Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  He stared at the house’s quaint porch and front door. Tilting his head, he frowned. Something seemed different than what he remembered from this morning. Maybe it’s the darkness. Maybe the moonlight casting unexpected shadows. Maybe. But something’s definitely off.

  Vicki’s gasp brought him spinning around. Face pale, she backed away from the car.

  “No, no. Impossible.” Her chin quivered, and she looked up at him, shock pervading her features. “I just had a vision.”

  “Who?” He glanced around. “Who’d you have a vision of?”

  “Me,” she whispered. Her gaze flitted to the Malibu’s tinted window. “I saw the symbols leading to my own destiny.”

  His gut twisted, knotted, yanked tight. Was viewing her own fate even possible? “What did you see?”

  “A blue rectangle. A gun. A large knife. A glowing circle of gold.” She hugged herself, her hands moving up and down her arms as though to ward off the cold. With eyes round as the moon, she stared at him. “I saw the pointed capital D.”

  Oh, shit. The first and last symbols match the ones she saw for me. The hairs on his neck prickled. He rushed around the front of the car, intent on gathering her in his arms to soothe her fears. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  A bloodcurdling scream sliced the cold night air.

  Chapter Thirty

  Vicki jumped, goose bumps assaulting her skin. River stopped in his tracks and twisted around. The woman’s scream coming from within the house had been shrill and agonized. A cry of terror, desperation.

  She shifted her focus to the porch, and her breath lodged in her throat. Bright moonlight illuminated the front door.

  “Blue rectangle,” she whispered. She glanced down at the Malibu’s smoky passenger window where she’d caught her reflection. Where she’d stared into her own steel-gray eyes and triggered a vision of her own destiny.

  How is that even possible? I’ve seen myself in the mirror thousands of times and never had a vision. Why this time? She lifted her gaze to the house again, apprehension stabbing her chest and filling her lungs with icy fear.

  River pulled out his cell phone. “Punch two. That’ll autodial Dauscher.” He slid it across the Malibu’s hood to her. “Tell him to get his ass here and bring backup.”

  She caught the phone. By the time she straightened, he stood on the porch with his gun in hand. An overwhelming sense of helplessness swept over her. The intricate cogs of fate had begun to turn, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  She jabbed the button marked two and held the phone to her ear. But instead of Dauscher’s voice echoing over the line, the phone beeped three times. Vicki checked the display. “No service?”

  River stood at the door, his hand on the knob. Afraid to call out, Vicki waved in an attempt to catch his attention. But before she’d taken three steps around the car, he slipped into the house.

  A moment later, the porch light flickered.

  She clutched the cell, checked it for service again. But the screen was black, the power off. After tapping a few buttons and producing no change, she squinted at the phone. Just a moment ago, it was fully charged. What the hell happened?

  Her gaze shifted to the blue door. Dread curdled her stomach. Icy pinpricks skittered down her spine. Vile waves of nausea rolled through her. Whatever evil dwelled inside that house had caused the power drain.

  The killer is inside. And so is River. On stiff legs, she strode over the walkway toward the house. This is it. The visions, the symbols. My fate is locked with River’s.

  She climbed the half dozen steps onto the wide porch. Dim interior light shone through the narrow crack left by the partially open door. Shuffling forward, she pressed her hand to the blue rectangle, a block of ice beneath her palm. She shivered. The moment she stepped over the threshold, there would be no turning back.

  Through gritted her teeth, she inhaled a breath for courage. With a gentle push, the door swung inward, silent on its hinges.

  River’s inside. The cell’s died, so there’s no cavalry on the way. But I’ll be damned if I let him go it alone.

  * * *

  River stood in the foyer of the house, the Glock 22 in his hands pointed toward the floor. Training evened his breath, forced his nerves calm. His ears strained to catch the slightest sound that might indicate the location of the copycat killer.

  The front door had given him pause when he’d noticed the color. Vicki had told him his first symbol was a blue rectangle—and it just didn’t get any more rectangular or bluer than that. But how many blue doors were there in Savannah? Might be hundreds of them. What made this particular one the door to his destiny?

