindfolded and strangled. Again no signs of struggle, no DNA found, no sign of sexual assault.”
“Suspects?”
“Husband claims he was in a business meeting in Charleston. His story checks out.”
“How about her co-workers?”
“Nothing so far, but they’re still being questioned.”
“And the women didn’t know each other, or run in the same circles?” Claire asked.
“No mutual friends or acquaintances that the police have discovered. Dianne rented a small apartment in the low-rent part of town, Beverly and her husband own a home in the historic district. Dianne ran with the working class, Beverly with the society crowd. No mutual clubs, volunteer organizations, hell, they didn’t even shop at the same clothing or grocery stores.”
“Odd.” Claire considered the information. “Usually a serial killer typecasts his victims to resemble the person he lost or his abuser.”
“I know.” Mark shifted. “Your show seems to be the only common factor so far.”
>
Claire bit her lip, the idea that she might have attracted the killer and led him to these women too daunting to fathom. No, the show hadn’t drawn him to kill; it was the other way around. He was using the show to flaunt the murders and gain publicity. “There has to be a connection. We just haven’t found it yet. Keep looking.” She paused. “Are there photos?”
Mark’s foot began tapping again, a sign of distress. “Yes.”
“Is there anything distinctive about the way the women are lying? Are they posed?”
He shuffled the photos, obviously spreading them across the table. “Both victims were lying facedown. Clothes were wrinkled and dirty, but again, no signs of sexual abuse.”
“Are their arms behind them, above their heads?”
Mark sighed. “Stretched above their heads.”
“Hmm, they’re lying facedown, as if they’shamed of themselves, even in death.”
Mark stilled beside her. She could feel the tension in his body. And as much as she detested doing it, in order to understand the killer, she had to get inside his head. Try to think like he would.
“He calls them bad girls,” Mark said. “But these women aren’t prostitutes.”
“Still, they’re not perfect in his eyes.” Claire shifted. “The fact that there’s no sexual abuse is interesting. It suggests he may be impotent or disabled in some way. And the way the hands are stretched above them, it shows his sense of control and power, and their lack of it. He wants them to be submissive. He gets off on proving how strong he is.”
Mark’s tapping became faster as he continued examining the photos. “Dammit.”
Claire’s hands tightened in her lap. “What is it?”
“The rose. It’s red just like the one on your pillow this morning, except this one is dead, crushed, the petals scattered around her body in the sand.”
Claire inhaled sharply. So it was the killer who had been in her cottage. Why had he left her a live rose when he’d left his victims holding a dead one?
MARK FISTED his hands around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The killer had definitely been in Claire’s bedroom watching her sleep this morning, touching her things, dropping a flower on her pillow as if marking her as his next victim. He’d known it, but seeing the photographs of the women in death had still sent a shock of reality through him. For a moment, Claire’s face had replaced those of the victims.