Free of the nightmares that haunted her.
Thirty minutes later, after she’d greeted each of her students with a hug and given Ruby Bailey, her assistant, instructions for setting up the daily art activity, she gathered the group into a circle for their morning share time.
“Miss Lisa,” four-year-old Jamie said in a low voice. “I had a bad dream last night.”
Lisa patted the little girl’s back, grateful she’d finally opened up to share. For the first three weeks in her class, she’d barely spoken. “Tell us about it, Jamie.”
The other children waved their hands, anxious to speak.
“I had a bad dream wast night, too,” exclaimed Sandy, a towheaded girl who hadn’t learned to say her
L
s.
“I have bad dreams all the time,” Louis yelled. “But my mama says they’re not real.”
“They are too real,” Jamie mumbled.
“Mine was about spiders,” Sandy said. “Icky spiders with a miwwion-triwwion wegs.”
“I dreamed about being a princess,” Peggy said.
“I wants to be Spiderman for Halloween,” Davie Putnam said.
“Halloween’s not for a long time,” Billy Lackey shouted.
“Let’s let Jamie finish first, then the rest of us can share,” Lisa said, gently steering them back on track. “Jamie, Louis is right, dreams aren’t real, but sometimes they feel real, don’t they?”
Sandy scrunched her nose. “The spiders felt reawl. Wike they were crawwing on me.”
Lisa squeezed Sandy’s hand. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t like spiders, either.” She turned back to Jamie. “Is that how you felt, Jamie? Like the monster was right there with you?”
Jamie bobbed her head up and down, her lower lip trembling. Sandy scooted over and put her arm around Jamie. “It’s awright.”
Probably a remnant of her own therapy, but Lisa had learned that if she allowed the children to express their anxiety first thing in the morning, their entire day went smoother. “Tell us the rest of the nightmare, Jamie. Sometimes if you talk about your bad dreams, they go away.”
“There was a big ugly monster hiding under my bed.” Jamie’s eyes widened. “He had green hair and black teeth and scales all over his body!”
“Eww.” Several kids shrieked, while Roddy Owens, a big kid with a devilish streak, mocked them.
“Scaredy-cats. Scaredy-cats.”
Lisa lifted a warning hand. “Roddy, we don’t make fun of others for how they feel.”
The voice of the therapist she’d seen after the attack echoed in her head.
Emotions aren’t always rational. You simply have to learn to control your reactions.
“What happened next, Jamie?” Lisa asked.
“He grabbed my feet, and he dragged me under the bed.” Jamie wrapped her arms around her waist. “It was so dark. I don’t like the dark.”
Lisa hugged her. “A lot of people are afraid of the dark, honey. Maybe you could ask your parents to get you a night-light. I sleep with one myself.”
“You do?” Jamie said. A few of the children seemed surprised, then others piped in.
“I gots a night-light,” Kelly Ames claimed. “It’s a Cinderella one.”
“I got one shaped like a spaceship,” Ernie Walker squealed. “With sparkly colors on it.”
Lisa relaxed as the children shared, the morning racing by as they broke into groups for play activities. Finger painting was on the agenda for the day, so she tied an apron around her front to protect her clothing. Art was her favorite activity, and although Ruby sometimes complained of the mess, Lisa loved it. The kids could express themselves and their creativity while having fun and learning how to mix colors.
By one o’clock, when the class left for home, she was exhausted, but her spirits were high as she studied the colorful, bright pictures the children had painted. She and Ruby tacked them on the bulletin board.
Ruby laughed good-naturedly. “Wow, we have everything from bugs to barrettes.”
Lisa smiled at Sandy’s rendition of spiders, although Jamie’s interpretation of her monster disturbed her. Could that monster be real? Maybe a parent abusing her?
Or was she overreacting? Letting her own distrust of men make her suspicious?
“Ruby, do you know anything about Jamie’s family?”
Ruby frowned. “Just that her mother died last year.”
That’s right. Lisa remembered the single parent status from her file, although Jamie never spoke of it. “What about her father?”
“He’s a contractor, works long hours, but I hear he’s very loving. He’s a deacon at the church.”
