by Rita Herron
“She died a long time ago,” he said in a strained voice. “I barely remember her.”
“I’m sorry, what happened to her?”
“I told you I don’t want to talk about her.”
“All right, but I’m still curious. Why roses?”
His breath hissed out. “Because they stand for love.”
“The way your mother loved you?”
“She didn’t love anyone but herself,” he said, his voice rising with anger. “Just like the others.”
“Tell me what others you’re talking about. Is someone with you now?”
A shrill laugh crept over the line. “Not anymore. She was a bad girl.” His voice grew menacing. “She had to be punished.”
Claire dropped her head forward and closed her eyes as if she could obliterate his words. Mark ached to comfort her, but keeping the caller on the line was the best chance they had of locating him.
He also realized something else—this call wasn’t prerecorded. But Drew wasn’t manning the show. He could be anywhere in the building placing the call.
“What did she do that was so bad?” Claire asked.
“She ignored me, Claire. But you won’t do that anymore, will
Claire’s jaw tightened. “No. I’d like to meet you, talk to you in person.”
“Soon, Claire, very soon.” He hesitated, his breathing filling the line just before the familiar song echoed from the caller, “Blinded by the light…”
“Let’s meet right now. Tell me where,” Claire said.
But the phone fell silent, the blare of the dial tone the only reply.
Mark grimaced. Dammit, they were too late.
Another woman was already dead.
CLAIRE YANKED the microphone closer to herself, and went back on air. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but I just received another call from the Midnight Murderer. If you’re still listening, please phone back, talk to me. I know you want to tell me about yourself, about these women and the reason you’re doing this.” She paused, breathing deeply to control the panic in her voice. “This is Claire. I’m still here. I’m clearing the lines for your call.”
She hesitated, waiting, hoping, but the buzzer remained silent. “Let me help you. You know it’s wrong to kill these women, and you want me to help you stop. Please call back and let’s talk.”
A dead silence fell over the line. She gripped the microphone with sweaty palms, her pulse clamoring. “If it’s me you want, then let the others go. I’ll meet you anywhere you say.”
The door to the room burst open, and footsteps hammered toward her. She didn’t have to see him to know it was Mark. He was furious. She knew that. But she didn’t care. She was desperate.
A strong, rough hand covered hers. Another grabbed the microphone away. Mark leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Sign off the show. Now, Claire.”
She pushed his hand away and shook her head.
“He’s not going to call again tonight. He’s already gone.”
The truth of his statement finally seeped through her consciousness. In her gut, she’d known the killer had dropped the phone the minute he’d hung up so he could escape, but she’d tried to reach out to him.
She nodded, swallowing to steady her voice, then leaned close to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you have any information regarding the victims or this killer stalking our city, please contact the Savannah police.” She recited the number for the hotline the police department had arranged with the FBI. “This is Dr. Claire Kos, signing off, and wishing you a pleasant night and a safe tomorrow.”
Exhausted and shaking with tension, she dropped her head into her hands. Mark slid his hands beneath her arms, lifted her to stand, then pulled her against him, enveloping her into the sanctuary of his arms.
“We’ll find him,” Mark whispered into her hair.
Rage filled Claire. “When?” She tried to extricate herself from his embrace, but he held her tightly. “How many more women have to die before we stop him, Mark?”
“I don’t know, but we will get him.”
Tears pooled in her eyes, ready to fall, but she blinked them back. She hadn’t cried since the night she’d lost her child. It was another sign of weakness she hated.
And now she felt so helpless, just as she had then.
“The police are combing the beaches now,” Mark said in a low voice. “They had extra men out all night, maybe one of them is already onto something.”
A labored breath escaped her. “But what if it’s too late tonight? I’m not sure I can survive another woman’s death on my conscience.”
Mark hugged her closer, stroked her hair. “God, Claire, this isn’t your fault.”
“But he’s calling me for a reason. Maybe he knows me, or wants to taunt me into catching him. I should pick up on something, some clue, and figure out who he is.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Claire. This sicko chose you because you’re in the public eye. It might not be personal at all.”
Claire clutched his shirt. “You don’t really believe that, Mark. The fact that he sent me the rose and came into my home, that seems more personal.”
“He’s getting too confident, taking chances, which means he’ll slip up and we’ll catch him.”
Mark’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. Feeling bereft without his comforting arms around her, she sagged back into the chair.
“Steele here.” Claire sensed the tension radiating from Mark in the long pause that followed. “All right, I’ll be right there.”
She heard the snap of his phone closing, then he cleared his throat. “I have to go. I’ll arrange for security to drop you at your place, Claire, and stay with you until I return.”
Dread filled her, but she had to know the truth. “That was the police, wasn’t it? They found another woman’s body?”
Mark reached for her hand, then pressed it in his own. “I’m afraid so.”
Claire stood. “Then I’m going with you.”
