by Rita Herron
Would she ever be?
Releasing a weary sigh, she peeked through the shutters onto the porch.
The wind rattled the glass panes, raindrops trickling down the window like a river of snakes. Thunder boomed, and another downpour rushed from the sky, beating the tin roof of the cottage like nails.
Something hit the porch floor, and she jumped. Heart racing, she leaned closer to the window and peered toward the steps. Another loud thump.
Branches from a tree had snapped off in the storm.
Too jumpy to go back to bed, she stepped into the kitchen and put on water for some hot tea. While it heated, she opened up her computer. Several responses to her website filled the screen.
The teakettle whistled, and she grabbed a tea bag from the canister on her counter, placed it in her favorite beach mug, then filled the cup with hot water. A headache pulsed at her temple, and she swallowed a painkiller, then sat down in front of her computer.
Emotions clogged her throat as she read the sympathy-filled comments. Ironic that here, locked in this space, she’d made dozens and dozens of friends. Granted, they were all faceless and anonymous, no one she would invite over for coffee or lunch, but having contact with these strangers gave her a safe haven for her feelings. Here, she didn’t have to put on an act and pretend she was normal.
I hate the man who destroyed my life just as you do, Tinsley.
I was a victim of the River Street Rapist. When he left me in that alley, I wanted to curl up and die.
Then the paramedics found me and assured me I would be all right.
But I’m not all right. I don’t think I ever will be.
He stole so much from me. My trust in men. My sense of safety. My life as I knew it.
Now every time I walk to my car or go for a run, I’m constantly alert, watching, waiting for an attack.
My boyfriend asked me what happened before the man raped me. If I’d flirted with him. Smiled at him on the street. If I was giving out vibes that I wanted to talk to him.
That hurt the most.
But I asked myself the same questions.
A hundred times, I retraced every second of the hours leading up to the moment he snatched me.
Had I seen him in the restaurant where I’d had dinner? Had I spoken to him at the bar when I ordered my drink?
Had I invited him to rape me?
No . . .
No woman invites a rapist to attack her. Rape isn’t about sex, it’s about violence. Power.
The woman was right. The counselor Tinsley had worked with had assured her of the same thing.
Another comment appeared, and she began to read.
The Day of the Dead will be here soon, Tinsley.
It is a time of reflection, a time to honor the loved ones we’ve lost.
A time to remember that death comes for all of us.
Will you visit your parents’ graves and honor them this year?
She slammed her laptop closed. When the Skull had chanted and sung to the dead, he’d asked her whether she visited her parents’ graves.
Had he written that post?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The photos the Skull kept of Tinsley made his body hum with need. She had been a good girl. Kind, giving, delicate as a flower.
Just like Janine.
Grief robbed his breath. He’d known wanting Janine was wrong, but he’d wanted her anyway.
He thought Tinsley could replace her. Fill the void in his life. Make him happy.
But she’d refused to say she wanted him. That she liked his touch or having him inside her.
That had angered him the most.
He’d wanted her to love him. Wanted them to be a family.
Now she’d locked herself away in a cottage at Sunset Cove. As if a locked door could stop him from taking her if he wanted to.
And he definitely wanted to.
The dark urge was building in him again. The hunger to see her. Touch her. Take her.
Make her his.
He ran his fingers over the bones of the skulls, smiling as the sound of the girls’ screams echoed in his head.
Those skulls had once held the brains of living beings. The mind was an intricate part of the body. The brain controlled everything, from motor skills to emotions to pain.
His was warped, they said.
They had punished him. And when that hadn’t worked, they’d run tests. Tried to fix him.
Given him shock treatments to kill the devil inside him.
But he was what he was, and there was no changing that.
The Feds would call the skulls he kept his trophies.
They’d speculate that he’d been abused as a child. That he’d suffered some horrific traumatic experience. Maybe he’d been tortured or locked in a cage.
They were wrong.
He’d had a normal mama and daddy. He hadn’t been beaten or burned or had his head smashed in when he was little. His mama loved him, had nursed him when he was a baby. She’d cleaned his cuts and driven him to band practice and taken him to Sunday school.
She’d been a do-gooder with a tender heart for animals. Maybe she’d loved them a little more than she had him.
That had been her flaw.
He didn’t blame her, though. No, he loved her.
Early on, he’d known he was different. Sinister thoughts crept into his mind at odd times. Voices whispered inside his head, telling him to hurt others.
At first he’d run from the voices. Tried to ignore the urges. He’d fought the beast inside him. But his anger and rage had intensified daily.
Then one night his mother had insisted he take care of a sick stray she’d brought home. They already had six filthy animals in the house. Some of them cried and mewled like babies and kept him awake at night. He tried to cover his head with his pillow to drown them out. When that hadn’t worked, he stuffed cotton balls in his ears.
Mama rocked and held those damn animals like babies.
The voices in his head screamed that it wasn’t fair.
