by Jenna Ryan
She locked it behind him. Trading her robe for jeans and a sleeveless red top, she went to the window to watch. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Bo or Ryder, only a sad, psychedelic van with four ruined tires.
The weird bluesy music played on in the bar below. Deep in the swamp, lightning that had been reduced to a glimmer began to gain strength and creep back toward Blackwater.
Great. Perfect. Just what she needed in a strange bayou town where a maniac was driving around essentially blindfolded. And what was up with that? She wondered. Had Bo been hallucinating? Had he been lying?
“Maybe I shouldn’t have sent you outside after all, Lieutenant,” she murmured.
A thump at the door had her breath rushing out in relief. She started toward it.
A second, much louder thump stopped her dead. Her eyes came up. “Ryder?”
He didn’t answer. But there were two more hard thumps.
With a strangled sound, she ran for her shoulder bag. Behind her, the moulding cracked and the door slammed open. She had her fingers on the strap of her purse when a hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backward.
“Bitch,” her attacker snapped. A pair of furious gold eyes shone in the weak glow from the hall. “You’re done. This is done.”
A knife blade gleamed in her peripheral vision. He pressed the tip to the underside of her chin, released her hair and then, whipping the knife away, wrapped his right hand around her throat.
Although she clawed his wrist, his grip didn’t falter. In fact, he shook her while his eyes probed her face.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done to my mind? No, screw it.” He squeezed. “I want you dead, that’s all. Dead and out of my life.” Snapping the knife back up, he bared his teeth.
And froze.
Mia didn’t move—until she realized he was sweating and no longer looking at her. Her trance broke, and she twisted away far enough to knee him.
He dropped like a stone, clutching himself. Because her purse and the Magnum inside it were behind him, she settled for grabbing the knife he’d dropped and running for the door.
Sounds of pain and rage trailed her into the corridor. A chair scraped, overturned. Maybe he’d kicked it into the wall. Whatever he’d done, she knew he was on his feet. If he had a gun—likely—and saw her, he’d shoot her in the back without compunction.
She went for the rear staircase as quietly as possible so he’d be forced to choose between it and the main stairwell in the opposite direction.
Breathe, she ordered herself as she raced to the lower landing. Don’t panic. Hide. In the bar might work.
It might also get a lot of people shot or possibly killed. Still…
She yanked on the knob. It was locked.
“Damn,” she whispered, and with a fearful backward look, eased through the exit.
The psychedelic van stood in front of her, along with a few scattered trucks. Ryder hadn’t parked in the lot, and Bo—who knew? Maybe Ryder had chased him into the swamp. Maybe he’d caught Bo trying to slash the tries of his truck and Bo had bolted for town. Either way, Ryder wasn’t here, and the rear door of the bar had just crashed open.
Ducking into the underbrush, Mia stayed low and kept moving until she reached a gulley. Lightning spread through the night sky, illuminating the swamp. She glanced from the bar to the water and back. Did she have a choice?
When she saw the killer limp around the corner, she knew she didn’t. Firming up her grip on his knife and keeping as low to the ground as possible, she headed for the swamp.
If tonight was her time to die, she hoped like hell it would be an alligator that got her rather than the mad man chasing her. Because even with the thunder creeping closer, she could hear him repeating three words over and over and over again.
“Stab, slash, gouge. Stab, slash, gouge…”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In Ryder’s opinion, comparing the size of Bo’s brain to a pistachio had been generous on Mia’s part. As soon as he flattened the last tire, Bo stuck his knife—a large bowie—in his belt for all to see and stormed into the Honey Tree.
Mission more or less accomplished, at least from Ryder’s perspective. Whether they learned about the vandalism or not, and blackball status notwithstanding, Bo wouldn’t escape until every ghost hunter there had grilled him for at least sixty minutes. Although Ryder thought he probably should have flashed his badge at the artful female hunter who lifted the big man’s wallet.
