by Rita Herron
“All right, but only if the doctor releases you. And if you start feeling dizzy or weak, you have to let me know.”
Beth agreed, although he had no doubt that she’d fight through whatever discomfort she felt in order to lock up this unsub.
It was his job to protect her.
He buzzed for the nurse and left the room for Beth to get dressed.
Fifteen minutes later, Ian climbed the winding highway and turned onto a dirt road that went uphill to the top of a ridge. Beth sucked in a breath.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked.
She wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“I sent Deputy Whitehorse to run surveillance on him last night.”
Branches and weeds scraped the sides of the SUV. Thick trees and hemlocks shrouded the light, making it appear dark and shadowy.
The SUV chugged over the ruts, slinging gravel as he maneuvered the sharp right turn.
Ian passed Whitehorse where he’d parked in the woods and motioned for him to follow him to the house. Deputy Vance might be pissed that he’d taken initiative and brought Beth here, but if he and Beth and Whitehorse solved this case, the director would get over it.
A battered pickup truck was parked beneath a makeshift garage. Ian expected to see a canoe, but he didn’t find one. Of course it could be in the back somewhere, or Lewis could have left it tied at the riverbank.
The cabin looked small until he realized a covered walkway connected it to another space, which was probably the man’s studio.
Ian turned to Beth. “You look like hell, Beth. You must be sore from the accident. Wait here. Deputy Whitehorse and I’ll check out the house.”
“I’m going, too.”
The look on her face indicated arguing was pointless. “Do you have your weapon, or did you turn it in?”
“No way I’d give it up. Vance knows I need it for protection.” She reached for her holster. “Let’s go.”
A second later, the three of them headed toward the house together.
Ian pointed toward the rear of the cabin. “Deputy, cover the back in case he tries to run.”
Whitehorse nodded and crept to the right to guard the back. Ian gestured for Beth to stay behind him, then held his gun at the ready as they inched up the porch steps.
Ian glanced through the windows. Simple furnishings. Rustic. Leather furniture. A round oak table.
He didn’t see Lewis.
Was he in his studio?
Ian raised his hand, knocked, and waited. Beth eased to the left and checked the other window.
“His bedroom,” she mouthed.
He motioned toward the adjoining section, and they eased down the walkway until they reached the door. Beth knocked this time, and he raised his gun, braced to fire if the man was armed.
Footsteps could be heard inside.
“Ralph Lewis, open up.” He pounded the door again. “It’s Sheriff Kimball and Special Agent Fields from the FBI.”
Footsteps again. More hurried. The wind whistled, sending a tree branch banging against the window of the building.
The door opened, and Ralph Lewis rubbed a hand over his apron. An apron streaked with blood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A memory struck Beth as she stared at the blood on Ralph Lewis’s shirt.
Ralph in biology class dissecting the frog, then the pig. The odd smile on his face as he studied the blood on his fingers. Then he’d drawn a design of the spatter on a piece of notebook paper.
It had chilled her to the bone.
She scrutinized his features, hoping to put his face at the cave as he killed Sunny.
“What’s this about, Sheriff?” Lewis asked.
“The boneyard murders.” Ian lifted the envelope in his hand. “We have warrants to search the premises and your vehicle.”
Lewis’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You sent gifts to the victims’ families, didn’t you?”
He shook his head. “No, why would you think that?”
“Some of the families received paintings that are similar to your style,” Ian said curtly.
A nervous tic started at the corner of the man’s mouth. “You mean someone is copying my work?”
Ian shouldered his way into the house and gestured for Deputy Whitehorse to begin the search.
Beth struggled to recall details of her abduction. How the man’s voice sounded. Was it gruff? Deep? High pitched? Did he have an accent? And what about the boy?
Canvasses lined the wall. There were macabre renditions of bones and the graveyard along with several paintings of a garden with angels overlooking lush fields of grass, red roses, tulips, lilies, and violets.
One featured a rose garden with dark reds and shades of pink. The same shades as the paint on Lewis’s apron.
Her heart thumped wildly. Was it painted with blood?
More specifically, Prissy Carson’s blood?
Ian’s gut instincts nagged at him. Ralph Lewis did not look tough. His body was soft, his face colorless, his voice weak.
Beth said the Boneyard Killer was probably someone who appeared nonthreatening.
The pieces fit.
Ralph Lewis’s father was a truck driver. He belonged to the Holy Waters Church. Ralph had been troubled as a teen, painted scenes of bones and graveyards, and his paintings focused on religious symbols.
He also used blood in his artwork.
Although the painting on the canvas wasn’t creepy at all—it was almost ethereal.
Ian hadn’t seen the paintings the families received. Did Lewis create something beautiful from the girls’ blood as some kind of symbol to imply that he’d sent the girls to a better place?
“What do you think you’re going to find in here?” Lewis chased after Beth, then moved in front of her as she reached a hand toward the paintings. “Don’t touch it. The paint isn’t dry yet!”
“Mr. Lewis, take a seat and let us do our jobs,” Ian said as Beth disappeared into another room.
“This is crazy,” Lewis protested. “Why would you think I had something to do with a murder?”