Hmm. Maybe the monster wasn’t her father. Maybe a manifestation of Jamie’s fear of being alone, of losing her mother.
Lisa’s heart squeezed. She’d lost her own mother when she was about Jamie’s age. She’d make it a point to pay extra attention to the little girl.
After all, Jamie was only five. She should have childish fears.
But Lisa should be conquering hers.
NEARLY A WEEK HAD PASSED since they’d discovered the first victim of the copycat Grave Digger.
A week that had brought them no closer to finding the killer.
A week of thinking about Lisa Langley and wondering if she was all right.
Sure, Brad had the locals check on her. Physically, she was fine.
But was she really healing? Moving on with her life?
From his reports, she seemed to be. So why was he so damn nervous? Why had he been unable to sleep for the past six nights, wondering if she’d heard the news of the Atlanta woman’s abduction and death? If for some reason this new killer would come after her.
He knew for a fact that she didn’t read the paper anymore, that she rarely watched the news. That the least criminal behavior triggered her paranoia, when she was struggling so hard to recover.
But what if she had heard and was frightened? Lying in bed wondering why he hadn’t been the one to inform her a copycat had left White’s signature?
Would Lisa call him if she knew?
He’d left his number, told her countless times to phone him if she needed him.
Had hoped that she might so he could hear that soft, sultry voice of hers.
God, you’re sick. As if you’d have something to offer.
You’re Brad Booker, a bastard child. A man who’s seen the most abysmal side of life. A man who’s killed without blinking twice.
A man who should have protected her but let her down.
The clock chimed midnight, the hours ticking by a constant reminder that another victim might be taken any minute. That this case was a chance for him to redeem himself in the eyes of his superiors. He’d been walking a tightrope ever since the White disaster. And this time he had to toe the line. Prove the hard-edged agent was still in control. Methodical. Able to compartmentalize. Stay detached.
Reeling with frustration, he climbed from bed, wiped at the perspiration on his neck and opened the French doors of his cabin, aching for the quiet lull of the lake outside. The heat blasted him, though, insects swarming on the patio, being fried by the insect zapper he’d hung from the railing. He watched them dive toward it, circle the light, be drawn to its brightness. Then he heard the sizzle as they met their death.
Just as he would ruthlessly take down the killer.
As he’d done before.
What would Lisa think if she knew about his past?
He shook off the thoughts. The case was all that mattered.
The first Grave Digger, White, had chosen all brunettes. That is, until Lisa. But Lisa’s abduction had been about revenge. Silencing her for reporting him to the police. Not the same motive as the others.
The first victims had fit the same profile, had all been grad students in their twenties. Brunettes just like White’s mother.
Grave Digger #2 had started with a brunette, too, although she wasn’t a student. She was a professional. Would this new guy deviate even more from the pattern as time progressed?
The mangy mutt that hung around the lake stood near the woods, his skittish gaze connecting with Brad’s. The poor dog looked more like a lone wolf in the shadows, his gray coat matted and nasty. He had obviously been abused and would hardly come near Brad, which was fine with him. He didn’t want or need anyone depending on him.
Still, from time to time he left food and water on the porch so the damn dog wouldn’t starve.
He’d forgotten tonight. The dog hadn’t.
Of course, the animal looked as if he’d expected it would come to this. That Brad would let him down.
Grumbling beneath his breath, Brad went to the kitchen, retrieved the dog food, then brought it to the back porch, filled the bowl and put clean cold water in another. His cell phone trilled, and he tensed, his hand hesitating before he shoved the dog food bag inside and grabbed the phone off the end table. Just as he feared, Ethan’s number appeared. He clicked in. “Yeah?”
“He has another victim,” his partner said, deadpan. “That reporter, Nettleton, called it in.”
Brad shut the French doors, yanking on his jeans and a shirt. “I’m sure Nettleton’s eating up the story just like the first GD case.”
“Yeah, and Booker, you’re not going to like it.”
He was reaching for his gun, but froze, clenching the phone with a white-knuckled grip. “Lisa Langley?”
“No, Mindy Faulkner.”
