All the Beautiful Brides

by Rita Herron

  “Of course I did,” Fulton shouted. “But she refused just like before.”

  Cal eased forward. “Is that why you strangled her?”

  The man’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring. “No, I told you I didn’t hurt her. I would never hurt her.”

  Cal inched closer. “If you aren’t dangerous, then drop the knife.”

  “But you’re going to put me in jail,” Fulton yelled. “I can’t be locked up.”

  The man staggered backward, dragging Mona with him. Cal didn’t hesitate. He fired a shot into the man’s right shoulder. Fulton dropped the knife and bellowed in pain.

  Mona ran toward him, and Cal rushed forward and kicked the knife aside.

  “What the fuck?” Fulton snarled. “You shot me.”

  “You held a knife to a woman’s throat. What did you think would happen, asshole?”

  Fulton started to fight, but Cal pressed the gun to the back of his head. “Move and I’ll kill you this time.”

  The fight went out of the man, and he went limp. Cal snapped the cuffs around his wrists, then tossed Mona his phone.

  “Call an ambulance.” He glared at Fulton. “You ready to confess now?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Fulton insisted.

  Cal ignored him. “Here’s what I think happened. You decide to kill Constance but figure everyone will look at you so you come up with a plan. You kill Gwyneth Toyton first, then kill Constance and make it look like some kind of nutcase serial killer is in town.”

  “That’s not true,” Fulton shouted. “I wanted to win Constance back.”

  “So much that you stalked her,” Cal said. “So much that you decided if you couldn’t have her, no one would. So you dressed her in a wedding gown and then left her at the falls.”

  “What?” Fulton’s voice broke. “Why was she wearing a wedding gown?”

  Cal ground his teeth. “Because you dressed her that way. Because you wanted her as your bride.”

  The man shook his head. “I didn’t kill her. You have to believe me. I loved her, I didn’t do it, you have to find out who did . . .”

  Cal looked up at Mona, his pulse still pounding as he remembered the man holding that knife to her throat. Even if he hadn’t killed Constance—and Cal wasn’t sure yet either way—he had almost slit Mona’s throat.

  For that, he had to be punished.

  The next two hours passed in a blur for Mona. She watched the paramedics load a handcuffed Fulton into the ambulance. Deputy Kimball sent an assistant to ride with them and guard Fulton while he was treated at the hospital.

  She tried to gather her composure while Cal met with the crime team, and they searched the house and fishing camp for evidence that would tie Constance’s ex-boyfriend to her murder and to Gwyneth Toyton’s.

  “The photographs are damning,” Cal told her. “But I’m hoping for more. If they find garters or sewing supplies and fabric, or the jewelry he took from the victims, it would make the case.”

  And if his DNA matched the sample from the crime scene, it would confirm that they had the unsub in custody.

  The lead CSI approached them. “Except for those photographs and the articles, we haven’t found anything damning in the house,” CSI Ward said. “It looks like the guy’s been hitting the booze a lot and is behind on his bills. There are a couple of items of women’s clothing in the closet, a pair of underwear and a sports bra, but no wedding attire or jewelry.”

  “Nothing in the truck,” another investigator said. “No blood, signs of a body, or anyone being held against their will on the property either.”

  “How about underground storage units, maybe a cellar?” Cal asked. “Or a key to a storage unit or gym locker.”

  “We haven’t found one.” CSI Ward pointed to the truck. “The battery on that truck is dead, the engine rusted. If he did kill those women, he didn’t use it to transport their bodies.”

  Mona dug her hands in her pockets to ward off the chill from the relentless wind, and the realization that Fulton might not be the man they were looking for.

  Which meant the killer was still out there. That women were still in danger.

  And they were no closer to finding him.

  Frustration knotted Cal’s shoulders as he listened to the CSI’s findings. Or the lack thereof.

  Dammit, he wanted this to be over. To pin both murders on Fulton.

  But he had to listen to the facts. While the man was unstable, had stalked his ex-girlfriend, and had taken Mona hostage out of panic, he wasn’t sure he was their man.

  “See if you find a computer or his cell phone,” Cal said. “I’ll have the tech team analyze his calls. If he made any contact with Gwyneth Toyton, it might be enough to solicit a confession and nail his ass. And we have DNA from the first victim for comparison.”

  The investigator nodded. “I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, is someone watching the falls?”

  “Yes, Deputy Kimball’s assistants are supposed to be rotating.” Although if the unsub spotted them, he might just pick another spot on the trail by the falls as a dump site.

  Cal placed his hand at the curve of Mona’s back. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  Mona didn’t argue. She looked exhausted and shaken, and she still had to face the vandalism in her home.

  She wrapped her scarf around her neck as she climbed in the Jeep, and he cranked up the heater, the night wearing on him as well.

  Fresh snow flurries blurred his vision, forcing him to drive slowly as he maneuvered the switchbacks, the tires grinding ice and slush.

  “Do you think he did it?” Mona finally asked.

  Cal wanted to say yes. To have this case tied up. To be able to leave Graveyard Falls with the town—and Mona—safe. To get away from the temptation to touch her and confess that he loved her.

