by C. A. Shives
But it wasn't his concern. Even though part of it nagged at his head—the idea that someday Elizabeth might be free and no longer married—he pushed the thought away. He had business to do.
"So what the hell is so secret that we couldn't discuss this at the department?" Tucker asked. "I know Sheila has a big mouth, but we could've met in my office."
Herne shook his head. "I couldn’t take the risk that we’d be overheard. It's about Officer Travis Miller."
"Miller?" Tucker asked. "This is the second time you've mentioned him. You think just because he and Charlotte were in the same class that he should get billing as a suspect?"
"It's not just that," Herne said. "Charlotte and her friends apparently bullied Miller in school." He relayed the story that Faith had told him about Gabe forcing Miller to kiss his ass.
"What's that have to do with anything?" Tucker said. "Lots of kids get bullied."
"I was thinking about the X that our killer carves on the victims," Herne said. "When you sign a letter X and O, the X is supposed to stand for kisses."
"So you think the killer's signature is a kiss on the ass?"
Herne shrugged. "It makes sense. And Charlotte and her friends gave Miller a nickname: Trout. They said it was because he had lips like a fish."
Saxon snorted. "I can see that. I always thought the guy had some pretty big lips, too."
Tucker drummed his fingers against the top of the table before running them through his hair. The agitation in his voice was apparent when he spoke. "It's all pretty thin, Art," he said. "You don't have any evidence."
"I know," Herne said. "But I've got a feeling."
"We can't arrest someone—especially one of my officers—on your fucking feelings, dammit. What about the drug? How did he get his hands on that?"
"I don't know," Herne said. "Maybe he stole it from a doctor's office? Or a vet's office? Does he have any pets?"
"Shit," Saxon said.
The two men looked at her, surprised to hear the profanity. Saxon rarely cursed.
"We've got some sodium thiopental stashed in evidence,” she said. “We took it from the Seth Greenwood case. Remember? That guy who was surgically removing the voice box of his attack dogs?"
Herne remembered Bobby Flynn's Doberman. A dog trained to attack. A dog without a voice.
"Greenwood used the drug before he operated on the dogs. We confiscated it with everything else. I didn't think about it because, well, I guess I figured only our guys had access to it."
"Fuck," Tucker said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"What else do you know about Miller?" Herne asked. "Anything that might tie him to these murders?"
Tucker shook his head. "He keeps to himself. Doesn't talk much. I know his parents died when he was just out of high school. After that, he moved in with his aunt outside of town. When she died, he inherited the house. I've never been there, but I think it's a small place on about ten acres. Secluded."
"A good place to keep someone captive? Or hide a body?" Herne asked.
"Probably."
"I've been there," Saxon said. "Once. He needed a ride home. He showed me around the property. He's got a small stream in the back. Says he does some fishing there."
"Fishing?" Herne asked. He slammed his fist against the table. "I've long suspected Killer X was an angler."
"Why?" Tucker asked.
"The knife he uses. Thin and sharp, like a fillet knife. And the way he disembowels his victims. It's the same way you gut a fish."
"That's true," Tucker said. "But none of this is evidence. Half the guys in this town have dropped their lines in Paver's Creek at some point in their lives. We sell hundreds of fishing licenses each year."
"None of it's solid," Herne admitted. "But it feels right."
Herne glanced at Saxon. "Can you check Miller's schedule? Find out if he was on duty during any of the murders. If he was, he's less likely to be our man."
Saxon nodded. "Will do."
She left the kitchen table without another word, although she did favor Tucker with one sideways look.
"She's a good cop," Tucker said proudly after they heard the front door close.
"What the hell is going on with you two?" Herne asked. "Is it a full-fledged affair now?"
Tucker hung his head. "I guess. I'm not proud of it, but it happened. And I can't say I regret it. Elizabeth's been so cold to me. So distant. Hell, she acts like she hates me half the time."
"And what happens if you and Elizabeth reconcile? Do you just dump Saxon? Because I doubt she'll be happy about that."
