by Rita Herron
Hers shimmered with the deep blue of the ocean and shades of turquoise, while Carrie Ann’s was a pale green with gold streaks.
When she was held prisoner in that horrid room, she’d forced her mind to escape to better times. To when she was little and she and her sister had built sandcastles and chased seagulls and boogie-boarded on the waves. To the long lazy days they’d sailed with their father. He’d taught her and her sister how to tie sailing knots when they were little. She and Carrie Ann used to make a contest out of it, to see who could untie the knots the fastest. They’d even practiced in the dark.
Toward the end of her captivity, though, the good memories had faded. She’d fallen into despair. She’d thought she’d never see Carrie Ann again.
She’d wanted to die. She’d prayed to die.
Then Wyatt found her, and she’d been rushed to the hospital, and for a brief moment in time, she’d been happy to be free. But the physical injuries and emotional scars, the publicity and the police interrogations, took their toll.
Her fiancé walked away. He hadn’t signed up for the emotional basket case she’d become.
She’d pushed Carrie Ann away, too.
Liz Roberts’s business card mocked her from the side table. The counselor/victims’ advocate had good intentions. But talking about what happened to her hadn’t changed anything.
Her website was her only source of comfort—at least she’d found a sisterhood in her readers. People who didn’t judge. Who didn’t blame Tinsley for drawing a psycho to her as her fiancé had.
People who needed her because they were suffering, too.
She slipped into her desk chair and began another entry.
We all have little girls inside us. Innocent. Trusting. Loving. Eager to please.
Once, we had silly girlish dreams of our first kiss. Our first date. Of falling in love. Of a white wedding dress and a man who loved us with all his heart.
Then something happens—a defining moment. A person. An event. A tragedy. A violation.
It changes us, steals our love of life, our trust and hope, our future.
Then we become people we don’t recognize anymore. People we don’t like.
People we don’t want to be.
But we’re trapped inside the memories and pain. It weaves a web around us, one so tight and confining that there are times we can’t breathe.
Times we don’t want to breathe anymore.
The innocence is gone.
And in its place is distrust. Fear. Despair.
I grieve for the girl I once was. For the woman I wanted to be.
Only the shell of that person remains.
I hate him for doing this to me.
I hate myself for not being stronger.
But I can’t erase his voice from my head.
“Be a good girl and don’t cry.”
He said that as he tied me spread-eagle on the floor. Then he took pictures of me and hung them on the wall as if I was his private porn show.
“Daddy said I could never get a good girl, that I’m a loser. But he’s wrong. I have you.” He shoved my legs apart and rammed inside me. “Even good girls have bad in them. Just like she did.”
I tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over my mouth. “You like it, don’t you? You like it when I fuck you hard.”
No . . . I silently screamed.
His eyes turned feral, sinister, sick. “Say it. You like it, don’t you?”
But I didn’t say it. I refused.
And he punished me for not obeying.
Wyatt had learned early on to wear boots on the job. An agent never knew where he’d be on a crime scene or what he’d be stepping into when he arrived.
The marsh held its challenges anyway. The alligators, for one, prowling and hiding, waiting to strike. The muddy soil sucked at his feet like quicksand. The murky water was a breeding ground for mosquitos, gnats, and no-see-ums, the tiny, ravenous midges that plagued the island.
Still, cast in shadows with the weeds and sea oats swaying in the wind, it held a certain beauty.
Not tonight, though. The loamy scent hinted at death. Bones had been found. Bones that needed answering for.
Flashlight beams from the evidence response team skated over brittle marsh grass, adding a ghostly feel.
He didn’t know why a graveyard had been built so close to this marshland, but this graveyard and church had been here long before the last hurricane, which had caused erosion and altered the landscape.
His leg throbbed and felt stiff as he trudged through the overgrown sea grass and weeds.
Biting back the pain, he headed toward a uniformed officer who stood in ankle-deep water with a grim expression on his face.
He flashed his credentials. “Special Agent Wyatt Camden. You called us.”
“Sure did. Detective Ryker Brockett.”
Wyatt recognized him. He’d worked the vigilante murders.
Brockett gestured toward a small wooden bridge over a deeper section of the water. A middle-aged man in jeans and a Braves hat stood looking out at the scene, his complexion ruddy.
“Crabber said he put his net in, and when he pulled it up, bones were caught in it.”
An image formed in Wyatt’s mind. “I guess that was a shock.”
The detective nodded grimly. “He was shook up but curious, so he jumped onto the bridge, then heard bones cracking beneath his shoes.”
“Ah, hell.” He felt for the guy. Then again, the crabber could have been the one to dig up the bones, then staged the scene to make himself look innocent.
“These bones were in unmarked graves?”
Brockett nodded. “The other graves are old but intact with stone markers. There’re no signs that these skeletons were in coffins, which raises more suspicions.”
Damn right it did.
“If anyone else shows up, keep them away from our crime scene,” Wyatt said. He half expected Marilyn Ellis, the news anchor who’d covered the vigilante murders, to barrel in with her cameraman.
