Waking Nightmare

by Kylie Brant

  Barbara Billings had been a well-executed catch. With one minor exception, every instant had gone as planned. She may have been the most satisfying yet.

  But not the last. The pictures mounted on the bulletin board above the computer displayed a number of equally deserving women. The selection couldn’t be rushed. Part of the thrill was the anticipation. The familiar need was—not sated—never that—but only simmering now, not rising and clawing for release. There was plenty of time to consider the next victim.

  Even if a tiny slip had been made this time, the police still had shit to go on. Which was probably why they were controlling what was released to the press. If the public knew how little progress had been made in this case, they’d be screaming bloody murder.

  Bloody. A quiet laugh escaped at the irony. No pun intended , Barbara.

  But it was never too soon to prepare. The cell phone lay next to the computer. After a familiar number was dialed and an interminable wait, a sleepy voice finally answered.

  “Hey, I was going to call you tomorrow. Where are you?”

  “I need more supplies. How soon can you send them?”

  “You’re really enjoying my little discovery, aren’t you?”

  Excitement flared hotly as the woman on the computer screen began writhing in agony. Oh, she hadn’t liked that speculum shoved up her ass. Not at all. “Very much. But I’ll need twice what you gave me last time.”

  “Hell, you can have three times as much.” The pause that followed hummed with expectation. “But you have to do something for me first.”

  Irritation surged, was ruthlessly tamped down. “Already?”

  “She didn’t last as long as I’d hoped. I’ll be more careful with the next one. Promise.”

  Fingers drummed the desktop indecisively. It would mean catching a quick flight and back, but it was doable. “All right. Male or female this time?”

  “Hmm, how about you surprise me.”

  Someday, despite their long relationship, a real and very final surprise would await the man. He was getting a bit too demanding. But for now he was needed. “Expect your gift within the week.”

  “Fast work. I’m impressed.” The voice was pleased. “I’ll overnight your delivery. Same mail drop?”

  “Yes.” Business concluded, the call was disconnected. It was tedious to have to deviate from planning to arrange a trip, but well worth the hefty supply of drugs and syringes received in exchange. Totally anonymous. Completely un-traceable.

  Several clicks of the computer mouse fast-forwarded the movie before halting at the best part. The moment when the woman first realized her suffering wasn’t at an end. That there was something more in store for her.

  Watching the sheer horror on her face was almost as thrilling as being there. Almost. Yes, Billings had been nearly perfect.

  But the next one would be even better.

  Ryne rested his chin on his folded arms upon the kitchen table and stared at the two fingers of Jim Beam in the glass before him. Memory, that sneaky bitch, supplied him with vivid sensory details. He could almost taste the scorching path the liquor would take down his throat. Could feel the burn as it pooled in his belly. Could remember the compulsion to follow the first shot with another. Then another.

  Somehow in the grip of that thirst, it was easy to forget the repercussions of too frequent late nights, too many empty bottles. Simple to slip into the rationalizations that could almost convince him the events of a year and a half ago weren’t his fault. That Deborah Hanna’s blood wasn’t on his hands, as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.

  But he couldn’t dodge the truth when his head was clear, and after eighteen months of sobriety, sometimes in the middle of a puzzling case, or after a particularly exhausting day, the truth pounced with the feral savagery of a wild animal.

  Someday that truth would devour him.

  But not tonight. The ring of his cell phone shrilled, cutting through his dark thoughts. He pulled it from the pocket of the jacket he’d slipped over the back of the chair, read the number on the screen. Dixon’s home number.

  Ryne glanced at the clock as he flipped the phone open. Nearly 1 a.m. Surely Dixon didn’t have news about the case. Although he’d insisted on being personally involved, his role was merely supervisory.

  “This is Robel.”

  After his answer, there was a minute hesitation before he heard, “Ryne? Did I wake you?”

  Wariness rose as he recognized the voice. Not Dixon at all, but the man’s wife. “SueAnne. Is something wrong?”

