by Rita Herron
Will shot up from his perch on the hearth. “Yes, Mama, she made a big mess.” He stomped over to her, and she instinctively cowered.
“I’ll clean it up. I can do better.”
“Mama says you’re just like the other little liars, pretending to be something you’re not.”
She screamed as he closed his hands around her neck.
She was young, had her whole life in front of her. She wanted to finish her degree, get a job. Have a family.
“Please don’t,” she begged.
But a cold rage flashed in his eyes, and he threw her down and forced her lips apart, then jammed a thorny rose stem in her mouth.
“Shh, bite down now, sweetheart. We don’t want to disturb Mama.”
She gagged as thorns stabbed her tongue and blood filled her throat.
He carefully buttoned the wedding gown his mother had stitched for Constance, her beautiful scream still echoing in his ears.
He slipped the garter around her neck, then removed her locket.
It would look so pretty on Mama.
The photo she’d taken of him and Constance lay on the table waiting for the frame. Although it wouldn’t go in the frame.
He’d put it in his Bride’s Book, the scrapbook Mama had made for him to show off pictures of the ceremony. She’d glued lace to the front in the shape of a heart so he could place his wedding photo in the center.
Tears leaked from his eyes. “Mama, I’m sorry, she wasn’t right.”
“I’m sorry, too, son. Come here.” She motioned for him to sit with her, and he dropped to his knees and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair gently, her voice a soothing murmur.
“I have to take her to the falls,” he said, choking on the words. “But tell me the story about the little liars first.”
He’d been infatuated with the story ever since his mother had first told him she’d known the Thorn Ripper and the girls he’d lured to the falls.
Pretty girls who’d acted like Goody Two-shoes but were whores instead. They’d all expected to get the rose from their lover as an invitation to prom.
But none of them were worthy. That was the reason they had to die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carol Little hated this podunk town. Outside the Falls Inn, wind battered the window and icicles dangled like sharp knives along the awning.
She scrolled through all the articles on the area with a grimace.
The name Graveyard Falls gave her the heebie-jeebies and reminded her of growing up in New Orleans, where floods had once uprooted graves. Where gators swarmed the bayous, the sound of their gnashing teeth echoing in the eerie silence as they floated, hidden predators in the murky water.
She’d been in the city when Katrina hit and seen such horrors that she’d never be able to erase them from her mind.
Later, she’d had a bad breakup with her boyfriend, so she’d driven to Knoxville, landed a job at the paper, and although she’d started out writing light human-interest pieces, her propensity toward the morbid had eventually driven her to ask for a chance to work on crime stories.
Maybe it was because her own daddy had been chewed up by a gator when she was little. The day it happened, he’d taken her out on a pirogue to go fishing, but he’d known she was terrified of the water, especially the gators. He was pure evil, though.
He liked to see how close he could get to the gators and taunt them, then laugh when she cried. But that day, he hadn’t won. He’d taken his bottle with him and guzzled it while he fished, but when he got up, he’d lost his footing and he’d fallen in and . . . She shuddered, the memory of blood so vivid her stomach clenched as if it were yesterday.
Now, here she was in another town that had known its own share of death.
She’d done her homework, had photographed the falls and mountain, although she hadn’t yet seen the crimson color the water turned in the sunlight. The color of blood.
The water had probably always looked that way, caused by some kind of particle or plant indigenous to this part of the country, but she understood the way small-town legends took root and became embellished over time.
The height of the falls had astounded her. When she visited, she’d imagined standing at the top of the mountain and being thrown over the ridge into the jagged rocks and rapids.
She clicked on the old story about the murders and skimmed the details. A man named Johnny Pike had been arrested for the gruesome crimes and was serving a life sentence. She’d requested an interview with him, but he had rejected her request.
She had to figure out just what he would want in order to talk to her. Cigarettes? Cash? Some kind of special privilege?
She jotted down the names of his victims, and decided that, while she was here, she’d interview their family members. Many of whom had avoided her at the memorial. She punched Deputy Kimball’s phone number but got his voice mail.
Frustrated that he’d only given her the bare minimum about Gwyneth Toyton’s murder when they’d spoken before, and that Agent Coulter had refused to talk to her, she grabbed her coat, gloves, and purse and hurried outside.
Blues and Brews was just across the street. Bars were great places to mingle with the locals.
It was open-mic night, so she ducked inside, eased onto a barstool, and ordered a beer, hoping to fit in. Inebriated locals often had loose lips.
Loose lips were just what she needed now. Someone who knew more about Gwyneth and how she’d ended up dead.
Cal ran his finger over the edges of the medal, his memory of the day Brent had received it still fresh, his anger still pulsing.
“Do you really think you should accept that?” he asked Brent.
Brent shrugged. “Why not? We made a big bust tonight. Just think about all the drugs we got off the streets. All the kids we saved.”