She’d promised to take him Christmas shopping the next day. She’d canceled a dozen times already. He’d wanted that video game system that all the boys were getting that year, but she’d said he couldn’t have it. That they could use that money for the rescue center. She’d said he needed to learn a lesson about not being selfish.
Then she’d brought that mangy animal in and told him he’d have to stay up with it that night. She had to sleep because she had surgery the next day.
The damn scrawny cat had fleas and sores on its body. Knots and bugs inside its long, matted hair. And piercing green eyes that made him think it might be possessed by the devil.
Still, he’d wanted to please his mama. He’d brought the animal food and water and tried to brush out the tangles in its ratty hair.
But the damn thing had hissed at him, its devil eyes alight with evil. Then it had scratched the hell out of him, and he’d snapped.
Killing it had been merciful. The cat was no longer sick. It was resting.
He’d destroyed the devil living in it.
Once he gave in to the beast inside him, he felt a sense of peace. It took a strong person to do what he’d done.
He wasn’t the monster they thought. He had eased the cat’s suffering.
Just as he would soon ease Tinsley’s.
Frustrated that he couldn’t get close to her tonight, he left the island. Hunting there was too risky.
Savannah’s nightlife was in full swing as he parked. Halloween decorations adorned the storefronts. Voodoo dolls, pirates, monsters, and ghosts . . .
The streets teemed with visitors and locals. Music blasted from the bars.
He had to be discreet. Avoid anyplace with cameras.
Satisfied with the alley behind a coffee shop, he dug his hands into his pockets, then slipped inside and ordered a coffee. He needed his head clear. Didn’t want to smell like whiskey.
After all, he was looking for a good girl.
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Not one of the whores slurping down cheap pink drinks with umbrellas from the pub or expensive martinis from the Olive Glass where the millennials gathered.
He settled outside at a corner table to watch. Agitation built as group after group of coeds walked past.
Short skirts rode up their butts. Breasts hung out of tight knit tops. They wobbled unsteadily on heels that no fool should ever try to walk in.
Obsessed with their cell phones and social media, they were oblivious to him or any other man.
Still, those tight nipples made his cock twitch and harden.
It was wrong to want them.
He shifted and dragged his gaze back to the outdoor seating. A petite girl in jeans and a T-shirt claimed a table near him. Her wavy brown hair and funky glasses made her look wholesome but sexy.
He studied her as she sipped a latte. She appeared to be alone.
He pasted on his most charming smile. Meeting girls had always been hard for him. All the small talk. Flirting. Games.
He didn’t like games.
Just as he was working up the nerve to talk to her, a girl with short spiked hair, a cropped top, and boy jeans appeared and threw her arms around the petite girl. Then they fused mouths in a kiss.
He threw his cup in the trash and stalked back toward the parking lot.
He was wasting his time here.
She wouldn’t have been right anyway. Not when he wanted Tinsley.
He climbed in his car, slammed the door, and sped toward Sunset Cove to see whether she was sleeping.
CHAPTER NINE
Wyatt shook rainwater from his hair, his uneasiness growing. He wanted answers. Wanted to know whether those skulls were connected to Tinsley’s case.
His instincts screamed that they were and that Tinsley was in danger.
He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets, his gaze traveling across the marsh as he walked back to his SUV. Storm clouds had rolled in around midnight. The team had been forced to halt their search during the worst of the downpour but had resumed as soon as it eased. The rain and mud made forensics more difficult to retrieve and identify, but they’d done their best.
At least they’d confirmed that their initial count of three missing skulls was accurate.
Had the skulls belonged to murder victims? If so, had the killer returned to collect them?
Hopefully the forensic anthropologist and ME could make IDs, and they’d investigate from there.
A car engine sounded from the road. A white news van rolled up and parked, and then a woman and cameraman climbed out.
Marilyn Ellis, the investigative journalist who’d been a thorn in their side on other investigations.
She’d repeatedly pressured Tinsley for an interview, but Tinsley staunchly avoided the press.
Yet here Marilyn was, ready to pounce on the story about the missing skulls. How the hell did she even know about them? A police scanner?
Marilyn made a beeline for Hatcher. Big mistake. Hatcher detested her. His partner motioned to the uniformed officer to keep her away from him—and the crime scene.
Then Hatcher strode toward Wyatt. “I’m heading home. Korine isn’t feeling well.”
Hatcher was the toughest guy he knew, but he was a worrywart regarding his wife’s pregnancy.
“Take care of her,” Wyatt said, and meant it. “I’ll go by Tinsley’s and check on her when I leave here.”
He just hoped Marilyn didn’t put two and two together and assume these missing skulls were connected to Tinsley.
After her rescue, Tinsley had been so traumatized that her memories had been sporadic and fuzzy. The doctor had said she’d been drugged. She’d also repressed the details because of the trauma.
He’d advised them to give her time. That she would remember when she was ready.
But those details she kept locked away could be the key to finding the bastard who’d tormented her. He might have to push her to remember . . .
Marilyn headed toward Detective Brockett, and Wyatt jumped in his car. The detective could take care of her.
