by Rita Herron
Their mother had loved crafts and helped them make picture frames with shells they’d collected from the beach. She’d embroidered Christmas dresses for her and Carrie Ann, tied ribbons in their hair, and let her and Carrie Ann play dress-up in her costume jewelry.
Her father had built a playhouse outside for them. Had bought kites to fly on the beach. Had taught them both to swim.
They had been a happy family. Until her parents had died.
The next few months had been hell. Then one day Gram had bundled them up and carried them to the park, where the local PAWS group was hosting an adoption event.
The moment she and Carrie Ann had seen that golden retriever, they’d squealed and begged to have her. Gingersnap. She’d been sweet and playful and liked curling up in their bed at night.
The vet working the rescue event had been kind and encouraged them to bring Gingersnap to dog obedience class. They had, and Tinsley had fallen in love with all the animals at the clinic.
During summer break, she’d volunteered at the clinic. That summer, she decided she wanted to be a vet.
Although later on, money had been tight, and she’d given up that dream to help her sister. But still, she loved the work she did and wouldn’t change it if she could.
God help her, she wanted to return to the life she loved.
Wyatt’s footsteps echoed from the living room, and she went to face him.
“I don’t know how that blasted woman gets her information, but she’s at every crime scene. Somehow she knows that we’re investigating the possibility that the Skull has been here.”
Wyatt’s cell phone buzzed, and he checked it, then returned a text.
“Is that about Joyce?” she said, hope stirring.
He shook his head. “Afraid not. Just a message about the boys fall ball team I coach.”
Tinsley hesitated. Wyatt knew almost everything about her, but she knew nothing about him. Except that he’d nearly died saving her life.
“What team?”
A smile sparked in his eyes. “It’s sponsored through the Boys’ Club.” He showed her a photograph of a group of boys in baseball uniforms, ages seven to nine, on his phone. Another man stood at one end, while Wyatt was at the other. He sported a big grin as he looked down at the kids.
“It’s nice of you to help out,” she said, her admiration for him mounting.
“The kids are great and need attention. It’s a win-win for all of us.”
Affection laced his tone as he pointed out the different boys’ names and circumstances. Most were from troubled or single-parent homes and had no father figure.
The love in his eyes was powerful. “You want children yourself?” she asked.
“A whole team,” he said with a chuckle.
Her insides quivered with longing. Once upon a time she’d dreamed about having a big family herself.
That dream had died when the Skull had brutalized her.
All the more reason she should stop fantasizing about getting closer to Wyatt. He was such a good man. He deserved to have that family.
A family she could never give him.
Wyatt had no idea what just happened, but Tinsley seemed to shut down in front of his eyes.
Maybe she didn’t like children.
Disappointment railed through him. Why, he didn’t know. He’d pictured her as being a natural with kids.
Then again, he wasn’t in the market for a family at the moment. His job was too damn dangerous.
Of all people, Tinsley needed to be with someone safe.
His phone buzzed with a text. Korine.
Would like to drop by to work on that profile with Tinsley.
Wyatt texted back, telling her to come on over.
Then he rushed to his SUV for the change of clothes he kept in a duffel bag.
“I’ll make coffee and breakfast while you shower,” Tinsley suggested.
The space suddenly felt small inside. The air was charged with tension.
“Is something wrong? I don’t have to clean up here. I can go back to my place when Korine arrives.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I’m just worried about Joyce.”
Of course she was. “Maybe the profile will help.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Wyatt ran his portable electric razor over his face, then took a two-minute shower in Tinsley’s bathroom and dressed in clean clothes.
The scent of coffee and cinnamon wafted toward him as he entered the den again.
Tinsley handed him a cup of coffee. “There’re fresh cinnamon rolls if you’d like one.”
His stomach growled. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. And those cinnamon rolls smelled heavenly. The doorbell rang, though, so he went to let Korine in.
Korine had met Tinsley during the investigation into the vigilante murders. “It’s good to see you,” Korine said, giving her a hug. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
Tinsley smiled, although the smile looked forced. “You really are pregnant,” she murmured.
Korine patted her big belly. “I certainly am and have the swollen ankles to prove it.”
“Congratulations,” Tinsley said. “I’m sure you and Hatcher are excited.”
“We are.” She squeezed Tinsley’s hands. “How are you holding up?”
Tinsley lifted her chin. “I’m worried sick about my friend. I don’t want to lose her to that monster.”
Korine removed a small notepad from her purse and settled on the couch. Tinsley offered her coffee and a cinnamon roll, and Korine took the pastry but asked for water. “Then let’s get started.”
She waited until Tinsley joined her and settled into a chair. “I understand this is difficult,” Korine said, “but I also know you want this man found.”
“I do,” Tinsley admitted.
“I’ve read the notes Wyatt took about your abduction, but I need you to tell me everything again. Maybe you’ll recall something new this time.”
Wyatt’s phone buzzed. Hatcher. “I’ll take this while you two talk.”
