Taken

by Cynthia Eden

  Then he was gone. Hurrying out of there so he could call the governor.

  Silence reigned for a moment, silence broken only by the soft tick-tick-tick of the clock in the ME’s office.

  “I need to get back to work,” Moore finally said, his voice grating.

  But Bailey wasn’t done. “Have you determined how many times he stabbed her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Eleven. That was how many times he stabbed me.” She remembered every single cut. “And he counted as he did it.” She could hear his voice in her ear, that low whisper. “As if he had to do it. Eleven slices. They started small. Barely pricks of his blade. Then they got deeper and deeper.”

  Sympathy flashed on Moore’s hard face. “The other victims . . . because of decomposition . . . the way he’d put them into the ground—” He cleared his throat. “It was impossible to tell exactly how many times he’d stabbed them.”

  “He stopped at eleven,” she said. “When he came at me again, it was to choke the life out of me. I think that number, eleven, it mattered to him.” But that had been a detail not released to the media. “I told two people about that,” she managed to say. “Wyatt and my shrink, Dr. Paul Leigh. That wasn’t a detail released to the media. It’s something only the killer should know.”

  “I’ll be sure to examine her carefully,” Moore said, his voice subdued, softer now.

  Bailey gave a jerky nod. She made herself look away from Hannah’s body. So still and cold.

  Asher caught her elbow and led her to the door. When they were outside, she gulped the air. Air that didn’t taste like death and antiseptic. “I—I didn’t break.”

  Asher smiled at her. “No, sweetheart, you sure as hell didn’t.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “I just . . . I need a minute by myself, okay? Just a minute.”

  “Take whatever time you need.”

  She paced away from him, hugging herself. Asher watched her go. He kept his gaze on her. There was no way he’d be letting Bailey out of his sight. Asher pulled out his phone, dialed LOST, and had Gabe on the line in moments. “Need you to run a check on someone for me,” he murmured softly. “Dr. Paul Leigh.” Because that name was popping up far too much for him. “Do the typical work—financials, personal life—see if anything sticks out to you.”

  There was a long pause, then Gabe said, “You okay? You sound . . . different.”

  “The case is different,” Asher replied quietly. “Far different than I expected.” Because Bailey is different. “Get me that intel as soon as you can?” Bailey was coming back toward him. Asher ended the call and went to meet her.

  Chapter Eight

  Asher led Bailey back to the sheriff’s station. A deputy had picked them up from her house, so they had to get a ride back to her place. It would have been great to have his own set of wheels, but that hadn’t been an option earlier—

  “Bailey!” The sharp cry of her name came as they rounded the corner and headed toward the long, flat building that served as the local sheriff’s station. A station that was blocked by a small crowd of men and women. People with video cameras. Microphones.

  Reporters.

  Oh, hell. How had the story spread so fast?

  “Bailey Jones!” A blonde woman rushed toward them, leading the pack. “Is it true that the Death Angel took another victim last night?”

  Asher stepped in front of Bailey. “Ma’am, you need to stand back,” he told the reporter quietly.

  She just motioned toward her cameraman to keep rolling. “You found the body, didn’t you, Bailey? Was she alive? Did the victim speak to you before she died?”

  “Asher . . . let’s get out of here.” Bailey had grabbed hold of the back of his shirt.

  “Bailey has no comment,” Asher said, voice flat. “If you have questions about any case here, then I suggest that you speak with the local authorities.”

  To get Bailey out of there, they needed to walk straight through that throng. They’d get inside the sheriff’s office and then get a ride to her house.

  He put his arm around Bailey’s shoulders and pulled her closer. “It’s all right,” he told her softly.

  “Who is he, Bailey?” a male reporter with dark hair and a too-bright smile asked. “Is he protection that you’ve hired? A new boyfriend? How does Royce feel—”

  “No comment,” Bailey said, as she leaned in closer to Asher. “I have no comment at all.”