Ian gestured at the man’s stained shirt. “You have blood on you?”
Lewis glanced down at his shirt. “Yes. It’s mixed with paint. It’s one medium I use. But it’s my blood, not someone else’s.”
Ian’s brow lifted. “Really? So I won’t find DNA from any of the victims in the paint?”
“No.” The man shook his head vehemently.
Beth returned, her gloved hand holding a vial of blood.
“There’s a refrigerator in back with dozens of these stored inside,” Beth said.
“It’s all mine. I’ve been saving it for months.” Lewis wiped his hand on his apron. “It’s what makes my work unique. I literally put myself into every piece. It’s my signature.”
Ian’s gaze met Beth’s. Serial killers had signatures.
“Call Ward to collect them and have them tested,” Ian said.
“You can’t take my blood,” Lewis snapped. “I need it for my work. I have a showing in two weeks!”
Beth used a calm tone. “If you’re innocent, Mr. Lewis, let us run a couple of tests to exclude you as a suspect. I’ll make certain your work isn’t damaged.”
Lewis staggered backward. “I’m calling a lawyer.”
Ian gestured to the phone.
Guilty men needed lawyers.
Beth had hoped for details to rush back when she faced Sunny’s killer, but that hadn’t happened.
Lieutenant Ward arrived with his team to process the house and collect the blood vials. Agents Hamrick and Coulter were transporting the art from the victims’ families to the lab for comparison.
One CSI concentrated on Lewis’s computer, studying his history and social media sites. Two others went to the main house to search.
If they found references to the cave or pictures th
e man had taken of the victims, it would help cement the case.
A confession would be better, but she didn’t expect one, not unless they discovered concrete evidence to use to coerce him.
Like the murder weapon. Or something that led to that cave. Or—the victims’ blood.
Footsteps clattered and Lieutenant Ward appeared, his expression grim. “There’s something you should see.” Ian gestured to Whitehorse to watch Lewis.
“Did you find the murder weapon?” Beth asked.
“No,” Ward replied. “But look at this.” With gloved hands, he picked up a black book and opened it.
Lewis had assembled a list of prayers along with photos of his artwork. The last page in the book held several pictures of the boneyard.
Ward had also found more paintings—before and after of the graveyard at Hemlock Holler. Before the tornado had struck, green grass and wildflowers dotted the holler. Another painting depicted the eerie way it looked with the graves uprooted. Bones jutted through the dirt and floated in the floodwater, the thin white gowns shimmering in the moonlight.
The third painting was disturbing in a different way. He’d painted a graveyard in the holler, but this time the mounds of dirt held headstones with names on them.
Retha Allen. Hilary Trenton. Sunny Smith.
There were more graves scattered throughout, several unnamed.
Were they for future victims?
Frustration filled Ian. Those damn paintings were graphic and disturbing, but they hadn’t found any definitive proof that Lewis was the unsub.
He’d counted on the man keeping pictures of the victims, some kind of journal describing the kills, articles about the missing girls or about Sunny and Beth. A painting of the cave.
None of that was here.
The blood vials might be the key. He needed to hold the man until the tests were run. He didn’t want to chance giving Lewis time to escape—or to grab another victim.
“Ralph Lewis, you are under arrest.” He yanked the man’s arms behind him and handcuffed him.
“You can’t do this,” Lewis said, his voice filled with panic.
“I can and I am.” Ian pushed him toward the door, reciting his rights as they walked.
Whitehorse appeared, his jaw set. “You want me to take him in?”
“Yes,” Ian said. “Agent Fields and I are going to track down his father. By the time we return, maybe he’ll be ready to talk.”
Or they’d have the proof they needed for an indictment.
“Let me know as soon as the lab analyzes the forensics from the cave and whatever you find here,” Ian told Ward.
Ward agreed, and Ian turned to Beth. “You look exhausted. Do you want me to drive you back to your cabin to rest?”
“No,” Beth said as she headed to the door. “I need to see the elder Mr. Lewis. Maybe I’ll recognize his voice or remember him.”
She laid her head against the seat and fell asleep as he drove. Ian’s heart squeezed at the strain on her beautiful face. She needed to be at home tucked in bed, safe and sound away from the monsters who had robbed years of her life.
Instead she was charging ahead full speed.
Affection for her mushroomed inside his chest. Today, with her hair in a ponytail, she looked so much like the young girl he’d known from school that he wanted to give her back that time.
If he could rewind the clock, he’d insist his father let him take the car.
All of their lives would have been different if he had.
Ian veered onto a road that led into the countryside, then swerved onto a narrower road and passed Reverend Jim Benton’s church. Beside the Holy Waters, a cluster of homes had been built for followers to create a tight community.
Reverend Jim Benton and his wife lived in the parsonage.
Ian found the address for Lewis’s father, pulled into the drive, and parked. A black pickup sat near the side of the house, the truck bed covered in a tarp.
Hadn’t a black pickup run Beth off the road?
Ian’s skin prickled. What if Hugh Lewis was working with his son Ralph, and he’d taken another victim? He could have hidden her in that truck bed.
