by Rita Herron
“The truth is that I really don’t know. It’s too suspicious not to take precautions. But it’s also possible that vandals, maybe teens looking for a way to celebrate Halloween, had their own kind of fun in that graveyard.”
Tinsley squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her face strained as if she wanted to believe that theory but didn’t quite buy it. He ached to comfort her, to assure her he’d never let that bastard touch her again.
But he couldn’t do that, especially when he had no idea where the Skull was hiding. Without an ID or image of his face, the bastard could be right next door, and they wouldn’t know it. Although they’d searched for months, all they really knew was that he was male, sadistic, and that he had a thing about skulls.
They believed he’d abducted three other girls before Tinsley. At least the police had received three sugar skulls. Tinsley had also described seeing three skulls hanging in the room where he’d kept her, suggesting he’d murdered them.
But the bodies of those girls had never been found.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression so pained it struck him that she’d been waiting ever since she’d escaped for the moment her kidnapper would come back for her.
That maybe she needed to finish this before she could truly move on.
“I wanted to forget him,” she said in a low whisper. “But I can’t.” She walked over to the window and opened the shutters.
Outside the sky looked bleak. Gray. Filled with another storm on the horizon.
Wyatt cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Tinsley. If I’d caught him that day—”
“You’ve already apologized,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “I owe you my life, Wyatt.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Wyatt said, a knot in his belly. “But I want to find this creep and stop him before he hurts you or anyone else again. I’d like to put a trace on your phone in case he contacts you. Is that all right?”
“Of course.”
“Also, I need you to tell me everything you can remember about your captivity.”
She shook her head in denial. “I can’t go back there and relive it. I . . . just can’t.”
Wyatt slowly walked toward her. He wanted to hold her so badly his hands literally ached.
That would be a mistake, though. He never crossed the line on a case. And this one was too important for him to start now.
Besides, Tinsley wouldn’t welcome his touch. In fact, he might make the situation worse if he touched her.
So he curled his fingers around the hot mug instead and forced his voice to remain soft. She needed a safe place to open up. No judgment.
“I understand your reluctance, and frankly, I don’t want to hear the details. But anything you can share might enable us to find him.”
Their gazes met and locked. Emotions flooded her face, then resignation.
“All right.” She sank onto the couch.
He braced himself to remain detached as she began to talk.
CHAPTER TEN
Marilyn Ellis settled into the chair in the room at the psych hospital that had been prearranged for her interviews with Cat Landon, a.k.a. Belinda Winters. Her arrest for a series of vigilante killings had revealed that she belonged to a chat group called the Keepers who were incensed over what they deemed injustices of the law. Cat had left the justice symbol, a double SS, on the foreheads of the ones she’d punished as a sign that justice had been served.
Online, the Keepers supported exacting that justice themselves.
Although Cat had insisted she’d acted alone, the Feds still had doubts.
Marilyn had worked damn hard to earn time with Cat, just like she’d worked to climb her way to success at the news station. Except with Cat, she’d had to get permission from the Feds to talk to her.
They’d warned Marilyn that if she learned of other victims, or of other active Keepers planning more vigilante murders, she had to come forward or face prosecution.
She was no goddamn snitch, though.
Her boss at the local TV station in Savannah knew that. She had a reputation as a barracuda and as being the one woman on the team who’d sacrifice herself for a story.
All true. And the very characteristics that might earn her a lead anchor spot. Being part of a muckraking team had taught her a lot.
But she had a hard time being a team player.
Her boss, Edwin Polk, had laid out the terms for her just this morning. “If you want the lead spot instead of Denton, you have to bring me something big. A story that no one knows about.”
She was working on it.
And she’d get it, no matter what she had to do. Some thought she had a God complex. Others said she was a thrill seeker.
A few simply called her a bitch.
She didn’t deny any of those labels.
Still, no one knew the truth about Marilyn Ellis. And no one ever would.
Even Cat didn’t realize the connection they had.
Marilyn might tell her one day. But for now it was her secret to keep.
She liked secrets.
She especially liked exposing the secrets of others.
The door opened, and a male nurse named Samson escorted Cat inside. Months ago, when Cat had first been arrested for the murders of a judge, a pedophile, and a driver’s ed teacher who’d sexually harassed his students, a lawyer named Kendall James had jumped in to represent her. She’d used the fact that Cat had been molested as a child to garner a plea with the DA, so Cat was serving time in a psychiatric hospital instead of a maximum-security prison.
Cat spent her days with nutcases instead of violent offenders. A waste for a brilliant woman with a photographic memory.
Marilyn had done her part to paint a picture of Cat as a victim.
Besides, all those cocksuckers Cat had killed had deserved to die.
Marilyn greeted the young woman with a smile, waiting to see what kind of mood Cat was in today.
During their first interview, Cat had been defensive and combative. Later, when she realized that Marilyn was on her side, she’d relaxed.
Cat glanced warily at Samson as he remained in the doorway.