  “A woman died!” It was the blonde reporter again. “You—of all people—should have sympathy for her! Don’t you want her killer stopped?”

  The damn cameras were rolling.

  Bailey stilled.

  No, Bailey. Sweetheart, we have to keep going.

  “Of course I want her killer stopped,” Bailey said. “How can you even ask me that?” But she’d heard the stories before. She’d taken off his mask, she saw him . . .

  But never identified him. So some folks believed she was protecting the bastard.

  Some folks were idiots.

  The reporter’s blue eyes gleamed. “What were you doing in the mountains? Isn’t it quite an odd coincidence that you found the victim?”

  Asher tightened his hold on Bailey. “Come on.” That crowd of reporters was just thickening around them.

  “Why were you out there?” another shouted.

  Beyond that throng, Asher could see Deputy Ben. He’d just rushed out of the sheriff’s office. Wyatt was right behind him.

  Wyatt looked pissed.

  Join the club, buddy. Join the fucking club. But Asher fought to hold down his fury. The last thing he wanted to do was explode in front of those reporters. That would be a news story he didn’t want.

  “We were—” Bailey looked up at Asher. “We were hiking.”

  “So he was there, too?” the blonde asked. “After all this time, why did you decide to go back to that place? What did you think you were going to find out there?”

  Silence.

  All the reporters watched them avidly.

  And, sidling up to that pack, Asher caught sight of Richard Spawn. The dick was grinning, a sly, arrogant curve of his lips.

  “What were you looking for?” the blonde pushed again.

  “Back away!” Wyatt called out. “Give my witness room. I will be issuing an official statement soon enough, but for now, rest assured that we are not dealing with the Death Angel.”

  The reporters immediately whipped around to face him and the questions exploded from them in rapid-fire succession . . .

  Most of the reporters had turned toward him, anyway. Not Richard Spawn. He was still staring at Asher and Bailey.

  “Come on,” Asher said. Ben was motioning for them to follow him to the right. A patrol car waited there. They could get in, get out of there, and—

  Spawn stepped into their path.

  He just wants an ass kicking.

  “Bailey Jones!” Spawn shouted her name. Fucking shouted it when he was two feet from her. And Asher knew exactly why the guy had done that—every eye there immediately rolled back to them. “Bailey, do you know that your new lover is a killer?”

  Shit. The guy sure liked to play for a crowd.

  “Killed when he was just fourteen. Incredibly young, don’t you think?” Richard went on, his eyes gleaming.

  Asher knew the bastard had dug into his past. All those secrets were about to come tumbling out. No way would the pack of reporters overlook a juicy tidbit like this one. Within hours, his story would be spread far and wide.

  Just like before.

  Years had made the notoriety fade, but time could only make people forget. The crime could never be erased.

  “Asher Young,” Richard spat his name. “Didn’t they have to lock you up following that attack? How the hell did the military ever accept you after that?”

  Asher wanted to drive his fist into the guy’s face, but . . .

  He’s baiting me. Looking for a reaction just like that one. And Asher wasn’t going to give
him the satisfaction of that shit. He’d get his payback, later. They wouldn’t always have that audience.

  So Asher just tightened his hold on Bailey and made his way closer to the patrol car.

  But then . . .

  Then the dick made the mistake of slamming his hand into Asher’s chest. “I asked you a question.” Spawn smirked at him. “Is it true you killed when you were fourteen years old?”

  Asher looked down at the hand on his chest, then back up at Richard.

  The other guy’s eyes widened.

  “Get your hand off me,” Asher said simply. His voice was mild. Easy. But he knew his gaze would show his fury.

  He didn’t roar his fury.

  He didn’t make a sound when he attacked.

  I didn’t when I was fourteen. That bastard never saw me coming. I moved in and I sliced open his throat before he could even so much as utter my name.

  His first kill, but not his last.

  Spawn made his first smart move. He yanked his hand back. He grabbed for the bag that was slung around his neck. A camera bag.

