by Cynthia Eden
“Hello?” Asher yelled. “Who’s here? Where are you?”
Bailey rushed in after him. Her head turned to the right, then the left. Her light bobbed, showing the empty interior of the cabin. Cobwebs were everywhere and dust had settled heavily on the floor. But I see footprints in the dust. Heavy, big prints. From a man’s boots?
“Help . . . please . . .”
That weak cry was coming from down the little hallway. Bailey flew past Asher, running desperately toward that cry. Her light fell on a door at the end of that hallway and she shoved it open.
Tied. Bleeding. Dying . . .
Her headlamp illuminated the woman on the bed. A woman who was on her stomach, with her hands stretched high above her head, bound to the bed. Her ankles were bound together, too, and there was blood—everywhere.
On the walls. On the bed. On the window.
“Dear God . . .”
“Help . . .” the woman rasped.
Bailey rushed to her. She sank to her knees beside the bed and her fingers immediately went for the ropes that bound that woman’s wrists.
And Asher was there, putting his hands on the woman’s deepest wounds, trying to stop that terrible blood flow. She’d been stabbed. Again and again. Bailey knew those marks.
He stabbed me, too.
But the knife wounds weren’t the only thing familiar to her. The woman’s clothes had been stripped away and there, on her upper left shoulder, her attacker had left his mark.
Black angel wings. Small, but distinct.
He gave me those wings, too.
“It’s going to be all right, ma’am,” Asher was saying to the woman. “We’ll get help out here. An airlift. We’ll get you to a hospital.”
Bailey couldn’t get the ropes free. They were so tight around the woman’s wrists. They’re cutting into her. She’ll have scars on her wrists, just like I do.
No, no, this couldn’t be happening again. The Death Angel was in hell. He wasn’t still alive. He couldn’t be out in the mountains, still hunting. Still killing.
It wasn’t possible. He’d died in the fire. The fire that had brought help to her.
“Put your hands here, Bailey!” Asher’s sharp words had her hands flying down to cover one of the gaping wounds on the woman’s side. “Hold her tight. Put pressure down, hard.” His hand flew out, and she saw that he’d taken a knife from his boot. The sharp edge of that knife gleamed and she tensed, but Asher just cut right through the ropes that bound the woman’s hands, then her feet.
Then he was back with Bailey. One of his strong hands covered another gushing wound that the poor woman had, a wound near her spine, and with his other hand, he gripped his phone to his ear. Into that phone, he barked, “Ana, dammit, I need you. Triangulate my signal. Get an emergency team out here right away. A woman’s been attacked. We have to get her to a hospital, now!”
The woman’s eyes were closed. Her lips parted but . . .
I don’t think she’s breathing. “Asher . . .”
He dropped his phone. “Fuck me.”
The woman was still. The old bed was soaked with her blood.
“No!” Asher snarled. “Don’t do this. Stay here! Fight, dammit, fight!”
But Bailey was afraid the woman couldn’t fight, not anymore.
Her gaze locked on the black angel wings that rested on the still woman’s shoulder.
The redheaded woman wasn’t asking for help any longer. She wasn’t even breathing.
The Death Angel had claimed another victim.
Chapter Six
She hadn’t survived.
Asher stood a distance away from the cabin, watching as the victim’s remains were removed. The place was a circus right then—a helicopter had rushed in less than twenty minutes after his frantic telephone call, but it had been twenty minutes too late.
I knew it was too late. The instant I saw her on that bed, I knew. There’d been far too much blood loss. The woman’s killer had inflicted maximum damage on her, then he’d just walked away.
Deputies and other law enforcement personnel had flocked to the scene. Of course, Deputy Wyatt Bliss had been leading the charge, and when he’d gotten a look at the woman’s body—and the mark left on her shoulder—there had been no missing the shock on his face.
But then the deputy had ordered that Bailey be put in the back of a patrol car, secured, for her protection. And he’d demanded then a deputy keep Asher company. Guarding my ass, as if I’m the bad guy.
