by Rita Herron
Three spirits were depending on her.
Out of the corner of his eye, Vincent watched Clarissa weave back through the woods. The deputy stared after her, his tongue dangling like a dog in heat. His reaction would have been laughable if they weren’t standing in the middle of a brutal crime scene.
As if the man sensed Vincent’s scrutiny, he tilted his head sideways and met his gaze. Tension sliced the air between them. Either Deputy Bluster didn’t want him here professionally, or he didn’t want him looking at Clarissa.
Tough shit. Vincent didn’t give a damn. He’d do what he pleased, and this pissant wouldn’t stop him.
Bluster strode toward him, rolling his shoulders back to sharpen his height. Still, Vincent’s six-three towered over him.
Waller glared at him for a tension-filled minute as the stench of death and blood rose around them, then Bluster directed his comment to the sheriff as if purposely leaving him out of the investigation.
“Sheriff Waller,” Bluster said. “Clarissa’s going to drive Ronnie home to tell his mama about Tracy.”
“Eloise will take it hard,” Sheriff Waller said in a gruff voice. “I’ll stop by and see her myself later.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “We need to question her. Find out if she knew if Tracy was seeing anyone.”
Waller nodded.
“And we should bring Bennett in right away,” Vincent said. “I’d also like to question the family and friends of the other two cases.”
“Folks around here don’t always take kindly to strangers,” Bluster cut in bitterly. “It’d be best if the sheriff and I handle the locals.”
Vincent wanted to choke the bastard. Granted, he hadn’t asked for this assignment, wasn’t convinced the three cases were related, but he sure as hell wouldn’t allow this dickhead to run him off. “I was called here to do a job, and I’ll question whomever I damn well please.”
Bluster’s cheeks ballooned out as he worked to control his temper. “We don’t need your help.”
“Bluster,” Waller growled. “I requested his assistance.”
The deputy’s eyes flashed with fury. “Why? What can he do that we can’t?”
“He has access to state and federal databases, is more experienced in serial-killer cases. We have three deaths now, Deputy. I don’t want any more.”
“Three that aren’t related,” Bluster argued.
“That’s not what Clarissa thinks,” Waller said.
A range of emotions paraded across Bluster’s face. His feelings for Clarissa had been evident when he was talking to her earlier, and he didn’t want to refute her opinion. But Vincent saw the question, doubt in the man’s eyes.
“Bluster, if you want to help, go pick up Bo Bennett,” Vincent said. “And get his phone records. Let’s see if Tracy Canton called him when her car broke down. Also get a mechanic to check her car, make sure the battery really died. Maybe the car was tampered with.”
“You’re thinking Bennett could have set her up?” Waller asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Vincent said.
Bluster glared at Vincent but nodded, silently conveying his acceptance of the situation, although belligerence laced his acceptance.
“Sorry about that,” Waller said as Bluster headed to his car. “But he’s right. Sometimes the locals don’t cotton much to big-city cops coming in and trying to take over. Especially ones who left and come back.”
Vincent fisted his hands by his sides. And ones with my past.
“I don’t give a damn who likes it,” Vincent said. “Tell them if they want to find this girl’s killer, they’d better cooperate. If they don’t, it’ll only make them look suspicious.”
Waller frowned but nodded. “How about we round the families and friends of the other victims up tomorrow? That soon enough?”
“All right, but we need to talk to this girl’s mother tonight.”
Waller nodded again and pressed his hand over his chest. Vincent remembered he’d had a mild heart attack and wondered if the old man was all right.
The coroner finished, and they loaded Tracy’s body to take to the morgue. Then they’d transport her to the state medical examiner’s facility for an autopsy.
Hopefully, forensics would do their jobs and find conclusive evidence to link to the killer.
But that would take time. Time they might not have before the killer struck again.
He opened his palm and studied the imprint of the angel wings that had branded his hand from his mother’s necklace. It had faded over the years and was so faint that people rarely noticed.
