“Shockwaves from the explosion caved in his escape route.” He gestured to the other side of the room where huge rocks blocked a small tunnel. “El cabrón tried to make a run for it but got bludgeoned. Bled out.”
The serial killer River and his partner, Kent, had hunted for eighteen months lay facedown, dead on the sandy floor of an indistinguishable cave in the vast land of Hill Country. He found it difficult to believe the nightmare had at last come to an end—and in such a dissatisfying manner. No more cryptic messages for the department to decipher. No notes, which at first glance appeared as blatant taunts but when studied, often held clues to his next victim’s location. To say the Valentine Killer had been smart would be an understatement. River stared at the body on the floor and grimaced. It was hard to imagine the guy would get caught by one of his own traps.
An Alpha ran his hands around the corpse, probably checking for wires or pressure switches. River removed a small digital camera from his pants pocket and held it up for Toblin to see. At the Alpha’s nod, he snapped a dozen pictures, documenting the scene before they flipped the body.
Blood stained the killer’s sweatshirt. He had to have known his injuries were severe, and he wouldn’t make it out alive. Yet, he’d managed to pull his hoodie up over his head and yank the strings tight, forming a circle exposing just his nose and mouth. Yeah, a useless attempt to hide your identity, asshole.
In a few minutes, the Valentine Killer’s face would be revealed, and with a little research, they’d put a name to the psycho.
“Initial check is good,” the Alpha reported. “No strings, but that doesn’t mean it’s free and clear. Could be he lay on something.”
Toblin nodded. “Evac.”
The Alpha tied a nylon rope around the killer’s arm and followed them out of the room.
“Garner,” Toblin called over the headset. “We’re about to flip the body. Might be some noise.”
“Affirmative,” the team leader answered.
Toblin signaled, and the Alpha yanked the rope. When no deafening explosion occurred, he leaned into the room.
“Grenade!”
Crouching amid the SWAT members, River threw his arms over his head for protection. Thoughts of how the granite ceiling would crush the life out of him as it had Jones flooded his brain.
Silence.
Toblin rose and entered the room. A moment later, he pronounced it clear, and everyone swarmed back inside.
River’s gaze descended to the grenade in the sand. A bomb had laid beneath the killer, waiting to rain death on whoever found the body. But something had gone wrong.
The SWAT point retrieved the explosive device and held it up. “Idiot forgot to pull the pin.”
Two guys let out a chuff of nerve-laden laughter. Close to bleeding out and lying at death’s door, the killer’s final attempt at murder had flubbed, lowering his status from enigmatic to subhuman. The Valentine Killer was a threat no more.
“I don’t think he ever meant to pull it,” River mumbled.
“What’s that?” Toblin asked.
“This guy was deep into the details, which is what made him so difficult to catch. Believe me, if he’d wanted an explosion, there would’ve been one.” He leaned over the body and studied the partially hidden face. “No, he never meant to pull the pin. He wanted us to find him, to discover his identity, and share it with the world. He just wanted to make sure we knew he could have pulled the pin.”
“What’s this?” Captain Suarez knelt. Careful not to touch the second object the killer’s body had concealed, he brushed away sand, exposing an eight-inch double-edged blade. “A knife?”
Toblin grimaced. “Pretty fancy for a cold-blooded psychopath.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s called an athame. It’s a ceremonial knife used in ritual killings.” River glanced at Suarez, whose eyebrows rose, and added, “Which we already knew this guy was into. And look, carved into the handle is his symbol. I’m sure when the blade is tested, it will reveal several victims’ DNA.”
“Can we get CIU and the coroner in here?” Toblin asked.
“Yeah.” Captain Suarez circled his finger in the air. “Photo everything, bag and tag.”
Toblin called, and several minutes later a man and woman entered, wearing protective eyewear and carrying two large cases. Their hip badges announced they worked for the Austin Criminal Investigations Unit.
With the initial photographs taken and evidence gathered, the CIU guy reached down to remove the Valentine Killer’s blood-encrusted hood. Anticipation in the room became palpable. With all eyes riveted on his nimble fingers, he unlaced the string and enlarged the hole, gradually exposing the killer’s identity.