  Duty had pushed him inside the house. Instinct told him the murderer was somewhere inside, but for the moment, he waited, his heart knocking against his sternum. Evil permeated the air, oozed thick and oily over his skin. He’s on the premises. Breathing the same air. Somewhere nearby.

  The lights flickered. River glanced around, searching for the source of the disturbance. He scanned the immediate area, scrutinized the pockets of shadows. Uneasy with remaining in the confined entryway, he crept forward, his shoes silent on the parquet flooring. When he reached the front room, he stopped. A rancid scent curled into his nose. Rotten eggs mixed with the smoke bombs he’d set off in his youth.

  Sulfur? His jaw clenched as the memories of high school chemistry returned to him. Is burning sulfur a part of this psychopath’s ritual?

  The front room cleared, River moved farther down the hallway. Something squished beneath his shoe, and his foot slid forward. Catching his balance, he looked down.

  Aw, shit. Blood.

  A wet, sticky swath trailed toward the back of the house. Between the rancid sulfur and metallic scents, his stomach lurched, and he swiped away the bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip. Damn. Where did all this blood come from? This isn’t the murdered police officer’s. That had been cleaned earlier this morning after samples and photos were taken. This is fresh.

  Streaks and spatters along the floor indicated someone or something had been dragged over the parquet. He followed the slick mess to a large open area at the back of the house. The tips of bare toes peeking out from behind the corner of a wall propelled him forward. He skittered over the hardwood and found a woman lying facedown near the kitchen bar.

  Raising his gun, he pivoted three-sixty to ensure the killer didn’t lurk in the shadows. The room cleared, he risked kneeling next to the injured woman. The mass of red hair indicated the victim was probably the waitress who’d been kidnapped. But why did the killer bring her back to her own home?

  With great care, he turned the woman over. Her shredded nightgown molded to her body, the fabric steeped in blood. Beneath the tattered cloth, her chest had been slashed in the same X pattern as previous victims. Revulsion shot through him, and he swallowed hard to keep down the pizza and beer he’d consumed.

  Oh, shit. With a shaky hand, River reached for the waitress’s wrist, desperate to find a spark of hope in this damnable mess. Pressing his fingertips to her skin, he located a weak pulse. Thank God I gave my cell phone to Vicki to call for backup. The waitress might stand a chance if an ambulance arrives fast enough.

  A shift in the air raised goose bumps on River’s neck. His body tensed, and he twisted around, his finger on the Glock’s trigger. But before he caught sight of the madman he hunted, something slammed against his skull, and a thunderous crack filled his ears. Pain ripped through his head, down his spine, and his body weakened, slumped. Darkness enveloped him.

  * * *

  What the hell am I doing? The killer’s in here. Vicki’s breath hitched, and her body quaked with fear. How am I going to help River? I don’t even have a weapon.

  She snatched an umbrella from the cylindrical urn near the door. A bat would’ve been better, but she’d take what she could. At least the end was pointy.

  Pausing at the first room, she peeked inside. Empty. Unnerved
, she tightened her grip on the umbrella and moved farther down the hallway. A flutter of air had her spinning back toward the entryway, brandishing the umbrella like a rapier. Her heart thundered, knocking with such violence her sternum ached. She bit her lower lip to stop her breath from rasping through her mouth so she could listen. Did something move behind me?

  Quivering, she shoved her back to the wall and slinked down the hallway. She sidestepped over the wood floor, her heels scraping the baseboard. Where the hell is River?

  A loud thump at the rear of the house brought her head around.

  “River?” she called out in a hoarse whisper. Intent on moving toward the sound, she shifted her weight and stepped forward. But instead of a stable surface, her foot slipped from beneath her, and she tumbled to hardwood, landing in something wet and sticky. She lifted her hand. In the muted light, she caught sight of a dark-red substance coating her palm. Horror flooded through her.

  “Oh God.” Panic grabbed her throat and squeezed. Is it River’s?