“Claire, no—”
“Don’t argue, Mark. Like you said, this madman is getting bolder. He’s not waiting as long in between murders.” She reached for her cane. “Maybe there’ll be something at the scene to clue me into his identity. Then we can find him and make him pay for what he’s done.”
Mark hesitated. “All right, Claire, but you have to stay close to me. Is that understood?”
She nodded, and he slid his hand to her waist and guided her to the door. Claire started to refuse, but the contact felt so heavenly that she didn’t bother to protest. For once, she allowed herself the sanctuary of his comfort.
Too soon, Mark would be gone again, and she would be fighting the world all on her own.%">
“WHERE ARE WE?” Claire asked.
“Tybee Island.” Mark parked, circled around to the passenger side, but Claire had already opened the door and was climbing out. “Here, take my arm.”
She hesitated, and he sensed she hated this part of her dependence.
“It’s rocky,” he said, pacing his longer gait to match hers. “And we’re going down a slight hill.”
She nodded and inched along beside him. He steered them through a patch of sea oats, but she nearly stumbled over a plastic shovel left in the sand, and he steadied her.
“Sorry, I should have warned you.”
She tensed, and he covered her hand with his. “I’ll get the hang of this, Claire. I promise.”
“You don’t have to get the hang of it,” Claire said. “You’ll be gone soon and it won’t matter.”
“It’ll always matter,” he said in a gruff voice, his emotions more on the surface than he’d realized. God, she was so beautiful with the moonlight spilling across her golden hair. “You’ll always matter.”
Claire froze, and he squeezed her hand, but a noise interrupted the moment.
“The police are up ahead,” Mark murmured. “They’re already working the crime scene.”
“You’ll have to be my eye
s, Mark. And please don’t leave out anything to spare me. A detail might make the difference in saving another woman’s life.”
Or saving hers, Mark realized. “All right.”
Detective Black met them as they approached. “It looks like the same guy.”
“Have you identified the victim yet?”
“Not yet. She’s a white female, probably early thirties, redhead.”
“Signs of a struggle?”
“Some. Her clothes are slightly torn, although there’s no visible signs of rape. The M.E. will tell us more.”
“Can I see her?” Mark asked.
“Sure, but don’t touch anything, and stay behind the tape.”
Mark nodded and led Claire nearer the body.
Claire’s hand tightened around Mark’s hand. “What do you see?”
“She’s lying facedown like the others, her arms are stretched above her head. The crushed rose is in her right hand.”
“Anything else?”
“She was strangled with a scarf,” Detective Black said.
Mark stiffened. “Let’s see it.”
Black walked over and took an evidence bag from the crime-scene, then brought it back and held it up.
“Describe it,” Claire said.
“It’s mostly black with a lime green design running through it,” Mark said. “I can’t read the label.”
“We can probably trace the store where it came from,” Detective Black said. “Although the first two were cheap discount store brands. This one is silk.”
“It came from the Pelican,” Claire said.
“How do you know?” Detective Black asked.
“Because the scarf is mine.”
IN SPITE OF the oppressive heat, a cold chill permeated Claire, her stomach a bundle of knots. “Can I please get closer to the woman?”
“If you think it might do some good,” Detective Black said. “But let me check with CSU first.”
Black walked away and Mark growled. “He used the scarf he stole from your house to kill now. That’s way too personal.”
Claire folded her arms across her middle. “I know. I’m trying to put it together, profile what he’s doing.”
Black returned and led her to the woman. Claire stooped down, and Mark moved beside her. “Is there anything distinctive about her?” Claire asked.
“No tattoos, body piercings or other injuries.”
“She doesn’t look like either of the other victims?”
“No, I don’t see a pattern. At least not as far as body type, hair color or size. He must be choosing random victims.”
“I don’t think so. He plans it out. He’s probably watched them for a while, learned their routine and habits. There’s something we’re missing.” Claire leaned forward, the scent of death assaulting her. But another smell permeated the air, it had caught in the evening breeze. “There’s that odor again. I can’t figure out what it is.”
“What odor?” Mark asked.
“I’m not sure,” Claire said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but it smells like some kind of antibiotic cream. Tell the M.E. to check it out. Maybe it’s a topical ointment for a rash or skin disorder. Identifying it might help us find the killer.”
“When did you smell it before?”
“When he came into my house, and then on the stairwell.”
“Then this is definitely the same guy.” Mark cleared his throat. “And you’re right, identifying it might help us find the killer.”
Claire fell silent, the implications of it all swirling around in her head.
“What is it, Claire?”
She stood, and he ushered her back across the sand a safe distance from the scene.
“I was thinking about the rose,” Claire said. “If the red one means love, the dead one must mean his love for these women is dead or their love for him was dead. Maybe it never blossomed at all. He must have met them somewhere before or known them somehow.”
“That makes sense,” he mumbled. “But that means he’s in love with you.”