  “No. Well, Holly is sick and her fever is really starting to scare me. Derek said y’all had a meeting tonight but I haven’t been able to reach him. I was just wondering if you were with him. If I could talk to him.”

  She finished on a rush, and Ryne could feel lead settling in the bottom of his gut. He’d always liked SueAnne Dixon, with her pretty blond looks and Southern belle manners. He’d wondered what the hell she’d seen in the womanizing prick she’d married. The same prick who’d used him, used this case, as a cover tonight.

  “Sorry, I’m at home. But if you need to take her to the hospital, I could come over and stay with Hillary until Derek gets back.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to bother you. I’m probably worrying about nothing. But I’d like to let Derek know. If I just knew when to expect him.”

  In that moment Ryne realized Holly Dixon wasn’t nearly as sick as her mother let on. And while he wasn’t going to lie for her worthless husband, neither was he willing to be the one to shatter the precarious trust she still might have in the man. “I expect he’ll be along shortly. But I mean it, SueAnne. I can be there in twenty minutes if you need me. Don’t know much about babysitting four-year-olds, but I don’t figure Hillary can give me much trouble while she’s sleeping.”

  “You’d be surprised.” His words had eased something in her voice, and he didn’t know whether to be glad or ashamed. “I’ll just wait up for him. You’re probably right, and Derek is on his way. I’m sorry about bothering you, but now that I’ve got you on the phone, I’m going to scold you about turning down all our barbecue invitations.” Her tone went teasing. “I don’t think I’ve seen you more than twice since you moved down here.”

  He got up and reached for the glass, carried it to the sink, and dumped it out. “You know how it is. New job. Heavy caseload. I’ll make it over again one of these days.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that. Oh, I think I hear Derek now.” She hesitated. “I feel so silly . . . I sure would appreciate it if y’all didn’t mention this call to him. He’s always accusing me of overreacting.”

  “Sure thing, SueAnne,” he said gently. When she hurriedly said good-bye, he disconnected, then stared for a moment at the phone in his hand. He hadn’t lied to her, but he’d misled her all the same. A better man would feel bad about that, but it wouldn’t rank too highly on his overburdened conscience.

  Ryne plugged the phone into its charger before heading to his bedroom, where he already knew sleep would elude him.

  If SueAnne Dixon wanted to believe the lies her husband told her, who was he to knock her faith? They all made choices.

  The hell of it was living with them.

  Abbie paused to appreciate the historic brick structure that housed police headquarters before heading up the steps. With its tall white-trimmed windows and ornate gingerbread, it looked to be a couple of centuries old. Spanish moss hung like ragged lace from the huge oaks surrounding it, and next door was an old cemetery. Jogging up the steps, she wondered how many of its occupants had been “guests” in this building prior to their demise.

  The desk sergeant directed Abbie to the conference room, where she’d found the task force grouped yesterday morning. She slipped in the door, recognizing the detectives she’d met yesterday, as well as several uniformed officers. Only Ryne was absent.

  “Good morning.”

  The others nodded at her greeting, except for McElroy, who looked u
p from the chair he was lounging in. “Hey, Tinkerbell. Get coffee, would ya?”

  Abbie raised a brow and sank into a chair. “I don’t want coffee.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t get it for the rest of us.”

  She’d met plenty of men like McElroy, those who used charm if they possessed it, intimidation if they didn’t to get what they wanted. And he’d intimidate some people. He had a good foot and a hundred pounds on her, an ex-football player’s build that had softened but not yet run to fat. His swarthy skin would always make him look like he was suffering from a mild case of sunburn. With his slicked-back hair and cheap sports jacket, he looked more like a used car salesman than a cop.

  “Sorry, Nick.” The door opened again as she spoke. “I hadn’t heard about your accident.”

  McElroy glanced around at the others in the room, then back at her. “What’s that?”

