All the Pretty Faces (18 page)

Silas kept some in his apartment back in LA.

After the attack, Silas had started writing about the horrors of what had happened to him and how he’d become a collector of bones. The first stories depicted his early years when his mother left and his father became obsessed with the birds.

Silas had been terrified of the sharp talons and beaks and had shied away from helping his father.

Showing fear had infuriated the man. Determined to teach him to be strong, he’d forced Silas into the pens.

Flooded with images of the hawks and vultures circling above his head, pecking at his face and arms and hands, Silas exhaled. The memory of the birds ripping his flesh from his hands and face with their claws was so strong that he felt as if it was happening all over again. He could still smell the metallic scent of his own blood.

He placed his fingers on the keyboard and began to describe the little boy’s tentativeness as his father had shoved him into the pen. His father had always worn gloves when he’d worked with the falcons, but sometimes they’d pecked through the thick fabric and clawed through his shirt.

His father had been proud of those scars.

In this story, Silas decided to make the boy fight back instead of cowering like a coward.

The boy grabbed a stick and beat at the birds, but each swing of the stick seemed to only enrage the wild animals more. Their hisses and screeched attack calls rent the air as they swarmed and descended on the boy.

Bloody and aching from the claw marks, the boy crawled to the door of the pen and managed to unlatch it. Blood dripped from his hand and arm as he shoved it open.

The birds continued to attack, tearing at his flesh as he dragged himself through the opening in the dirt. Mustering all the strength he could, he pushed the pen door open wide. They rushed to escape. They flapped and soared to the sky.

He’d freed them and saved himself.

His father’s bellow boomed through the ridges, and he sagged with defeat. He’d never really be free, not until his father was buried and he could flee the mountains himself.

Just like the falcons and eagles.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Shaken by the thought of this latest killer coming after her, Josie was tempted to ask Dane to crawl in bed with her and hold her all night.

Earlier, they’d almost made love.

Was he thinking about that now?

His deep breath made her look into his eyes. Desire, hunger, and . . . worry darkened the depths. She didn’t know which caused her heart to pound faster. The thought of a killer after her or falling in love.

God, no.

She wasn’t falling in love. She was simply feeling vulnerable and lonely. Dane was strong, protective, and noble. Unlike any other man she’d ever known. At least one whom she’d gotten close to.

“Go to bed and get some rest, Josie,” Dane said in a gruff whisper.

She stifled the urge to throw herself at him, then fled before she gave in to the need building inside her.

Guilt hit her, though, and she grabbed an extra blanket and pillow for the sofa, rushed back in, and pushed them in his arms. “If you need anything, let me know.”

A chuckle rumbled from him. “That’s what I was going to say to you.”

She did need something. She needed him.

But that was impossible.

So she returned to her bedroom and closed the door.

Wind whistled outside, beating a tree branch against the window, but she pulled the curtains tightly together, hoping to muffle the sound, then hurriedly slipped on pajamas. A quick wash of her face removed what little makeup she wore, and she brushed her hair, one look in the mirror a reminder that she didn’t fit the victim’s profile.

So far, he’d targeted beautiful young women—but as Dane had pointed out, both had undergone plastic surgery. Neither of those elements fit her.

Knowing Dane was in the den alleviated her anxiety over the earlier break-in, and she crawled in bed and pulled up the covers. But sleep eluded her.

Instead, a myriad of memories flooded her.

Images of Billy Linder and the skeletal frame of his mother hunched in that wheelchair, the whites of her eyes red with broken blood vessels, blue veins bulging beneath paper-thin skin.

The scent of dust and mildew and rancid body odors that permeated the cabin suffocated her, and she gasped for a breath.

Then images of the mangled doll’s face and the poor women who’d been brutally murdered taunted her, their cheeks marred with the talon claw marks.

The talons belonged to birds of prey.

Was
that
the killer’s message? That he was the predator stalking the town and these women were his prey?

Or could there be something else about the talons?

Billy Linder had worked as a taxidermist and was obsessed with showcasing his work.

