Profile of Retribution: FBI Profiler Romantic Suspense (Profile Series #3) (22 page)

He thought of the families of the girls who were murdered. What would he have done if the circumstances were exchanged, and the police had informed him that his daughter had been tortured, murdered and then tossed aside as if she were trash? He would have reacted as they did. He would have grieved for the daughter he lost, and his would be the loudest voice to seek punishment, preferably execution, of the men who’d killed her. Would Bradley Lucas seek retribution? Hell, yes. He’d want the parents of the killers to hurt as much as he was hurting. He’d want them to pay for spawning monsters.

But he wasn’t told that his daughter had died at the hands of killers. He was told that his sons were the ones who had murdered their daughters, sisters, mothers, or wives. And as much as he tried initially to deny it, the reality was the sons he’d loved since the day they were born had turned into serial killers.

A ping from his cell phone reminded him it was time for the next session to start. Making a mental note to call Tisha again that evening, he left the room and headed for the elevator.

Chapter Forty-three

Guilt, Shame and Payback

Though more thunderstorms were predicted for the evening, the day was glorious as Tisha walked slowly toward her mailbox, checking her flower beds and trees along the way. In one bed, her daffodils bloomed, while her tulips pushed their way back up through the dark soil. Cherry blossoms were heavy on the branches of two trees in front of the house, and the lilac bushes would burst into fragrant blooms any day now. She inhaled deeply the floral scents, the newly turned earth for her vegetable gardens, and the clean damp smell left behind by the rain the night before.

Pulling four pieces of correspondence from the mailbox, she sifted through the stack to find three bills and one letter with no return address. Her stomach clenched as she thought of letters of the past from anonymous people who spewed their hatred into the written word. Right after the discovery of the storage unit and the murders, the letters came by the hundreds, some with the hopes their sons would burn in hell, and others bearing religious scriptures. Tisha debated whether or not she would read the letter.

Reaching the house, she went inside, and headed toward the kitchen, where she poured herself a strong cup of coffee. Sitting at the breakfast table, Tisha separated the bills from the personal letter, which she laid out separately to study the handwriting as she sipped her coffee and tried to decide whether she would open it. Curiosity won out, and she sliced open the first envelope with a long fingernail and pulled out the letter, whispering a prayer that it not be from David109.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lucas,

I’ve heard about the threatening notes and damage to your home and business as a result of someone seeking retribution for the acts of your sons. I’m sorry this is happening to you.

I know you must be mourning for your sons as much as I am grieving for my sister. I believe you loved your sons as much as I loved Abby. I’m sure you raised them as best you could and wanted them to become the best of men. I don’t think what was broken in them was anyone’s fault. Certainly not yours.

Anyway, I just want you to know that I’m sorry about the notes and the damage.

Kaitlyn Reece

Tisha remembered the name “Abby Reece” from the news coverage when the girl went missing. Abby was a beautiful girl who attended Purdue University and had her whole life ahead of her before Tisha’s sons decided to cut it short. Her nude body had been posed by her boys in a filthy alley outside a bar. Huge tears flooded down her cheeks, as Tisha’s mouth crumpled in a wail of pain and anger. With her arms wrapped around herself, she rocked back and forth in the chair as emotional pain closed in on her, the weight of her shame crushing her chest so she could barely breathe.