  “Ms. Jones?” Ben called. He had the back door of his patrol car open.

  Bailey slid inside.

  “Oh, Bailey?” Spawn called.

  She glanced back.

  “Smile for the camera,” he murmured.

  Snap.

  Asher surged toward him.

  “Asher, no! Just get in the car.”

  Everyone was taking pictures then. Filming them. This wasn’t the time to take down that bastard. Asher sucked in a deep breath and climbed into the car. Ben slammed the door shut behind him.

  The reporters’ voices were muted now. Like the buzzing of bees.

  “It was just like this,” Bailey said, her eyes on the hands she’d twisted in her lap. “When I got out of the hospital. For days, weeks, they followed me everywhere.”

  Ben had jumped into the front seat. “That is one serious feeding frenzy out there.”

  And Asher suspected it would only get worse. Once word reached all the national news organizations about the attack last night . . .

  Ben turned on the siren and the shrill scream had the reporters finally backing away. “I’ll get you home safe, ma’am,” Ben assured her as he cast a quick, reassuring glance Bailey’s way. “Don’t you worry.”

  But Asher knew Bailey was worried. About the killer. About the reporters. About—

  Her gaze slid toward him. Then away.

  About me.

  Hell. Asher swallowed the heavy lump in his throat. “I can explain.” He kept his voice low, not wanting the deputy to overhear this part.

  “You don’t have to,” Bailey responded quickly. “Spawn is a liar. I know that. He loves to take a tiny kernel of truth and just twist it and distort it for his stories. I don’t believe him. I know you aren’t a killer.”

  But I am.

  Her fingers were still twisting in her lap. “I know,” she said again.

  He caught her hands in his, stilling that restless movement. He saw Ben glance at them in the rearview mirror. “There are things I need to explain to you.” Things that couldn’t wait because he didn’t want her to doubt him.

  Worse, he didn’t want Bailey fearing him. Not after last night.

  She’d just told him that Spawn’s words didn’t matter, but he’d heard the hitch in her voice. And when she’d looked at him—ever so briefly—he’d seen the fear in her gaze.

  “Bailey, look at me.”

  Her gaze always showed her emotions, so when he told this story, he needed to see exactly what she felt. How she felt, about him.

  “I was taken when I was fourteen.”

  Her lashes fluttered. “What?”

  “My twin sister and I were abducted.” He could tell the story now without rage making the words tear out of him. Barely. “Two men broke into our house. They were high as all hell on drugs and looking for a fast score. They didn’t know we were home or . . . or that our mother was.” Remembering her would always hurt. “They shot her. Laughed when they did it—I can still remember them laughing.”

  “Dear God, Asher—”

  His fingers tightened around hers. He hated this tale, but he had to get it out. For her. Because he knew Spawn and the other reporters would all be reporting their slants on his story later. He wanted her to hear his truth.

  “They took us. Took us and planned to make my father pay to get us back. They kept us in some run-down warehouse on the edge of town. They tied me to a chair and my sister—Ana—they put her there, too. They put her right across from me.”

  The siren was off now. The whole car seemed tense.

  “They wanted fifty thousand dollars from my father. The trouble was . . . he didn’t have fifty thousand. They were two high-as-fucking-kite drug dealers who hadn’t even noticed that we lived in a lower-middle-class house. We didn’t have fifty grand lying around, and the cops had found out about my mother’s attack. They knew about our abduction. So the story hit the news and those guys freaked.”

  Her hands turned so that she was holding him.

  “They took out their rage on us.” He pulled his right hand from her and his index finger lightly traced the scar on his chin. “Actually, they started with me. A fast slice, but when they cut me, I didn’t make a sound.” Stupid, arrogant kid. “My mother had screamed and begged, and they still shot her. I wasn’t going to make a sound. I wasn’t going to let them hear me beg.”