  “The one where you broke your leg. Left you unable to wait on yourself.”

  The other detectives laughed, and McElroy’s expression darkened. “You want to see my leg, sugar, that can be arranged.”

  “A tempting prospect, but I’ll pass.”

  “If you want coffee, McElroy, get it when we’re done here. I’d like to get started.” Abbie looked up to see Ryne standing at the table positioned in front of the room. A fifty ish man in a rumpled suit took a chair near him. His face was heavily freckled, and his ginger-colored hair stood up in little tufts all over his balding head. This must be Captain Brown, Ryne’s immediate superior in the case. Dixon had mentioned him, but had also emphasized that he was personally overseeing the investigation himself.

  Ryne’s gaze traveled over those assembled in the room, lingering for a moment on her. He didn’t look like he’d slept much better than she had, although undoubtedly for different reasons.

  “Phillips, you want to update the others on what the canvass turned up last night?”

  Abbie rose, faced the rest of the detectives. “The neighbors to the south of Billings, a couple in their sixties, are on vacation in Montana, visiting relatives. There’s a divorced guy on the other side of her home, Kevin Williams, a machinist who works second shift. Said he was at work, and he checks out. Officers will be following up today with any neighbors not contacted last night. So far no one saw anything suspicious, with the exception of Ethel Krebbs, who lives two blocks south of Billings’s street.”

  “Don’t tell me,” McElroy drawled. “Ethel Krebbs saw the whole thing from her picture window.”

  “No, but she called in to the department with a complaint about an older-model SUV parked in front of her house. She was expecting company and wanted it moved. No one checked it out.” Abbie shrugged. “It’s not private property, so it was probably considered a low-priority call. When her company left at nine, it was gone. But she was upset enough to jot down the license number of the vehicle.” A curious stillness settled over the room. “We ran the plates and they’d been stolen off a ’99 Chevy Impala a week ago.”

  Cantrell spoke up. “She get the make and model of the SUV?”

  Abbie nodded and shot Ryne a questioning look. He picked up a sheaf of papers he’d brought in and walked over to Cantrell, handed it to him. “We’ve run vehicle registrations for older-model Broncos. Also have the stolen vehicle reports for the last two weeks. Wayne, you and McElroy can go through these and see what you come up with. Isaac, I want you to work the dog kennel angle. Check out the manufacturer, who sells that type around here, how many, do they keep records . . . you know the drill.”

  Holmes’s expression managed to look even more hang-dog. “Needle in a haystack,” he muttered.

  “Yep. But this is the haystack we’re shaking today.”

  “What about Tinkerbell?” McElroy shot Abbie a pointed look. “What’s she gonna be doing? She sure as hell doesn’t fetch coffee.”

  Ryne’s face went expressionless. “Ms. Phillips will be working on establishing a profile of the rapist.”

  The air in the room went abruptly charged. Isaac Holmes looked at her. “What precinct you say you’re from, Phillips?”

  Abbie opened her mouth to answer, but Robel beat her to it.

  “She’s an independent consultant. Commander Dixon made the decision to contract with an outside agency, Raiker Forensics. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” There wasn’t a hint of emotion in Robel’s voice. To Abbie’s ears, his dispassionate tone was as damning as a shout.

  “Un-fucking-believable.” McElroy glared at Ryne. “She’s not even a cop?”

  “You want a profile, you should have just asked.” Cantrell’s smile was chilly. “White male, between twenty and forty. Marginally employed. History of abuse toward women. Isn’t that what you guys always come up with?”

  “Depends on the evidence,” she answered evenly. “And the pattern. But it’s too soon for me to reach any conclusions. At this point, it hasn’t even been determined that the rapist is male.”

  McElroy guffawed and Ryne glared at him. “I think what Ms. Phillips is saying . . .” he started.

  “What I’m saying is it’s too soon to narrow our focus. It probably is a man. Better than ninety-nine percent of rapists are. But this one incapacitates the victims and never undresses. Given the haziness of the victims’ memories, I’m not ready to rule anyone out yet.”