"I don't know," Tucker said. "I guess I haven't thought that far."
"Because you're letting your cock do your thinking for you," Herne said.
"Dammit, Art," Tucker said. "I'm happy right now. Can't you just be happy for me?"
Happy that you're hurting Elizabeth? Happy that you have two women when I'm all alone? Happy that you may eventually lose the best cop you have in your meager little department?
Herne said nothing as he pushed his chair away from the table. He didn't have the time or energy to devote to his friend's love life. He had a killer to catch.
And he was certain he knew the man he wanted.
CHAPTER 25
NOVEMBER 13 - TUESDAY MORNING
Herne had gotten a call from Saxon in the early hours of the morning.
"Miller was off duty during each of the murders," Saxon said.
"Where is he now?" Herne asked.
"He's on patrol," Saxon said. "His shift ends in a few hours."
Herne thanked her and headed for the police department, but he didn't bother to enter the worn building. Instead, he stood in the parking lot, eying the four cars that filled half the parking spaces. He knew which one belonged to Tucker. He knew which one belonged to Saxon. That left two—a Ford Mustang and a Dodge Caravan. And one of them was most likely Miller's personal vehicle.
He knew Sheila had two young kids. He knew she wore light denim jeans, white sneakers, and crewneck tee-shirts. And he knew she had a dog. He guessed the minivan belonged to her.
And in Herne's mind, Killer X was the kind of man who would drive a classic car.
The Ford's door was easy to jimmy—Herne didn't even need a slim jim to enter the vehicle—and the registration papers told him he had chosen the right car. Aside from a few other records, like oil change receipts and Miller's insurance card, the glove box was empty.
The interior of the Ford revealed very little. A few quarters and dimes had been tossed into the ashtray. An ice scraper and an atlas were wedged beneath the passenger seat. A pair of sunglasses hung from the driver's visor. The backseat was completely empty. Herne couldn't even find a fast food wrapper or crumpled napkin.
Herne stepped out of the car and eyed the trunk as he pulled out his set of lock picks. In two minutes he had the trunk open.
The trunk contained a few more items than the rest of the car. A pair of hiking boots. A fishing vest with a few trout lures. A couple of empty bottles of motor oil. A flashlight. And a case of bottled water. In the far back corner of the trunk was a blue gym bag. Herne reached for it, his heart pounding.
He expected it to contain black clothing, black gloves, and maybe a mask. Instead the bag held exercise gear. He rummaged through the bag and found gray sweatpants, a white tee-shirt, running shoes, and some cotton socks. Disgusted, he zipped up the bag and tossed it back into the trunk. But something shiny glinted in the sunlight, so he bent down for a closer look.
There, tangled around a zipper pull on the gym bag, was a gold necklace. A charm in the shape of a lightning bolt hung from the chain. Herne snagged the necklace with his beefy fingers and ripped it from the bag.
He read the words engraved on the back of the charm. To the spark of my life.
He tucked the necklace into the pocket of his leather jacket. It was evidence he'd discovered during an illegal search. It was no use to the police.
But it might be useful to him.
~ ~ ~ ~
When the front door opened, Herne shoved the necklace in Thad's face. "Did this belong to your wife?"
Thad took the jewelry from Herne's hand and twisted the delicate chain around his fingers. "Yes,” he said. “I gave it to her on our first wedding anniversary. Where did you find it?
Herne didn’t answer. He just turned and ran for his truck.
~ ~ ~ ~
She knew something was different. Could hear it in the tread of his feet against the wooden floor above her head. His pace was almost frantic. Almost frenzied.
Her heart froze. He was coming for her. He was going to kill her. She had to get ready.
She moved quickly. Charlotte flipped the mattress and reached inside the hole for her weapon. Hours of shaving it against the hard concrete had created a point on the end of the straightened spring. It looked like a very sharp metal pencil. To Charlotte, it appeared small and ineffective. But she clasped it in her sweaty palm, her hand behind her back. Her freedom—her life—depended on a metal coil from a cheap, old mattress.
