Words That Kill (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 3)

by Claire Robyns

  A slow baked grin softened his jaw and worked its way into that slated gaze. “But what if we’re both wrong and Joe is right, hmm?”

  It was another long, long moment before I demagnetized from the Nate effect and processed what he’d said. In the unlikely event of running into Joe’s serial killer, maybe having Nate around wouldn’t be such a terrible idea. And that’s the only reason why I capitulated. It had nothing to do with the toe-curling warmth generated by that grin. I swear.

  I gave him a pointed look. “You’ll be nice to Joe?”

  He managed to look offended. “Hey, I’m a nice guy.”

  “We leave at two o’clock,” I muttered, pushing past him to get into my room. “Don’t be late.”

  “Oh, and Maddox?”

  I sent him a glare over my shoulder.

  His gaze heated up twice over to melt my attempt at frostiness. “It’s good to see you again.”

  My skin prickled with delicious anticipation as I watched him turn and walk away. Then it sank in, what I’d just agreed to. Me, Joe and Nate on a road trip? At least one of us wouldn’t survive, and I had a feeling the odds were stacked on me.

  Panic skittering up my spine, I grabbed my phone and called Jenna.

  “Maddie Mads,” she answered, full of her usual bright cheer. “I hope you’re not calling to cancel dinner. Jack got us reservations at Jokers.”

  The new cabaret lounge that had opened on the Valley Road, and now my perfect excuse for making this call. “Jenna, I’m sorry, but something’s come up.”

  “Your life’s about as exciting as a snail race,” she groaned. “What could possibly have come up?”

  “Joe and I are taking a short road trip.”

  “You and Joe?”

  I ambled closer to the window. “And Nate.”

  “Nate?” she squealed. “Oh, my God, tell me!”

  What was I supposed to do? You’re my witness, she practically tortured it out of me. “Well, it’s actually part road trip, part stakeout,” I started, and proceeded to tell Jenna everything.

  She cut in before I was done. “We’re taking Nate’s truck, right?”

  That inconspicuous ‘we’ popped out at me. “No, absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  Duh. “Because then Joe will know I told you.”

  “Joe, poe.”

  “Very mature.”

  “I can handle Joe.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” I rolled my eyes skyward and saw a majestic eagle skim the snowy mountains in a stunning, dramatic sweep. Whatever the opposite of a bad omen was, this was it.

  “Okay,” Jenna said, “we’ll do it your way.”

  I hesitated. “My way?”

  “I’ll pop over for lunch and just happen to be there when you’re all about to depart, so you can spontaneously invite me along.”

  This had the potential to go badly wrong.

  But on the plus side, I wouldn’t be stuck alone with a truckload of testosterone. I knew that eagle had been a good sign.

  FOUR

  I threw myself into the role of hunter and packed for the occasion. Running shoes instead of knee-high stiletto boots, opera glasses that could double as binoculars, that sort of thing. Not actually believing Joe’s killer had crawled off the pages to go on a murderous rampage made it that much easier to dedicate myself to his cause. Life was a whole lot more fun when very loosely based on reality. There was a reason I’d followed a higher calling to the stage.

  Joe wanted to get on the road as soon as we were packed, but I insisted we stay for lunch. “What’s the hurry? Killer Max isn’t due to grab his next victim until Tuesday evening, right?”

  “The idea is to catch him long before he has a chance to act,” Joe said.

  Our plan was rather basic. Retrace the steps of Max Wilder as plotted out in Joe’s book and hope we spot a familiar face, probably a former guest of Hollow House. We’d narrowed it down to that. Joe hadn’t sent a copy of The Twilight Kill to anyone, so the only way Killer Max could have gotten to Joe’s manuscript was through the front door of Hollow House.

  As you’ve probably realized, Killer Max was our codename for the real-life killer, not to be confused with Max Wilder of The Twilight Kill. For the record, I’d wanted to go with Mad Max, but Joe felt that portrayed the wrong image of his Max Wilder.

  “We still have to eat,” I protested. “Come on, another hour isn’t going to make much difference.”

