by Rita Herron
Then it came back to her. She’d been attacked from behind. Hadn’t even seen her attacker’s face. And she’d been locked in that room, surrounded by stone, like some kind of grave.
A sudden movement sent her slamming against something hard, and she realized she was in the trunk of a car. The vehicle bounced over a rut, jarring her teeth and making bile climb her throat.
Swallowing to tamp down the nausea, she ran her fingers along the interior in search of a release button for the trunk. The reports of the other women taunted her. They’d been murdered. Their bodies burned to ashes.
Cold fear caught in her throat. She’d just turned thirty-one. Had worked so hard for her career that she’d made sacrifices in her love life.
And now she’d met Max… He was charming. Attractive. A man who saved lives. A man who made her stomach flutter.
If she survived, maybe they could have a future.
But she had to let go of the past to do that.
Two months ago, she’d resolved to give up her search for her birth mother. To accept that she might never know what happened with her.
And then this case had broken. The minute she’d learned Gillian Roach had been murdered, she’d wanted the story. Had known that if anyone could uncover the truth, it would be Ellie Reeves.
They might have clashed when they’d first met, but she admired the detective for her perseverance. If only she’d done that tell-all she’d been after, maybe Angelica could have put things together sooner.
Tires squealed as the driver sped around the winding road, and Angelica felt her stomach rising to her throat again. She couldn’t find the release lever, so she ran her hands across the floor of the trunk in search of something to use as a weapon.
Nothing. Not at first. But she managed to turn herself sideways. The spare tire. The tire iron.
She wiped her clammy hands on her dress then tugged the tire iron from its holding spot. Gripping it tightly, she ordered herself to be brave.
The minute he opened this damn trunk, she would hit him with it.
The car bounced over another pothole, and her head banged the side of the trunk. Tears filled her eyes, and she cried out as the driver swung a sharp right. They were climbing now. She felt it in the chugging of the tires. In the almost figure eight-like switchbacks. In the pressure building in her ears.
The sound of another car passing jolted her into action and she beat at the trunk, screaming. But the vehicle raced by, and she sagged against the floor again.
Another quick turn, then the tires ground over what sounded like gravel. Seconds later, brakes screeched, and the car skidded to a stop. Angelica tightened her fingers around the tire iron.
Footsteps crunched the gravel, then she heard the trunk pop.
A second later, he lifted the trunk door. Shadows from the surrounding pines flickered around him, a sliver of light framing him as if he was a ghost.
Then she saw his face and shock momentarily immobilized her.
His sinister laugh echoed in the tepid air as he reached for her.
Anger and adrenaline shot through her, and she used all her force to swing the tire iron at his head. But he was fast, his arms beefy and muscular, and he jerked it from her. She threw a hard kick toward his gut, but he dodged the blow, then grabbed her arms and hauled her from the trunk.
She jabbed at his eyes, but his fist slammed into her throat and she choked, gasping for air as she sank into the dirt. Denial screamed in her head as she collapsed into the darkness.
143
Crooked Creek
“Ellie, let me take you home,” Cord offered.
“I can’t go home,” she said. “Angelica’s missing. I have to find her. Contact Max and tell him to let us know if another wildfire starts up. That might lead us to Angelica.”
Ellie headed toward the police station, hoping Derrick had some answers. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw her.
“What happened to you?” he asked, his tone grim.
“I’m fine, but there was a car explosion a half-hour ago. I was close by.”
Derrick’s eyes raked over her. “Do you need a doctor?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. I think the fire was a diversion so the killer could get away with Angelica. Deputies are combing the town.”
She pulled Angelica’s notepad from her pocket. “I found this in the news van. It’s mostly shorthand, but I’m hoping there’s a clue in here. Any luck with Hoyt?”
“He denies knowledge of the sexual assaults, but he could be lying. His alibis check out and he said there were other research docs at that clinic, so one of them could have worked with Hangar and known what he was up to.” He tapped the legal pad on the desk. “According to the forensic psychiatrist who interviewed Rigdon, he suffered from night terrors and nightmares as a child. He signed up for the sleep study to help with that but got hooked on the medication. It’s an initial assessment, but the doctor believes he was brainwashed, that he was the subject of mind experiments.”
“That could be the answer,” Ellie said. “Hoyt may not have committed the murders, but he could have manipulated someone else into doing it.”
“I was plugging the doctors’ names in for background checks and locations to follow up.”
“Let me look through Angelica’s notes.”
Ellie sank into the chair at the round table in the corner and began to flip through the notepad.
There were dates, initials and places which made no real sense, although she assumed they referred to appointments or meetings. Three-quarters through, she saw her own initials and realized the times recorded were probably when Angelica had contacted her.
On another page, scribblings noted the deaths of Katie Lee, Vanessa and Janie. Question marks dotted the pages, as if Angelica was tossing her own theories around in her mind.
The last entry was devoted to a page with the word Mind Games scribbled on it, the book written by the local author. Below it, she’d jotted the author’s name.
Then the words ‘pen name’. Then a question mark and a line to the words ‘torch victims’.