So Asher had stood in the dark, watching the teams sweep in. He had to give Wyatt credit; the guy was like a drill sergeant as he oversaw the scene. Evidence was being carefully collected—bagged and tagged left and right. These weren’t small-town idiots—these were men and women trying to do their best to stop a killer.
His respect for the deputy kicked up, but then . . .
“You.” Wyatt pointed at Asher. The whole scene was lit up now—lights on at the cabin, lights blaring from the patrol cars. Lights everyplace. Wyatt marched toward him. “How the hell did you know how to find this cabin?” Suspicion laced his words.
Asher rolled his eyes. “Right. I’m your killer. Not like I have an alibi. Not like Bailey was with me every single moment of the night.” So much for thinking the guy was organized and had his shit together—
Wyatt grabbed his shirt front. “She should never have been out here with you! You put her in danger!”
Around them, the voices of the other deputies and first responders stopped.
Asher looked down at the hands fisting in his shirt. “I think you need to take a real deep breath, Deputy,” he said, aware that his Texas drawl had just gotten a little more pronounced. Ana always said that was a sign his temper was about to rage out of control. “And you need to get your hands off me. Bailey and I are the ones who found the victim. If we hadn’t been out here, that poor woman’s body could have stayed in that cabin for God knows how long.”
Wyatt let him go, snarling.
Asher straightened his shirt. “Good choice there, buddy.”
The deputy’s hands were tight balls at his sides.
“We found the woman because we went back to the spot where you found Bailey. We wanted to see just what that missing victim—”
“There was no other victim that night! Bailey imagined her.”
Asher’s back teeth locked. “We disagree on that.”
Wyatt surged toward him.
Asher kept his body relaxed. If the guy swung at him—deputy or no deputy—Asher would be hitting back. “We went back to the scene,” he said flatly. “We looked out into the night—trying to see what the victim would have seen if she was running away. A woman, hurt, frantic, if she’d seen a light, I figured she would have run to it.”
Wyatt didn’t speak.
So Asher kept talking. “Bailey and I saw a light. We followed it. Before we got here, it shut off, but we kept going. We found this place. Saw fresh tire tracks—tracks that I sure hope you and your team haven’t destroyed.” Though he had very little hope of that shit now. “Then we heard the woman in there crying out for help. I busted down the door and we found her.”
“And the killer? The guy who stabbed her? You never saw him?” Wyatt pressed.
Asher shook his head. “Like I said, we only saw tire tracks. He was long gone before we pulled up here.”
And Wyatt took another step toward him.
Bring it, you bast—
“You saw the wings on her shoulder,” Wyatt whispered. “I know you did. Tell no one about those, got it? Not until I figure out what in the hell is happening. If we’ve got some copycat on the loose up here . . .” He shook his head grimly. “Dammit, the folks in this area are still recovering.” His head turned and Asher saw he was staring at the patrol car that waited to the left, the car that Bailey was huddled inside of. “We can’t take another madman hunting up in these mountains.”
Too bad. Because it sure as hell looked as if they had one on their hands.
His ga
ze locked on the patrol car—on Bailey. She was in the front passenger seat, and, as he watched, she shoved open the door and jumped out. She rushed toward them. “Asher—”
A young deputy stepped into her path. “No, ma’am. No. You have to wait in the car. I’m sorry.”
“No, I don’t,” Bailey gritted out. “I’m not some prisoner.” She sidestepped around the guy but he reached out his hand, curling his fingers in a quick grip around her wrist.
Asher tensed. “You better tell your man to stand the hell down.” Before I make him stand down.
“Ben! Let her go!”
Bailey jerked away from Ben and she marched toward Bliss and Asher. “What is happening here?” Her frantic gaze locked on Wyatt. “It’s not him. It can’t be him. You—you found his remains . . .”
From what Asher knew, not a whole lot of remains had been left after that fire.
