Wildflower Graves: A totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Ellie Reeves Book 2)

by Rita Herron

  Exhausted, she tugged her jacket over her head to ward off the rain and hurried up to the porch. Her skin crawled as she noticed the lights were off again.

  Had the storm knocked out the power or had someone been in her house?

  Pulse pounding, she drew her flashlight, gripped her weapon in one hand and checked the door. No blood this time, but the bushes by the house rustled. She pivoted to check it out, but a loud roar came from the boxwoods, a shadowy figure lunging toward her. Big. Brawny. Wet dark hair clung to his bearded face. His crazed eyes looked as if he was high. Swinging her arm up in defense, she raised her gun with the other, but he knocked it from her hand.

  The gun fired into the air with a deafening shot then hit the ground with a clatter as he grabbed her around the neck in a chokehold. She clawed at his hands to free herself, but he tightened his grip, shutting off her windpipe. Gasping and struggling against him, she saw stars.

  She couldn’t let him win. Self-preservation instincts fueled her, and she rammed her elbow backward into his belly, lifted one foot and kicked at his knee. The blows made him loosen his hold, and she grabbed his arm, flipping him to the ground.

  He quickly recovered and kicked her in the stomach, sending her flying backward as she wheezed, winded. Digging frantically at the wet ground, she scrambled for her gun, which had fallen into the bushes.

  With an animal-like howl, he pushed up and jumped her again, slamming his boot into her back. Pain shot through her kidneys, blinding her. Sucking in an uncomfortable breath, she rolled onto her back, then used her feet to shove him away. He stumbled sideways, but righted himself quickly, then grabbed her hair and snatched it so hard, her skull felt as if it might split in two.

  Still, she pushed past the panic, managing to punch him in the face. Blood spurted from his nose and dripped down his chin, merging with the rain. It was coming down so hard now that she could barely see. Mud and water soaked through her clothing as she threw him off her and ran for her gun. He yelled again and chased her, closing in. Her foot slipped in the mud, and she went down just as she reached the bushes.

  He was fast, grabbing her leg and dragging her toward him.

  Desperate, she kicked him in the face with her free foot, then groped around and snagged her weapon. A second later, she angled her body and released a round. A shocked grunt ripped from him as his body collapsed to the ground, splattering mud everywhere, blood gushing from his chest.

  Adrenaline surged through Ellie, and she pushed to her feet, wincing, then aimed the gun at him again as she staggered toward him.

  A streak of lightning zigzagged across the sky, lighting his face. It was Vinny Holcomb.

  “Where’s Shondra?” she yelled, filled with a fury that set her alight.

  His cold expression sent fear trickling down her spine. “Hiram says hi,” he said with a sick smile.

  Fuck him. Fuck Hiram. She knelt, rain battering her, and shoved the gun to his temple. “Where is Shondra?” she screamed.

  A sinister laugh emerged from him, blood gurgling from his mouth and nose. Ellie shook him. “Where is she?”

  But his breath rattled out, and his eyes went still as death claimed him.

  Eighty-Four

  Crooked Creek

  After an exhaustive search at the barn and chicken house, Derrick had just reached Crooked Creek when the call came from Ellie. Vinny Holcomb had attacked her at her house and she’d shot him to death.

  When he pulled into her drive and hurried to her, she looked as numb as she’d sounded on the phone. She was sitting on the ground beside Holcomb as if she couldn’t drag herself away from his dead body.

  He steeled himself as he approached, furious at the sight of her battered face and shocked stupor. Ellie was a fighter, but right now she looked defeated.

  He approached quietly, noting the details of the scene. Holcomb lay soaked in blood on the ground near her porch. Ellie’s gun was still clenched in her hand, her knuckles white from gripping it so hard.

  “An ambulance is on its way,” he said, hoping she heard him through the shock.

  She didn’t respond, so he stooped down and gently eased the weapon from her hand. “The crime team and ambulance will be here soon.” Fearing she needed medical attention, he gently pushed her hair from her face where strands escaped her ponytail. A bruise was blossoming on her jaw, and blood stained her forehead and cheek.

  Gently, he took her hands in his to warm them. “Ellie,” he said softly.

  For a brief second, she simply stared at him as if she didn’t hear him, but he continued to rub her hands between his and finally she shook herself from the fog.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his gaze skimming her for any further injuries.

  She nodded, although the quiver of her lip told him more.

  “Did you get hit?” he asked.

  “No,” she said in a whisper. “I’m okay.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, aching to comfort her, but knowing she was off limits. The case was all that mattered. Anything else was a mistake––he’d learned that the hard way.

  Even so, he removed his jacket, settled it around her shoulders and tugged up the hood to shield her from the worst of the rain. “Listen to me, you had no choice. He attacked you.”

  “He was out of control,” she murmured. “Crazed.”

  “He must have been off his meds like the director at the hospital said.”

  Her chin trembled. “But now he’s dead, what if Shondra is still alive and we don’t find her in time?”

  The sound of a siren wailing burst between bouts of thunder, the rain still pouring down.