Yet now he knew how he’d gotten the scar.
The black rock had lit up when he’d closed his fingers around it, just as the cave of black rock had lit up when his father touched the rock the day he killed Vincent’s mother.
He blinked, his vision blurring.
His father had been a monster, and that evil had given him the power to turn the black rock to fire. Another memory gnawed at him—twice he’d shattered something with his hands, caused an object to explode without touching it. Each time he’d been driven by anger.
A Dark Lord . . . It meant he had evil in him, just like his father.
He felt it now, the incessant desire for blood, the consuming darkness clawing at him, just as he heard the echo of his father’s voice ordering him to succumb to the call. His finely tethered control slipping . . .
He’d told Clarissa that he was just like the monsters he chased.
She’d better heed his warning and stay away from him, or she might end up dead at his hands just as his mother had his father’s.
Pan momentarily shifted his demonic body from the human’s. He thirsted for more. For another kill.
Then he’d send the dead’s voices to taunt Clarissa until she went completely crazy.
He waved a hand and morphed down from the mountain, landing in the town square, a ghostlike maze of old buildings, family businesses, and ancient customs passed down through the generations. Smiling, he walked down Main Street, his senses honed as he searched for his next victim.
Since he’d been in town, he’d borrowed a body. To others, he looked normal. A human. One among them. Disguise made it easy. They trusted him, allowing him to get close to his prey.
But now, in his demonic form, he slid into the shadows, invisible when he wanted. A pretty redhead he’d heard someone call Sadie Sue rushed toward the small diner, Hell’s Kitchen, and he followed her, the scent of her sex causing his cock to twitch.
He grinned. All good had to be destroyed. One touch was all he needed. Then he would know the redhead’s darkest secrets.
And the perfect way to put an end to her miserable existence.
First the touch, then the taunt, then the kill . . .
Pan knew exactly when to strike. When the near-dead begged for another moment of life, when they would do anything he asked, when they would make a deal. The ones with the bad blood, the weak, the greedy, accepted his terms at all costs.
Zion would not only survive but thrive, feeding off of each kill. For each soul he collected heightened his power.
Pan brushed the curve of her back. A cloying, sweet perfume rocked his libido, and he licked his lips.
As his hand lingered, her mind became an open book, and he skimmed the pages, searching through the cluttered lines. She’d never known her old man. Her mama had died from emphysema four years ago. She had a son named Petey.
Aha . . . there, he’d found it. Her greatest fear.
Snakes. She had fallen once in the woods and a rattler had bitten her, and she’d nearly died.
Laughter mushroomed inside his chest—Eve had been tempted by the forbidden fruit, tricked by a serpent, and this sinner would die at the hands of one herself.
His pulse thrummed double-time as his gaze veered toward the jagged mountain peaks surrounding Eerie and its miles of forest. Snakes abounded in those hills.
Pan would watch the terror freeze her veins as
the snakes slithered across her naked body.
Then those snakes would suck the life from her as they fed on her.
He could hear her silent screams, her pleas for help, see her eyes begging for salvation.
Maybe this one would trade her soul for the chance to remain alive. And when she made her first kill, she’d be his servant forever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
No, no, you’re lying! My little girl can’t be dead . . .” Eloise Canton raced to the oak desk in the kitchen corner, picked up a photo of Tracy at her high school graduation, and waved it at Clarissa. “See, there she is on graduation night. Isn’t she just beautiful?”
“Yes, Mrs. Canton, but—”
Tracy’s mother cut her off. “And now she got herself a good job teaching preschool. Gracious, the little children just love her.”
Clarissa fought tears of sympathy as sixty-year-old Eloise continued to babble in denial.
Ronnie reached for his mother, extracted the photo, and set it on the desk. “I’m so sorry, Mama, but you have to listen to me. It’s true about Tracy. Someone killed her.”
