An hour later, he and Lisa were at the precinct. Running on twenty-four hours without sleep, he chugged a cup of coffee while Lisa sat slumped in a chair in the corner, looking pale and exhausted. Lisa had begged him to have his head checked but Brad assured her he was fine.
Rosberg had already chewed him out in his office, threatened to call Brad’s superior at the bureau, and had phoned the hospital several times, but Hanks hadn’t yet regained consciousness.
The estimated time of death for Darcy Mae Richards had been 11:00 p.m. Nettleton had supposedly received the call around 11:30.
Hanks had attacked Lisa around midnight.
It was still possible that he was the killer.
Rosberg handed Brad a fax that had just come in. “This is from the prison.”
“White’s visitors.” Brad studied the series of shots. Two visitors. Wayne Nettleton a few weeks before White’s death. The other man, Vernon Hanks, aka Aiden Henderson, had visited White on two occasions. The last was the day White had died.
So Hanks had impersonated White’s brother. But why?
Lisa moved up beside him. “What are those?”
He showed her the photos. “That’s Vernon,” Lisa said.
“He pretended to be White’s brother.”
Lisa gasped, then pressed her hand over her mouth.
“What is it?” Brad asked.
“Vernon…there was something he said. I didn’t understand it at the time.” She lifted her face, met his eyes. “He said that he took care of William, that he did it for me so William would never bother me again.”
Brad’s mouth went dry. What had he meant?
White had died from a fight, and Vernon hadn’t been present. Still…other possibilities came to mind.
What if Hanks had paid someone to kill White, then decided to replace him by mimicking his crimes?
Brad punched in the chief coroner’s number. “This is Special Agent Booker. Have you confirmed White’s identity?”
“Yes,” Zaxberg said. “The man who was buried is definitely William White.”
Brad had known it all along, but still sighed in relief. “Did you check for drugs in White’s system? Something that might have caused his death, or caused him to be weakened so that he couldn’t defend himself in case of an attack?”
“No organ-damaging drugs,” the coroner said. “If he had, he wouldn’t have been able to donate them.”
Right. Brad scratched his head. He still didn’t understand why a sadistic killer would have given his organs for transplant. Then again, White had probably done so thinking he’d live on through the recipients.
But if Vernon hadn’t drugged White and caused his death, he must have paid someone in the pen to kill him.
LIAM LANGLEY STARED at his daughter’s picture in the early edition of the morning paper and nearly choked on his coffee. She had been attacked last night by that man named Vernon Hanks. Booker had come to the rescue.
And Darcy Mae Richards had been found dead. Another victim of the copycat Grave Digger.
Son of a bitch.
His heart pounding, he picked up the phone and dialed Lisa’s cell. He let it ring and ring, but she didn’t answer, so he called Booker.
“Special Agent Booker.”
“Liam Langley. Is my daughter with you?”
“Yes.”
“Is she all right?”
The agent hesitated. “Yes. She’s exhausted. We just returned from the precinct a few minutes ago. I’m trying to get her to lie down.”
“Let me speak to her.”
Booker grunted, then must have handed Lisa the phone.
“Dad?”
“Good God, Lisa, I saw the news. Why the hell didn’t you call me last night?”
“Because there was nothing you could do. Brad caught Vernon Hanks and…he’s in custody.”
“According to the paper, he’s unconscious.”
“Yes.”
“Good, then he can’t hurt you again.” He hesitated, knowing he had to see the man for himself. “Why don’t you have Booker bring you here. I have state-of-the-art security. You can rest in your old room. Let the housekeeper pamper you.”
“I’m fine here, Dad.”
Liam paced the room. “Listen, tell Booker that I talked to a friend of mine about Hanks’s medical records. He was in an accident four years ago. Went to rehab and had plastic surgery. The doctors said he claimed that someone had run him off the road, but then nothing ever came of it. He was on so much medication that the police thought he’d been hallucinating.”
“Vernon said that William ran him off the road.”
“What difference does that make?” Liam bellowed. “He was still stalking you, and killing these women.”
Lisa sighed, her voice low. “He never confessed, Dad. And he told me he didn’t kill them.”
“You really think he would have admitted to murder?”
“I don’t know. For some reason…” Lisa hesitated, then continued, “I just don’t know if he has the heart of a killer.”
Liam paused in front of his desk, stared at his daughter’s picture. Remembered her in that pink frilly dress when she was crowned Little Miss Magnolia. The way she’d squealed when her mother had given her that amethyst. Then at her mother’s funeral.
And all those Christmas photos with her dolls and toys afterward. When she’d looked so sad and lonely.
The photo from four years ago at the trial flashed back in his mind. And now another this morning. Why couldn’t all these crazies and that damn reporter leave her alone? Hadn’t she suffered enough?