He stepped outside. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been looking over the murder book on Felicia,” Hatcher said. “The agent who took over her case failed to interview Norton’s coworkers. Bernie sent info on one of them that we should question. She also dug up pictures from that orphanage.”
“Anything happening with the Milburn case?”
“Korine’s going to talk to Cat Landon this morning after she finishes with Tinsley. She thinks Cat may know if someone assumed her role as the Keeper.”
Wyatt ended the call, then went to tell Tinsley and Korine.
When he entered the room, the silence was thick with tension. A candle flickered with soft pale light.
Tinsley opened her eyes and glanced over at him, but the glazed expression indicated she was still in the nightmare of her memory.
“You did good,” Korine told her.
He arched a brow. “Are you ready to give the profile?” Wyatt asked.
Korine nodded. “We can always adjust later when new information comes to light, but with Dr. Ferris missing, we need to move quickly.”
He agreed.
“This is what I have,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Judging from Tinsley’s description, I’d say the Skull is a white male, probably late twenties to midthirties.”
“Most serial killers start out around that age,” Wyatt agreed.
Korine tapped her pen on the page. “The fact that he’s waited so long between abductions and hasn’t been caught indicates that he’s patient, a planner, and organized. He has obsessive-compulsive tendencies exhibited in the fact that he shaves his body and his victims. Tinsley remembered the scent of strong soap, like in a doctor’s office or hospital, so he may have a job in a medical or medically related field. There’s also a component regarding animals that suggests that he works or has worked with animals, or that someone in his family did.” She paused to take a breath.
“Norton worked with animal recovery,” Wyatt said. “Hatcher and I are going to talk to one of his coworkers now.”
She considered that. “The fact that he treated his victims like animals, caging them, indicates he not only wants control but also may have ambivalent feelings, or even resentment, toward animals. Most likely, he started by killing small animals when he was young. That whetted his appetite for the human kill.”
Tinsley shivered. “Is that the reason he chose me? Because I rescue animals?”
“That’s possible,” Korine said. “Especially in light of the fact that he abducted Dr. Ferris.” Korine crossed her legs. “There’s something else to consider: his victimology. Serial killers often choose a certain type of victim—it could be related to race, ethnicity, age, hair color, or profession, such as a killer who targets prostitutes. It could be any of a number of characteristics. Identifying the profile of the victim may help us prevent another woman from becoming his next target.”
“Dr. Ferris has blonde hair,” Tinsley said. “It’s darker than mine, but it is blonde.”
Korine nodded. “Often the serial killer focuses on a certain type because the victims remind him of someone from his past who hurt him. It could be an abusive parent or an adult in his life—in this case, his mother or even a teacher or other relative.”
“He cried afterward,” Tinsley said. “And apologized to his mother.”
“She was the source of his emotional upheaval, then,” Korine said. “He’s conflicted by her. He loved her, but he also has rage toward her.”
“Why rape me if I remind him of her? Is he raping his mother?” Tinsley asked.
“Quite possibly. He may have had sexual fantasies about her and projects those fantasies onto his victims. Afterward, he cries and apologizes because deep down he knows it’s wrong to lust for a parent.”
Silence fell for a full minute, wrought with tension as they contemplated her statement.
Korine cleared her throat. “Remember, we’re just creating theories here based on what we know so far. But this could help us find him, Tinsley.”
She angled her head toward Wyatt. “Tinsley said there were skulls of three women in the room where she was held. Did you identify those victims?”
“The skulls were never recovered,” Wyatt said. “With the number of missing persons cases and no other information to go on, we haven’t narrowed down that list.” He paused. “We’re also still waiting on IDs of the skulls stolen from Seaside Cemetery.”
“I’ll get this profile out and share it with Bernie. Maybe someone on one of the lists you requested from the vet clinic or rescue center will fit.”
He turned to Tinsley. “A uniformed officer is on his way to stand guard until I return. Hatcher has pictures of Norton when he was at the orphanage. He wants you to look at them and see if anything rings a bell.”
“I told you I never saw his face,” Tinsley said.
“Maybe not. But it’s possible that you crossed paths with him at another time. Seeing these pictures might spark a memory.”
She shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll stay here until the officer arrives,” Korine said.
Adrenaline surged through Wyatt. They might have a chance to catch this bastard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Carrie Ann paced the motel room, coffee in hand as she flipped on the news.
She’d checked into the Beachside Inn on the island to be closer to Tinsley. Although Tinsley had no idea . . .
No one knew where she was. Or who she was. Not around here.
She liked it that way.
She’d hated the media attention after her sister had been kidnapped. Cameras in her face everywhere she went. Media parked on the lawn. Reporters nosing into her personal life and asking how she felt about her sister’s abduction.
How the hell did they think she felt? Terrified at the thought of what might be happening to Tinsley, that’s how. She’d been a nervous wreck. Hadn’t slept for weeks. Had started pulling out her hair in a nervous tic. The doctors called it trichotillomania. It was an impulse-control disorder. One that fucking bitch reporter had described in her stupid story.