Nightfall was announced with a clap of thunder that rattled the windows and shook the house as if a bomb had gone off in the front yard. The wind picked up and Tisha pulled open the blinds to look outside. The treetops bent sideways as small branches became missiles that bulleted against the windows. Just as Tisha turned on the television for a weather report, she heard a crackling sound of lightning striking something nearby. The power went out, leaving the den where she sat in complete darkness. She fumbled around in an end-table drawer until she found a book of matches, then lit the candle in a hurricane candleholder nearby. Carrying it into the kitchen, she found a flashlight in a drawer to illuminate her way to the bar, where she pulled a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio out of Bradley’s wine cooler and a crystal wine glass from the cabinet. Making her way to her bedroom, she placed the wine and glass on her bedside table and then lit her favorite clean-linen scented candle, which she carried to her bathroom. Running hot water into her bathtub, she stripped off her clothes and soaked for a good thirty minutes as the storm raged outside, trying her best to forget Kaitlyn’s letter, her sons’ crimes, the mystery of rearranged furniture, and photographs traveling from the basement to the fireplace mantel in the living room. Perhaps she was drinking too much and her mind was playing tricks on her. Not that she planned to drink any less tonight. Lord knows she needed the alcohol to put her into a deep sleep until morning. Bradley was due back tomorrow afternoon, and as angry as she was at him, Tisha was grateful to have him return so she wouldn’t be alone in the house.

Getting out of the tub, she dried herself off with a thick, soft towel and went into her darkened bedroom to pull a bra and panties out of her lingerie drawer. Slipping them on, she’d turned to go back to the bathroom when a sudden, sharp pain fired from her neck, shot through her body. Tisha cried out as her legs collapsed and she dropped to the floor. Her entire body started jerking with agony as spasms racked her muscles. Her vision blurred as paralysis overwhelmed her muscles and she went completely rigid. Yet she was cognizant of everything around her, like the huge man in her bedroom wearing the black ski mask who brought the candle from the bathroom and set it down on her dresser. He then picked her up, carried her to her bed and used silver duct tape to secure her arms to the headboard and her ankles to the footboard. Next he carefully stretched the duct tape across her mouth to silence her, but made sure it was not close enough to her nose so that she couldn’t breathe.

Still unable to move, her eyes followed the man as he eased himself down into the upholstered armchair next to the bed, looking as if he were going to relax and read a good book. Instead, he placed a plastic gun-like object on the table. Stun gun? He used a stun gun on her? He crossed his arms over his massive chest and scrutinized her from head-to-toe and back again. A hot wave of shame and embarrassment washed over her as she realized she wore only a lacey bra and a pair of silk bikini panties.

This could not be happening. It was a nightmare like before when she thought he was standing at the foot of her bed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted to five, certain that when she opened them he’d be gone. Wrong.

Slowly, her muscles came to life and she pulled against the duct tape holding her arms. She angled her head toward Bradley’s drawer where she’d placed his handgun. She had to get to it. There had to be a way.

“Looking for this?” The man held up Bradley’s gun in his large hand. “Always wanted a genuine Sig Sauer. Thank you, Mrs. Lucas. Nice gift.”

The scream that roared in her throat was cut short by the duct tape.

Chapter Forty-four

Cameron

Unable to sleep, Cameron lay with his arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling in the dim light provided by his oil lamp. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep as he could hear the footfalls of Gabe and Kaitlyn from the floor above him. This wasn’t surprising since the storm roared on and Kaitlyn had a longtime fear of thunder and lightning.

He thought of Carly’s profile of David109. She said it was likely the man harassing the Lucas couple had a criminal record for assault, vandalism, and/or stalking. Carly also thought his suspect was not afraid to get confrontational and physical. He’d done it before.

The power still off, Cameron got out of bed and fired up his laptop, thankful he had enough battery left to do the job. Accessing his work online accounts, he reviewed the criminal background results he’d gotten for each suspect.

There was Tate Green with that pending court date for the assault charge he’d earned when he punched the CSN reporter. Next on the list was Dwayne Black, who had a couple of drunken and disorderly convictions from thirty years ago. Nothing since. Thomas Engle, Jr. had an assault conviction from the time he’d punched a customer at the strip club where his wife, Marie, worked. None of these men had much of a history of violence. No stalking charges, either.

Even though Val Staley’s parents, Alan and Gina, lived in Chicago and had dodged his suspect list with alibis, he ran Alan through the system. Clean as a whistle. Not even a parking ticket.