Instead, stoked on great sex—sex wasn’t love, right?—he chose to let both matters slide. This wasn’t his town, and he had bigger problems on his plate. Top of the chart? Getting Mia back to New Orleans alive.
But only after several more hours of great sex, if he could swing it. If he could keep his wall of defense in place until morning. If it hadn’t already crumbled apart…
Damn, he was in trouble.
Thunder shuddered through the swamp and into the floor of the bar. Rocking his head from side to side, Ryder returned to the corridor, glanced out a side window—and damn near shot through the ceiling.
A face peered in from outside. Ancient, skeletal and sporting a pair of sightless white eyes, the woman Bo had labeled a swamp witch crooked a finger at him. Then the lightning forked, rain began to fall, and she was gone.
“Okay, lady.” He jogged to the nearest exit. “This time, we talk.”
He found her under a makeshift protrusion, clutching a ratty shawl in fingers marred by split and broken nails.
“You’re not the same,” she said as he ducked under the overhang. “Not so cold-blooded. You’re still your father’s son, but you’re more now than before.”
“Whoever you are—and that’s a point I really want to explore—why riddles rather than straight talk? Or is everyone in Blackwater as crazy as Bo and his cousin?”
“I’m not a swamp witch. Mark my words, such things do exist, but I’m not one of them.”
“Glad to hear it.” He watched her eyes for any sign of deception. “So what are you then? A clairvoyant?”
“You don’t believe in psychic powers.”
“Doesn’t matter what I believe. You know things about Mia and me. That makes me curious. You gave Mia a voodoo charm. That makes me wonder. Why did you think she’d need it?”
“Because evil walks side by side with us in the world, and Mia LeMay is marked.”
“Look, lady—”
“She’s marked by the same evil, the same man if you prefer, as me.”
That stopped him. “The killer’s that’s after her is also after you?”
“It’s why I’m here,” she said. “Because of him. Mia has seen his face. For that reason, he wants her dead.”
“Why does he want you dead? You didn’t see his face…” He narrowed his eyes. “Did you?”
Lightning sliced through the purple-black clouds. Nothing about the woman’s pale features had altered, yet he’d have described her expression as sorrowful.
“I see in a different way,” she allowed. “You wouldn’t understand, so I won’t explain. My life isn’t your concern in any case.”
“But Mia’s is. If you know something I don’t, tell me what it is and help me nail the murderer.”
“His name is Pollard, though it’s hardly important.”
“I thought you said names had weight.”
She almost smiled. “You were listening. That’s to your credit, Rick Ryder.”
“What do you know?” he asked again.
“More will die,” she said. “Perhaps many more.”
“I won’t let Mia—”
“More will die,” she repeated.
With his patience running extremely thin, Ryder demanded, “Who the hell are you? Give me a name.”
“My mother called me Twila.”
It figured. He spread the fingers of both hands. “Okay, Twila, let’s do it this way—”
The old woman’s head came up sharply and turned.
“She is in danger.”
“Who? Mia?” Ryder’s stomach plunged. “Where?”
“Not up there.” Her icy hand grabbed his wrist. “In the swamp. She’s in the swamp. They all are.”
* * *
“Get the eyes,” the killer shouted as he ran. “Cut them out, squish, squish. You can’t hide from me, bitch,” he roared. “I know how you think. I’m in your head like he’s in mine.”
“Screw that,” Mia muttered. “If you were in my head, I’d be as crazy as you are. And I’m not. Yet.”
She used the overgrown weeds and cattails growing along the water’s edge for cover. The killer splashed behind her, slapping at tall bushes and hacking the Spanish moss with a second knife.
“Come out where I can see you, or I’ll start shooting. Could be I’ll only wing you. But maybe I’ll plant a bullet in your leg, and you’ll go down. Die eventually, if not sooner. I’m told gators can smell human blood.”
Mia thought her heart must be hammering loud enough for every creature in the swamp to hear. The only other sound that registered was the thunder, so close now that the reverberation hurt her ears.
