“Did you get a look at the guy’s face?” Agent Manning asked.
“No. It was too dark, and he was in the shadows.” She hesitated for a second, thinking. “I smelled him first….”
“What kind of smell?” Brad asked.
“Some kind of menthol aftershave,” she said. “It seemed familiar.”
Brad and his partner exchanged curious looks. “Where did you recognize it from?” Brad asked.
“I’m not sure.” Lisa twisted her fingers in her lap, the sickening odor familiar.
“Did Vernon Hanks wear that brand?” Agent Manning asked.
Lisa bit her lip and glanced at Brad, denial mounting. “No…William did.” She suddenly gripped Brad’s hands. “You don’t think he could still be alive, do you, Brad?”
BRAD CLASPED LISA’S HANDS between his own. “Lisa, I told you before, I saw White’s body myself. I went to the morgue just to make sure he was dead.”
And that you were safe.
The sound of another siren cut through the tension, the local police car roaring up.
Ethan cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll meet them outside.”
Brad nodded, then realized Lisa still wasn’t dressed. She seemed to realize it at the same time, and her face flushed. “Let me put on some clothes.”
He squeezed her hands, not quite ready to release her, but knowing he had to. “I’ll be in the other room.”
The rookie, Surges, and another officer, named Tandem, walked into the den. “Sorry it took us so long,” Surges said.
Brad glared at the men, cutting them off. “An intruder broke in. I want this place dusted for fingerprints, anything you can find. I need to know who it was.”
Surges lifted a piece of paper toward Brad. “I found this outside. It looks as if it was stuck on the door, but the wind blew it to the ground.
Brad unfolded the paper and grimaced.
Dear Lisa,
I have never stopped loving you.
I am coming back for you soon.
Then we’ll be together forever….
There was no signature.
Brad hissed in disgust, but his cell phone rang before he could ask more questions. He checked the number. Shit. Nettleton.
He walked to the window and stared out at the gray, mottled clouds rolling over the lake as he answered it. For days it had looked like rain, but the sky never delivered. It was almost as if God was taunting them with false promises, holding it back to make them suffer. “Agent Booker.”
“Booker, this is Wayne Nettleton—”
“I know,” Brad snapped. “What the hell do you want?”
“He has another woman. A girl named Darcy Mae Richards.”
DARCY MAE RICHARDS tried to open her eyes, but the maze of colors swirling in front of her made her dizzy. She blinked rapidly, then licked the corner of her lips, the cotton mouth from the drugs her assailant had given her gluing them together.
Where in the hell was she? And where had her attacker gone?
She listened, shivering at the sound of his voice. Was he on the phone? Or had he left the TV on?
The room spun and twirled like a merry-go-round, and she reached for the wall to steady herself, but her arms felt heavy and leaden and she could barely move. She was too nauseous to sit up.
Perspiration trickled down her cheeks. The heat was so unbearable that it felt as if the sun was beating her with its rays. But even though she was sweating like the dickens, an icy chill engulfed her.
What was he going to do to her?
She squeezed her eyes shut, although a mosquito buzzed close by, and something tickled her arm. Oh, God. It was a bug. Or a spider. Crawling up her skin. Inhaling a deep breath to steady herself, she opened her eyes again, trying to blink away the dizzying mirage of colors, but just as she did, the sound of a man’s eerie voice droned above her.
“Just a rose will do….”
It was an old religious hymn her granny Richards used to sing, one her family had sung at Granny’s funeral.
The same one that first Grave Digger killer had sung to his victims. She’d read about it in the paper the day before.
The night before drifted back in painful bursts of terror. Leaving that bar. Feeling woozy. Wondering if she was coming down with something, or if someone had slipped her that date rape drug. She’d known she had to get home fast, so she’d staggered to her car. Tried to get her cell phone and call her boyfriend to pick her up.
Then something had slammed against the back of her skull.
No wonder her head throbbed like hell.
She wiggled her fingers and tried to move again, but when her fingers connected with wood, pure horror flashed through her as realization dawned.
The sound of the voice, the singing, the wooden box…
She was trapped inside her own coffin.
She opened her mouth and screamed, blinding tears mingling with the sweat coating her cheeks. “Help me! Someone help me!”
But the effect of the drugs and dehydration had dried her vocal cords and robbed her voice of any power. She tried again, this time the weakness overcoming her as nausea rippled through her. She was going to die. Be buried alive.
Just like the other girls.
And her family would sing “Just a Rose Will Do” over her grave just as the killer was now.
Panic bubbled inside her, more hot tears spilling over.
Why her? Why now?