“Will do. ME should be here soon. Said he’d call a forensic anthropologist to help excavate the bones and transport them back to the lab for analysis.”
“Good. We’ll need all the help we can get.”
Wyatt shined his flashlight over the ground to make sure he didn’t step on any of the bones as he strode to the bridge where the crabber stood. Some perpetrators enjoyed wreaking havoc, then watching the police scurry to dig up clues and track down the culprit. He’d wait till he talked to the guy to make that call.
From a distance, it was difficult to read the man’s expression. Closer, with his flashlight illuminating the man’s face, he noted sweat on the crabber’s brow and forehead. His breathing was also raspy and choppy.
“Sir, I’m Special Agent Wyatt Camden.” The wooden boards creaked as he moved closer. “I understand you found the bones.”
The man slowly turned and extended his hand. But it wasn’t excitement or awe in his expression. His eyes were glazed, cloudy. Vacant.
The truth dawned. This man wasn’t looking at the crime scene in shock—he was blind. Instead, he’d been listening to the sounds of the workers.
“I’m afraid I did find them,” the man said in a low voice.
“Tell me what happened,” Wyatt said.
The man lifted one hand to shift his hat, and Wyatt spotted scars on his fingers. A long one ran across the palm of his hand as if it had been sliced wide open. It was fresh, too. The skin was still red and puckered.
“Friend of mine dropped me off so I could crab.”
“Do you come to this spot a lot?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve got a couple of different places I go. Last week I had good luck here, so thought I’d try it again.”
“Was anyone here when you arrived?”
“Don’t think so,” he mumbled. “Then again, I could have missed someone if they were hiding. But I didn’t hear voices or a car.”
“Then what happened?” W
yatt asked.
“I tied the chicken necks inside the net, then dropped the net in.” He patted the pocket of his jeans and removed a pack of unfiltered Camels. “Had a smoke or two while I waited.”
“What time did you get here?”
“Dusk.”
“You said you didn’t hear a car or boat. A canoe could get close to here.”
“Sorry. Didn’t hear anything but the wind and the birds. And some tree frogs.”
“What happened next?”
“I pulled one of the nets up to check, but . . . there wasn’t a crab inside. At first, thought I’d caught a stick, but . . . it didn’t feel like a stick.” He coughed, then lit up a cigarette. “I ran my fingers over it, then realized I had bones . . .”
“You touched them?”
“Yeah.” Revulsion darkened his voice. “Just one of them. Freaked me out, and I dropped the net. I heard it splash, then figured I’d better retrieve it and call someone.”
Wyatt spotted a net on the bridge, a chicken neck inside, one lone crab tangled in the weave. “Was this the net?”
“No, one of them other guys took it.” He held up his hands. “They took my prints, too, and my shoes.”
“They need to compare prints and forensics to eliminate you,” Wyatt said.
The man lifted his chin and looked up at Wyatt, and for a moment, he felt as if the man could see him.
“Why you reckon someone would steal bones?”
Wyatt didn’t like any of the answers that came to him.
CHAPTER SIX
The Keeper smiled as she drew a sketch of the Skull. A narrow head. Scrawny body.
Beady eyes. Eyes that belonged to a coward.
He didn’t know it yet. But they were going to play a little game of cat and mouse.
Except this time, he would be the mouse.
Tonight, she had set her plan in motion. Thanks to television news coverage of the Skull, she knew details that would help.
The Day of the Dead was significant to him. A string of paper skulls, papel picado, adorned an altar. A shrine was made with marigolds and crimson flowers meant to honor those who’d passed. Sugar skulls were also used as decorations.
Unlike Halloween, the Day of the Dead was a time of reflection. Peace. Quiet.
Except the Skull had turned it into his time of kidnapping and torture.
She clicked onto Tinsley’s Heart & Soul website. Tinsley had written a new post. Fear and pain echoed from her words.
I grieve for the girl I once was. For the woman I wanted to be.
Only the shell of that person remains.
And I hate him for doing this to me.
Tinsley had to face the demons. According to her blog, she thought hiding out in the sanctity of the cove with the ocean breeze, salty air, and kids’ laughter would rejuvenate her soul.
Yet she lay trapped in the agony of her memories like a hermit crab trying to climb above the surface when the sand is mired down by a heavy boot, preventing its escape.
She would be unleashed from her misery soon.
Although she might have to suffer first to earn her freedom.
But it would all be worth it in the end.
After all, she wasn’t the only one who’d suffered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The last sliver of sunlight faded from the powder-blue sky, casting a blanket of gray across the waves as they crashed onto the shore.
Tinsley rubbed her arms to ward off the chill invading her.
The anniversary of her abduction was approaching.
Maybe that was the reason she’d thought she’d seen the Skull outside the window.
She searched the beach and dock for signs that he’d returned. He might not have been here tonight.
But he would come back for her. It was only a matter of time.
Where had he been during the winter months? And the long summer?
Lying low until the tourists left the island? Until it was nearly deserted?
That was already happening. She felt the changes in the cooler air seeping through the screens. Saw it in the ebb and flow of the tides.