  “We will find her,” Derrick said. Although in all honesty, he had no idea how. At the moment, they’d exhausted one lead after another––and he didn’t know which way to turn.

  Eighty-Five

  Friday

  Crooked Creek

  Ellie had stared at the ceiling for hours when she’d finally crawled into bed, every muscle in her body aching. Derrick had insisted on sleeping on her couch, and she was so shaken she couldn’t even bring herself to argue.

  She tossed and turned all night, questions railing through her head.

  Hiram says hi.

  Something didn’t feel right. The way the bodies were posed, the elaborate details of the graves, the painstaking way he dressed them in Sunday dresses—it read nothing like the violent, erratic crime scene they’d witnessed at Mrs. Holcomb’s house.

  Or the animal-like way Vinny had attacked her.

  Around 4 a.m. she finally collapsed into a deep sleep, but by seven she lurched awake to the sound of footsteps in her den. For a brief moment, she thought there was an intruder, until she remembered Derrick had stayed over.

  The scent of coffee drifted to her. Craving the rich pecan taste and desperate for a jolt of caffeine, she rose in her pjs and went to the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she poured a cup into her favorite mug, savoring a long slow sip.

  Derrick stood on her back deck, a mug in hand, staring into the expanse of woods behind her house. Morning sunlight struggled to peek through gray, unforgiving storm clouds overhead.

  “Tornadoes are traveling across the southeast,” he murmured. “They might be headed this way.”

  The past two weeks of sunny spring days had faded. She’d seen bad twisters in her day, entire neighborhoods flattened and wiped out. The mobile homes where Shondra lived didn’t stand a chance.

  But a storm was the last of her worries at the moment.

  Ellie rubbed her forehead, where a headache pulsed. Her cheek was throbbing.

  The press hadn’t released the news that Holcomb was dead yet, that Ellie might have killed their last chance of finding Shondra. Guilt surfaced once more, that she had yet again failed her friend.

  Derrick arched a brow. “Did you get any sleep?”

  She shrugged. “A couple of hours. You?”

  “The same.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Ell
ie said. “The crazed psychotic man I shot last night just doesn’t fit the profile of the killer. Like we said yesterday, if Vinny was part of this, he’s working with someone who is a planner, detail-oriented. Considering what you found last night at those chicken houses, we should search for priors involving men arrested for animal cruelty and dog fighting. This man may have transferred his behavior toward women.”

  “My partner is already on it.”

  Ellie nodded. Her boss had been right. As far as work went, she and Fox made decent partners.

  “We should probably prepare for another press conference with Angelica,” Ellie said, dreading the onslaught she would get from the media. “I’ll grab a shower.”

  Back inside, Ellie read a text Heath had just sent.

  Have been digging into the mortuary angle. Did you know Ranger McClain grew up in the system? His foster father, Felix Finton, owned Finton’s Final Resting Home. His son Roy now runs the business. Two complaints filed against the father for desecrating female bodies but no convictions.

  A chill splintered any semblance of calm Ellie felt. She knew more than anyone how much betrayal stung, and she didn’t want to hurt Cord any more than she already had. But she owed it to all the murdered women claimed by the Weekday Killer to chase it up––she had to.

  And if nothing came of it, Cord wouldn’t have to know.

  Her phone beeped with another text from Heath. The message took her breath away.

  DNA results for the blood on the door at your house. Belonged to Deputy Eastwood.

  Eighty-Six

  Every time he thought he’d seen the worst of mankind, another sinister villain surfaced to show him an even sicker side. And this one had them chasing their tails.

  Derrick couldn’t erase the images of those dogs from his mind. They had been brutally abused, but a call to the vet assured him that physically, at least, the dogs would survive.

  A quick call to Dr. Whitefeather confirmed scarring on the victims’ necks was consistent with a dog collar used in training dogs to fight.

  Ellie returned from the bedroom, freshly showered with her hair still damp. Compared to the stench of what he’d seen last night at that old farm, she smelled like sunshine and rosewater. The bruise on her face was stark, though, and the purple smudges beneath her eyes confirmed she had barely slept the last few days.

  Neither one of them would until Shondra was found and the killer stopped.

  “Heath texted with the DNA results from the blood on my door,” she said in a raw whisper. “It was Shondra’s.”

  Derrick’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, Ellie. But that doesn’t confirm that she’s dead.”

  Her defeated, blank stare betrayed her disbelief.

  A text from Bennett came through, and he skimmed it. “I just got the name of a possible person of interest—Karl Little, the brother of another Ghost victim. He was arrested for animal cruelty and dog fighting a couple of times but keeps cropping up in different locations and starting all over again.”

  “Interesting,” Ellie said. “I’m going to call the hospital and check on my mother. Then I’ll talk to Cord about ideas where this maniac might leave Friday’s child.”

  He nodded, although he didn’t like it. His jaw was tense. “Are you sure you should be talking to him?”

  “He knows more about the places along the trail than anyone I know.” Ellie’s brows pinched together. “We have to use all our resources.”

  She was right. Time was running out, and they had to divide up tasks. If Shondra was still alive, one thing was certain: she didn’t have long left.