Darcy Mae Richards had always been a good girl. She listened to her mama. Didn’t go out at night by herself. Studied hard. Made good grades. Worked as a nurse.
And she was kind to the patients. Waited on them hand and foot. Carried their bedpans and helped ’em bathe, and she didn’t do it begrudgingly like some of the others who were burned out. No, she tried to be understanding and compassionate, put herself in the patient’s place.
She even went to church. Hadn’t missed a Sunday in years.
She had only gone to that bar to meet a girlfriend and plan a party for her fiancé’s birthday. She and Dennis were going to be married in a church wedding in the fall. The fall when it was cool, and the leaves all changed to reds, oranges and yellows, brightening the sky, and a breeze would lift her veil and feather cool air along her cheeks. Cool air she desperately needed now. Just as she needed water.
She was drowning in sweat. Heat was slowly sucking the life from her. And the bugs…there were more of them. Clawing at her arms and legs. Nibbling on her flesh.
The rest of the evening rolled back with vivid clarity. Her screaming when she’d awakened, tied to some ramshackle bed. Her struggling to escape when he’d laughed at her cries.
Her futile attempt to appeal to his conscience through prayer.
Dear God. He’d laughed at her tears. Told her no amount of praying was going to get her out of this one.
She’d tried all night, but this maniac had no emotions. When she’d mentioned the Lord, he’d actually proclaimed that he understood and believed.
Because he had risen from the dead just as Jesus had.
Except the devil possessed his body.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BRAD CURSED, then dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “When did you get the call?”
“About five minutes ago.”
“Did he say where the girl was?”
Nettleton hesitated. “No.”
“Listen, Nettleton, if you’re holding back, you’ll be sorry.”
The reporter cleared his throat. “He thanked me for running the pictures of Mindy Faulkner and Joann Worthy in the paper.”
“Sick bastard. He likes the attention, and you’re giving it to him.” Brad glanced at the bedroom door, dreading telling Lisa.
“If it wasn’t me, it would be another reporter,” Nettleton said. “And he chose me because White did.”
The verdict was still out on that. “Did he say anything else?” Brad asked. “Did you trace the call?”
“No, and no. He’s probably using those throwaway cells.” Nettleton paused.
“That’s what we’ve figured,” Brad admitted. In fact, the FBI had a tracker on Nettleton’s phone, but so far they’d failed to learn anything new.
“Do you know who this woman is?” Nettleton asked.
“You mean you don’t?” Brad headed to the desk to consult his files.
“She’s not one of the jurors who convicted him,” Nettleton said, proving he did know, that he was testing Brad. “Joann Worthy was called for jury duty that week, but she—”
“Got sick and was dismissed,” Brad finished. “We figured out the connection this morning and already have officers trying to locate and warn all the jurors, the judge and attorneys associated with the case.”
“So how does this Richards woman fit in?”
Brad scratched his chin. It didn’t make sense. Just when they thought they recognized a pattern, this guy had broken it. “I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure it out. Let me know if you hear anything else.”
He hung up without bothering to wait for a reply, then found Ethan overseeing the officers. Surges was dusting his front door, while Gunther worked the kitchen. Lisa reappeared, wearing a pair of denim shorts and a cotton T-shirt. Her hair still looked mussed, but she’d thrown it up in a ponytail. Coupled with the fact that she wore no makeup, she looked impossibly young and vulnerable.
Brad’s insides churned. “Bad news.”
Lisa folded her arms across her stomach. “He has another woman?”
Brad hesitated.
“Who is it?” Lisa asked.
“A woman named Darcy Mae Richards,” Brad said. “That was Nettleton on the phone. He just received the call.”
“Is she another juror?” Lisa asked.
“No. She was a nurse like Mindy, but she worked at St. Jude’s, not First Peachtree.”
Which didn’t make sense. White had never been taken to St. Jude’s. He’d died at First Peachtree where Langley worked.
LISA’S HAND FLUTTERED to her cheek. “We have to do something, Brad. We have to stop him.”
Brad asked Ethan to call the agent tailing Nettleton, then lifted his own hand, indicating the note Surges had found. “He left this on the door outside.”
Lisa’s complexion turned a pasty white. “Oh, my God. He
was
here.” She shook her head slowly, searching Brad’s face. “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t he attack me instead of running out?”
“He’s obviously playing some kind of sick game,” Brad said. “Taunting you. Us.”
“He wants me to watch him kill these women, like before. To feel guilty,” Lisa whispered.
Brad shrugged. “Don’t let him win by thinking that, Lisa. This isn’t your fault.”
“Maybe I should make a plea on TV,” she suggested. “You could use me as bait to lure him—”
“No.” Brad gripped her arms, gently shaking her. “Don’t even think about doing a foolish thing like that, much less suggest it.”