“I’ve got it from here,” Marilyn said, dismissing him. “You can leave us alone.”
From the beginning, Marilyn had insisted that she conduct her interviews in private. Although a staff member always watched through the glass partition in case the situation turned volatile.
Or in case Marilyn slipped Cat a weapon so she could escape.
But they couldn’t hear what was said.
Cat ran a shaky hand through her tangled hair, and Marilyn noticed a fresh scar on her wrist. Other bruises marred her lower arm.
Had she been fighting? Or . . . had she tried to commit suicide?
The first two months, the hospital had kept her under a suicide watch, but the last time she’d seen Cat, she’d seemed to have moved past that stage.
“I thought we were finished,” Cat murmured.
She was talking about the interviews. But Marilyn wasn’t finished by a long shot.
She squeezed the woman’s shaky hands. “We’ve only just begun.”
In fact, the interviews had been a smokescreen to find out more about the Keepers.
Not for the police.
For herself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I don’t know where to start,” Tinsley said. “We went through this a dozen times after I was rescued.”
“Sometimes, with the passage of time, people recall different details, maybe something they didn’t remember at first. Even the slightest thing can be important.” Wyatt paused. “Start from the beginning. Do you think you’d met the man who abducted you before?”
Tinsley rubbed two fingers along her temple, struggling to recall that time. A time she’d prayed to forget. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Sometimes he made comments that suggested we had.”
“Like that?”
“When he was mad, he s
aid that I shouldn’t have ignored him.”
“Was there anything else?”
Memories nagged at her, escaping the locked box where she stored them for her own survival. “He said he liked it when I wore my hair in braids.” She heaved a breath. “But I haven’t worn my hair in braids since I was twelve.”
An awkward silence followed.
“Was there something significant about that time?” Wyatt asked.
Her heart wrenched. “My parents died when I was twelve. A car accident. They were my whole world, and my sister’s. One minute they were there; the next, gone.” She hesitated and took a breath.
Images flashed behind her eyes. The policeman at the door. Gram doubling over with a sob. Carrie Ann screaming . . . Nights and nights of her screaming.
The funeral home with strangers patting her shoulder. Mama’s and Daddy’s hands . . . so cold. Stiff. Hard. Their lips that looked like plastic.
A white lacy blouse. Church clothes that didn’t look like Mama. No sweet perfume on her neck. No prickly beard on Daddy.
Her birthday that year passed without celebration. Then Christmas. No live tree ’cause Daddy wasn’t there to cut one. Carrie Ann growing hysterical that they couldn’t find the ornaments they’d made the year before. Gram burning the cookies . . .
“I’m sorry about your parents,” Wyatt said, dragging her back to the present.
She nodded, numb. “My grandmother moved in with us. It was a . . . difficult time.”
“He could have met you when you were young. Or sometimes predators research their targets,” Wyatt said quietly.
“You think we attended school together?”
“It’s possible,” Wyatt said. “Or he met you somewhere else, and once he fixated on you, he dug up whatever he could find on you. Maybe he found a picture of you wearing braids in a school yearbook.”
“I suppose,” she said with a small shrug.
Wyatt sighed. “Let’s talk about the day he took you. Walk me through what you did.”
Tinsley tensed. “Why? You think I did something that made him choose me?”
Wyatt set his coffee mug down, his gaze meeting hers. “Listen to me. This was not your fault. But the more we know about him and the reason he chose you, even if it was random, the more it will help us put together a profile. Little things that might not have seemed important at the time may be significant to his pathology.”
Tinsley clung to Wyatt’s words: Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault . . .
She closed her eyes, forcing herself back to that day. “It was a beautiful fall day,” she said softly. “We were hosting an adoption event at the park. I remember the crisp, cool air, the leaves falling, the smell of hot chocolate at the stand near where PAT set up their booth.”
“PAT?”
“Pets as Therapy,” she replied. “Everyone who volunteers is dedicated to rescue animals. We train the animals, then take them to hospitals, nursing homes, children’s centers, the VA hospital, and other places to help people with depression, mental illness, dementia, loneliness, and other issues. The rescue center PAWS hosted kids’ games, a food truck, and an area where people could spend time with the animals available for adoption.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “We even had a pet parade for adoptive parents to bring their animals dressed in costumes.”
“What time was it?” Wyatt asked.
“It started at noon and went until six. Each month we host similar events in different locations to drive adoptions.”
“Were there a lot of people attending?”
She nodded. “We had a huge turnout. By the end of the day, all the rescues were spoken for.”
Wyatt made a low sound in his throat. “He could have been there at the park. Maybe he talked to you or was watching you during the event.”
Tinsley’s heart stuttered. She’d probably talked to a hundred different folks that day. She could easily have met him during the event and not remembered. Was that what he meant when he said she’d ignored him?
Wyatt had read the police report taken at the hospital after Tinsley had been admitted. He’d wanted to interview her himself, but he’d been bleeding badly from where the Skull had stabbed him during Tinsley’s rescue. Doctors had rushed him into surgery to save his life and his leg. When he’d come to, he’d been dosed with painkillers and moved to a rehab facility to start physical therapy.