She’d wanted to kill the woman for it.
Then the story of Tinsley’s months in captivity came out, and no one was interested in Carrie Ann’s hair-pulling.
More press hounding her. Vultures demanding the gritty details.
That reporter was on the TV again. “This is Marilyn Ellis with updates on our previous story about the possible return of the serial predator the Skull. Police and FBI are investigating the possibility that he has kidnapped another victim.
“Dr. Joyce Ferris, the veterinarian who runs Best Friend’s Animal Clinic in Savannah, has been reported missing. Sources have confirmed that a photograph of her was sent to Tinsley Jensen, the only known surviving victim of the Skull.”
Carrie Ann froze as the picture appeared on screen.
“Dr. Ferris has received numerous awards for her humanitarian efforts with rescue animals and donates services both to PAT and PAWS,” the reporter continued. “If you have any information regarding her disappearance or the man known as the Skull, please call your local police or the FBI.”
“No, no, no!” Horror washed over Carrie Ann, and she paced the room again, yanking at her hair. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
He wasn’t supposed to take another woman!
She balled her hands into fists on her head, trying to stop herself from pulling out more strands of hair. God . . . He must have seen the story about the skulls on Tinsley’s porch.
He’d realized an impostor had surfaced.
That had been the plan. The cat-and-mouse game. Play to his ego.
And it had worked.
Only . . . only he wasn’t supposed to go after another innocent woman.
She thought he’d be so upset he’d make a mistake. Come after Tinsley while the police were guarding her.
Then they could catch him.
Guilt made her legs buckle, and she dropped to her knees, buried her head into the bed, and screamed into the pillow.
She had to do something. Fix this. Help save the woman.
But how could she do that without revealing everything she’d done?
Her plan had been a good one. It should have worked.
Heart pounding, she wiped at her tears. It still could work.
She just had to readjust.
She was not going to give up. If the vet died . . . God, she couldn’t think about that. She had to find the Skull herself. Forget the police. They’d done nothing but screw up everything so far.
The Keepers wouldn’t fuck it up, though. They knew how to get justice.
They wouldn’t let him get away this time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wyatt scrutinized Jim Oliver as the man shook a pack of Marlboros against his hand, pulled one out, and lit it up. According to the file Bernie sent, Oliver had no education beyond high school, no family. He’d worked with the local roadkill collection agency for ten years.
Hatcher introduced the two of them and asked the man how he’d gotten into the business.
Oliver shrugged, then jammed the cigarette pack back into the pocket of his dingy jacket. Stains, which looked like either blood or animal guts, darkened places on the coat, although the man didn’t seem bothered by it. And he certainly didn’t apologize.
“Hard to get a job when you’ve served time,” Oliver said with a grin that revealed a missing front tooth.
“Now why’re you here?” He flicked ashes onto the ground. “I been clean since I got out. Just ask my parole officer.”
Hatcher spoke through gritted teeth. “Actually, we know that you worked with a man named Norton Smith.”
Oliver’s face paled to a milky white. “I didn’t know what that crazy ass was up to.”
Hatcher exhaled. “He didn’t talk about his plans to kidnap a woman or his friendship w
ith the man they call the Skull.”
“Hell no.” Oliver blew smoke into the air. “Listen, I had my problems. Got hooked on drugs and started dealing, but I cleaned up in prison.” He patted the logo on his jacket. “This job ain’t glamorous, but my old lady had a kid when I was in the pen, and I want to be around to see him grow up.”
“So you’re rehabilitated?” Wyatt asked.
Oliver’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yeah. Picking up dead animals ain’t my idea of fun. But at least I make enough to pay the rent. And it’s honest work.”
“Did Norton ever talk about any of his friends? Maybe someone he was going to have a beer with or watch a ball game with?” Wyatt suggested.
Oliver shook his head. “Norton was an odd fuck. He enjoyed recovering the dead animals, maybe a little too much. Said he grew up dealing with animal crap so it didn’t faze him.”
Wyatt contemplated that comment.
“Did you ever go to his house or apartment?” Hatcher asked.
Oliver shook his head. “Like I said, he was a sick fuck and kept to himself. I got the impression he was into some weird shit.”
“What do you mean—weird shit?” Wyatt asked.
Oliver cut his eyes between the two of them. Another man in overalls walked outside the animal-control center, gesturing toward a handheld radio. “We got a call. Let’s go.”
Oliver started to walk away, but Wyatt grabbed his arm. “What kind of weird shit?”
Oliver shrugged. “Sometimes he’d sit and study the dead ones we picked up, even take pictures. Once I found him rocking a dead fox in his arms like a baby. Had blood all over him, but he didn’t seem to care.”
“What did he do with the pictures?”
“I didn’t ask. But I saw him texting them to someone.”
The hair on the back of Wyatt’s neck prickled. What if he’d sent them to the Skull? Maybe the two of them had bonded over their sadistic urges.
Tinsley felt helpless as Korine left. Dr. Ferris was out there, tied up, hurting, going through hell. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.