“But this is my fault,” she insisted. “I let William kill four women before, and now this guy is punishing me by doing it again.”
Brad took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “He’s killing these women because he’s psychotic, Lisa, because he likes the power and enjoys the game. You’re only a small part of the game. If it wasn’t you, he would have chosen another woman.” He rubbed her arms, hating that he couldn’t make this nightmare go away. “We’ll catch the sicko, I promise.”
“Booker,” Ethan interjected. “The guy tailing Nettleton lost him for a while last night.”
“Shit.”
“And I just talked to Rosberg. A local officer in Atlanta thinks he may have a lead on Curtis Thigs.”
“Good. Any news on White’s brother?”
“Not yet.”
Brad’s pulse kicked up a notch. “You take Thigs. I’ll check out Hanks’s half sister. And put someone else on Nettleton.”
Ethan nodded and headed to the door.
“I’m going with you,” Lisa said.
Brad considered leaving her with Surges and Gunther, but decided against it. He didn’t trust anyone with her safety but himself. He just hoped that Hanks’s sister knew where Vernon was hiding out.
And they could find him before this Richards woman ended up like Joann Worthy and Mindy.
AN OVERWHELMING SENSE of helplessness engulfed Lisa as the scenery passed. Suburban subdivisions were scattered along the road, as well as restaurants, strip shopping centers and a new elementary school, a sign that Atlanta’s growth continued even farther north. The rural areas and farmland were being bought to house crops of cookie-cutter houses instead of corn and wheat fields.
Brad’s expression remained an iron mask of control, but the fine lines around his eyes indicated fatigue. He hadn’t slept at all the night before. Had protected her. Had been tracking down leads.
And back in his cabin, he had come running to her aid the minute she’d called.
On some level, she realized she was simply part of the case to him. On another…she couldn’t help but be moved by his chivalrous behavior. By the touch of concern she’d heard in his voice when he’d calmed her. By the sliver of excitement she felt when he touched her.
She wanted him to see her as something besides a victim.
Yet how could she do that when she was linked to this new serial killer? When he was taking lives, killing women using the same method as William?
“You look exhausted,” she said softly. “You have to rest sometime, Brad.”
“When this bastard is caught,” he said in a low voice.
“Why do you keep working these cases?” She rubbed her hands together. In spite of the ninety-degree heat outside, they still felt chilled.
“It’s my job,” he said, as if he’d never questioned the reason he’d decided to be an agent.
“But one after the other, the murders, deaths, the violence…doesn’t it wear on you?”
His gaze fell on her again, this time lingering, softening even. “Sometimes.”
A quiet recognition dawned in the tension-filled minute that existed between them. Did he mean her case had disturbed him, or that she had?
As if he feared he’d revealed too much, he turned back to the road.
“I…admire your courage,” she said softly. “You save lives. And you never think about yourself, your own safety.”
“Don’t make me out to be some hero, Lisa.” He rammed his hand through his hair. “I’m not. If I was, I’d have stopped this maniac before he snatched another victim.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true, Brad. You’ve done everything humanly possible to catch him.” Sensing the underlying guilt and anguish behind his comment, she realized he wasn’t unaffected by the cases or detached as he appeared. He simply masked those emotions to finish the job.
Or maybe he cared too much. Maybe that’s what drove him.
She wondered again about his past, his childhood, and wanted to know more. To completely understand what made Brad tick. To soothe away the hurtful words of his foster parents and his own mother.
“He’s manipulating us both,” she commented instead. “He knows you’re a fighter, Brad, that you’re tough, and that you won’t give up until the end, just like you didn’t give up on me. And you did arrest William.” She traced a finger over his hands where they were clenched tightly around the steering wheel. “You won in the end, Brad. You will again.”
“But we can’t allow another woman to die,” he said in a gruff voice.
She squeezed the knotted muscle in his shoulder. He raised his hand and slid it over hers, then pulled it down beside him and held it in his lap. The warmth of his pants and body heated her, the tender way he enveloped her palm touching emotions deep inside her. She felt a connection with Brad that she’d never experienced with another man. Had felt it the day he’d rescued her from the grave. She’d missed that connection these last four years.
As they entered Norcross, she studied the small town, her hand still linked with Brad’s. The town was quaint, charming. Wooden and brick houses, several of them two-stories with big old-fashioned porches, boasted well-tended yards filled with impatiens, begonias, azaleas and magnolia trees. In spite of the drought, the lawns looked manicured, the houses freshly painted, the atmosphere reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell painting.