Meanwhile, Hatcher had been so distraught over his wife’s death that he’d been out of commission as well.
The day they finally found Tinsley still haunted Wyatt. The Skull’s partner, whom they hadn’t known about at the time, had abducted Hatcher’s wife, Felicia. Wyatt and Hatcher had finally traced them to a location and stormed in. But Hatcher had been too late to save Felicia. She’d died at the hands of the Skull’s partner, right in front of his eyes.
Hatcher, obsessed with getting justice—revenge—had tracked down the bastard and killed him.
With Wyatt and Hatcher out of the picture temporarily, a detective from the Savannah Police Department had met with Tinsley to question her. According to the report, Tinsley had been in shock and too traumatized to give them much.
Tinsley’s fiancé, Jordan Radish, had rushed to the hospital and stayed with her around the clock the first two days. But he had a rock-solid alibi for the time of her abduction, and they’d cleared him immediately.
“There were hundreds of people in and out of the booths—kids and families, teenagers. That morning we sponsored a 5K run to raise money for PAWS. At least five hundred people signed up for it.”
Wyatt raked a hand through his hair. “He could have been anywhere in that crowd.”
“Maybe he tried to talk to me and I didn’t have time,” Tinsley said.
“That’s possible, but again, it’s not your fault. His brain is wired differently. Predators can misconstrue a smile, an action, a word. Virtually anything can set them off.”
Tinsley nodded. “We keep a list of everyone who adopts a pet as well as applicants and people interested in volunteering,” Tinsley said. “People who love rescue animals are usually kind and tenderhearted.” She shivered. “He was none of those things.”
No, he wasn’t.
No matter how hard he tried, Wyatt couldn’t erase the disturbing images of her battered body and bruised face from his mind.
“That list might help,” he said. “Think back to that day again. Did anyone stand out? Someone who seemed antagonistic toward you or upset?”
Tinsley closed her eyes again, her face strained as the seconds passed. Wyatt waited, giving her time to sort through the past. “I don’t recall anything significant.”
“Do you run background checks on the applicants?”
Tinsley sipped her coffee. “Not really. Our goal is to find homes for them, not put people on the spot.”
“I understand, but you must be careful about placement.”
“That’s true. Interested parties fill out a questionnaire, and we interview them. We get a good sense of what the people are like, what their home is like, and their plans to take care of the animal. We also request pictures of the home and yard. If the person has another pet, we suggest they bring the pet in for a meet and greet with the rescue they’ve chosen to see if they’re compatible.”
Wyatt considered that information. “Did you have to turn down any applicants that day?” That seemed like a stretch for a trigger, but who knew what made this guy tick?
Tinsley pursed her mouth in thought, walked to the coffeepot, and refilled their mugs. Then she claimed a seat again.
“Now that you mention it, there was a small incident. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but some guy reached out to pet a mixed-breed dog we had, and it snapped at him. It was strange because the dog, Hershey, was usually friendly and liked everyone.”
Wyatt’s instincts kicked in. Animals sometimes had a sixth sense about who they could trust.
“What happened then?”
“
The guy got upset,” Tinsley said. “I remember pulling Hershey back and soothing him. The man said we should put that one down, but I told him we didn’t do that. Not unless the animal was extremely dangerous and was examined by a vet first.”
“How did he take it?”
Tinsley shrugged. “He walked off in a huff.”
It could be nothing. But if that guy had been pissed, he could have perceived the entire situation in a negative light.
Would that be enough to trigger him to kidnap and hurt Tinsley?
It seemed far-fetched, but if no other leads turned up, it was something to pursue.
Tinsley shifted restlessly. Adoption days were positive, heartwarming, and wonderful, for both the owner and the rescue animal. It had been a wholesome family event.
To think that a predator had been there was unnerving.
According to her therapist and the police, though, predators were everywhere. Pedophiles lurked in the park, near children’s playgrounds and schools. Sexual deviants found victims in alleys, on the street, in bars, or even on the job. No place was safe.
That was the reason she’d locked herself between these walls.
She’d tried so hard to understand the man who’d violated her. Had studied the damn books on her shelf, read about psychosis and ritualistic behavior.
But she might never understand, because as Wyatt said, the bastard was wired differently. He could have a mental imbalance, be bipolar or schizophrenic. Or a sociopath. Or any combination.
He’d been violent one moment, then illogical, scattered, and obsessive-compulsive the next.
The crying jags and angry rants after he raped her were especially disturbing. He’d apologized for hurting her, claimed he felt guilty about what he’d done.
Then he’d taken that guilt out on her . . .
She inhaled sharply. She had to get him out of her mind. He had controlled her then.
She refused to let him control her now.
He did, though. As long as she lived in fear, he still held her hostage, a prisoner to the pain.
“I’ll need contact information for the PAWS group, and PAT, and copies of those lists,” Wyatt said.