Ellie’s thoughts raced. Many authors used pen names, but why would that interest Angelica? And what did it have to do with the murders?
The fact that this was Angelica’s last notation might not be significant. But she snatched her laptop and plugged in the author’s name. It came up immediately, along with a display of the book cover and an author bio. According to the blurb, the novel was about a doctor who conducted mind-games research on prisoners. The bio did not list the author’s real name.
Ellie sat back, tapping her foot as she contemplated the implications. “Angelica made a note about that local author, Preston Phelps,” she said to Derrick. “He was supposed to be in Crooked Creek for an appearance at Books & Bites but didn’t show. He wrote under a pen name.” She explained what his book was about, and interest sparked in Derrick’s eyes.
Ellie tracked down the name of the author’s agent online and reached for her phone. It took several back-to-back calls to get an answer—it was a work cell phone and this was a holiday after all—but once she got through and emphasized that she was investigating a multiple homicide, she got the agent’s attention.
The agent hesitated. “I don’t understand why you’re asking for his real name. Or why that nosy reporter did. The author simply wants his privacy.”
Angelica must have thought something was off if she’d persisted. “Just answer the question, please,” Ellie said as she glanced at the clock. “What’s his real name?”
“You won’t reveal this?” the woman replied. “It could affect our promotional plans.”
“I do not give a rats’ ass about your promotional plans,” Ellie snapped. “Four women are dead and another’s been abducted. What is his real name?”
The woman’s shaky breath echoed back. “Lewis Hoyt. The bio is actually his. But he’s a research doctor—”
“I know who he is.” Ellie lurched up
from her chair, slamming it backward. “I have to go.”
144
“Hoyt is behind the book,” Ellie told Derrick. “He may be behind the murders, too.”
Derrick’s eyes clouded. “If he conducted mind experiments and he knew what Hangar was up to, he wouldn’t want that information to be made public. So why publish a novel on that topic?”
“Money. Fame. He’s an egomaniac,” Ellie said. “He thought he’d gotten away with it and he had for years. So he decided to fictionalize it and thought no one would ever figure out it was based on truth.”
“But someone did,” Derrick said. “Maybe Gillian?”
“Or Josiah Curtis,” Ellie said. “Or Angelica’s call to his agent triggered him to realize he’d made a mistake in publishing the book.”
“So he decided to clean up everyone who could expose him,” Derrick said.
“He’s not getting away with it.” She lurched up from her seat. “Let’s have another talk with him.”
Ellie led the way to the interrogation room, where Hoyt’s lawyer buttoned his suit jacket and stood. So did Hoyt. “You’ve held my client long enough,” the lawyer said. “We’re leaving.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Ellie said. “Sit back down, Dr. Hoyt. Or should I call you Preston Phelps?”
Derrick stepped toward the man. “We know who you are, Hoyt, and we know why you murdered these women.”
Panic shot through Hoyt’s eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Ellie pinned him with her stare. “You conducted research using your sleep medication on unsuspecting coeds. While Hangar sexually assaulted the females, you conducted mind studies on the male subjects.” She leaned closer. “You’re so arrogant you even wrote a book about it. But that ego of yours was your big mistake.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hoyt snarled.
The lawyer lifted a hand to stop Ellie from further questions, but she flipped her phone around to reveal the website for his book. “Mind Games,” she said. “We know you wrote it under this pen name Preston Phelps.”
“You’re at the pinnacle of your career,” Derrick cut in. “Drug making money for you. Book about to explode. You’re getting all this attention.”
“Only Angelica Gomez called you for an interview,” Ellie said between clenched teeth. “And you knew if she uncovered your identity, the truth would come out.”
“I didn’t kill them,” Hoyt said, his voice low and lethal.
“But you know who did,” Ellie said. “Because you used mind manipulation to force another man to do your dirty work.” She narrowed her eyes. “He has Angelica now. If she dies, that’s one more murder you’ll be held accountable for.”
Hoyt’s lawyer shifted restlessly. A muscle ticked in Hoyt’s jaw.
“Where is he?” Ellie asked.
“I don’t know,” Hoyt said. “I don’t know details of anything.”
“That way you can plead innocence,” Ellie said, rage sharpening her tone. “But that’s not going to fly in a courtroom. Rigdon has already described what you did to him. Who else was in that study?”
She was so angry she could barely breathe. No telling what Angelica was enduring now. If she was even still alive.
Ellie inhaled sharply, then took the folder of the crime-scene photos and spread them on the table. “Look at these,” she said. “Look at the brutality. He uses different methods to murder the women. Then he sets fire to them.”
Hoyt made a pained face and looked away.
“Look at them,” Ellie pushed. “The methods are different, but the fire and the standing stones he places around the body are the same. He also carves an hourglass behind each victim’s ear.” She stabbed the picture with her fingernail.
Perspiration beaded on Hoyt’s forehead and neck, and he scrubbed a hand over his face.
“What does it all mean?”
Hoyt’s jaw tightened.
“Where would he take her?” Derrick growled. “Think, dammit. Is there a place?”