  Desperate to find him, she followed the slick trail, scrambling on her hands and knees. When she rounded the corner, she found him sprawled facedown, unmoving. Dropping the umbrella, she hurried toward him.

  A sharp shudder of wind sliced behind her. Before she could turn, something tangled in her tresses, jerking her head back. She gasped.

  By her hair, the assailant dragged her to her feet and swung her around. She lashed out, her fists catching nothing but air. Twisting, she tried again. Then, to her astonished horror, her feet lifted from the floor. She kicked wildly, punched and thrashed, the pain in her head and neck excruciating.

  She tried to glimpse the monster attacking her. The barest hint of a bloodied shirtsleeve flashed in her peripheral, and icy despair coiled in her stomach. Is that River’s? Am I too late?

  Without warning, her assailant swung her in a wide arc, slamming her into the wall. She screamed. Pain racked her body, tears pricking her eyes as she gasped for breath. She slumped as her vision doubled and darkened. I’m so sorry, River.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sliding into consciousness, River bit back a moan. Damn. The back of his head throbbed like a bitch where some asshole had bludgeoned him. He shifted his hand, intent on checking the damage to his skull, but he couldn’t move his arm. Aw, hell. The bastard had tied him to a chair. Instinct cautioned him to remain still. No sense alerting the psychopath I’m awake. The games’ll just start that much sooner. After seeing the blood-smeared floors, River wasn’t anxious to play.

  Cracking his eyelids, he risked a glimpse of his surroundings through his eyelashes.

  Vicki sat strapped to a chair half a dozen paces away, the rope cutting into her arms, her legs secured together at her ankles. Unconscious, she sat slumped forward, her thick blonde hair covering her face. Blood matted a swath of her tresses. Did the bastard hit her on the head, too? He clenched his jaw. Why the hell did I think bringing her to the crime scene was such a good idea?

  Between them lay the bloodied waitress, her wavy red hair fanned out creating a halo. He scanned her mutilated body, searching for any sign of life. When her chest moved with the slightest breath, hope surged through him.

  He cut his eyes toward the front of the house. Anger and fear twisted and rolled, a tangle of barbed wire in his gut. Where’s the damn ambulance? Where the hell is Dauscher?

  River tested the ropes holding him captive. The coarse braid cut into his skin with each move. Shit. The asshole trussed me up like a damn calf at a rodeo.

  He gave the room a furtive scan. At the rear of the house, a couch and loveseat sat in front of a bank of picture windows that reflected the interior, but during the day would’ve revealed the marsh beyond. The French doors opening onto the deck had a piece of cardboard taped over the broken pane where the killer had broken in the first time. Craning his aching neck, River caught sight of an immense bookcase behind him. To his left, the kitchen and bar.

  Something on top of the granite countertop snagged his attention. River leaned forward for a better view and gritted his teeth. Damn it. His Glock rested on the counter half a dozen feet away. The asshole had not only disarmed him but also left his weapon in plain sight as a taunt. Close enough to see but too far to reach.

  Positioned at the opposite end of the bar sat an oval yellow vase with a spray of white lilies. His pulse skittered. What the…? He squinted in disbelief. Yellow oval. The next symbol Vicki said she’d seen in her vision. His brain worked to make sense of what was clearly not coincidence. Well, hell. According to her, I still have a black spiral and a bright gray circle before the big, bad, pointed capital D kicks my ass. At this rate, I guess I’m not destined to win the lottery and retire on a tropical island.

  A slight movement brought his focus back to Vicki. Her finger twitched against the chair’s curved armrest.

  “Vicki,” he whispered, and she moaned in response. “No. Shh. You’ve got to be quiet.”

  A strange clicking sound came from the room behind her. His gaze darted toward the doorway to what appeared to be a formal dining room. Dim shadows danced over the back wall.

  Click.

  More light emerged. He narrowed his eyes. Is the bastard lighting candles?

  On the large bank of windows, light and shadow writhed. Squinting, he tilted his head, but a lamp stood between him and the reflections on the glass, obscuring his view of the killer’s activities. The movements he could see were deft, indicating the killer prepared for something monstrous.