River’s nails bit into his palms while he waited to see the face of the man he and Kent had hunted for over a year. The man who’d wreaked havoc on Austin, Texas, terrifying its citizens. But as the hood was drawn back, one of the SWAT guys stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
“No!” Captain Suarez let out a string of what sounded like Mexican curse words. “I don’t believe this.”
Alarmed, River pushed around the guy who’d moved in front of him and viewed the Valentine Killer for the first time. River blinked, sure what he saw was some sort of trick. A play of light. Something. Anything. But not—
“Chastain.” Captain Suarez’s voice was hoarse, his eyes wide and filled with something River had never seen—shock. “Did you…?”
“No, Captain. Absolutely not.” River shook his head, his focus locked on the killer’s face. “I had absolutely no idea.”
Suarez’s attention shifted to the coroner and his assistant who had just arrived. “Bag and tag the cabrón. Get him out of my sight.”
“Captain—”
He grabbed River’s shoulder, steered him to the edge of the room. “Detective Chastain,” he growled. “Are you telling me you had no knowledge of the Valentine Killer’s true identity?”
“Yes, sir.” River’s gaze drifted past his captain to the body on the floor. Nearby, the coroner opened a body bag in preparation for removal of the serial killer’s remains.
“So, you expect me to believe you really had no clue?” Suarez’s words drew his attention. His dark eyes drilled into River, demanding the truth. “No inkling. Not even a hint since the very beginning eighteen months ago that the psycho bastard you hunted was the guy you worked with every damn day? The guy sitting at the desk right next to you?”
“Yes, sir.” River’s stomach rolled, threatened to erupt his half-digested breakfast. “I-I had no idea.”
River laid his hand against the wall. Kent? He was the Valentine Killer? My partner of five years?
They’d been on stakeouts together, gone fishing, the occasional ball game. When River’s wife left him, they’d gotten stinking drunk. They were partners, so he’d shared everything with Kent. That’s what partners did.
I trusted him, didn’t hold anything back. The realization crashed down on him, an anvil falling from the sky.
“Oh, shit.” His gaze slid back to Kent’s body while the ripping sound of the metal zipper opening the black plastic body bag filled the chamber.
“What?” Suarez demanded, his eyes hawkish. “If you know something, Chastain, you best tell me now. Everything.”
River curled his fingers against the granite wall, the coarse rock digging into his skin. A drop of cold sweat trailed down the back of his neck. This wasn’t good. “Captain, he was my partner.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“That’s how the Valentine Killer always stayed one step ahead.” River sliced his hand through the air, gesturing toward the body. “He knew our next move. Hell, he helped plan our next move.”
Kent’s body was lifted from the sandy floor to set inside the bag, the seasoned coroner taking the feet and the younger assistant hefting the shoulders.
“Eighteen months, Chastain.” The captain shook his head.
“I know but—”
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The body slipped from the assistant’s fingertips and slammed to the cavern floor.
“Damn it, Jamie,” the coroner snapped. “You said you had him. You can’t drop—”
The kid’s eyes rolled back in his head, the whites flashing flags of surrender. He stiffened and jerked as though jolted by electricity. Rigid, he toppled backward, a heavy thud reverberating through the cave.
“Jamie!” The coroner released Kent’s feet and rushed to his assistant’s side, skidding the last foot across the sandy floor on his knees.
Instinct moved River two steps closer to the kid before a powerful hand gripped his shoulder, stopping him.
“Let the professionals handle it,” Suarez said in a hushed yet authoritative tone.
Tobin and the woman from Austin CIU knelt beside the unconscious assistant.
“He just went stiff and dropped,” the coroner explained.
The SWAT point held Jamie’s wrist. “His pulse is racing, his breathing shallow.”
“Did he complain about the heat?” The CIU woman pushed the sides of her shoulder-length black hair behind her ears. She ran a hand over Jamie’s face and neck. “Drink enough water?”