The basement door flung open. He didn't bother to carefully shut it behind him, as he had in the past. Instead, he almost ran down the stairs.
He strode over to Charlotte, standing over her like an ominous harbinger of death. The dim light from the bare bulb seemed to illuminate him in a white glow. His eyes were wide and crazed, like a drug addict needing a score. And though his hands hung empty by his side, they seemed to tremor as he watched her.
"It's time," he said.
She tried to keep her voice light. Tried to hide the fear that weaved its way into her words. "Already? And I was just starting to enjoy these wonderful accommodations."
"They're coming for me," he said. "That bastard Herne is on my trail. But I'm going to finish my work. I'm going to finish you."
"But where's your sock?" she asked. "I was hoping to have at least one more encounter with such an elegant torture device."
He almost grinned. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. But then his eyes went sober as he looked at her body.
"You were pretty once," he said. "Now you're covered with bruises. All swollen and ugly."
She knew it was true. Her legs, her arms, her torso, her face. Everything was red and purple and yellow. She looked as if she'd spent a week inside an industrial clothes dryer with a bucket full of rocks.
"I'm not even sure I want you anymore. Maybe I should just kill you without taking you."
Charlotte said nothing. He was either going to rape her and then kill her, or he was going to just kill her. She steeled herself. She had to be strong. Had to be ready for whatever he chose to do.
From his back pocket he pulled out a knife. Thin, long, sharp. Charlotte recognized it as a fillet knife.
"Is that what you used to murder Gabe and Jason?" she asked.
He nodded. "And Matt, too. I gutted them all just like a fish," he said. "Same thing I'm going to do to you."
Charlotte fingered the sharpened spring behind her back. Sweat coated her brow. A red haze of panic clouded her vision, and her breathing became thick and raspy.
"Makes you nervous, doesn't it?" Trout asked. "I like seeing you unnerved. You know, I think I am going to have a bit of you first. You were too damn good to give me the time of day when we were in school. So now I'm just going to take whatever I want from you."
He reached out so quickly that she barely saw his hand. He grabbed the strap of her bra—gray and gritty from her time in his basement—and yanked it away from her shoulder. He didn't tug hard enough to rip the undergarment from her body, but he did pull the bra down to her waist. Her breasts, exposed to the cold air, felt heavy and warm on her body.
"Nice," he said, his eyes glittering. "You’ve got some fantastic tits."
She wanted to turn away from him. Hide her body from the invasion of his eyes. But she needed to keep her weapon hidden from his view. So instead she sat, exposed, on the mattress. She allowed him to look at her.
"I'll bet that pussy of yours is just as sweet."
He lunged for her then and threw his body on top of her, pressing her back against the mattress. His knife touched her neck, the sharp point puncturing her flesh. She gasped as a trickle of blood slid down her skin, warm and wet and sticky.
He lay above her, his eyes glittering down on her face. His thick legs kept hers immobile, but his torso was only partially on top of her body. Her hand—and her weapon—was stuck between her back and the mattress. "If you make one wrong move, I'm going to slice you open and watch your guts spill onto the floor," he said. He grabbed her breast and squeezed, jiggling it with the palm of his hand. "I'm going to enjoy this," he grinned.
He reached down for the zipper on his pants. Charlotte closed her eyes and gathered all of her strength. If he proceeded to rape her, he would inevitably discover the mattress coil underneath of her. The moment had come.
She twisted her body and pulled her hand out from behind her back. He had tugged his cock out of his pants and was reaching for her breast again. With one quick, determined motion, Charlotte stabbed the point of the metal weapon into Trout's testicle.
He froze for a moment, as if unable to comprehend what had happened. Then he howled a long, guttural sound. He leapt off her body and stood, staring down at his penis. His knife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the cold floor.
"What the fuck?" he asked. His eyes were wide and he scanned her body, looking for the weapon she had used to attack him.