Vacationers had returned to school and work. The days were starting to grow shorter as fall set in.
Self-disgust ate at her. Once upon a time she’d loved autumn with its vibrant shades of colors. Invigorated by the crisp cooler air, she’d enjoyed long walks with whatever rescue dog she’d housed at the time.
But he had ruined that for her.
Now she didn’t want summer to end. The days had been long and hot but filled with happy families on the beach. Families that she could pretend to be part of. That made her feel less alone.
And there had been hours and hours of sunlight to keep the darkness at bay.
Those lazy days had brought a sense of peace and lulled Tinsley into thinking that she might one day heal. That maybe he’d forgotten about her.
Summer might be his time of rest, too.
Since her attack, she’d studied the pathology of serial killers. She pulled one of the research books she’d ordered online from her shelf and flipped through the pages, searching for the chapter about rituals. There was a method to the madness of a predator.
The changing of the seasons might be significant for the Skull. Had something traumatic happened to him in the fall? Maybe he’d lost someone . . . the people he chanted to during that damn celebration . . .
She shivered again. With the days growing shorter, night seemed to last forever.
She hated the darkness. The long hours of emptiness and uncertainty.
Those nights triggered memories of being held captive, of the dank interior of the room where he’d kept her.
Of the sound of his voice, hollow and flat, echoing from the doorway. Of the taunts and demented words he’d whispered in her ear as he’d forced himself on her.
Say you like it. Say you want me to fuck you.
She’d bitten her tongue until it bled to keep from giving in to him.
As soon as he’d spent himself, he’d crawl away and curl into a fetal position. While she’d lain there, limp and helpless, she’d seen horror and self-disgust in his eyes. He’d punished her.
But then he’d punished himself. Said he hated that he’d taken her.
That he couldn’t stop himself.
It was her fault. She was temptation. A devil in disguise.
Trembling from the memories, she stripped her clothes and headed to the shower. She’d scrubbed herself a million times since she’d been free, but his scent and the feel of his hands and body lingered.
Just as the scars did.
She stared at herself in the mirror, hating the way she looked. Another victory for him.
He’d scarred her to keep her from tempting another man into sinning by wanting her.
Wyatt rubbed his bleary eyes as the evidence response team searched the crime scene.
They had to set up lights, rope off the area, and photograph the grounds and gravesites without disturbing the graves any more than necessary.
Mistakes would be made, though. The first responding officer had probably trampled part of the scene already. So had the crabber who’d found the body. Elimination footprints had been taken.
Wyatt’s partner, Hatcher McGee, met the medical examiner as he approached, and they walked toward Wyatt. Dr. Patton had worked the vigilante killings with Hatcher. The man was good but not an expert on bones.
“So far we think three skulls are missing,” Wyatt said.
“According to the local lore surrounding Skull’s Crossing, three were found years ago,” Hatcher said.
“You think these are related?” Dr. Patton asked.
Wyatt shrugged. “That’s possible, although this unsub didn’t leave skulls. He stole them.”
Hatcher scratched his head. “True.”
Wyatt shifted. “The man who abducted Tinsley had three skulls hanging in the room where he held her.”
Hatcher crossed his arms. “We assumed th
ose belonged to his previous victims. Maybe he stole them from a graveyard, but there weren’t reports of grave disturbances like this.”
Thunder crackled, and lightning zigzagged across the inky sky, streaking the area and making it look ghostly. Wyatt tried to form a mental picture of someone digging up these skeletons, and a possible motive.
“It’s almost Halloween,” he said, throwing out the obvious and less sinister possibility. “Could be kids or teens wanting to prank someone.”
Hatcher and Dr. Patton nodded agreement, although silence stretched as another clap of thunder rent the air, and Wyatt’s mind dove to dark places.
“I’m going to check on that forensic anthropologist.” Dr. Patton retrieved his phone from his pocket and stepped aside to make the call.
Wyatt heaved a wary breath.
“You have to be wondering the same thing I am,” Hatcher said bluntly.
Wyatt nodded, the unease in his gut tightening. “Tinsley phoned me earlier. She thought she saw him outside the cottage.”
Hatcher’s sharp intake of breath punctuated the air. “Dammit. We knew he’d resurface sometime.”
Wyatt studied the workers combing the marsh, his pulse hammering. “He could have taken these skulls as a statement to us that he’s back.”
Or perhaps he needed them to re-create the place where he held her.
Because he was setting up a new hellhole to take her to when he abducted her . . .
The date on the calendar mocked Tinsley as she wrestled for sleep. Last year at this time she’d been excited about the fund-raiser for the rescue shelter. All her planning had paid off, and the event had gone off without a hitch.
She’d been on top of the world as she’d walked to her car.
But then the Skull had abducted her, and she’d been introduced to a kind of violence she’d never imagined.
Finally, she threw the covers aside, slid from bed, and padded to the living room. The walls were closing in on her again. After being held in that confined space, she hated being locked in these three rooms.
But she didn’t know how to break through the terror that paralyzed her. The panic attack she’d suffered earlier proved she wasn’t ready.