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  “And I think those assholes knew it. So they . . . they moved to my sister. They started cutting her. Saying that I was the one causing her pain. I was the one hurting her. If I’d been a better brother, I would have protected her. If I’d been a man, I would have saved my mother. Ana was screaming, and I was telling those bastards I would do anything if they would just let her go. I begged them to kill me. To let her live.”

  “Asher . . .”

  “But they weren’t going to let either of us go. I knew that. When Ana passed out, they went to get high again. One of them came back just a few minutes later, ready to go at her once more. He was laughing. Smiling like a fucking idiot. He even stopped to sharpen his knife.”

  I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt Ana again.

  “But while they’d been gone, I dislocated my shoulder and got out of those ropes. The fool didn’t even check me when he came back into the room. So I got up, I walked right behind him, and the bastard who was holding the sharp knife . . .” He exhaled on a long, low breath. “I used it on him.” He’d sliced right across the other man’s throat, making sure he couldn’t scream a warning to their second abductor. “I killed,” Asher said simply. “At fourteen.”

  “You were protecting your sister!”

  Yes, he had been. He’d kill for Ana in an instant. He had, and he would again.

  “You were protecting yourself!”

  It wasn’t that simple. He’d been enraged. There had been no way he was going to let those men go.

  So I waited for the second man to come into the room. I knew he’d be there soon. I hid behind the door. And when he came in . . .

  Asher cleared his throat. “I got Ana to a hospital. The police went back to that hellhole. The news swarmed on the story, just like they did with yours.” The smile that curved his lips was bitter. “But there is always another story, waiting in the wings. Another monster who steals the public’s attention. Soon enough, Ana and I were forgotten.”

  They’d been left to obscurity. Their father had never been able to handle his guilt. He’d blamed himself for their mother’s death, for not helping them—Asher sometimes believed his father had carried enough guilt for the whole damn world on his shoulders. And that guilt had taken him straight to the bottom of a bottle.

  And, when Asher had been just eighteen, his father had died, driving his car straight into a utility pole. The guy’s blood alcohol level had been sky-high at the time of the crash.

  “You were a hero that day,” Bail
ey said.

  Asher shook his head. She had that so wrong. He’d been helpless that day. Desperate to save Ana and to stop her pain. He still had fucking nightmares about that. About her hurting, screaming for him to help, but . . .

  I can’t.

  “I was a victim. And then I was a killer.” He’d been both within a twenty-four-hour period. Twenty-four hours had completely changed his life.

  The patrol car slowed. “We’re, uh, here,” Ben muttered. Then he looked back at them. Asher saw the wariness in the guy’s gaze. No need to be wary. I didn’t even tell the good stuff. Like what I did to the second bastard who came in that room to hurt my sister.

  “No handles back here,” Asher reminded the guy blandly. “Think you can let us out?”

  Ben’s face flushed and he fumbled before jumping out of the vehicle. A few moments later, he’d opened Bailey’s door. Her hand slid from Asher as she left the car. He followed her, aware of a tightness in his muscles and a cold fury in his gut. That fury is always there when I remember the past.

  A past he couldn’t change. A past he couldn’t outrun, though he’d certainly tried.

  “You, ah, need anything else, Ms. Jones?” Ben asked carefully as he followed them to the porch.

  Bailey gave him a quick, if distracted, smile. “No, but thank you for the ride home.”

  Ben lingered. “If anything happens, you’ll call the station, right?”

  “Right,” she agreed, voice soft. “But I’m okay. Asher is with me.”

  When Ben cast a doubtful glance his way, Asher realized the guy didn’t exactly consider his presence to be the best thing ever. Asher just stared back at him. A few uncomfortable moments later, the young deputy headed back to his car.

  Bailey remained on the porch, not going inside, her hands now shoved into the pockets of her light coat. Her gaze followed the patrol car as it disappeared down the road. “Thank you for telling me about your past.”

  Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t tell you everything. He couldn’t. If he told her more, she wouldn’t want him near her. She sure as hell wouldn’t want him touching her. And Asher had discovered that he liked touching Bailey, liked it a great deal.