“He was fine.” The coroner stared at his young assistant. “We each had a bottle on the way here.”
She pulled back one of Jamie’s eyelids and flashed her pin light, repeating the process on the other eye. “Responsive.”
“He’s a newbie, still learning the ropes,” the coroner offered. “This is only his second, no, third time out in the field.”
“Wait.” After opening the top portion of the kit she’d brought, she removed a small cylindrical tube, turned back to the kid, and waved it beneath his nose.
A moment later, he jerked and coughed. His face contorted, drawing down against the odor of the smelling salts.
“He’s back,” the coroner announced, relief in his voice. “What happened to you?”
“I-I don’t know.” Jamie looked around the room, eyes wide and searching. “I don’t remember.”
“Hate to tell you,” the dark-haired investigator said to the coroner while she snapped her case closed, “but your newbie took a nosedive.”
“He fainted?” The older guy’s brows lifted, and he turned back to his assistant. “You fainted?”
“I-I’m sorry. I’ve never done that before.”
“Hey.” The coroner rose and rounded toward Toblin. “Think you could help me get this body zipped?”
The point guy glanced at the pale-faced kid and shrugged. “Sure.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Jamie asked.
“Get your ass to the truck.” The coroner’s growled words propelled the newbie to his feet and out of the cave. “I can’t believe I got stuck with a fainter,” he mumbled and shook his head.
River’s jaw tightened in response to the old guy’s frustration. Everyone had an off day. Everyone made mistakes when they started out.
“Detective Chastain.”
Suarez’s commanding tone brought River around. He noticed the captain’s raised and knitted brow, his tightly drawn mouth—whatever he had to say wouldn’t be pleasant.
“River,” he said, regret tingeing his tone. “You’re on suspension pending an investigation as to the role you may have played in the murders committed by Kent Rowton, the Valentine Killer.”
River had heard highly stressful situations disoriented a person. Some even claimed the room spun. He’d never experienced it firsthand.
Until now.
“I, um….” His head felt like a martini glass, and someone had swirled the vodka and vermouth. To steady himself, he laid his hand against the granite wall again, the roughness scraping his palm. Solid. Real. “I…. You think I had something to do with…you think I was involved with those murders?”
Suarez held his hand out. “I need your badge and gun.”
Yeah, those were words he’d never thought he’d hear.
Chapter Three
Charleston, South Carolina
Vicki sat on her couch, a glass of wine within arm’s length sitting on the end table, her nerves strung so tight she could barely breathe. She stared at the periodical in her lap, the glossy bombshell she’d discovered in the rack at the grocery store checkout. UFO & Paranormal magazine. Good gosh, a rag promoting aliens. This was who had unearthed her curse and printed it for the world to see?
She squeezed her eyes closed, forced herself to inhale. Oh God, her worst fear had come true. Her secret was out. But never in her wildest imaginings had she expected a cheesy outfit like this—UFOP magazine—to root out the truth.
She reached for the glass of rosé and took a huge gulp. Burrowing into her couch, she opened the magazine, exposing her hideous photo. She cringed. Exactly who was this guy who’d stalked her for months and written a slanderous article? She forced herself to ignore the nightmare picture of herself and searched farther down for the author’s name.
Lenny Johnston.
Yeah, he would rue the day if she ever tracked him down. She read the exposé from beginning to end and started over again, reading slower the second time. Lenny proclaimed Vicki had the insidious ability to blend into a crowd, and dressing down was her camouflage. He declared that if Death had a face, he’d just captured it on film, and if the reader valued his life, he would run the other way.
Forcing her fingers to ease up from clutching the pages, she continued on to the next part of the piece, which recounted the incident at Three Beans Café—though he hadn’t mentioned the place by name, she knew. Events from that day still haunted her dreams.
Lenny described how a young girl shot and killed a gang member moments after visiting the café. Moments after being in Vicki’s presence. He alleged while Vicki’s hands might not have blood on them, she’d known about the impending death and had waited for it. He hypothesized Vicki had somehow hypnotized the girl or, more likely, possessed the girl in order to carry out her sinister plan.
