by Rita Herron
At first when I was trapped, I fought him. I tried to rip off that mask. I wanted to see the monster beneath. Be able to describe him when I finally escaped.
I imagined sitting on the witness stand and staring him down. Smiling as the guards dragged him away in shackles and chains.
And walking free as he was sentenced to life in prison. Or death for those other women he murdered.
But today that fight is gone.
After he raped me again, he left me free of the chain. He knows I’m weak. Too weak to run.
I let him think that.
But I crawl to the window. Grime and fog coat the glass. Thick trees stand, jutted together like a wall. A sliver of light snakes through an opening between the weeds.
There . . . an opening. That’s the way out. If I can just make it to the light . . .
I roll my hand into a fist and punch the window. Glass shatters. I hit it again and again. Slivers of glass fly everywhere.
Then the glass is gone. But there are bars . . . No . . .
I grip them with my hands and try to bend them, move them apart. Frustration builds inside me. But they won’t budge.
Sweat beads on my skin. My hands are clammy, blood soaked. It’s so hot I can barely breathe, yet I’m shivering.
The door screeches open.
I yank at the bars again. I have to get out!
But a cold wave of air rushes into the room. He’s coming toward me.
He’ll punish me for this.
Panic and despair make me heavy.
I’m done.
The broken shards of glass glitter in the darkness.
“Ah, Tinsley, dear, you can’t leave me . . .”
But I’m going to. One way or another.
I grab a chunk of glass and slice my wrist.
His bellow bounces off the walls as he runs toward me. I switch hands and slice the other wrist.
Blood spurts. The room tilts. Blurs.
I’m falling . . . spinning and falling. Relief is so close by, I can touch it . . . The dark swallows me. But then the light will come, and I’ll find peace.
He catches me. I gasp for air, but I’m too weak to fight.
Finally the dark sweeps me under. I beg for it to take me. No more pain. No more sorrow.
No more . . . him.
Colors dance behind my eyes. Flowers and puffy white clouds and warm bright sunshine. Then my parents. Holding out their hands, waiting for me in the light.
I reach for them. Our fingers touch. Soon Mama will wrap her arms around me, and everything will be all right.
But . . . something yanks me back. Pain knifes through me. I blink. Pray for the light again.
But it’s not Mama’s voice calling my name . . . It’s his.
And the ugly darkness is back.
“You can’t leave me, Tinsley.”
Yes, I can. I have to.
But . . . his hands are on me. He’s wrapping my arms in bandages. A sharp sting in my arm. Drugs again.
The pain will fade. He promises that.
But he’ll bring it again. He always does.
Hatcher crossed the alley, his phone in his hand. “I just talked to Korine. She cleared the three rape victims who testified against Milburn.”
Relieved, Wyatt gave a nod. “How about family members?”
“She’s working on that and will keep us posted. So far, though, no leads.”
Numerous people, both family and nonfamily members, had been irate over Milburn’s release.
“I don’t know if this murder is connected to the Skull,” Wyatt said, “but I talked to Tinsley, and it started me thinking.”
“She heard from him?” Hatcher asked.
Wyatt relayed what had happened with the skulls and his suspicions regarding the green tea. “I understand this is difficult for you, Hatcher, but we have to take a deeper look at Norton Smith.”
Hatcher rubbed the wedding ring on his third finger. He and his first wife had been on the verge of divorce before her abduction. Hatcher had struggled with guilt over her death.
“I reviewed what we know about Smith,” Wyatt said. “The logical place to start would be—”
“The orphanage where Smith grew up.” Hatcher shifted. “I’ll look at the murder book on Felicia and ask Bernie to pull everything she can find on that orphanage. The Skull may have met Smith there.”
“I know that won’t be easy, man. If you want someone else to handle it—”
“No,” Hatcher said bluntly. “You and I started this case. We’ll finish it.”
As night fell, Tinsley was so anxious that she plugged in a Zumba video and worked through the routine. She used to enjoy running, but running in place only reminded her that she was trapped inside. The music video pumped up her energy and helped keep her muscles toned. She followed it with a tape on self-defense moves that she’d been doing daily.
She had to stay in shape—be prepared and ready to fight. She’d die before she let that monster take her again.
When she finished practicing the moves, she spread out her yoga mat and stretched.
As kids, she and Carrie Ann had danced and put on skits for their mother and father after dinner. Carrie Ann had loved being the star of the show. She’d flipped and flopped and twirled in her tutu and kept them all entertained. She had always been the happy, outgoing child.
Until their parents died.
Tinsley rubbed her finger over the sea glass turtle around her neck, longing for those innocent childhood days.
A wave of sadness and anger engulfed her. She would never be innocent again, or dance around the room like that child.
Or dream of wearing a white dress and having a family of her own.
Those dreams had died during the weeks of her captivity.
Her phone beeped again. A text. Carrie Ann.
News story about you and the Skull. Why didn’t you tell me he’s back?
Tinsley’s heart stuttered. What news story?
She grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV, surfing the channels until she found Marilyn Ellis with a late-breaking story. It looked like she was in Savannah somewhere, maybe an alley, not the TV station.