Hoyt’s lawyer touched his arm, then murmured something in Hoyt’s ear. When he finished, his client looked tormented. “The stones… the place where we originally conducted the studies. There were natural standing stones there that resemble these.”
Ellie’s breath quickened. “Where is it?”
The lawyer nudged him again and, finally, Hoyt told them.
145
Crow’s End
Ticktock. Ticktock. His clock chimed. The voice in his head grew louder.
Angelica moaned and struggled as he carried her up the hill, but the drug had weakened her. Powerless against him, she lost the fight and faded away again.
Memories swirled around him like a foggy night as he neared the top of the mountain’s edge. He was nineteen again, locked in the room with the lights and the hourglass and the clock ticking relentlessly on the wall. Back in the nightmares.
As the minutes ticked by and his chest seized with panic, he saw the standing stones through the window. The circle of stones represents the circle of life. The mourning would begin.
The five-foot stones stood like giant boulders, creating a fortress around the old building. This was where it all started. Earlier, he’d destroyed the walls and torn down the structure in his rage, and now he had to lay Angelica to rest. He gently laid her in the middle of the circle, his fingers brushing over the silky strands of her long dark hair. She was so beautiful, exotic, with her creamy caramel skin and those full lips that begged for a man’s kiss.
Yet her mouth got her in trouble. She was sassy and smart and didn’t back down from asking the tough questions.
That was her downfall.
His was getting to know her.
He hardened his heart. He couldn’t let his emotions interfere. He had to finish this.
Leaving her tied and lying in the dirt, the moonlight broke through the gray clouds and illuminated the ground as he gathered sticks and timber from the building he’d demolished. This was the place where the nightmares had turned him into a monster.
The place where it had to end.
146
Somewhere between Crooked Creek and Crow’s End
Knowing they might need a guide to search the woods for the old research facility, Ellie picked up Cord. Black storm clouds thickened overhead, rain falling at the higher altitudes, a misty fog hovering over the mountain.
“I don’t understand,” Cord said. “You think this doctor had something to do with all these murders?”
Ellie explained about the sleep study. “We believe the male subjects were exposed to mind games, manipulation, brainwashing. One of them is cleaning up for Hoyt.”
The Jeep ground the shoulder as she made a turn and raced over the graveled road toward the mountaintop. She bumped over debris in her way, then screeched to a stop at the sight of a tall pine that had fallen across the road, probably in the tornado a while back. The road was so remote it hadn’t been cleared yet.
“There’s no car here,” Derrick said.
“He could have taken another back road.”
“There’s smoke,” Derrick said, dragging her attention to the hills, where smoke rose above the wiry branches.
Ellie’s pulse jumped. “He’s up there with Angelica. The wildfires have been a diversion.”
“I’ll call in the fire,” Cord said, then proceeded to make the call.
Ellie checked her weapon and climbed out. Derrick followed.
“The fire crew is already on the way.” Cord’s phone dinged and he checked an incoming text. “That’s Weatherby. He wants me to meet them at the scene. This one is spreading fast and some campers were spotted not too far from there.”
Ellie pulled her compass from her pocket. “Then go, Cord. Derrick and I can find our way. Radio me if you see or hear anything suspicious along the way.”
“Copy that.” Using his compass, Cord headed toward the heart of the fire. For a brief second, fear for the ranger seized Ellie. But she reminded herself that
Cord knew what he was doing.
Her job was to find Angelica.
147
Anxiety needled Ellie as she led the hike up the hill. Every nerve cell in her body screamed with tension. What if she was too late?
Dusk had long fallen, the dark clouds above making it even darker and more difficult to find her way. Using her compass and flashlight to guide her, she wove through rows of pines and cypresses, over one hill and then another, each ridge similar to the next except for the varying heights, and clusters of foliage and stones. Derrick stayed close on her heels.
Up above, dark clouds formed shapes resembling animals, reminding her of the game she and Vanessa played as children. She was doing this for Vanessa, she told herself. The sound of the river water gurgling indicated she was on the right track.
They passed a wooden post with directional arrows pointing toward various sites along the trail. One led to Cathead Creek, another toward Hangman’s Bluff and another was marked Standing Stones.
Ellie hesitated, the name on the sign sinking in. Standing Stones—the stones hadn’t represented the ones at Ole Glory, but they symbolized this place.
“This way.” She pushed forward, following the trail. The scent of smoke drifted towards her, and she pulled a bandana from her pocket, tying it around her mouth and nose. To the north, exactly where she was headed, thick smoke clogged the air, swirling above the treetops in a black-gray haze.
Heat suffused her, perspiration turning to rivers of sweat as she plunged deeper and deeper into the woods.
The heat sucked her energy, and she stopped to take a drink of water.
One foot in front of the other, the images of the torched women taunted her. Katie Lee, just a teenager with her whole future in front of her, a girl who’d suffered because of her family’s dark secrets. Gillian Roach, so tormented by the children she tried to help that she had no one to love. Vanessa, who’d sought the truth about her own mother, and Janie who’d only wanted to protect her son.