Beth roused and looked up at him, her eyes cloudy with sleep.
“We’re at Hugh Lewis’s.” Ian gestured toward the truck bed and pulled his gun. Beth’s eyes widened in understanding.
Then she removed her weapon and slid from the vehicle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ian paused as he neared the pickup to listen for signs that someone was under the tarp.
Animals skittered in the woods, and a dog barked from one of the neighboring houses. But nothing from the truck.
A noise came from the left, and he jerked his head around, expecting to see Hugh Lewis.
But it was only a trash can lid rolling across the yard.
He motioned for Beth to keep an eye on the door. She signaled in understanding, and he tugged at the edge of the tarp covering the back of the truck.
He held his breath as he peeled it back. The heavy plastic rattled, but no one was inside.
A girl’s backpack lay at the edge of the truck bed, a pink jacket wadded up in the corner.
He pulled on gloves and picked up the bag, then examined the contents.
If Lewis had kidnapped another girl, this bag might belong to her.
Beth edged her way to the truck, relieved to see it was empty. Ralph Lewis was in custody—maybe they could lock his father up as well before anyone else was hurt.
She examined the front bumper and sides in search of dents or paint damage. A few scratches here and there, but nothing definitive indicating that this was the truck that had hit her.
The front door of the house opened, and a heavyset man in overalls lumbered onto the porch. His face was round and craggy, his white hair shaggy, and a full beard covered his chin and hung to his chest. He adjusted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his nose. “What are you two doing on my property?”
Beth’s gaze swept over the man in search of a weapon, but he didn’t appear to be armed. “I’m Special Agent Beth Fields with the FBI, and this is Sheriff Kimball from Graveyard Falls.”
The gold cross dangling on a chain around his neck glinted. But it was chunkier than the ones they’d found with the victims.
“What you doing snooping around my truck?” Lewis growled.
Ian lifted the backpack and jacket. “Who do these belong to?”
Lewis strode down the steps, limping on his left foot. “I reckon it belongs to one of the kids in the neighborhood.”
“Why is it in your truck?” Beth asked.
Lewis ran his fingers through his beard. “Sometimes the church borrows my truck to haul the kids to the farm to help gather crops.”
“The children ride in the back of the truck?” Beth asked.
“Sure do. But listen, lady,” Lewis said, “it’s not on a main road. I grew up riding in my daddy’s truck and I turned out okay.”
Beth bit back a retort as Ian took a step toward the house. “We’d like to come inside.”
Lewis covered his mouth on a cough. “Wait just a dad-gum minute. What is this about?”
Ian folded his arms. “We have your son in custody, Mr. Lewis. We have reason to believe he may have kidnapped and killed the girls we found in Hemlock Holler.”
Lewis jumped back as if Ian had physically punched him.
“Are you crazy?” He coughed again. “My son may be strange, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Are you sure about that?” Beth said.
“Of course I am.”
“Then you won’t mind if we look around,” Beth said.
His eyes darted back and forth between them. “Go ahead. You won’t find anything that incriminates Ralph.”
Beth motioned for Ian to start the search. “Go on. I want to talk to Mr. Lewis for a minute.” She needed to study him, his voice, force the memories to return.
Was Hugh Lewis the man who’d given her
and Sunny that ride?
Ian scanned the street before he entered Hugh Lewis’s house. This entire neighborhood was built around that damn cultist church.
His mother and Bernard lived three houses down from the reverend.
Maybe he should drop in on her when he was finished and tell her his father was innocent.
First things first. Find evidence to back up an arrest.
His gaze swept across the interior of the small house. A crucifix hung above the fireplace. Paintings of Jesus, the last supper, and angels decorated the wall.
A Bible lay open on a small table surrounded by white taper candles, the same type found with the bodies.
Ian read the verse. Romans 3:25. “God presented Christ as a sacrifice of atonement, through the shedding of his blood—to be received by faith.”
Did Lewis believe the girls should shed their blood as a sacrifice to atone for their sins?
He combed the kitchen in search of the murder weapon—the knife that the man used to kill the girls. He found a set of kitchen knives, but they were dull and there was no evidence of blood on them.
The ME said the murder weapon was a hunting knife, but Ian didn’t find one anywhere.
More religious symbols covered the walls. Two bedrooms held similar artwork. Men’s clothes filled the closet, and another Bible lay on the nightstand beside the bed, open to Genesis and the story of Adam and Eve.
Nothing incriminating in the room or bathroom.
An antique iron bed covered in a rustic quilt. A pungent odor assaulted him, and he yanked down the covers.
Blood.
He snapped a picture and then opened the closet door. Three boxes of candles were stacked inside along with an ancient trunk.
Fear slithered through him. That trunk was big enough to hold a body.
Ian slowly lifted the latch.
Relief filled him—no body inside.
But the contents were interesting. Two girls’ backpacks. A stuffed bear that looked ragged, as if it had been well loved. A purple headband. A tattered girls’ gown.
His jaw tightened.
Had these things belonged to the victims?
Snippets of being tied in that cave trickled through Beth’s mind. The voice—no, two voices. One deeper than the other. One with more of a Southern drawl.