God, no. Brad staggered backward, a sick feeling in his stomach. He’d met Mindy when he’d questioned her at the hospital after White had died. She was an E.R. nurse, but she hadn’t been on duty that night. He’d dated Mindy a few times after White’s trial. Had thought by sating himself with another female he’d forget this insane lust toward Lisa.
It hadn’t worked.
But Jesus, he didn’t want Mindy dead or suffering, either.
His gut clenched as he jammed his gun in his holster and rushed to his car, the reality of his job returning, reminding him of another reason he didn’t get involved with women. Being close to him put them in danger.
Was the killer someone he knew? What if he’d chosen Mindy because of him?
HER SHRILL CRIES shattered the peace he craved, the screeching sound echoing off the concrete walls and boomeranging through the ventilation.
She had been crying all night.
Scratching at the walls. Beating on the floor. Howling like an animal.
As if she thought someone might hear.
A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. If she only knew that her attempts were wasted. Futile. That she was so far away from another house that no one would ever know she was here. Not unless he wanted them to….
A sharp pain splintered through his head, and he gripped his temple, doubling over, rocking back and forth to stem the mind-numbing intensity.
What was wrong with him?
He’d been sick before, had his share of medical problems and doctors, but he’d never had headaches before. Never felt this excruciating agony.
Yet he was emboldened by the pain. Empowered just knowing that life and death were both only a heartbeat away.
The air in his lungs grew tight, and he wailed in anguish, the blinding fury that drove him erupting as he tore down the steps. He stumbled. Hit the edge. Grabbed the rail for security.
Another shrill scream pierced the air, reverberating through his head, slicing into his skull as if knives were carving into his brain matter, digging through the frontal lobe and picking at his cerebrum.
He cursed, bile rising in his throat as another scream rent the air. She wouldn’t shut up.
Not unless he made her.
The pain in his head intensified, throbbing relentlessly. He grabbed his skull, sweat pouring off his body as a dizzy spell nearly overtook him. It was so damn hot he needed a drink of water. It was almost as if the heat had sucked the life from him, clouded his brain, dried out all his senses.
A litany of curse words flew from his tongue, vile and loathing comments on mankind in general, especially women. He hated his weakness.
Didn’t she know that he couldn’t take it? That he needed rest. Quiet. Time for the medication to settle.
That without it, she wouldn’t live another minute. That it was all her fault he’d been sick.
A cool darkness bathed the interior downstairs. Shadowy streaks of cobwebs dangled in the black corner. Rage seared through him as he spotted her lying on the floor, begging. Her blond hair spilled around her bare shoulders, her breasts lay waiting, supple and distended, her legs curled toward her belly to conceal her secrets.
“Please let me go,” she whimpered.
He staggered and flattened his hands on the wall, then watched her through the bars of her prison. Her face was milky-white, void of color, her eyes two red-rimmed, swollen cages holding small, listless green orbs. Perspiration coated her entire body.
“Lisa?”
“No… Please let me go.”
Tiny black-and-white lights flashed intermittently like shadowy dots, frozen in front of his eyes. Remnants of memories exploded into his consciousness. Memories that seemed foreign. Memories of another woman coming toward him. Beating him nearly to death. The cries of a terrorized child following. The pain in his chest.
A small dark room, so small he could barely move. Blood seeping down his arms. The smell of urine. A man’s voice echoed loud and threatening. “You don’t deserve to live.”
Then he was someplace else. In the dirt, dying. No, a hospital.
A nurse’s face rose above him from the grave.
Angelic. Making promises. She was there to save him.
The smile faded.
Then she was gone. The pain returned. The lights dulling. The sound of the woman’s voice crying.
“Please, please let me go. I’m not Lisa.”
He reached out and unlocked the door, the key jangling against the metal as she shrank into the corner like a child. Simpering. Feeble. Weak. A coward.
She’d done nothing but beg and try to bargain with him.
No, she wasn’t Lisa. Lisa was innocent. Sweet. Caring. Even during the trial, she’d been perfect.
Exactly the kind of woman he wanted.
And in good time he would have her.
For now, though, he’d have to satisfy himself with this woman. Mindy.
“Come here, sweetheart.” He lowered his voice. Turned on the charm. “I won’t hurt you. Let me make it all better.”