  He scrubbed his hand through his hair. Dammit, this case was getting to him. He had an ache all through his body and the only thing that could make it better was to hold Mona tonight.

  “I don’t know yet. The evidence will tell.”

  By the time they reached Cal’s cabin, he thought he had his libido and emotions under control.

  “You’re not taking me home?” Mona asked softly as he parked by the cabin.

  He shook his head and turned to her, terrified his heart was in his eyes. But she looked so vulnerable and fragile, and an image of Fulton piercing her neck with that knife flashed behind his eyes, and he shook his head.

  “Not after what happened tonight.” He meant her near-death experience, the accident on the road, the vandalism at her house—hell, he meant it all.

  She shocked him by reaching for the door and sliding out. He inhaled sharply, grateful she hadn’t argued. He wouldn’t leave her alone tonight. He wanted her with him where he knew she’d be safe.

  Carol stirred, the darkness consuming her. She tried to move, but her hands and feet were bound, her body felt weighted, and her head ached.

  Her memory rushed back, causing panic to blind her.

  God . . . she’d been in the Boar’s Head, asking questions about the Thorn Ripper. She’d been onto something, had met that man with the strange eyes and wicked smile, had sensed something was off about him.

  Then the world faded . . .

  She struggled to sit up, but her head bumped the top of something, and she realized she was in a covered truck bed. A truck that was moving. Knowing her chances for survival plummeted if she arrived at the second location, she banged her feet on the door, kicking as hard as she could. But it didn’t budge.

  She frantically searched for a tire iron or a lever, but it was so dark she couldn’t see, and her finger caught on something sharp and jagged. Metal. Blood dripped down her hand from the cut, but she ignored the pain and continued to search.

  Seconds later, the vehicle stopped, sla
mming her against the side. Then the truck bed cover popped and a hulking shadow appeared, hovering over her. She tried to scream but the sound died in the wind.

  “No one’s gonna hear you up here,” he growled.

  Her heart pounded in terror as he dragged her from the truck.

  He had a ritual—he dressed his victims like brides.

  She had to get him to talk. To stall. Maybe someone in the restaurant would have noticed them leaving. Maybe Deputy Kimball would call looking for her.

  Except he was furious with her . . .

  The man trudged up an incline of snow, carrying her like a bag of garbage over his shoulder, tree branches slapping her in the face as he wove through the woods.

  Dear God. She knew where he was going. Graveyard Falls.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried.

  “You asked too many questions,” he snarled. “You’re going to ruin it all.”

  “No, I won’t,” Carol said in a raw whisper. “Don’t you see? I’m here to help you.”

  He threw her to the ground by the edge of the falls. “Help me?”

  “Yes,” Carol said, desperate. “Let me tell your side of the story. Tell everyone who hurt you how they wronged you. I’ll make you famous.”

  He suddenly lunged at her, his hands sliding around her throat in a punishing grip. “I don’t want to be famous! I just want a wife, someone to love and cherish me.”

  Carol tried to nod her understanding, tried to make the words come out, but he stuck a rose stem between her teeth and forced her to bite down on it, then his fingers dug mercilessly into her throat, and she couldn’t breathe.

  Couldn’t swallow.

  The sound of the water raging down the falls filled the air, and the screams of the girls who’d died here before echoed in terror as she joined them.

  “Amazing Grace” drifted through the cold house as he let himself inside. He knocked off snow from his boots and stuck them in the shoe bin, but the floor felt like ice, and he hurried over to rebuild the fire.

  Mama had let it go out during the day. In fact, she hadn’t come into the den at all today.

  Panic zinged through him. What if . . . no, she couldn’t be gone. It wasn’t time yet.

  She had to stay around, had to live long enough to see him take his bride.

  He threw another log on the grate, lit a match and tossed it in, then stoked the embers beneath it to stir up the flame. Throat raw with fear, he washed his hands in the sink.

  He still smelled like that vile woman Carol.

  All her talk about fame and glory and making a name for himself—all blasphemy.

  All he wanted was love, just like anyone else.

  He dried his hands, then shuffled toward his mama’s room, pausing to listen to the end of the song, before he eased open the door.

  Mama was lying on her side in the bed, so still that, for a moment, he nearly shouted in horror.

  But the whisper of her breathing rattled a second later. Still shaky at the thought of losing her, he lifted the quilt and crawled in bed beside her.

  Her body felt cold, frail, and her bones poked through the thin fabric of her flannel gown.

  Tomorrow he’d find a way to get some food in her. Make her some chicken soup just like she had for him when he was five and sick with the chicken pox.

  Tonight, though, he’d warm her up.

  He wrapped his big hairy arms around her and buried his head against her neck. She smelled like talcum powder and flannel, the sweet scents that had calmed him as a kid.

  “You can’t leave me, Mama,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

  He closed his eyes and curled against her, holding on for dear life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Cal ushered Mona inside, the remnants of fear from seeing her in danger still thrumming through him.