“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for this lunatic,” Liam said between gritted teeth. “My God, Lisa, didn’t you learn anything from what happened with White?”
“I’m sure Brad will find out the truth when Vernon wakes up,” Lisa said stiffly.
If he wakes up,
Liam thought, already stuffing his wallet into his slacks. And he didn’t intend to wait on Booker. He intended to pay Vernon Hanks a visit himself.
The man wasn’t going to attack his little girl and get away with it, not without dealing with him.
A half hour later, he’d convinced the officer stationed at Hanks’s hospital room door to let him in. Liam’s stomach churned as he approached the bed.
Vernon Hanks was a pitiful looking man. Thin. Wiry hair. Pale freckled skin. A man who looked as if he’d tried to work out and build muscles, but the rail-thin angular features had never quite filled out as he’d wanted. Liam had read the man’s medical files.
Vernon had an irregular heartbeat.
All it would take was a simple shock, maybe even a little shot of the wrong drug or a miscalculated dosage, and he would go into cardiac arrest.
After all, Liam had crossed the line once, with William White. Would this be any different?
HE WAS SO WEARY. He tried to move his hand to press it to his chest, but he couldn’t lift it. Fatigue weighed him down. He needed sleep. Needed to climb into that dark hole where his mind allowed him to forget what he’d done. Forget that his second chance at living had turned into a nightmare from which he had to run.
Darcy Mae Richards had been one of the women who’d carved out his heart.
Just like Joann Worthy. And Mindy Faulkner.
And Lisa.
Everything came back to Lisa. Lisa tattling to that special agent Booker. Lisa taking the stand against him. Lisa turning him away and looking at him like he was a monster.
In the haze of gray murky light enveloping him, he saw Dr. Langley. First condemning him. Then hovering above him. His surgical mask in place. His eyes peering at him as if he was looking into his soul. His hand poised and ready to kill him or save his life.
But he’d carved him open just as the women had.
Then the third day he’d risen from the dead.
The new soul drove him forward.
And he’d come back for them all. Only they hadn’t recognized him. No one had. But he had frozen images of each of them in his mind.
Joann, Mindy, Darcy Mae. Lisa.
It always came back to Lisa.
He had wanted her way back when.
He had never stopped loving her.
He had come back from the grave to get her.
And she
would
be his.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LIAM LANGLEY’S HANDS shook with the effort not to choke Vernon Hanks, the temptation to end the man’s life warring with his conscience. Booker had done a number on the man, beaten him until his face was swollen and discolored.
Begrudgingly, Liam realized he owed the agent thanks. Too bad Booker hadn’t finished off Hanks. From what he knew, Booker could be a pretty cold killer. Until White had come into his life and destroyed his daughter, Liam had never understood the pleasure in the kill.
Now he did.
Seven days and nights of pure torture while he’d waited on the cops to find Lisa, agonizing minutes of not knowing, of wondering what kinds of things that sick man was doing to her. Of imagining her helpless, hurting, lying in that homemade grave, dying of thirst and lack of oxygen. Of being terrified that she was dead and gone forever.
White should have died the same way. But White had had it easy.
And Liam had known then that White’s life had to count for something. That he deserved to die.
Just like Vernon Hanks did now.
The machinery keeping him alive droned in the deafening silence, the steady drip of the IV a reminder that it would be so easy to feed Hanks a death serum. Liam unknotted his fists, then shoved his right hand into his pocket to remove a hypodermic just as Hanks’s eyelids fluttered. A cold sweat exploded on Liam’s neck. If he was going to do this, now was the time.
Hanks’s eyes were opened at half mast, mere slits between the swollen purple-and-blue bags cradling his irises.
“You tried to kill my daughter,” Liam said coldly.
Hanks narrowed the slits, obviously disoriented.
“Give me one reason I should let you live.”
“I…I wouldn’t hurt Lisa.” He paused, wheezing for a breath. “I love her….”
Liam’s hand moved, gripping the hypodermic tighter, but the door squeaked open.
“Liam?”
He froze, Gioni’s silky, worried voice washing over him. “I knew I’d find you here.” Her footsteps padded toward him, and she pressed one hand to his back. “What are you doing?”
He lifted his shoulders slightly, his gaze locking with Hanks’s as the man struggled to stay conscious.
“He attacked my daughter last night.” Liam slid the hypodermic back inside his pocket. “The police think he’s the Grave Digger.”
Hanks shook his head from side to side, his eyes rolling up in his head, then closing as if he couldn’t fight the battle any longer.
“Leave me for a minute,” Liam said quietly.
“No.” Gioni stepped around to face him, then captured his hands in hers. “You have to let the police handle this, Liam. Let them do their jobs.”