“What about the one we didn’t save?” Cal asked, the pain raw. He could still see Milo’s young face. Eager to escape being trapped in a gang, he’d agreed to help Brent get info on the Ten-nines. But the leader of the gang caught on to Milo’s undercover ruse and shot him in the head.
The fourteen-year-old boy’s life had been snuffed out in seconds, his brain matter splattering Cal’s shirt.
“He knew what he was getting into,” Brent said. “Besides, the gang already considered him in. They never would have let him leave.”
“We were supposed to protect him,” Cal argued. “He trusted us.”
Brent’s eyes flared with impatience. “Look, Cal, I’ve spent half my life wiping up other people’s messes, taking care of kids like Milo. Kids like you. We can’t save them all.”
The phone jarred Cal from the memory and Brent’s callous words. They should have saved Milo.
He hadn’t deserved to die so young.
Mona booted up her computer and skimmed the stories online about some lawyer trying to get Pike paroled.
Sheriff Buckley had made the arrest, but a couple of teenagers claimed that Buckley’s daughter, Anna, was dating Johnny, and May Willis said she thought Buckley had it in for Pike.
Others dubbed Sheriff Buckley a hero for locking away a serial killer. If he’d railroaded Johnny Pike, he wouldn’t want that conviction overturned. But if Pike hadn’t killed the girls, who had? Once he was arrested, the murders had stopped.
May Willis was not around any longer to question, though. She had passed away.
Mona searched for the original story about Pike’s arrest, and like a rubbernecker, she couldn’t turn away. The sheriff had found a box of photos of the dead girls under Pike’s bed.
Another teen had come forward and claimed Pike had attacked her, but she’d escaped. The sheriff stated that the young girl did not want her identity revealed, and had kept her name confidential.
The reporter who’d covered the story had also tried to interview the sh
eriff’s daughter, but the sheriff had sent her away to avoid the ugly press and rumors.
Was Anna the girl who’d claimed Pike had attacked her?
She skimmed another article, but didn’t find the answer anywhere.
Although there was a small story about Pike’s parents. Apparently they’d left town after the conviction. Eventually the mother had committed suicide and there was speculation that the father had changed his last name.
She leaned back in her chair and considered the recent murder. If Gwyneth’s killer wanted a bride, it suggested his age was probably midtwenties to forties.
The typical age for a serial killer.
Carol knew she shouldn’t climb into bed with a stranger, especially for a story, but Deputy Kimball was sexy and mysterious, and he was working on the recent murder case in Graveyard Falls.
So far, none of the other patrons at Blues and Brews had offered any information. And she was sick and tired of being the grunt person at the paper. Her daddy had once told her she’d never amount to anything, and she was determined to prove him wrong. Even if he was dead and would never know.
Various scenarios regarding the murder had surfaced. A disgruntled boyfriend probably killed her. Or a jealous girlfriend? Both reasonable if you didn’t know the details of the case. Carol did, but she hoped Deputy Kimball would be able to offer more. An angle she could run with.
“You look tired,” she said as she slid a beer onto the table in front of him.
He cocked a sexy blond brow at her, his gaze raking her from her sinful stilettos to the short skirt showcasing her legs to the dip of her silk blouse, which exposed just enough cleavage to pique a man’s interest without making her look like a slut.
Then recognition dawned. “You’re that reporter I talked to on the phone.”
Carol pasted on her sexiest, most seductive smile. “Yes. Anything new to tell me?”
He shook his head. “I’m off duty.”
She didn’t think cops were ever off duty, especially when a killer was on the loose, but she bit back her opinion.
A cowboy in a black Stetson strode on stage and strummed his guitar. “I’d like to sing a new song I wrote called ‘Backyard Blues.’”
He launched into the ballad, and Carol made small talk as the music flowed around them.
“How long have you been the deputy?”
He rolled his shoulders and sipped his beer. “A couple of months.”
She noticed he didn’t mention that a Fed was in town heading up the murder investigation.
They ordered a pitcher, then chatted for an hour while the last set played, the drinks and soft music weaving a seductive spell around them. By the time the show ended, she could feel the heat simmering between them.
“Come back to my place,” the deputy said.
Carol hesitated just long enough to seem appropriately moral, then smiled. “All right, Deputy.”
He pushed his big body up, tossed some cash on the table to pay the bill, and placed his hand at the small of her back. “Call me Ian.”
“All right, Ian.”
“Let’s go to my place. I live just down the street. We can walk.”
“All right,” Carol agreed.
He threw his arm around her and they left, then walked down the street and veered onto a long drive that led to a small log cabin set back in the woods on the river.
For a brief second when they entered and he shut the door behind her, Ian’s gaze penetrated her with such an intensity that fear racked her body.
Just because he was a deputy didn’t necessarily mean he was safe.
But she liked living on the edge. So she reached for the buttons on his shirt and began to loosen them. Seconds later, he walked her backward toward his bedroom, tearing at her clothes and shucking his as he fused his mouth over hers and pushed her onto the bed.