Was this unsub obsessed with birds? Had he been raised with them?

He also collected bones. That was just as disturbing as the talon marks.

Perhaps he was some kind of scientist who studied bones, or an archaeologist or a forensic analyst?

That was another avenue to explore. But one that might lead them to the right man and stop his madness.

Dane finally dozed for a couple of hours, but the minute the sun glinted through the front window, he jerked awake, his mind already analyzing details of the case.

He retrieved his computer from his SUV and decided to work before he heard from Peyton.

While the computer booted up, he rummaged through Josie’s kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee.

All night the case had eaten at him.

The fact that two victims had plastic surgery, yet the killer had carved their faces, destroying that beauty, disturbed him. Whoever the unsub was, he had a grudge against beautiful women—or women who’d undergone cosmetic surgery.

Why? Because he’d been rejected?

Because he disagreed with plastic surgery for some reason—perhaps based on religion?

A cup in hand, he entered Patty Waxton’s name into his laptop and ran a search. She had no police record, and no family other than the brother in jail. She’d graduated from high school and taken a few acting classes in a local community arts center.

Her headshots had been done by Eddie Easton just as Charity Snow’s had. Medical records were harder to obtain, so he called the ME.

“Dr. Wheeland, it’s Agent Hamrick. What can you tell me about our latest victim?”

“COD was the same as the first victim. The injuries and cuts on her face were made with the same type of instrument, which I believe was a surgical scalpel.”

Dane’s heart hammered.

The plastic surgeon would have a scalpel. But why would a doctor who made his living saving lives and making people more attractive kill?

Why would he maim a woman’s face when his reputation was built on repairing imperfections?

He had a similar problem with the photographer’s motive. Why would Easton kill the same women who fed his ego and his wallet?

Easton wasn’t lacking in his own looks or female attention. Neesie Netherington had admitted that—in spite of his disturbing niche photography—he’d charmed and seduced her. He hadn’t hurt her when he had the opportunity. He could easily have killed her in the woods when they were doing the photo shoot.

Dane needed more information. “Anything else you can tell me from the body? What about time of death?”

“I’d put TOD sometime between three and eight yesterday morning. Again, the victim had sex sometime earlier that day, but no signs of forced sexual assault.”

“What about the tox screen?”

“She was given the same paralyzing drug as Charity Snow.”

Dr. Wheeland’s attention to detail was an asset. “Any trace evidence?”

“There were traces of makeup beneath her nails,” Dr. Wheeland said. “I’m analyzing it now.”

Frustration shot through Dane. Instead of the answers he needed, he only had more questions. “Odd, since the killer wiped her clean of makeup.” Dane mentally referenced Betsy’s case. There were major differences in this unsub’s MO that he wasn’t sure the killer’s evolution could account for.

Was he trying to see connections when they weren’t there?

“That’s what I thought,” Dr. Wheeland continued, oblivious to Dane’s turmoil. “This makeup has a different consistency—it’s thicker, more like pancake makeup. Who knows? She might have used it earlier and simply didn’t clean her nails well enough to eliminate traces.”

Dane had known a girl in high school with a port wine birthmark who covered it with pancake makeup. “Isn’t pancake makeup used by people with scars or those port wine birthmarks?”

“Yes,” Dr. Wheeland replied, “although actors and special effects artists use it for various roles.”

The makeup artist probably had an array with him. “Did Patty have a scar or birthmark?”

“Not that I’ve found, but there are signs indicating she had cosmetic work.”

Dane stewed over the forensics. These clues were leading away from Betsy’s killer.

These girls needed justice, too, though. “If the makeup particles were a result of her contact with the killer, that means he may be covering up a scar himself. Or he could be in disguise.”

“Both are possibilities,” Dr. Wheeland agreed. “Or he could be one of the actors.”

Like McCray. Or even Baines—the makeup artist.

He had been scarred in an accident when he was young and had more than a hundred stitches. Most of the women in attendance this week probably knew him or worked with him.

They would certainly trust him.