  Four women had died already. He wanted to find the killer today, not another helpless victim. But his gut was churning with the fear that they were already too late.

  Eighty-Seven

  River’s Edge

  “Go ahead, touch her body. Feel how cold her skin is.”

  Cord stared at the dead girl, his stomach knotted. She was pretty––or at least she had been before death claimed her. Long glossy black hair hung over her shoulders. She was tiny, with big dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. She must have been beautiful when she smiled.

  Just a teenager, like him.

  But her face had been cut badly when she’d been thrown through the windshield of her boyfriend’s car, her body crunched between it and the tree where the crash happened. The boyfriend had been drinking. She hadn’t worn a seat belt. Now the boy sat in a jail cell for manslaughter while she lay in the prep room, waiting to be dressed for her burial.

  Worse, the old man had sat with the mother and held her while she cried. Assured her he’d take care of her daughter.

  “She was so young and sweet,” the mother had cried. “Why did God have to take her now?”

  “It’s so hard when we lose a loved one,” the old man had said. “But we must have faith.”

  She’d nodded and cried some more and he’d patted her hand and brought her coffee and then promised he would treat the daughter with special care.

  But as soon as he made it to the basement, his kindness and promises faded. Special care meant something different––something awful.

  The old man grabbed Cord’s hand and pushed it toward the steel table where she lay. He’d already forced Cord to watch as he drained her blood and pumped her full of embalming fluid.

  “Go ahead, touch her,” the old man said. “She doesn’t know what’s happening now and can’t fight you.”

  The hair on the nape of Cord’s neck prickled as his fingers brushed the girl’s cheek.

  The old man set out his tools and supplies. First the pancake makeup he would use to cover the scarring on her face. Then a bright red lipstick to match the color of nail polish he’d chosen. The blusher to bring some life to her cheeks. Then she’d be dressed––her mother had sent a soft red dress for her to wear and little black sandals.

  “The mother wants an open casket,” he told Cord. “When we’re finished playing with her, we’ll make her pretty for her mama.”

  Eighty-Eight

  Before heading to Cord’s, Ellie called about her mother, hearing that her condition was the same.

  Next, she phoned the captain and filled him in on everything that had happened. According to him, Angelica had already phoned wanting a statement, and he agreed to update Bryce and let him handle her.

  Kennedy Sledge had also left another message, asking if she wanted to talk. But her emotions were too raw at the moment. She felt like she was unraveling, like the yarn in one of her old sweaters.

  Pounding on the door to Cord’s house, Ellie noted it was dark inside. But it was always dark at his place. She had no idea why he refused to turn lights on, but the one time she’d spent the night with him, when she’d flipped them on, he had immediately turned them off. Only when she explained her phobia of the dark, and where it stemmed from, did he finally relent.

  For a moment, she considered that he might not be home, but his truck was in the driveway. If he’d had a late call that kept him up all night, he could still be asleep.

  She’d just turned to go when he opened the door, his shaggy mahogany hair and stubble adding a hint of danger to his rugged appearance. He was the most alpha male she’d ever met. Muscles strained the confines of his black t-shirt and the sweatpants that hung low on his lean hips.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, and she realized she’d woken him. “Ellie, what are you doing here?”

  “Can we talk?”

  His dark eyes contracted, then he stepped sideways for her to come in. “Holy crap, have you seen your face?”

  Ellie traced a finger over the knot on her head. “Seen it and felt it.”

  “What the hell happened?” He crossed to the kitchen, then started a pot of coffee brewing while Ellie quickly explained about Vinny Holcomb’s attack and Shondra’s blood being left on her door.

  Cord’s fingers clenched the counter for a moment in a white-knuckled grip, drawing her attention to the
scrapes and scratches on his hands, and his thumbs, which always seemed to be bruised. “Do you think he’s the Weekday Killer?” he finally asked.

  “He’s violent and was mentally ill, but if he’s part of this, he didn’t do it alone. His violence was erratic. Our killer is a planner.”

  His look hardened. “Let me wash my face. I’ll be right back.”

  As he left the room, Ellie’s phone pinged. It was Heath again.

  Just heard from the lab. Prints on Deputy Eastwood’s truck belong to Ranger McClain.

  The words sucked the air from Ellie’s lungs. What? Why would Cord’s prints be on Shondra’s truck? There had to be an explanation.

  By the time Cord returned, the coffee was ready, the air filled with the aromatic, nutty scent. He poured himself a cup and offered her one. Shaken from the text, she gladly took it and cradled the warm mug between her hands.

  A quick glance around his family room, and she noted the taxidermy animals were missing. The bookshelf housing all its usual titles on nature, graveyard symbols and burial rituals was a mess, with books on their sides and askew. Her gaze was drawn to a closed door leading off the living space. She knew it didn’t lead to the bathroom or the bedroom, and Cord had never told her what was on the other side. She couldn’t remember ever having seen the door open.

  For the second time, she wondered what was inside, what he didn’t want her to see.

  Cord leaned his back against the kitchen counter and simply waited, with a guarded look.

  “Why did you really come, Ellie?”