  Joe relented, on condition we brought our trays through to the lounge so we could hunker down in a secluded corner and peruse the Hollow House register for suspect guests. I fetched the leather entombed book from reception and dragged a table up to my armchair to open it on, eager as a beaver. I’d already decided to give Joe my full support in this endeavor. It was the least I could do, seeing as how I’d commandeered the mission with my own posse.

  I bent over the table, alternating between slurping my soup and perusing. It didn’t take long, thanks to the sad state of affairs at Hollow House. There were only one or two entries on every other page, every other week during particularly dry spells.

  I skimmed over the entries, assessing and dismissing.

  Too old.

  Too lethargic. Prescott Dale was the only other person I’d ever encountered who napped more than Burns.

  Too old.

  Too boring.

  Too couply. The honeymooners from hell, as I’d dubbed them (behind their backs, of course.) For goodness sake, it wasn’t as if they didn’t have a room, booked and paid for in advance.

  Too refined. That was Isla Harrington-Brown, a rather aloof woman in her late thirties who dripped elegance and diamonds. A collector of rarities, first edition stamps and the sort.

  Too old. A recurring theme, in case you hadn’t noticed.

  Too creepy.

  Too old.

  Wait a minute.

  I backtracked my gaze up the page.

  Too creepy. James Cerill. He’d made no secret of the fact that he’d come to Silver Firs for a weekend of celeb-spotting. Had demanded a suite overlooking the lake so he had unlimited access to the Lakeview Spa Retreat, the exclusive spa that was a favorite getaway for all manner of B-listers and the very occasional A-lister.

  I glanced across to Joe. “What do we think about James Cerill? The over-chatty stalker?”

  “I remember him,” Joe said. “He spent most of his time in his room, though.”

  “I’m pretty sure he had a high-power telescope set up there.”

  “Hmm.” Joe scratched his chin. “Lacey Markson is kind of a celebrity. You’re right, we should keep an eye out for him.”

  Which reminded me.

  “Before I forget,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. “Nate’s joining us.”

  “For lunch?” asked Joe, the poor innocent.

  I really had to start being more specific in my communications. “For the whole trip. And we may as well take his truck. Lord knows through what wilderness Killer Max might lead us.”

  “I do know, and there’s no rough trekking,” Joe grumbled. “We’re not going into the jungle, Maddie.”

  “Well, we won’t all fit comfortably into the Beetle.”

  “We will if Nate doesn’t come and he isn’t.”

  “You’re chasing after a serial killer and you don’t think it’s a good idea to bring a cop along?” I said, using Nate’s argument verbatim.

  “Nate thinks this is all in my head. Or worse, a publicity stunt.” Joe looked at me suspiciously. “Why’s he really coming along?”

  To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure myself, but that answer wouldn’t exactly win Joe over to my convictions.

  I vaguely remembered something from my semester of Psychology. Okay, so it was more like a handful of night classes, and it had consisted of the lecturer reading Animal Farm aloud to us. At the end, he’d balefully informed us that Freud could learn a thing or two from George Orwell and graduated the class with honors.
I guess that’s what you got when you took Psychology 101 at Acting School.

  But I had the gist of it.

  I set my tray aside and leant forward in my chair, regarding Joe carefully. “Why do you think Nate’s coming along?”

  “That’s obvious.” Joe scowled. “He wants to spend time with you.”

  That was ridiculous, but as Joe’s therapist, I didn’t want to derail our progress with denials. “And would that be a problem for you?”

  “Yes,” Joe blustered. “No! I mean, not that kind of problem. Nate doesn’t believe in our cause, Maddie. He’s not just a sceptic on this trip, I wouldn’t be surprised if he does everything he can to sabotage it.”

  “I assure you he’s only tagging along to keep an eye out for us.” Or rather, an eye on us. “If we catch up to Killer Max, we’ll both be grateful to have Nate around. He’s coming and that’s final.”

  Needless to say, I was left to slurp my chicken soup in solitary silence while Joe poured over the road atlas and totally ignored my existence.

  Until Jenna rocked up, that is, dazzling a full length faux fur coat, glossy blonde hair spilling from a matching Cossack hat. Oh, and rolling in a suitcase that bulged at the seams. “Hello everyone,” she said brightly. “I just popped over for a quick lunch.”