She needed to circle back before the only escape left to her was the deep water. Unfortunately, however questionable his state of mind, the killer knew how to build a trap.
She waited for the next lightning strike to pass before backing out of the reeds and working her way onto a semidry knoll. When the thunder crashed again, she took off, moving from rise to rise through pools of brackish water.
With no clue where the killer might be, she zeroed in on a large cypress tree and went to her knees behind it.
Struggling for air, she used the lightning to search the area. And dug her fingers into the bark when she realized she’d run onto a jut of land that was completely surrounded by river.
Was he behind her? Mia stilled her breath and listened.
She heard frogs and insects, small animals—and, moving through the water to her right, something with weight that she didn’t want to think about.
The brush rustled. Another long peal of thunder rumbled. But she detected a more promising sound beneath both those things: water lapping against a hull.
In the next flash of lightning, she searched for and discovered a dock less than thirty feet ahead. Dock, boat, escape.
She could hear him coming now, breathing in spasms while he ranted about death and shoving his knife into her eye sockets. About twisting the blade until all that remained were bloody, black holes.
He had a morbid fascination with eyes, Mia thought and briefly closed her own. The first victim, Madeleine Lessard, had had her eyeballs gouged out. Now the killer wanted to blind her. There was also Bo’s long dead swamp witch. Whether she was connected to this or not, the woman couldn’t see.
Thunder masked her low run for the dock. Please let the boat have a motor, she prayed. Let it have fuel.
Mia slid on her butt down the incline to the jetty. A light burned in the distance, but she knew she’d never make it that far, not with the killer closing in on her.
She hopped into the boat, winced at the thud of her boots on the metal bottom and scrambled over the bench to the engine.
Something nosed the hull several times, rocking the small craft and almost unbalancing her. Okay, alligator, she acknowledged. Probably alligator. Lots for you to eat that’s already in the water, pal.
Lowering the motor, she fought for calm, or as close to it as she could manage. Rain was beginning to pelt down. Didn’t matter. Get the motor started, and get the hell away from here.
She untied the line with icy fingers. She crouched low when she heard a thump, but got her hand on the starter even so.
As the rain came down harder, the hull bumped something to her left. A tree root, or possibly a submerged stump. It wasn’t the killer, and right then avoiding him was her priority.
She pushed off during the next peal. The dock trembled, her hand trembled. So did every other part of her body.
Ryder’s name flew through her head, but she’d sent him off to deal with a vandal. He could be anywhere. Anywhere, she thought, grabbing the tiller, except here.
An owl swooped directly in front of her. Mia jerked back and almost toppled over the side. A beam of light fell across the boat. There was a thump, and a second later, a hand shoved her roughly forward.
She’d rather have taken her chances in the water, but the killer gave her no choice. He sank his hand into her hair, holding her face firmly down and away from his own.
“You did this.” He shook her when she fought him. “You saw me, I saw you, and now I see him. Everywhere. Who are you? What are you? Are you a witch? Are there witches?”
She started to tell him she was only a woman, but that would be stupid. He’d given her a weapon. She should use it.
Turning her head sideways, she whispered, “There have always been witches. There always will be, no matter how many of us you murder.”
He yanked her hair, positioned his knife on the side of her neck. “I don’t murder, I dispatch. You’re the only one I’ll have ever done for me. The others were names, just names. When you die, everything you’ve conjured will die with you, won’t it?” He snatched the knife away and bent over her. “Won’t it?”
He sounded as desperate as Mia felt. He couldn’t be, but he sounded that way.
She willed her voice not to quiver and betray her. “Nothing a witch conjures ever dies.”
It must have been the wrong thing to say because he flipped her over, tossed his knife aside and wrapped the fingers of both hands around her throat.
His features in the next flash of lightning were feral, slicked with a mixture of rain and sweat.
Sinking her fingernails into his wrists, Mia drew blood. But his iron grip held fast, and she couldn’t get air into her lungs.
She tried to bring her knee up. He used his own to knock it away.