Charlotte could see he hadn't yet spotted the metal stick in her hand. She used his confusion to her advantage. She stood and lunged for him, aiming her weapon at his chest. She missed, hitting him in the arm. But she didn't stop. She pulled the metal spring from his body and stabbed him again. And again. And again. He held up his hands to deflect her attack, but she kept going. Kept raising her arm and stabbing him as deep and as fast as she could.
He stopped howling. He merely grunted every time her weapon penetrated his flesh. He slapped her hands away and reached for her neck, and she knew he was trying to strangle her. She felt a flash of despair. Was he invincible? Was her weapon too small against his massive strength? He curled his fist into a ball and struck her cheek, but she barely felt it. She had been beaten by him for days. His blows had little effect on her.
Despair filled her, but she raised her weapon to strike again.
~ ~ ~ ~
Herne pressed his foot against the gas pedal of his truck, urging it faster. He thought—he felt—that Charlotte was already dead. Miller had taken her before he started on his murderous spree. In Herne's experience, that meant Charlotte was likely his first homicide victim.
But there was a chance—a very small chance—that Charlotte was still alive. And if Herne didn't save her, he knew Elizabeth would never forgive him.
And deep down, buried beneath his desire to face the man who had drugged and murdered three men, Herne felt a sense of urgency. A need to move fast. A need to get to Miller quickly.
So when he turned the corner on Dry Creek Road and saw Dave Keller's tractor stopped in the middle of the bridge, his heart sank as he slammed on the brakes.
~ ~ ~ ~
She stabbed him through the left eye and he howled again. The sound of his pained cry renewed her energy. She could feel the tightness of her muscles as she stabbed him in the neck. Blood gushed from his wounds now, torn open by his movement and her relentless attack. She could see him weakening. See that he was losing the ability to fight back. He fell to his knees and covered his neck with his hands. He didn't speak. Didn't howl. Now he only gurgled.
She continued to thrust her weapon into his body, and in her mind she imagined her high school anatomy class. Spleen. Bladder. Stomach. Liver.
Her hand didn't stop moving. He curled on the mattress in the fetal position, protecting his face and body with his arms and hands. She kept stabbing.
Kidney. Spine. Lung.
In her mind she saw all the blows she had suffere
d at his hands. Her swollen limbs. Her bruised and tender flesh. She thought she growled, but she wasn't sure. He'd become a mass of muscle to her. His red blood stained the mattress with splatters of crimson.
Then, as her arm was raised for another strike, she saw him look at her with his one good eye. The eye she hadn't stabbed. The eye looked wild. It looked crazed. And it looked pissed.
He lunged for her, his arms outstretched and his hands reaching for her neck. She jumped away from him and fell to her knees, scrambling across the mattress.
Then she felt the resistance of her collar and chain, and the heat of his hand closing over her ankle.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Fuck," Herne muttered. He rolled down his window and yelled out to Dave. "What's going on?"
Dave, sitting on his tractor, looked back at Herne and shrugged. "I don't know. She stopped while I was driving across the bridge. Could be the carburetor. My dad will be here soon to take a look at it."
"You're blocking both lanes," Herne said.
Dave shrugged again. "Ain't nothing I can do about it, mister."
The bridge they sat on went over the Logan Creek, which had run dry twenty years before. Herne looked at the tractor on the bridge. Then he looked at the dry creek bed. He put his truck into 4-wheel drive, reversed off the bridge, and drove into the creek bed. He could feel the rocks and dirt as his wheels spun on the loose soil. But he pressed his foot against the gas pedal and his Ford truck climbed out and back onto the road.
"Jesus, mister," Dave shouted. "You act like it's a matter of life and death."
~ ~ ~ ~
"Got you." His voice was garbled by blood and pain, but Charlotte heard the triumph in it. Cold fear cut through the adrenaline that had fired her actions. She lay on her stomach with his hand around her ankle, and felt her muscles slacken and weaken as he started to drag her toward him. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the concrete floor and found none.
Then she felt it. The steel of his knife against her fingertips. She grabbed for it, slicing her palm in the process, and wrapped her hand around the handle. It felt solid and heavy in her grip.