Although as far as he knew, neither Baines nor McCray had been anywhere near Betsy ten years ago.

Disappointed that the pieces weren’t fitting the way he wanted, Dane thanked the ME, his thoughts churning as he phoned the sheriff. “Kimball, do you have anything on Baines?”

“According to my deputy, Baines worked at the community center until around eight last night, then went to dinner with a group and left the restaurant with some other guy.”

“Where did they go?”

“Back to the cabin. Guy left around ten. After that, Baines went out. My deputy followed him but said he lost him on the highway.”

“Dammit, so Baines had unaccounted free time last night when he could have brought a body to the center and dumped it.”

A tense second passed. “That’s possible, I guess. And before you get pissed, I already talked to my man about doing a better job. He’s a newbie, though, and just learning the ropes.”

Figured. Dane wished he could cover all the bases himself, although that was virtually impossible. “What about the early morning hours yesterday?”

“He was at his cabin, left at six for a run,” Kimball said. “Went back and showered, then headed to the community center.”

Of course, he could have snuck out the back at some point.

Dane’s phone beeped, and he told Kimball to keep him posted, then connected the other call.

“Dane, it’s Peyton. You won’t believe what I learned about that plastic surgeon.”

Josie woke to the smell of coffee. Instead of the horrible nightmares that had plagued her for months, her dreams had been full of Dane in her bed making love to her.

If making love to him was that wonderful in her dreams, what would it be like in real life?

On the heels of that dream, the reason Dane had spent the night sent a chill through her.

Knowing they needed to get to work, she showered, then dressed in a skirt, sweater, and boots, uncertain what the day would hold.

Dane looked up as she entered, and she grabbed a cup of coffee and dumped sweetener in it, her body tingling at his perusal. Did he like what he saw?

A second passed, and his gaze returned to his computer.

She fought disappointment but chastised herself. The two murdered girls needed his attention more than she did. The killer could be stalking another victim now.

“That damn reporter Corbin Michaels wrote about the murders,” Dane said. “He’s named our killer the ‘Butcher.’”

Josie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good grief. Giving him a name will only pump up his ego.”

“I know. I’m ready to lock the jerk up until we’ve caught this unsub.”

Unfortunately they both knew he couldn’t do that, not unless Michaels broke the law.

“Did you get any sleep?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A little. Did you?”

Heat flushed her face, and she averted her gaze and scrambled for a couple of bagels to pop in the toaster.

“Josie?”

“Yes, I slept fine,” she said, feigning innocence. “What’s the plan for today?”

“We have a press conference at eight,” he said, not missing a beat. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

“Do you want to shower first?”

He raised a brow. “You don’t mind?”

No—she’d like to have showered with him. But she couldn’t tell him that.

She swiped at a bead of perspiration between her breasts. These close quarters and the trauma of another killer in town were driving her crazy. “Of course not. You have extra clothes?”

He pushed away from the table. “I keep a duffel bag in my car. Comes in handy on a case.”

“Right.” In spite of the heat simmering between them, he didn’t make a move to pursue it. She should admire him for his dedication to the job.

She reached in the refrigerator for eggs. “I’ll put together breakfast while you shower.”

He nodded, then walked past her, brushing her arm as he left the room. Josie ordered her libido under control. Dane was not interested in sleeping with her. Any attraction between them was simply on her part.

The shower water kicked on, eliciting an image of a naked Dane standing beneath the warm water. Of his broad shoulders dotted with water, his hair wet and slick, his sex jutting out, thick and hard.

Hunger spiraled through her. She wanted to join him. To forget that another maniac killer was in Graveyard Falls.

That the killer was connected to her.

Needing something to do with her hands, she toasted the bagels, then whipped up a couple of omelets with spinach, peppers, and onions. Dane probably liked breakfast meat, but she didn’t have bacon or sausage on hand.

Dane entered, freshly shaven, his hair still damp, his big body so masculine that she sucked in a breath.

They needed to eat and get moving before she did something impetuous and jumped his bones.