A sign for new homes pointed toward a street lined with antebellum reproductions that resembled a picture from
Gone with the Wind.
Railroad tracks lay at the heart of the town, with freight trains and Amtrak still using the system. A restaurant called The Station, complete with an outdoor covered patio, overlooked the tracks. The rest of the square consisted of two Italian restaurants, an art gallery, a pub and a hair salon. A mom-and-pop hardware store with Radio Flyer red wagons in the front window drew her eye, and she smiled. Across the tracks, a park complete with a playground for children held several young mothers with baby strollers and toddlers, and a couple of fathers with their children and dogs. They were enjoying the day, oblivious to the bitter violence that threatened their peace. With a pang of longing, Lisa remembered the kids she taught in Ellijay.
This was a beautiful little town to raise a family. Except for the apple trees, she might be in the mountain town she loved so much.
Brad spotted the side street and turned onto it, and Lisa noted the homes were closer together, less cared for, with weeds choking the grass, and wilted flowers. Finally, Brad parked at a blue frame house with red shutters. The paint was peeling as if the sun had blistered it, and a small row of marigolds bordering the front lawn needed watering. The grass had started to turn brown from the relentless heat as well, but a tricycle and plastic pool sat in the yard, as if the child who played with them offered hope for a better life.
“This is it,” Brad said as he cut the engine.
Lisa reached for the door handle. “I just hope Vernon’s sister can tell us where he is.”
“I TOLD YOU I don’t know where Vernon is.”
Brad fixed his intimidating stare on Jobeth Hanks Gunner, trying to read between the lines to determine if she was lying. She’d acted stunned when she’d opened the door and found him and Lisa on her doorstep, but she’d recovered quickly and invited them in, had even offered them iced tea and lemonade. A three-year-old boy named Freddy lay sleeping on a lumpy looking sofa in front of a swirling fan that did little to alleviate the stifling humidity.
“Why do you want to see him now?” Jobeth knotted her hands around the skirt of a faded sundress that hung off her bony frame.
“You’ve heard about the Grave Digger copycat crimes?” Brad asked.
Her eyes widened, age lines scattering along her young face as if she was ten years older than her birth certificate said. “Oh, my gosh. You don’t think Vernon had something to do with the murders, do you?” She glanced feverishly at Lisa. “You’re the woman who was buried alive, aren’t you? The one who testified in that first trial?”
Lisa nodded, her lips pressing together in a thin line. “Please, Jobeth, if you know anything about Vernon, you have to tell us.”
“Why?” The woman squared her shoulders. “So you can arrest my brother for something he didn’t do?” Anger hardened her weak voice. “I can tell you one thing—Vernon may have had his problems, but he ain’t no murderer. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Brad asked, ignoring her comment.
She folded her freckled hands together. “Well, reckon it’s been awhile. But he calls every now and then.”
“Where does he call from?” Brad asked.
“Mostly pay phones. He moved around a lot this last four years. Had some hard times.”
“What kind of hard times?” Brad asked, struggling to hold on to his patience.
“He…he had an accident about four years ago. Got scarred up pretty bad. Took off after that, hid out for a while.”
“His face was scarred?” Lisa asked.
“Yeah. But I never saw him after he was released from the hospital,” she said. “I felt bad for him, though. He was always self-conscious, you know. Shy. Thought he didn’t fit in.”
Brad nodded. He would have been even more so after an accident. “Did he have a job?”
“He picked up work here and there. I believe he applied for EMT school, but they turned him down.”
Hanks definitely fit the profile of the killer. “Did you know that he followed White around before White was incarcerated?”
She cut her gaze toward her son, and appeared deep in thought for a moment, as if exposing information about her brother posed an internal hurdle she wasn’t ready to cross.
“Please, Jobeth, two more women have been murdered,” Lisa exclaimed, “and this killer has kidnapped another one. You have to help us.”
An odd look flashed on Jobeth’s face, as if Lisa’s plea had pushed her over that hurdle. “Yeah, I knew,” she admitted. “Just like I knew he was obsessed with you.”
Lisa paled slightly, but recovered quickly and sipped her tea as if urging Jobeth to finish.
“When White first went to jail,” she continued, “Vernon used to visit him.”
Brad swallowed. White could have bragged to him about the crimes. “Did Vernon confide anything about their conversations? Maybe the place where he kept the women before he killed them?”
She shook her head. “Didn’t tell me that, and I didn’t ask. But he treated White like he was somebody to look up to.”
“Like a mentor?”
Jobeth shrugged.
“What else did he say?” Brad prompted.
“Well, he mentioned that White had a plan. That he talked about faking his death so he could escape the pen.”