He’d dropped his flashlight. It rolled from side to side in the bottom of the boat. The moving beam transformed tree limbs overhead into the raised arms of a dozen giant swamp creatures and hanging moss into hanks of stringy black hair. The light continued to create monsters as Mia struggled and the killer pressed harder on her windpipe.
“Going to cut you into pieces.” He grunted the words out now. “Starting with your eyes. If you can’t see me, he can’t see me, and I won’t see him.”
Mia focused on his face. When the boat struck an underwater obstruction, he lost his balance and, thankfully, his grip. Gasping for air, she used the heel of her hand to smash his nose.
He swore, then slapped her so hard her ears rang.
Gushing blood mingled with the sweat and rainwater on his face. The flashlight slid away, thunder crashed, and it seemed the floor of the swamp heaved.
Mia crawled toward the back of the boat. Halfway there, he caught her ankle and hauled her back. She expected him to stab her, but instead, he stopped moving. His fingers tightened like a vise.
Unsure of her aim, Mia kicked out with her other foot. She struck something, but thought the pain only woke him up because he gave her leg a nasty yank. Unable to hold on, she slipped and hit her head on the bench.
Pain sliced through her skull. Rolling over, she saw his face through a dense haze. He was floating high above her, staring slack-jawed at something beyond her range of vision. She thought he might be planning to choke her again. The fingers of both hands were curled, he was panting for breath and his gaze snapped back and forth between that distant point and her face.
“I’ll kill you both,” she heard him snarl. “I’ll—”
A sudden lurch pitched Mia sideways and almost sent the killer over the side.
The small craft began to buck. The flashlight struck her shoulder, and she felt something wedge itself beneath her hip.
Sounds overlapped—thunder, loud splashes of water, a great deal of thrashing, a great deal more swearing.
Clinging to the seat, Mia shoved the hair from her ey
es. “Ryder?”
He didn’t answer, but it had to be him. On her hands and knees, she spied the killer’s knife and grabbed it.
Where were they? Everything appeared to be moving, but it was all blurred by the rain. After several seconds of searching, she picked out two figures near the dock, close enough to shore that Ryder—pretty sure it was Ryder—was able to stand.
The boat scraped the dock. Grabbing a pylon, Mia secured the line and pulled herself out. Lightning struck, cloud to ground, a jagged fork that threatened to tear the night apart.
She shone the beam into the water. Her vision wavered. Two men split into four. She heard a shout and saw a pair of men stumble to shore. The others—both Ryder, she hoped—followed. An agonized cry reached her as someone dove into the weeds, beat around briefly and came up firing. Had to be the killer, didn’t it?
Mia willed her heart out of her throat as gunshots echoed through the swamp. “Don’t die,” she whispered to Ryder. “Don’t you dare die.”
At the end of the dock, she half slid, half hopped to the lower ground. Mud squelched. Not safe here, a voice in her head warned. Alligator territory.
The shooting halted abruptly. The man with the gun tripped and went down. Mia’s breath stalled. The next thing she knew, Ryder had the gun. He also had the killer— on the ground, in the mud, with the barrel rammed under his chin.
Exhausted, she staggered over, fell to her knees and pressed her spinning head to his shoulder. “So many bullets. I thought he’d hit you for sure.”
Setting a hand on her neck, Ryder took his eyes off the killer to look at her. “Are you all right? Is that blood?”
“Yes I am, and yes it is. But it’s nothing. You?”
“Not dead,” he said. Drawing her closer, he nodded downward. “Shine the light on his face.”
Mia wished she could believe the abject horror that paralyzed the killer’s facial muscles was a figment of her imagination, but she knew it wasn’t. The man appeared frozen. He wasn’t fighting, wasn’t twitching; he barely breathed.
“What’s he staring at?” Looking up, she saw nothing but rain and blackness, and shivered. “This is very weird, Ryder.”
“Tell me about it. See if there’s any rope in his pack. He ditched it on the dock.”