Eyes wild, Eloise jerked Ronnie by the collar and shook him. “What kind of mean-hearted joke are you trying to pull? My Tracy is coming back. She just moved out, but she’ll be here for dinner later on. She promised.”
She released him, whirled around, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned back to the scarred counter. “I’m making her favorite, country fried chicken. And I just popped a peach cobbler in the oven. Why don’t you get the ice cream churn and we’ll make some homemade ice cream to go with it.” She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “You can stay if you want, Clarissa. I always cook plenty.”
“Mama,” Ronnie said in a fragile voice. “Mama, I’m not trying to be mean or playing a joke . . .” His voice cracked and tears rolled down his cheeks. “I saw her, Mama, she’s dead . . .”
Eloise shook her head in denial, pain and shock glazing her eyes, eyes the same color as her daughter’s. Clarissa would never forget the way they’d looked in death, wide and staring.
And all that blood . . .
She banished the images. Had to help this woman cope with the truth.
Eloise poured oil in a cast-iron skillet, turned on the stove to heat the pan, then hastily scooped flour into a bowl. She reached for a chicken breast to dip it in egg, but Clarissa flipped off the heat and cradled the woman’s hands in her own. Eloise’s body tensed, her fine bones cracking with tension.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Canton,” Clarissa said softly. “But it’s true. Ronnie and I just came from seeing Tracy. Sheriff Waller is with her now.”
“No, no . . . Please stop this, Clarissa.” The older woman trembled with the realization that she had to face reality, a reality that was every parent’s worst nightmare.
Clarissa simply waited, allowing her the time she needed to accept the truth.
“I can’t lose my baby,” Eloise cried. “I gave life to her; she can’t be gone.”
“I wish it wasn’t true,” Clarissa said, giving Ronnie a compassionate look as he dropped into the straight chair at the table and lowered his head into his hands again.
“The sheriff is going to stop by later,” Clarissa said. “He’ll need to talk to you, Eloise. And once the coroner finishes, he’ll send Tracy to the funeral parlor; then you can see her.”
“The ME?” Her voice broke, sounded distant. “You can’t let them cut up my baby.”
Clarissa swallowed. “Eloise, I’m sorry, but Tracy was murdered. An autopsy will help find her killer and put him away.”
Eloise’s eyes dulled as reality interceded, and her legs buckled. Clarissa caught her just before her bony knees hit the wood floor. Panicked, Ronnie lunged up and helped Clarissa carry her to the sofa, where she curled into a fetal ball, her horror palpable as her anguished sobs echoed through the room.
Vincent’s agitation with the deputy intensified as the hour wore on. He didn’t care what the homeboy thought—he hadn’t chosen to come to this podunk town and join this case, but he would damn well find the sadistic animal who’d carved up the Canton girl and played in her blood.
Irrational jealousy snaked through him though as he remembered the possessive streak Bluster had for Cla-rissa, but he shoved it away. Vincent didn’t do jealousy. Didn’t allow himself to care about a woman enough to let her relationships with other men bother him.
He couldn’t care about Clarissa, either.
“You ready?” Sheriff Waller heaved a breath, his belly shaking with the effort. “CSU is finishing up.”
Vincent nodded. “I guess we’ve done all we can here. The forensics team had better be thorough.”
“We’re not backward like you guys from the FBI think, if that’s what you mean. We have a decent unit,” Waller said with a scowl.
Apparently Bluster was right. Folks were sensitive around here. But they’d asked for his help, and if he had to insult a few locals to do it, so be it. As long as he solved this damn case. Because as much as he hated to admit that Clarissa might be right, three deaths in the small community within this short time frame raised suspicion.
“Are we stopping by the vic’s house?” Vincent asked.
Waller frowned. “Her name is Tracy, not the vic,” he muttered as he tugged his uniform khakis up to meet his belly. “Around here, everybody knows everybody else, so you’d do good to use her name.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He’d long ago stopped referring to victims by name. Keeping them impersonal was a survival tactic that had kept him alive and sane.