“Tonight police and the FBI found Milt Milburn, the alleged River Street Rapist, stabbed to death. His body was left in an alley on River Street. Although federal agents and police refused to comment, sources indicate that the victims who testified against Milburn received photographs of the dead man. Tinsley Jensen, the only surviving victim of the infamous Skull, also received the same photograph.”
Tinsley gasped as a picture of her appeared on screen.
“A few months ago, police connected the deaths perpetrated by a woman they called the Keeper to Tinsley Jensen’s website, Heart & Soul, and arrested one of their own, FBI analyst Cat Landon. Has another vigilante killer surfaced to pick up where Cat Landon left off?”
Guilt over Cat Landon’s actions still plagued Tinsley. Was there another vigilante?
Marilyn Ellis continued: “Just this morning, the FBI responded to Ms. Jensen’s house and found three skulls left on her porch. In earlier interviews with the police, Ms. Jensen stated that her abductor created a shrine of paper skulls, flowers, and candles in celebration of the Day of the Dead. With the Day of the Dead approaching, this raises the question—has the Skull returned for Miss Jensen?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Skull ran his hand over his bald head as he paced in front of the TV.
God . . . he was so wired. He’d been eager for the good doctor tonight. So desperate to feed the raging animal inside him. To satisfy his hunger until he could have Tinsley again.
That fucking news anchor Marilyn Ellis bolted into his thoughts. What was she saying? Something about him leaving skulls on Tinsley’s porch?
Bitch. She painted him as a monster. But he wasn’t. He was a good man. He cared about people. He listened to their problems and sympathized when they told him how and where they hurt.
Th
en he did everything he could to make them feel better.
And now what was she saying? That he was back?
Sure, he’d been watching Tinsley. But he had not left anything on her doorstep. He wasn’t that stupid.
So what the hell was going on?
He went to his trophy wall and soaked up the sight of the photographs he’d kept.
First Linnea—she’d looked the most like his mother, Janine, with her light-blonde hair and green eyes . . . and that killer smile . . . He’d taken her on impulse. A big mistake. She hadn’t been sweet or loving or any of the things a good girl was supposed to be.
She’d had to die.
Then Sonya. She’d worked at a nursing home. Had been sympathetic to the elderly patients, a friend to the ones suffering from dementia. But her patience had stopped there. She cussed like a sailor. She hadn’t liked animals. Or men.
Then Gail. Sweet and soft-spoken. A Sunday school teacher. A truly good girl.
Too good. She thought sex was dirty.
But that was wrong. Even good girls liked sex. His mother had, and she’d been a good girl.
Like Tinsley. She had been the best. The one.
He’d wanted her to be the last.
She would be.
But that Ellis bitch said he’d been to Tinsley’s.
Either she and Tinsley had lied.
Or . . . someone was pretending to be him. An impostor.
He balled his hands into fists. He would not have that! No one could imitate him. No one.
Because no one knew what made him tick. Why he took the girls. What he wanted from them.
Norton Smith had tried to copy him, too. He’d made a mistake befriending that weirdo, but at the time he’d wanted to connect with someone who shared his dark needs. Smith had wanted to be like him. Except Smith was obsessed with being noticed. He’d wanted to be famous.
But Smith had it all wrong. Thought it was about hurting the women.
It had been about showing them that he was good enough for them. That he would always take care of them, especially when they were hurting.
Smith hadn’t even been original enough to create his own MO.
If someone else had put skulls on Tinsley’s porch, it was another impostor.
He plunged his fist into the wall.
No one would have Tinsley but him. They were meant to be together. He’d known it the first time he’d met her.
But there was no way he could go to Tinsley’s tonight, not when the place was probably crawling with cops.
Furious, he snatched his keys and stormed out the door. He would go back to Dr. Ferris’s house.
She wasn’t Tinsley, but she could satisfy his dark hunger tonight and tomorrow and however long it took until he could have his true love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wyatt and Hatcher were finishing talking to the police officers who’d canvassed the bars and restaurants when a man in a suit and tie pushed past the police barrier.
Milt Milburn’s father.
Instead of cornering Wyatt or Hatcher, though, he headed straight to Marilyn Ellis.
Wyatt watched her face light up with excitement at the idea of interviewing Milburn. Then Milburn tore into her about the way she’d described his son, and her expression turned to discomfort.
Still, she was a pro. Even if Milburn attacked her verbally or physically today, Marilyn would put up with it. Drama made good TV.
Detective Brockett stepped up to Wyatt and Hatcher. “The officers haven’t found any leads with the canvass,” he told them. “A couple of waiters and a bartender noticed Milburn having a drink but didn’t remember anyone specific being with him. The place was packed. Two women Milburn approached recognized him and immediately told him off. Then Milburn disappeared into a dark corner, and the bartender lost track of him.”
Ellis’s voice cut into the conversation, and they fell silent to listen to the interview. “We’re here live at the scene of what we believe to be a homicide investigation.” Ellis angled the microphone toward Milburn’s father. “This is Mr. Harold Milburn, the father of Milt Milburn, the young man found dead here tonight.”