Raindrops pelted his windshield as he drove across the island to Sunset Cove. Early-morning joggers and walkers were already hitting the sidewalks and beach, oblivious to the fact that a serial predator might be hunting again.
He scanned the area as he neared the cove, then turned into the cul-de-sac and parked. For a minute, he simply sat and studied the cottage where Tinsley had imprisoned herself.
The past few months the Skull had lain dormant. No word from him. No sightings. No other victims.
Wyatt wondered whether the monster had left Georgia and gone to another location to hide—or to hunt.
Was he back now?
Wyatt got out of his vehicle and headed toward the cottage. They believed that the Day of the Dead was significant to him, but how? Did the celebration have a personal meaning, or had the Skull fixated on it because it had to do with death?
Wyatt climbed the steps to the porch, scanning the neighboring cottages, the dock, and the beach in case the Skull was watching.
The storm had tossed sand and debris onto the porch; rivulets of water streamed down the windowpanes.
The shutters were closed.
Was Tinsley awake? Had she slept at all last night?
He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. Once he told her about the missing skulls, she’d wonder whether her abductor had taken them.
Could he rouse that fear in her again without verifying that the two were connected?
Tinsley’s heart hammered as she watched the early-morning news. Marilyn Ellis stood by a strip of marshland, the wind tousling her hair.
“We’re here this morning at Seaside Cemetery, where dozens of bodies dating back to the Civil War were once buried. The last hurricane tore up the topography, rearranging sections of beach and adding to the erosion problem, and uprooting graves. Workers had just restored the graves and smoothed ruffled feathers of family members whose loved ones had been defiled by nature. Unfortunately, last night the graveyard was disturbed again. Only this time it wasn’t a force of nature that wreaked havoc but mankind.” She paused while the camera panned across the marshland. Cast in early-morning shadows and gray skies, it looked downright eerie.
“Local police and the FBI have joined forces to search the area where three skulls were reported to have been taken, the heads severed from the skeletal remains.”
The sound of footsteps on the porch startled Tinsley and dragged her attention from the news. Another sound, another footstep.
Someone was out there . . .
She wasn’t expecting a delivery or a visitor, not this early in the morning.
Shoulders stiff with tension, she grabbed the fireplace poker and tiptoed to the door. A knock sounded just as she leaned closer. She jumped back, braced to fight if an intruder burst through.
Another knock.
Heart racing, she gripped the poker tighter and checked the peephole. Tall. Brown shaggy hair. A wide jaw.
A blue FBI jacket drenched in rainwater.
Relief surged through her. Wyatt.
She quickly reached for the doorknob. As soon as she saw his grim expression, she knew where he’d been.
“You were at that graveyard, weren’t you?” she asked, emotions thick in her throat. “I . . . saw the news . . .”
His gaze shot to the television, and then he wiped his boots on the doormat and stepped inside. “That was the call I answered.”
Fear crawled up her spine. Last night she’d thought she’d seen the Skull on her porch.
She’d worked so hard to forget him. To push the memories away. To regain her sanity.
Any sense of safety she’d started to regain vanished. The Skull was back. And he’d taken those skulls so she would know it.
Wyatt made it a point to never let a case get personal. Never get involved with a witness or suspect. Emotions dulled the mind and interfered with focus.
But all those months he’d
studied Tinsley, hoping to find a clue as to why she’d been chosen as a victim, had gotten to him.
He’d seen pictures of her receiving awards for her humanitarian efforts with rescue animals. Photograph after photograph of her working with PAT—several shots of her with veterans suffering from PTSD, a blind woman in need of a guide dog, an elderly woman with diabetes who needed a gentle reminder to check her blood sugar before it dropped to a dangerous level. Of Tinsley carrying therapy animals into the children’s hospital.
God, those pictures of her at the hospital tugged at his heart. There was one with a little blonde-haired girl in a wheelchair, another with a toddler wearing leg braces, and then one with a cancer patient . . .
Tinsley Jensen was a damn saint.
He’d felt like he’d known her before he’d even met her. That had never happened to him before. Hell, he’d never even been tempted by a suspect or a victim or a witness.
But he liked Tinsley. She hadn’t deserved to be in the hands of a depraved psycho.
Working day after day, chasing leads while she was missing, he’d collapsed into bed at night, haunted by images of what might be happening to her.
The fear on Tinsley’s face now tugged at his heartstrings.
She closed the door, then walked to the breakfast bar. “Do you want coffee?”
“Coffee would be good. Black,” he said, his mouth watering.
She removed a mug from the shelf above the coffee maker and poured it full.
Their fingers brushed as she handed it to him.
Awareness shot through him; alarm flashed in her eyes as if she’d felt it, too, and didn’t like it.
Who could blame her after the way she’d suffered at that bastard’s hands?
Needing to distract himself, he sipped his coffee while she filled a mug for herself. No sweetener or cream for her either.
Silence stretched, thick with fear and questions. She crossed the room, picked up the remote, and clicked “Off.” When she turned to face him again, she traced a finger around the rim of her mug. “You think he took the skulls, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s possible.”