  A soft whimper slipped through Vicki’s lips.

  “Shh.” Icy tendrils of dread curled around the knots in his gut and squeezed. He glanced toward the dining doorway. The room beyond blazed with light.

  The shadows on the back wall shifted. River sucked in a hasty breath. Oh, shit. He’s coming.

  Dropping his chin to his chest, he forced himself to relax. Even so, every sense, every nerve stood on high alert. His heart pounded so hard it seemed his entire body jerked with each beat. Trussed up the way he was, if the bastard wanted to kill him, there wasn’t a damn thing River could do to stop him. Sorry, cowardly son of a bitch.

  With the stealth of a panther, the killer padded into the room, his movements fluid and assured. He strode to Vicki, and River tensed, anger at his inability to protect her raging through him. The dark-haired monster reached out, drove his filthy fingers into her golden locks, and yanked her head up. Leaning over, he scanned her soft, angelic face.

  River stared through slitted eyes and surprise streaked through him. The murderer wasn’t Matthew as he’d suspected. The guy across from him was too young. But there was something familiar about him. The dark hair. The long fingers. The wiry build. He’d seen him before—he rarely forgot a face. But where?

  With a snort, the killer released Vicki’s hair, letting her head drop back to her chest. A small shudder of relief passed through River. She would remain safe a little while longer.

  Pivoting, the guy stepped over the dying waitress and stood at River’s side. He leaned down. River fought to remain limp as hot breath wisped across his cheek. It would be so easy to turn his head and bite off the killer’s nose or take a chunk out of his cheek. But then what? Ropes still bound him to the chair.

  Fingers grasped his hair, jerked his head up. River let his eyes fall closed and focused on keeping his breath even.

  “Still out?”

  A hand swatted his cheek twice, but he remained passive.

  “Damn shame.” The killer released River’s head and stepped back. “We’re gonna have us some fun. Yessiree. But I can’t wait for you to come ’round, Riv. There’s work to be done.”

  A chill skittered down his spine. The killer knows me.

  As a copycat, the guy would know almost everything about the Valentine Killer. The details were what made his emulations work for him, what tripped his trigger. He would know River worked lead on the investigation.

  But his voice. The cadence of his words. A definite Texan d
rawl. His skin crawled at the idea the guy originated from somewhere near Austin. He peeked through his lashes, trying to catch a glimpse.

  The killer reached down, grabbed the waitress’s wrists, and dragged her across the floor. A thick trail of blood remained. River’s stomach turned. He’d seen firsthand the Valentine’s handiwork, and this son of a bitch planned to recreate it to a T. Thank God the redhead was unconscious.

  The bastard took her into the dining room. Candlelight shadowed his movements as he lifted her. The sound of ropes snaking around wood told River he’d tied her to the table.

  Her feet. God. Red-enameled toenails. Heels sitting on top of the dining table. Blood-smeared feet.

  He swallowed the acid rising in his throat. The rest of her lay thankfully hidden behind the partition wall. But his gaze remained riveted to those feet. He didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to know, but someone needed to witness the last moments of the waitress’s life.

  The killer spoke. Syllables floated from the dining room, the rhythm hypnotic. River strained to make sense of the garbled sound then realized there wasn’t a distortion. The words were a foreign language.

  With all the satanic markings surrounding the case, it’d been theorized Latin verbiage had been used in the rituals. At the time, River had dismissed the idea without a second thought. Spells spoken in Latin? Hooey. It was all just window dressing used in conjunction with murder.

  He’d been wrong. Details. The copycat believed otherwise.

  But how did he learn all of those details, nuances? The skin on River’s arms prickled with a new consideration. Did the bastard work the case, too?

  He thought back to those eighteen months in Austin, of all the people who’d been involved in the case. It’s possible this guy was at every crime scene, working in the background. Might be why he seems so familiar. Hell, my own partner turned out to be the Valentine Killer, and I didn’t have a clue. What makes me think I’d notice a paramedic or a—