Milburn snatched the microphone from her. “I want this town to know what an abominable job the Savannah Police Department and the FBI are doing. Instead of calling me or having the decency to inform me in person, I learned from social media that my son was murdered.” He gestured toward Marilyn as if she were a piranha. “Not only did law enforcement and the press malign my son’s good name and character with false allegations that destroyed his career, but now they’ve shown no respect for my family by allowing the press to be present during such a painful time.”
Ellis simply let him vent, well aware that his reaction would hype ratings. Wyatt shifted. She basked in the limelight, even if the truth got skewed.
Wyatt and Hatcher followed alongside the transport team to shield Milburn’s body from the camera as they loaded him into the hearse.
Milburn’s father spied them and shot past Ellis. Marilyn and the cameraman trailed him like hound dogs following the scent of blood.
“Get started on the warrants for Milburn’s phone and computer,” Wyatt told Hatcher. “Bernie can help us search them and Milburn’s contacts in case the unsub made contact online or via phone or text.”
“Copy that.”
Hatcher positioned himself by the body to keep Milburn at bay as the angry man approached.
“I want to see my son,” Harold Milburn demanded.
Wyatt swallowed hard. As much as he detested Milt Milburn, no father should see his child in this condition. “I’m sorry, Mr. Milburn, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. When we get him to the morgue and clean him up, then you’ll be allowed to have some time with him.”
“How dare you try to keep me from my child,” Milburn shouted.
Wyatt shot Ellis a warning look, hoping she’d turn off the camera, but no such luck. “I understand you’re upset, Mr. Milburn, and I apologize for the way you learned about your son. We will do everything possible to find out what happened to him and see that justice is served.”
“Like you cared about justice when those tramps maligned my son’s character.” He grabbed the mike from Ellis again. “Mark my words. You and the police will be held accountable for crucifying my boy. Milt did not rape anyone. The judge released him because those girls lied. They dress like whores and flirt and rub all over men, then cry rape when it’s over. They got exactly what they deserved.”
Wyatt saw red.
Now he understood why Milt Milburn had the attitude he did. Like father, like son.
He rolled his hands into fists to keep from slugging the man and reminded himself that Harold Milburn was in shock and grieving.
They’d investigate Milburn’s murder because it was their job to do so.
But another case took priority: finding the Skull.
Tinsley punched the TV off. She didn’t want to hear another word from that pushy Marilyn Ellis. She’d staunchly refused to grant the woman an interview, but the stubborn reporter continued to hound her.
How had she known about the skulls left on her porch?
Wyatt . . . no. He wouldn’t have told her anything. He was too professional. And . . . protective.
Her phone buzzed again. Carrie Ann once more.
Call me, sis. I’m worried about you.
Tinsley frowned. Her sister had certainly been persistent lately.
But Carrie Ann needed the old, reliable, strong Tinsley. And that woman was dead.
After that news story, Tinsley at least owed her sister a text. She stood and stretched, then paced to the picture window overlooking the ocean. The wind was howling, palm trees swaying, the sky dark and ominous.
She studied the beach, scrutinizing every inch for the Skull, but it was late and the beach appeared empty.
An officer had been left to guard the house. She was safe.
So why did she feel so on edge?
; Hands trembling, she slumped down onto the window seat and typed a text to her sister.
Not sure where that reporter got her information, but unclear if the Skull has reappeared. FBI has been to the house and have posted a guard outside.
Don’t worry. Stay safe yourself.
No need to tell Carrie Ann about Wyatt’s suspicions regarding her tea being drugged. Not until she knew for certain what was going on.
Wyatt and Hatcher had warrants within the hour and headed straight to Milt Milburn’s condo. They needed to execute the search before Milburn’s father had time to erase incriminating evidence.
The ERT impounded Milburn’s Ferrari and was processing it. Not that they thought the unsub had been in it, but it was possible. They had to explore every angle.
He and Hatcher flashed credentials at the security guard at the gate to the building. When they explained the reason for their inquiries, another guard escorted them to Milburn’s and let them in.
The exclusive complex was pricey with ultracontemporary million-dollar condos, at odds with the rich history of the city. Milburn’s unit faced the Savannah river walk.
Disgust tasted bitter in Wyatt’s mouth. No doubt the bastard sat on his private patio, his libido raging as he hunted for prey.
“We can take it from here,” Hatcher told the guard as he lingered at the door.
“You want me to help, I can,” the guard offered.
Hatcher shook his head. “It’s an official investigation. We have to go by the book. Already Milburn’s father is planning to sue us and the SPD.”
“Sounds like him,” the man said in a derisive tone.
“You know the Milburns?”
“Just in passing. They didn’t hang with the staff or anyone without money.”
“Did the police talk to you about the rapes when the son was charged?”
The man nodded. “Yeah, but I never saw him bring women back here. I guess he preferred hotels or . . . whatever.”
Dark alleys, Wyatt finished silently.
The man stepped back outside, and Wyatt and Hatcher entered the foyer, a two-story grand entrance with a chandelier that resembled dripping diamonds. Expensive paintings, Oriental vases and rugs, and white couches that looked as if they’d never been used filled the space. The entire décor was white. In fact, it looked downright sterile.