“It’s not the Death Angel,” Wyatt assured her. He curled his hand around her shoulder. Once more, his voice was low, not carrying away from their little group. “My money is on a copycat, but don’t worry, I am going to stop him. I will find him.”
A shiver slid over Bailey’s body. “I heard her scream for help.”
Asher swore.
“I heard her scream before we even started trekking to this cabin. Sound can . . . it can carry so easily in the mountains.” She looked back over her shoulder at the cabin and its blazing lights. “I should have moved faster. If we’d gotten here sooner . . .”
“Then you might be dead, too,” Wyatt said, voice cold and hard and brutal.
Bailey flinched away from him.
“You need to go home, Bailey.” Wyatt’s hold on her tightened. That asshole touches her far too much. “Go home, lock your doors, and get some sleep. Don’t come back to these woods. Let me do my job. Let my team take care of this mess.”
Mess? Try clusterfuck. They had a sadistic killer on the loose. It wasn’t some spilled freaking milk that had to be wiped up. A woman was dead.
The last time a killer had hunted up there, five women had been tortured before Wyatt and his team had managed to stop him. At least five. If there was a missing victim, that put the total up to six. Six women.
So excuse the hell out of me if I don’t have a whole lot of faith in the deputy’s team.
Asher didn’t plan to keep this shit on the down low. He’d be calling in his team from LOST right away. Actually, after his frantic phone call to Ana, Asher suspected LOST backup was already en route.
“Ben will take you home,” Wyatt said. “He’ll make sure you get there safely. There’s no sense in you hiking back through the woods tonight. Not when there’s an old dirt drive that connects this place to the highway on the ridge. Ben will take—”
“I’m with Asher,” Bailey said flatly. “I’m not going anyplace without him.”
“Then Ben can take you both back,” Wyatt gritted out.
“Ben can take us to my car,” Bailey allowed. “But we’ll get back home on our own.”
Bliss finally took his hand off her shoulder. Seriously, finally. And the guy glared at Asher. “You make sure she’s safe.”
“Don’t worry. I’m staying with her.” Every moment.
“I want to help,” Bailey said. She looked down at her hands. Oh, hell, they both had that woman’s blood still on them. “I need to help her.”
“You can’t do anything here.” Wyatt’s words were flat. “This is my scene, my case. We’re going to collect evidence and we are going to give that woman justice.”
But Bailey didn’t look convinced.
“Go home,” Wyatt said. “And that’s a damn order.” Then he gave her a brisk nod and walked away, heading toward the cabin and the crime scene techs who were inside.
Ben lingered, looking uncomfortable and lost. What was Ben? All of twenty-one?
“It’s happening again,” Bailey said as she stared after Wyatt. “He knows it is. Same MO.”
No, it wasn’t exactly the same. Because they’d found the woman’s body; she hadn’t been buried like the others.
Like Bailey.
“Let’s go home,” he said, wanting her out of there. The woods were too vast; someone could be out there—watching them from the darkness right the hell then. He needed to figure out what was happening, but first . . .
Bailey. Bailey was his priority.
He looped his arm over her shoulders and led her toward the patrol car. Ben rushed behind them.
Wyatt watched Bailey and Asher climb into the patrol car.
One problem solved, for the moment.
He turned and headed into the back room of that hell-forsaken cabin. It was a cabin he’d visited before, months back. Hell, he’d told Bailey that he’d searched, and this place? Yeah, it had been on his radar. And back then, when he’d come here . . . he’d found death waiting.
The old guy who owned the cabin had been dead. His body decomposing—the smell. Shit. It was awful. Because the guy had been dead there for so long. Dead, forgotten. ME had said he’d probably died of a heart attack, and if they hadn’t been searching the area for the presumed missing victim, they might never have found him.
Wyatt had managed to keep the story about the old man’s death from the media. They’d been too fixated still on all the blood and gore that had been left in the Death Angel’s wake, and the old man had been given some peace.