He then supported the detailed account with three other incidents—a car crash, a drowning, and a heart attack. He claimed her presence at each alleged accident and pronounced the events beyond coincidence. The only logical answer? Victoria the Paranormal Parasite had brought them about.
In the final paragraph of the article, Lenny promised in the future to bring accurate investigative accounts of Vicki’s unsuspecting victims and discover how and why she did what she did. In the last sentences, he vowed to follow Victoria until his dying day—and if his death was untimely, his readers should investigate immediately.
Vicki laughed, the wry sound echoing off the living room walls.
“Lenny, I just became your biggest fan.” She guzzled more wine then set it on the end table. “When you figure out how and why I do what I do, I’ll want to read all about it.”
Now that her secret had been uncovered, she’d have to make plans to leave. She would pack her most valued possessions and close up the house. Tomorrow, she’d leave Lenny and UFOP magazine in the dust. The Paranormal Parasite would disappear.
She tossed the glossy tell-all aside. She remembered every person mentioned in the article, their faces, the moment their lives ended. Guilt squeezed her lungs. Breathe, just breathe. It’ll be all right. I can’t help seeing the symbols preceding their deaths. It’s not like I killed them, and God knows all the times I’ve tried to change the outcomes.
Scooching deeper into the couch’s overstuffed pillows, she straightened the soft blanket on her lap, grazing her fingertips over the intricate design knitted by her mother, the most giving and thoughtful woman she’d ever known. She’d worked tirelessly around the world, aiding those in need. Vicki would never forget the day she’d handed over the lottery ticket to her mother, admitting she’d taken it from Sarah the nanny. Her mom had smiled, hugged her tight, and said, “We’ll contact Sarah’s family and give it to them.”
She’d looked up at her. “We’re not gonna keep it?”
“No, sweetheart. We have
everything we need. But Sarah’s parents haven’t been as fortunate. Sarah’s younger sister has been very sick. I think this money will pay for some very special treatment to make her better.”
Vicki’s heart ached with longing. Her mother had always been able to make everything right and remind her how blessed their family was. Oh, how badly Vicki wanted to talk to her mom, to ask her about the curse plaguing her. But she’d waited too long, afraid her mother wouldn’t have the answers…or she would. Regardless, Vicki had stayed a freak of nature.
She frowned. None of it mattered. All the ifs and I wishes meant nothing. Any possible solutions or explanations would remain lost forever. Her parents had died in a terrorist attack overseas just weeks after she’d graduated high school. Her best friend, Becca, had gotten her through the devastating time, her anchor to sanity. God, how she’d wanted to die. Even tried. But for the second time in her life, the mysterious Matthew had stepped in and saved her.
Reaching for her glass, she sighed. The familiar voices of Audrey Hepburn and Gary Cooper floated on the air, the rhythmic cadence of their conversation drawing her into their make-believe world. Her head light with wine and her mind in search of refuge, the semi-dark room suspended disbelief. Vicki welcomed the chatty banter of two people falling in love.
Although the couple on TV was wonderful distraction, her thoughts drifted to love. The dreamy sensation of falling for someone warm and compassionate. The overpowering desire for a man’s presence, his scent, the gentle glide of his hand over her cheek before his lips brushed against hers. Would that ever happen to her?
Sure, she’d gone on a few dates. But either the chemistry hadn’t mixed, or she had a vision her date’s future was about to change. The outcomes had all been the same—within two weeks, her date met his one and only true love. Difficult to get upset about. A marriage sure beat watching the guy she’d had dinner with two nights before get maimed in a construction accident or hit by a bus.
The television screen faded to black while Audrey and Gary stared soulfully into each other’s eyes. A moment later, a forty-ish bleach blonde appeared in a peach antebellum dress, complete with hoop skirt and lacy parasol. In a thick Southern accent, she proclaimed Savannah, Georgia, the vacation destination of a lifetime. Adventure, romance, and spirits—both ghostly and bottled—available to all. What more could a person want or need?
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