Claire fought a shudder. An image of this crazed man holding her scarf, wrapping it around his hands, then the woman’s throat, flashed into her head. But why her? How did she know him?
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’re in this together, Claire.”
She lifted her face to the wind. “Are we, Mark?”
He gripped her arms. “You’re damn right we are. Any more ideas?”
“About my scarf? Yes.” Claire hesitated. “Using it to kill means he’s killing because of me. Maybe he wants the victims to be me, or at least to look like me in death.”
Which meant she was going to be his ultimate victim.
Chapter Nine
He was coming after Claire.
Mark knew it without a doubt now. And he had to stop him.
He glanced at Claire, hating the look of guilt on her face as if she could somehow have prevented this madman’s spree of killing. She settled into his car, her hands wrapped around her arms as if she was physically trying to hold herself together.
He lifted a hand, caressed her chin with the pad of his thumb. “Claire, this isn’t your fault.”
She tensed. “Then why are all these things connected to me?”
“I don’t know…yet.”
She chewed her bottom lip in concentration. “There’s something about me that triggered this man’s hatred of women. Either I did something to him personally, or I represent the type of woman who once hurt him. It might be my job. Maybe his mother was a psychologist or a counselor. Or maybe he wanted to date me and I turned him down, or he thought I would, and he was too afraid to ask…if I only knew what it was….”
He started the car and drove into the street. Unfortunately, she was right, but that didn’t make her responsible. Of course, he understood about irrational feelings of guilt. No matter how many times he told himself there was nothing he could have done to save his men, he still felt the weight of their deaths on his conscience. At night, when he closed his eyes, he saw their faces, white and wide-eyed, filled with the realization that they were going to die.
It was past time to help them.
But he would find a way to save Claire. And the only way to do that was to catch the maniac before he took another life.
He’d see what the locals had learned about Lassiter’s rose garden, and if the M.E. identified the cream or ointment the killer used. At this point, they needed concrete cl
“I’ll look over the data I collected on the employees when I get back to your place.” He checked to see if anyone was following them, but the road seemed empty, the night sounds of the ocean drifting through the open window. The air felt humid, too, the stars obliterated by dark clouds, adding shadows to the overhang of trees bordering the narrow road.
Claire nodded. “And I’ll review my patient files again tomorrow.”
“Do you have a suspect in mind?”
Claire shrugged. “Two of my patients fit the profile, but I have no definitive reason to name either of them.” Claire leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and he realized that was her way of ending the discussion.
Frustration filled him. Tomorrow, he’d talk to Black about the possibility of issuing a court order to force Claire to disclose her files. She wouldn’t like it, but he didn’t care. He had to protect her, even if she fought him every step of the way.
Five minutes later he parked in her driveway, and they went inside.
“I’m going to check out your place,” Mark said.
“Does it look as if someone’s been here?”
“No, but we aren’t taking any chances. Wait here.”
Hands clasped together, Claire nodded and waited in the small living room until he searched the cottage, and returned. “All clear.”
Claire sighed in relief. “Thanks for the ride, Mark. I’ll see you later.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She paused, one slender hand on the wall leading to her
bedroom. “What?”
Although fear laced her voice, and stubbornness, too, shadows from the window danced around her, painting an erotic glow. “I’m sleeping on your couch.”
“But, Mark—”
“He’s killed three women.” Mark reached for her, needing to touch her. “He’s been inside your cottage once. He may come again. And if he does, I intend to be here and catch him.” The image of this latest dead women had been frozen in his mind—the strangle marks on her neck, the way her head had been twisted at an odd angle, her face turned down into the sand as if, even in death, she should be ashamed. And there was Claire’s scarf…
His mind flashed to an image of Claire lying in the woman’s place—Claire’s hair spread on the sand, her body limp, the bloodred rose petals fluttering around her. He went cold inside. Perspiration dotted his forehead as he cupped her face in his hands. “God, Claire, when I saw that woman tonight, all I could think of was that it might have been you.”
Claire’s breath hitched in her throat. “M-maybe it was supposed to be me instead of them.”
“No.” A dull ache ripped at his chest. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”
“But—”
“I won’t let himet his hands on you, Claire.” He stroked her cheeks with his fingers, his voice gruff. “I’ll stay with you here or take you to a safe house.”
“I…I need to be here.”
Because she was blind, comfortable in her surroundings? Or because she was daring the killer to come after her?
For a brief second, her voice sounded so tiny and fragile, as if fear had stolen her stubborn independence, just as it had robbed him of his own common sense. Selfish as it was, he was grateful the dead woman wasn’t Claire. He needed to feel that she was alive.
He drew her to him, lowered his head, traced her lips with his finger. She hesitated slightly, then responded with a breathy whisper of his name. He pressed his lips over hers and crushed her against him. How many times had he lain awake in the desert and imagined he’d heard that voice calling his name in the lonely darkness of the night? How many times had he dreamt of touching her one more time?