The sex was hot, wild, physical, passionate. And bordered on being rough.
His big hands skated over her, positioning her the way he wanted, shoving her legs apart with his knee, holding her hands above her head to keep her still for his torture.
His kisses became urgent, driven, his moans of need triggering her own until she begged him to come inside her.
He shook his head, grabbed a condom and rolled it on, then flipped her to her stomach and gripped her hips. She cried out as he pushed her legs apart and drove his sex between her thighs. A moan tore from her throat as he entered her, then he lifted her hips and angled her so he could thrust deeper. She felt as if she were coming apart inside, he was so big.
But she loved it.
She braced herself on her hands, reveling in his hungry words as he thrust inside her, pumping in and out until she cried out as an orgasm claimed her.
His grunt of pleasure followed, his movements faster and more intense, his hands stroking her breasts as he groaned and his release spilled from him.
Carol sighed, ready to roll over into his arms and rest, but Ian was too virile to stop. They made love over and over in the night until exhaustion claimed them both in the wee hours of the morning.
Just as he was about to drift off, she curled up next to him. “You have more stamina than any man I’ve ever been with.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s been a stressful couple of days.”
He was half-asleep and inebriated, so she took advantage of the moment. “Do you know who killed that girl?”
He gave her a heavy-lidded, confused stare before shaking his head and closing his eyes. “No, but she had a rose stem in her throat.”
Carol perked up. “A rose stem, hmm.” Images of crime photos from the Thorn Ripper case flashed through her head. “That’s exactly what Johnny Pike did to his victims.”
“Yeah, but this was different.” He yawned. “This woman was dressed in a wedding gown.”
Despite her racing thoughts, Carol tried to keep her voice even. “That’s strange.”
“Actually that’s not the weird part.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t engaged.”
Carol’s heart hammered. This was the angle she needed.
The details that would make it a front-page story.
He surveyed the area around the falls where he’d left Gwyneth.
That federal agent was probing around, asking questions. He’d even been to Moose’s Coffee looking for him.
He’d almost bumped into him at the door, but managed to duck into a booth without being noticed. Then he’d heard the Fed talking about the body.
He had to be more careful.
Worried they might post someone in these woods to watch for him, he searched the shadows of the thornbush. The sound of birds fluttering toward it echoed in the silence.
But he didn’t see anyone now, so he gently laid Constance at the base of the falls, then carefully placed a stone beneath her head as a pillow. He smoothed the lacy wedding dress, then straightened the garter so the bow was centered on her pale, thin neck.
The white gown fanned out around her like angel wings in the snow.
If only she’d been the one . . .
Tears had dried on her cheeks, and the crisp air swirled around her face and caught a strand of her newly chopped hair across her forehead. He brushed it back gently.
She had been a fighter. And a crier. All those tears as she’d begged him to let her go.
But what was she worth to any man if she couldn’t make a decent wife?
Her porcelain skin looked a bluish color now. Her eyes frozen in death.
He crossed her hands on her chest, then painted her lips a beautiful red like the roses she would have carried if they had married.
The one she’d bitten down on protruded from her mouth now, macabre and ugly, in stark contrast to her beauty.
“Rest in pea
ce,” he whispered as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “No more crying or pain now, Constance. Dead girls don’t cry.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cal stared at the morning newspaper, furious.
A Bride Killer in Graveyard Falls
By Carol Little
Local police in the small town of Graveyard Falls and FBI agent Cal Coulter have not yet solved the recent murder of twenty-five-year-old Gwyneth Toyton, whose body was found at the base of the falls.
Sources have revealed that in addition to the location where the body was discovered, there is another significant similarity to the infamous Thorn Ripper case from thirty years ago—the victim was found with a rose stem in her throat.
Although the victim was not engaged, she was wearing a bridal gown. So far, the police have not determined the Bride Killer’s motive, but women are urged to be cautious until the homicide is solved.
Anyone with information regarding the case should call the Graveyard Falls police department or the FBI.
Cal shot up from his chair with a curse. Dammit to hell, how had that reporter found out about the rose stem and wedding gown? Worse, if they were dealing with a serial killer, Carol Little had just fed his ego by giving him a name.
Cal had specifically withheld details from the public for interrogation purposes and to weed out false confessions.
He snatched the paper and strode outside to his SUV, started the engine, and drove around the mountain to the town square, then parked at the sheriff’s office. Early-morning traffic was minimal, although Cocoa’s Café was packed with the breakfast crowd and a school bus chugged by.
He clutched the paper in his hands and rushed into the office. Deputy Kimball was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the side counter, where a box of doughnuts sat. He looked up at Cal with blurry eyes.
Cal slammed the door and the deputy winced.
“Hey, man, not so loud.” The deputy rubbed his forehead and sank into the desk chair.
“What’s wrong?” Cal’s anger mounted at the sight of the bleary-eyed cop. “Are you hungover?”