He contemplated the facts so far. It was possible the deaths were related, or that a single killer might have used another death to distract the police and cover for a murder. He had to interview each of the victims’ families and friends, look for a motive.
He also wanted to know why the killer had left that piece of black rock as his calling card.
Night cast its claim on the sky and land, painting shadows along the path as he and the sheriff headed to the squad car. A red-tipped hawk with a breathtaking wingspan soared above the ridges, and Vincent paused to watch it. When the bird found its prey, it would swoop down and tear it apart with its sharp talons. The low growl of a mountain lion echoed from a distant peak, its hunger call warning smaller animals to run for their lives.
Just as a killer was out there hunting for his next victim.
As he climbed in the car, and Waller guided the vehicle around the curvy mountain roads, the darkness beckoned him, drawing him into his seductive lair. He had to climb into the killer’s head to discern his motive, understand his past, the reasons he chose to kill.
The reason Vincent was good at his job. He understood the drive, the hunger, the bloodlust that drove these crazies.
A sinister laugh caught in his throat, burning like acid eating at his control. His father had told him he had bad blood, that he was just like him.
If he allowed the dark side to win, would he become as cruel and violent as his father?
Clarissa buried her head in her hands and tried to drown out the voices. A dozen more dead had risen, crying out to her, but she had to shut them out. Had to focus.
Why were they all bombarding her now? Normally she could control them. She avoided the graveyard and the mines where so many had died. But the past two days, her head had been filled with tormented pleas.
Doc Pirkle, the town’s resident physician, stepped from Eloise’s room with a frown. “Are you all right, Clarissa?”
She nodded, her head throbbing from the incessant cries. But she couldn’t complain, not when Eloise was suffering. “Yes. How is she?”
“Struggling. But I gave her a sedative, so she should sleep through the night.”
He glanced toward the back. Ronnie had disappeared outside to work on the back porch he was building for Eloise’s weathered house. The sound of him pounding nails into wood drove home the force of his anger, but the chore was therapeutic, a coping technique.
A picture of Tracy sat on the counter, and she ran a finger over it. Another image flashed in her head. Tracy climbing into a faceless man’s car. The terror in her chest when she realized the man was dangerous.
“I’m worried about them,” Doc Pirkle said.
“I’ll take care of them tonight,” she said softly.
He squeezed her hands. “Your grandmama and mama, God bless their souls, would have been proud of you.”
Clarissa tensed, willing herself not to react. Her grandmother yes, her mother—no. Clarissa had tried to forgive her mother for leaving her, but the ache of being alone all these years haunted her constantly.
She had to be alone, though. No one else would understand her. Accept that her nights often meant communing with the dead. That sometimes she related to them more than the living.
The doctor let himself out, and she started to make tea, but a knock at the door made her rush to answer it.
Sheriff Waller and Vincent stood on the front stoop, both looking tired. Waller mopped at his forehead while Vincent simply let the sweat trickle down his jaw without bothering to stop it, a cool expression on his face as he met her gaze.
“We came to speak to Mrs. Canton,” he said without preamble.
“It’s not a good time,” Clarissa said. “Doc Pirkle gave her a sedative. She may be out for the night.”
“It’ll just take a minute,” Vincent said. “I thought you wanted to find this killer.”
“I do, but Eloise Canton is in shock and can’t tell you anything tonight that she can’t tomorrow.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “For heaven’s sake, I don’t want her having a heart attack. I don’t want to live with her death on my conscience.”
For some reason she didn’t understand, coldhearted Vincent took a step back. Only a fraction of an inch, but an emotion akin to pain darkened his soulless eyes before he masked it.
“If Doc thinks it best, we’ll come back in the morning,” Sheriff Waller said.
Vincent glanced inside the house. “Do you know if Tracy had a computer or cell phone?”
Clarissa frowned. “I don’t know. You might check her apartment.”