“But you don’t understand.” His voice cracked with emotions. “This man tried to hurt my daughter, and I didn’t protect her. He doesn’t deserve to live—”
“That’s not your decision,” Gioni said in a low voice. “Don’t let him destroy who you are, Liam. You’re a healer, a saver of lives.”
“It’s too late,” he replied, his chest swelling. “I crossed the line with White, and I can’t go back.”
“That was different,” Gioni said. “Just think about it, Liam. What would Lisa want you to do?”
CURTIS THIGS LOPED from the bathroom into Chartrese’s bedroom, buck naked and feeling randy. He had punished Chartrese for threatening to phone the police.
And now he had her right where he wanted her.
She’d recanted her accusations. Pleaded and begged for him to forgive her. And spread her legs for him time and time again.
It was funny how a man got used to jerking off in prison. But when he had a prime, juicy piece of woman to sink himself into, the hand job held no appeal.
Maybe this time he’d make Chartrese use her mouth. Deny her the satisfaction of holding his cock inside her until she pleasured him.
Teach her that he should always come first….
A laugh rumbled from his chest at the double meaning.
He rubbed at the scar on his chest, then watched Chartrese push the tangle of hair from her eyes as she studied him from the unmade bed. The top sheet lay on the floor, a quilt dangling from the foot of the bed where he’d kicked it off in his haste to drag her beneath him.
Her big eyes looked up at him, terrified. She was wondering if he was the Grave Digger. His dick twitched and grew thicker. He liked that fear in her eyes. That respect she gave him.
Not like that pansy-ass, White. He hadn’t been able to get it up with the women.
Curtis Thigs didn’t have that problem. At least not with Chartrese.
Granted, he’d lost it a few times in his life. And those women had suffered for it.
Just as White had made them pay for not being able to please him.
He stalked toward Chartrese, then stopped in front of the bed.
She twirled a strand of that fire-engine-red hair around a finger. “You want to go again, honey?”
He grinned. Chartrese might have considered leaving him while he was in the joint. But he was back now. And she was a quick study.
“Yeah, baby.” He threaded his fingers in her hair, then dragged her head down toward him. She made a whimpering sound, then crawled to her hands and knees and closed her mouth around his length.
Seconds later, a pounding at the door jarred him, and he froze, his hand still pressed to Chartrese’s head. He ignored the sound, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, willing the noise to stop. But the pounding grew louder.
He cursed, pushed Chartrese back on the bed and ordered her to stay. Then he grabbed his jeans, shucked them on and strode toward the door to get rid of the intruder. When he opened the door, he realized he’d made a mistake.
“Curtis Thigs?”
He muttered another curse. This guy had FBI written all over him.
“Special Agent Manning.” The fed flashed his badge. “You’re under arrest for violation of parole.”
“What?”
“You failed to show up for your parole meeting. I’m taking you in.”
“Since when does the goddamn FBI care about me and my parole officer?”
“Since you became a suspect in the copycat Grave Digger killings.”
“Curtis?”
He glanced back and saw Chartrese standing in the doorway, belting a robe.
“This is bullshit, baby.” He gestured toward the bedroom. “Stay right there. I’ll be back soon.”
He grabbed a shirt off the edge of the chair, then went with the agent, planning his story in his head. Chartrese would give him an alibi for the past week, he was sure of that.
In fact, if she knew what was good for her, she’d lie for him without him even having to ask.
BRAD TRIED TO PERSUADE Lisa to rest, but the conversation with her father had upset her, and she’d been pacing the small den ever since. Her strained relationship with Liam Langley disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. He wished her father could see that and make things right.
Brad would help her if he could.
But Liam Langley would never accept him. Just as his parents and those foster parents never had.
The fresh bruises he’d gotten from beating Hanks mocked him with the realization that Lisa’s father was right about him. His hands were too dirty to touch Lisa again.
His phone rang, and he rushed to answer it, hoping it was the hospital, that Hanks had awakened and confessed. Then he could put this case to rest.
Ethan’s voice echoed over on the line. “I heard you caught Vernon Hanks.”
“Yeah.” Brad scrubbed a hand over the rough stubble on his jaw. “He attacked Lisa.”
“No confession?”
“Not yet.”
“I lucked out tonight, too. Curtis Thigs is in custody.”
“You’re shittin’ me?”
“No. He’s at the precinct right now being booked for parole violation.”
“Did you get a chance to question him?”
“Yeah, but no confession either. Claims he has an alibi for the nights the women were killed, that his wife will verify his statement.”
“Damn it. At least hold him twenty-four hours.”
“Done.” Ethan hesitated. “Listen, Rosberg said something about Hanks maybe setting up White’s death.”
“Yeah, it looks that way.”