And now this shit happened. Wyatt glanced around. Blood had soaked into the wood. Dripped on the dirty windowpane. “Looks like a freaking slaughter,” he said, stomach twisting.
This couldn’t be happening again. The sheriff would lose his shit.
Not in my county. This can’t happen again.
As soon as word spread, the tourists would scatter. The locals would be afraid to go anyplace. They’d be right smack in the middle of a nightmare once more.
Once word spread . . .
“I want to make sure no one talks to reporters,” he said to the men and women in that room with him. “This case needs to be locked down tight, understand? Until we know what we’re dealing with, no media communication, got it?”
They nodded. He raked a hand over his face. That room was starting to smell. “I need to find out who owns this cabin.” Had someone in the old guy’s family inherited the place? Had it been sold? “And I need to know who that woman was.” He pointed to the bed. He could just see a lock of her red hair, hair matted with blood. “Jesus Christ,” Wyatt muttered. “I can’t let this happen again.” He turned away, bile rising within him.
I can’t. I won’t let it happen. He’d been the hero before. He could be that hero again. He would be.
The Death Angel is gone. This is some copycat. I’ll show them all.
The water from the shower pounded down on Bailey, like pinpricks against her skin. It was too hot. She should turn the shower off.
She didn’t move.
Her gaze was on her hands. No blood coated her fingers any longer, but she swore she could still feel it.
That could have been me. I could have died. I didn’t . . .
But she’d sure felt as if she’d been the walking dead for months. Instead of grabbing life, holding tight to it, she’d become a hermit, jumping at her own shadow.
This isn’t me.
The woman who’d died that night, the woman with the long red hair, Bailey bet she would have given anything to live. To have a chance to laugh and love again.
I have a chance.
But Bailey spent most of her days and nights too afraid to take the chance.
“Bailey?”
Her head whipped up. The glass door of her shower had fogged up, so she couldn’t see Asher, but—
“I just wanted to check on you. I knocked and when you didn’t answer . . .” His words trailed away. “Sorry.”
She lifted her hand and rubbed at the glass door, making a small spot so that she could see out. But Asher had already left her bathroom and closed the door behind him. For a moment, she
just kept her hand pressed to the glass. Then her shoulders straightened. She yanked at the faucet, turning off the blast of water. Bailey stepped out of the shower, grabbing for the white towel nearby. She raked it over her skin and hair, then reached for her robe.
Taking a deep breath, Bailey didn’t even bother glancing into the mirror to see how she looked. She just went after him. The lush carpeting in the hallway swallowed her footsteps. In moments, she was in the den. Asher was there, dressed in loose sweatpants and a tight black T-shirt that hugged his wide shoulders. His dark hair was wet, and his gaze was focused out of the wide picture window as he stared into the night. This moment was important. For the two of them . . . this moment could change everything.
I won’t be afraid. Not again.
Dr. Paul Leigh sat in his office, tapping away at his computer. He accessed one patient file after the other, smiling at the progress he’d made.
So much progress.
He clicked on the keyboard, and opened the file for the patient who’d challenged him the most.
Bailey Jones.
His smile dimmed a bit. Bailey hadn’t come in to see him for quite some time, and that just wasn’t acceptable. There was still work to be done.
She’d made enormous progress. Confronted her demons and her guilt head-on . . . the most impressive patient he’d had in that respect.
But we aren’t finished. Not yet.
Because Bailey persisted in thinking that someone else was out there, another victim. She just needs to listen to me.
Paul shut down his computer. Collected his files. A few moments later, he was riding down in the elevator. The building was deserted—he was the only one who enjoyed late-night work sessions there, so he had the elevator all to himself.
His phone rang. Paul pulled it out, frowning down at the screen. What does he want now?
He answered, his voice curt. “Look, you want to talk, then you can call me at a normal hour—”
But the man just laughed. “Normal? Like that shit applies to us?”
The elevator doors opened with a faint ding.
“Better stay tuned to the news, Doc.”
“Why?”