  Unfortunately Joe was not a complete idiot. He glared at her luggage, then at me. “You told her.”

  “Told me what?” Jenna propped the suitcase on its wheels and came to steal a piece of crusty roll from my plate.

  “There’s still plenty of soup,” I said, trying to steer us back to our devious masterplan. “Should I dish you a bowl?”

  “Thanks, but I already ate.”

  I slammed my forehead into my palm.

  Joe was like a dog with a bone. “I can’t believe you told her.”

  “I didn’t tell Jenna everything.” Of course, she already knew the part about Joe and Chintilly, but I’d told her that months and months ago, so it didn’t count.

  He stood abruptly, his knuckles white from grasping the edges of the tray so hard.

  “Maddie won’t go without me,” Jenna cheerfully informed him. “Nate won’t go without Maddie, and you won’t go anywhere without a set of wheels. So suck it up.”

  Joe looked to me for support.

  I shrugged. “This trip will be a good time for you two to work through your issues.”

  He stormed out, muttering something about circuses and a travelling sideshow.

  I turned to Jenna. “That’s not how we agreed to do this.”

  “Sorry, Mads, I grow these little devil horns whenever I see Joe. I can’t help myself.”

  “Well, I meant what I said. You and Joe can use this time to make your peace.”

  “Sure, whatever.” She perched on the arm of my chair, tilted her head to look me in the eye. “So, how is Nate? Is he still the brooding hunk of sinful hotness we’ve all come to know and love?”

  “Keep that up, and we’ll dump you along the side of the road,” I warned, and sort of kinda meant it. One week of Jenna throwing me at Nate was more than any girl could handle, even from a best friend.

  Jenna wrapped an arm around me, hugged tight. “This is going to be so much fun!”

  ∞∞∞

  Define fun.

  We’d barely made it onto Route 81 when Nate offered unsolicited advice. “There’s a great lodge on Loyalsock Creek where we could overnight. It can’t be more than a half-hour’s drive out of Sallymon Peke.”

  “I don’t care if it’s five minutes outside Sallymon Peke,” Joe said. “We need to be in Sallymon Peke and the motel there is just fine.”

  Nate’s smoky gaze met mine in the rearview mirror. “Cabin tucked into the woods. Log fire.”

  “That sounds bliss.” Jenna sighed beside me. “We probably couldn’t afford it, though.”

  “Family run and more like a camping site,” Nate said. “Rustic comfort at a price that can’t be beat.”

  “This isn’t a romantic getaway,” Joe grumbled.

  I wasn’t sure about the rustic comfort, but I’d take a cozy cabin and log fires over a flea-ridden motel any day. “It’s on the way, Joe. Maybe we could stop and take a look?”

  He scowled over his shoulder at me. “We’re reliving the steps of Max Wilder and he didn’t stay at a lodge along any creek.”

  “But we don’t know that Killer Max will stay at Sallymon Peke, either.” Surprisingly, Joe had used his imagination for this part and we didn’t have a factual town pin-pointed out for us. “It’s all rather vague.”

  “Max Wilder leaves Manhattan on the Christopher Columbus Highway,” Joe said. “He crosses a wide river, I specifically mention that because the large body of water gets Max thinking about the girl he dumped in the East River. He’s been driving a couple of hours by now…” Joe lifted the atlas so I could see and stabbed a finger at the blue ribbon. “The Susquehanna River. Then he turns north off the highway.”

  “Why does he go North?” asked Nate.

  “He’s pumped from the kill, but there’s also fear, panic, confusion,” Joe replied, enthusiasm for his subject overriding their silly dispute. “He’s contemplating fleeing across the border to Canada. He hasn’t gone far, when he passes through a small town and sees the water tower, and that gives him an idea of where to dump the next body.”

  My nose wrinkled. “The next body ends up in a water tower?”