  “So I guess we know what Robel’s doing today,” McElroy said in a loud aside to Cantrell. “Tracking down those dangerous female rapists we got running all over Georgia. Lucky bastard.”

  With effort, Abbie kept a smile on her face as the detectives laughed. “I’ve worked more than a dozen serial rapist cases in the last five years. Female perpetrators are rare, but I don’t rule out anything until the evidence warrants it. Generalizations are dangerous because they blind us to other possibilities.”

  “Okay, let’s get to work.” At Ryne’s order, everyone rose, including Captain Brown. “If you run across something that sounds promising, I want to hear about it.”

  The detectives filed out of the room.

  “Ms. Phillips.” Brown paused before her and extended his hand. “Captain Dennis Brown. I want to welcome you to Savannah and the team.” His grip was firm, his faded blue gaze searching. “I’m sure Ryne will get you everything you need, but if there’s anything I can do, my office is upstairs.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to getting started.”

  He inclined his head and followed the others out the door. Abbie eyed his retreating figure speculatively. It was always telling to analyze the dynamics of the groups she worked with. And in those brief moments she’d gotten the distinct feeling that Brown was no happier about her being here than Robel was.

  “I had another desk moved in, next to mine.” The detective gathered up his files quickly then straightened. “That will be your space for the duration.”

  Next to his. Great. “Thanks.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” He fell into step beside her, his voice openly skeptical. “All that you were saying about women raping women. I mean. . . seriously.”

  She stifled a sigh. Leave it to him to completely miss the message she’d tried to get across. “It’s a remote possibility. But it’s a possibility until we prove otherwise.”

  “You really think this guy on the loose in Savannah might be a female?”

  “No.” She pushed by him and went in search of her desk. “I think he’s a perverted sadist—a male sadist—who gets off by inflicting horrendous torture on his victims and then fantasizes about it for weeks afterwards. We just don’t have enough to prove it yet. But that’s what I’m being paid for, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  It was nearly dark before Abbie reached her house again. When she was on the job, there were few other distractions, so she usually kept long hours. If she was going to be here for any length of time, however, she needed to find a gym to work out in. She made a mental note to ask Robel about it tomorrow.

  Robel. She parked the rental car in
the driveway and then got out, locking it with the remote. His attitude toward her assignment to the task force hadn’t softened appreciably. But she’d completed entire cases without having the lead investigators ever make nice. The job was still possible. It just made for a tense way to work.

  She started toward the house, still preoccupied with the case. She wanted to interview all the victims herself. She’d already set up a meeting with Amanda Richards, the mayor’s granddaughter, for the next morning, in her hospital room. She was being prepared for her third surgery since the attack. From the photos in the file, it was apparent the damage had been. . .

  Abbie stopped. Then in one smooth movement she bent, slipped the weapon from her ankle holster, and trained it on the back door, which was standing ajar.

  Glass littered the steps from the shattered window in the door. The method of entry had been crude, but effective. She thumbed off the safety on her Sig, while reaching for the cell phone in her purse. After calling it in, she replaced the phone and circled the house.

  The front door was still shut. She climbed the porch and tried the doorknob. Locked. Completing her journey around the house, it was evident that the intruder had entered and left the same way.

  If he’d left at all.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Keeping her weapon steady, Abbie climbed the back steps and nudged the door open with the toe of her shoe. She stepped into the kitchen, surveyed the area, and found it empty.

  The house was a small L shape. The kitchen opened on to the living room, and the bedroom and bath were on its right. Her gaze flicked to the cellar door. The latch was in place. She continued into the house carefully, the glass crunching underfoot the only sound in the stillness.

  The only things out of place were the three framed pictures she’d brought with her and set on the mantle of the small fireplace. These were lying facedown on the floor, as if someone had knocked them off with one swipe of a forearm.