  “You rented this place?” Mona asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

  “For as long as I’m in town.” Something akin to disappointment flickered in her eyes, giving him hope that she’d missed him.

  “You didn’t come back after the funeral,” she said, her eyes searching his. “I thought you were upset with me.”

  Regret swelled inside him. “No, Mona, it was just . . . too hard.” Because I wanted you for myself.

  “I know you miss Brent.” Mona gently touched his cheek. Her hand was so soft that he wanted to curl her fingers beneath his lips and kiss each one of them. “I understand that he was your best friend, Cal. And I was afraid . . . you blamed me for his accident.”

  Cal’s heart thumped crazily. “God, no, Mona, why would I blame you?”

  “Because Brent and I argued the night of the crash.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Mona. You were good to Brent.” Too good.

  He didn’t want to talk about Brent tonight.

  “I thought we were friends, and then you disappeared, too.”

  The loneliness in her voice ate at Cal. He’d been selfishly thinking of how angry he was at Brent for not loving her the way he should have, at himself for not stepping up in the beginning and claiming her.

  Because he’d owed Brent.

  But he’d repaid Brent long ago.

  How much was a man supposed to sacrifice for a friend, even one like Brent who’d thrown himself into the line of fire to save Cal’s ass?

  “Mona, it’s complicated. But I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

  Mona’s breath rushed out in a soft whisper. “You’re here now.”

  The yearning in her eyes made his body harden with desire.

  “I thought I’d go crazy when Fulton put that knife to your throat,” he admitted.

  Mona shivered. “I was terrified, but I trusted you.”

  There was that word—trust. He wanted her trust. Hell, he wanted her love. But could she love him if she knew he’d kept secrets? “I’m always here for you.”

  Mona leaned toward him, her lips parted on a sigh. “I’m here for you, too, Cal.”

  Her sweet voice washed over him with tenderness, causing his hunger to spike. Mona had almost died tonight.

  He had almost lost her . . . for good.

  “Mona . . .” He cradled her face between his hands. “I . . . tell me to stop.” He leaned toward her, his mouth an inch from hers.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  His heart tripped overtime, and the irrational voice inside his head urged him to kiss her anyway. To finally go after what he wanted.

  And he’d wanted her for too long to walk away now.

  Mona sighed with pleasure as Cal closed his lips over hers. His touch was so titillating that her knees almost buckled, and pinpricks of desire rippled through her.

  Cal cradled her face so gently that she threaded her fingers in his hair and drew him closer. He moaned low in his throat, fueling her need, and she deepened the kiss, teasing his mouth with her tongue, until he gave her what she wanted.

  He plunged his tongue into her mouth, greedily kissing her, his movements becoming more urgent, hands sliding down her shoulders, over her arms to her waist, then her hips.

  With one hand, he pulled her up against him, and she felt his sex harden against her belly. Long-dormant needs stirred, and she rubbed her foot against his calf.

  “God, Mona, it feels so good to touch you, to hold you.”

  His husky admission intensified her need and erased any hesitation she had. “You feel good, too, Cal.”

  He froze for a moment, his eyes searching hers, and she tried to show him with her eyes how much she wanted him.

  A second later, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He didn’t bother with a light. She didn’t ask.

  She wanted him naked and loving her all through the night.

  Cal forgot everything as he s
lowly undressed Mona. The bedroom was dark, but a dim light from the adjoining bathroom filtered through the room, painting Mona with an angelic glow.

  She was so beautiful he could barely breathe.

  He kissed her again, deepening his tongue and tasting her sweetness and passion as she gave herself into the kiss.

  Pleasure rocked through him as she teased him with her tongue and her hands urged him closer. He brushed her hair back from her neck, trailed kisses along her throat, then slowly slid his fingers to her waist and lifted her sweater over her head.

  She wore a black lace bra that barely contained her breasts, lace that made him want to rip off her clothes instead of taking his time.

  But he didn’t intend to rush. He wanted to savor every moment.

  Mona pushed at his jacket and he yanked it off, carefully setting his gun on the nightstand. For a second, fear flickered in Mona’s eyes.

  “Mona?” He rubbed her arms, watching. Waiting. If she said to stop, he’d walk away.

  A soft sigh escaped her, and she looked into his eyes. No regret or hesitation there now, though. Only need and desire.

  Fueled by her silent invitation, he kissed her again. Their movements became frenzied, heated, desperate, and he pulled off her jeans, then shucked his own. Mona took his hand and led him to the antique sleigh bed.

  He pushed the covers back, his body aching to have her as he lowered her onto the bed. Her hands raked over his bare chest, her look of appreciation for his physique making his erection swell, and he kissed her neck and throat again, then trailed his tongue down her cleavage. He kissed her through the lacy bra, emboldened by the way her nipples turned to stiff peaks at his touch.

  She moaned and ran her hands through his hair as he peeled away the lacy barrier and closed his lips over one nipple. He traced his tongue around the areola, then sucked the tip into his mouth and laved her with his tongue.

  She groaned, then wrapped her legs around his body, urging him between her thighs. His hard sex pulsed between her thighs, and she opened to him, welcoming him.