  “You seriously didn’t read a single word.” Joe threw an aggrieved look my way. “A high pressured boiling vat in a canning factory. But the water tower draws his attention first and gets him thinking. He’s worried that the cops found the body in the river so quickly. Maybe next time, he can give himself more time to get away, and that’s the spark that makes his decision for him. There will be a next time. He stays overnight in the town, staring at that water tower, and then it comes to him. If he boils the body, the cops may never find his victim.”

  “A serial killer generally wants the body to be found,” Nate remarked. “It’s an ego thing. If no one finds the body, then the world doesn’t understand how cleverly sick and twisted he is.”

  Joe huffed. “At this point, Max Wilder isn’t a serial killer, he’s only killed once. He’s both intoxicated and scared by what he’s done. He doesn’t want to be caught.”

  I decided to bring us back on topic. “Okay, but you said there’s a couple of towns in the area with a water tower, so we don’t know that Killer Max will head to Sallymon Peke.”

  “The canning factory is just outside Wellington, and that’s an actual town mentioned in the book a few miles from Sallymon Peke.”

  Was I the only one thoroughly confused? “Then why aren’t we going to Wellington?”

  “Wellington doesn’t have a water tower,” Joe said, sounding exasperated. “Anyway, we’re going to drive by all the surrounding towns tomorrow, to see if he shows up.”

  “So it doesn’t really make a difference where our base is, right?” I pushed. “We could stay at the lodge and—”

  “I have a good feeling about Sallymon Peke,” Joe insisted. “We have to stay there, in the town. It will help us get inside the killer’s head.”

  Nate’s gaze met mine again, less smoky and more piercingly sharp.

  I rolled my eyes in instant dismissal, but I had to say, Joe wasn’t doing himself any favors with his word choices. Reliving the steps of Max Wilder. Getting inside the killer’s head.

  Nate’s head bent toward Joe. “I thought you were already inside the killer’s head. Or is he inside yours? Remind me again?”

  “This is just a joke to you.” Joe looked at me and mouthed, Sabotage.

  “We should vote on it,” Jenna said. “Sallymon Peke or the lodge.”

  “This isn’t a democracy,” Joe shot back.

  Jenna put her hand up in the air. “One for the lodge.”

  I was sorely tempted, “I honestly don’t think staying at Sallymon Peke gives us any advantage,” I told Joe.

/>   He shoved the atlas at me, opened on the correct page. “I’ll read, you follow on the map.” He bent forward to delve into his tote bag and brought out the hard copy of The Twilight Kill. “If you end up where I did, then this debate is over.”

  I set the atlas on the seat between us so Jenna could play along. “It’s better than counting license plates.”

  She sighed her thoughts on that and Joe started reading.

  Adrenaline pumped steel through his veins. Max was even more wired now than he’d been on Wednesday.

  Midnight.

  The girl had looked so pretty.

  In death.

  He’d imagined the feeling, over and over, for so many years, but reality surpassed his fantasies. The reality was too big, too explosive, for a simple man like Max Wilder to contain. He’d thought one kill would do it, but he saw more clearly now. He was caught in twilight, those moments before the old man ended and a new man was born.

  Nate cleared his throat. “How about you skip the internalized drabble and just highlight the passing scenery.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Joe said with dripping sarcasm. “Am I boring you?”

  “Yes,” Nate and Jenna drawled in unison. Jenna mock-yawned for added effect.

  You’ll be pleased to know, I kept my opinion firmly to myself. There’s no need to kick a man when he’s already down. Unless he tries to get up again, as Nana Rose liked to append.

  Paper crinkled as Joe flipped the page.

  And another.

  I stretched my seatbelt to the limit so I could peer over the front bench seat. Joe was still flipping pages. “Seriously?”

  “Max Wilder’s going through a rebirth,” Joe muttered defensively. “It takes more than a sentence to cover that magnitude of transformation.”

  Jenna snickered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Killer Max dies of old age before he reaches the chapter with the next murder.”

  Joe’s shoulders stiffened.

  I fell back into my seat. “That’s enough, guys, Joe is a bestseller.”

  There were obviously oodles of fans out there that loved his drabble.

  Jenna pouted.

  Joe continued reading.

  That restless energy within needed out and, the moment Max joined the light Sunday morning traffic on the I-280, he hit the gas, playing hard and fast with the speed limit.