“Thigs admitted that a couple of the brothers in the joint had been buying drugs from Hanks. Apparently he gave them prescription painkillers he’d received after his surgeries, and they were getting high.”
“And the trade-off?” Brad asked.
“According to Thigs, they were supposed to take care of White.”
Brad whistled. “So, it’s looking more and more like Hanks is our perp.”
“Either way, at least both our prime suspects are in custody. Sooner or later, one of them will confess.”
Brad hung up and glanced at Lisa. He hoped to hell they did have the killer. Or Lisa still wasn’t safe.
LISA COULDN’T SLEEP. Long after she’d hung up the phone, her father’s comment gnawed at her.
Hadn’t she learned anything from William?
Yes, she’d learned not to trust men. She’d hidden away from life. She’d shut herself off from a future.
But she was still alive. She’d been lucky. Given another chance. The other victims hadn’t.
And she couldn’t let them down—she had to make that chance count.
“Lisa, are you all right?”
Brad’s husky voice skated over her raw nerve endings. Soothing. Sultry. Evoking desire.
But she felt so dirty from Vernon’s touch. And then the stifling heat and stench of Darcy Mae’s grave site.
“Lisa, please lie down for a while. You need some rest.”
“So do you.”
Brad merely shrugged. She ached for him to come to her, hold her, make love to her, but he made no move.
“I’d like to shower first,” she said softly, wishing he would join her.
He simply nodded and turned away, busying himself making coffee. She couldn’t push him now, not with Darcy Mae’s death so fresh. But she wouldn’t give up on Brad Booker, either.
Resigned to give him time, she ducked inside the bedroom, but the sight of her clothes still strewn across the white comforter sent a shudder through her. She couldn’t wear those things, not after Vernon had touched them.
She stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water and soap cleanse her of the stench of death, then she shampooed her hair and rinsed it, scrubbing her scalp to ease the tension. Finally, she towel dried her hair and wrapped another towel around her. After combing through the wet strands, she went into the den, where Brad stood at the French doors, breathing in the fresh air. Lisa could hear waves rippling against the shore from a boater who had headed out to fish.
She strode forward, hesitating a fraction of a second when he stiffened, then reached up and placed her hand on his back. “Brad?”
“Go to bed, Lisa.”
She closed her eyes, willed her courage to remain. “I…can’t sleep in that room. Not now.”
His head jerked toward her. Anguish darkened his eyes, but understanding filled them, too.
“Take my bed,” he said in a husky voice.
“Lie down with me,” Lisa whispered. “You need some rest, too.”
He swallowed, his eyes slanting downward, lingering a second on the towel around her. She felt her nipples tighten, the familiar stir of desire bubbling in her stomach.
“I have to clean up first.” His voice sounded harsh, but she understood the need to wash away the dirtiness of the night. He lifted a finger to the damp ends of her hair, brushed them away from her cheek. Her breath hitched in her throat.
But he pulled back, then turned and strode into the bathroom. Lisa leaned against the open doorway, inhaling the sultry air as the sun rose in its glory. Today would be another scorching one. The blistering heat would kill more grass, cause more flowers to die.
But if Vernon was the copycat killer, then maybe this streak of violence would end and no more women would lose their lives.
Still, she couldn’t shake her gut feeling that Vernon wasn’t the killer, that he had been sincere in his denial of the crimes. But as her father had reminded her with William, she hadn’t believed he was a killer at first, either.
Not until she’d found those clippings of the women’s fingernails, and he’d taken her as one of his victims….
SOMETHING WAS BOTHERING Liam about the victims.
He’d accessed all of Vernon Hanks’s medical files, which had made him start thinking about Lisa’s comment.
Hanks didn’t have the heart of a killer.
Liam had read some research on the criminal mind in med school, had always been fascinated by the discussion of whether criminal behavior was inherited or learned. When White had gone to trial, he’d studied the man’s medical records as well as his psychological profile. For some morbid reason, he’d wanted to try to understand why the man had murdered four women and almost killed his own daughter.
White had been traumatized and abused as a child. If he had genetic problems, they hadn’t shown up. A severe injury, trauma to his head, had caused his bipolar disorder. Coupled with that and the abuse he’d suffered, he’d become a full-fledged sociopath.
But what if the tests had been wrong or inconclusive? What if White had some genetic abnormality that had predisposed him to become a serial killer? Liam had heard various views on the possibilities, seen data supporting the theory….
He stared at the photo of Darcy Mae Richards in the paper, tapping his memory banks. Darcy Mae had worked at St. Jude’s…was it possible?
With a sense of foreboding tightening his chest, he picked up the phone and dialed a colleague of his at St. Jude’s.
As the questions formed in his mind, he shuddered. They couldn’t be true.
Because if they were, then he had not only crossed the line with White, but he had set the wheels in motion for him to be reborn and kill again….