Cameron ran the last name through the system and hit pay dirt as the criminal charges and convictions streamed down his computer screen for three long pages. It was a virtual history of assaults, vandalism, and aggravated stalking of an ex-wife. Frustrated, Cameron ran his fingers through his thick hair and cursed himself. Why in the hell hadn’t he run this report sooner?

Snatching his cell off the bedside table, he called dispatch, put out a BOLO, and then threw on his clothes, so he could race to his SUV parked in front of the house. He had to get to the Lucas place, and fast.

Chapter Forty-five

The Talk

“Don’t scream, Mrs. Lucas. It only annoys me and that’s the last thing you want to do,” he growled. “Besides you know as well as I do that your closest neighbor lives over a mile away. Screaming’s a waste of time. Who will hear you? Who’s going to save you? That must have been what my girl was thinking as your sons snuffed out her life.”

Slowly he got to his feet, approached the bed and looked down at her, eyes blazing with anger and hatred. In that second, she knew who held her prisoner in her own bedroom. It was the madman, David109, who wanted retribution, and that realization made every nerve in her body shriek. Her worst nightmare was at the side of her bed.

“I think I’ve done this right. Of course, I haven’t had the experience your two sons had with duct tape, but I think it’ll do the job. I overheard a couple of cops talking in a bar one night about how the Gamers duct-taped their victims’ wrists to the wrought-iron headboard so they could have their fun. But you already know that. Don’t you, Mrs. Lucas?”

Tears flooded her eyes, making him a blur in her line of vision. The visual of a young woman bound to a bed in her son’s storage unit made her nauseous. For the millionth time she asked herself how they could have done such a thing once, let alone repeatedly.

“Now here’s a turn-your-stomach thought. The cops said the bed in your son’s storage room had a black wrought-iron headboard, just like this one. Please tell me this isn’t the same one. That would be too sick.”

Tisha shook her head emphatically and repeatedly said “No!” whether he could understand her or not.

With his outstretched gloved hand, he ran his finger along the length of her leg, and goose flesh rippled up her back. “You’re a beautiful woman, Mrs. Lucas.” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders to her breasts. “Sexy as hell, the way you fill out that fancy bra.”

His fingers wandered across her stomach until they reached the edge of her panties where he slipped in a finger and ran it the length of the elastic. “Is this what your sons did to all those young women in the storage unit that you and the hubby so graciously provided?” Rage flashed in his dark eyes.

His anger was escalating and she sighed with relief when he sat back down in the chair. “Who does that?” he shouted, his tone incredulous and angry. “Who in the hell is stupid enough to give two seventeen-year-old boys their own storage unit?
And
a work van? Are you nuts? What about that gun cabinet downstairs? Did you always leave it unlocked? You two are the worst excuse for parents I’ve ever heard of.”

Shaking her head helplessly, she worked her hands against the duct tape securing her wrists but she couldn’t get free. Her skin crawled as she looked into his eyes and saw the rage that filled them. He’d kill her without hesitation. He’d murder her exactly as her sons had killed his loved one.

A flash of lightning lit the room for a second, then was followed by a blast of thunder that shook the windows and startled her. Rain pounded against the glass, and the candle on the dresser flickered. The man moved to the foot of her bed, standing motionless, just staring at her. The silence grew tight with tension and she wondered what he was thinking. What was he planning? Tisha wished the nightmare would end. But would it end with her death? Would her dying be enough retribution so that he would spare Bradley? In his eyes, would there ever be enough payback?

What if he didn’t kill her? If he left her alive, would she be able to recognize him again? The damn ski mask covered his face, but she could see his dark eyes were flat with deep creases earned by anger, worry, and age. As tall as Bradley, he looked fit from physical labor. He stood tall with posture erect, like a towering spruce at the end of her bed. It was the way Bradley stood, so perhaps the man had served in the military, too. He wore a flannel shirt like the one worn by the man who attacked her in Mollie’s Cafe, but it wasn’t the same man. This one wasn’t as tall, and didn’t have the bulk. The voice was different, too—not the deep growl the man in the cafe had. His voice was a rough whisper with a contemptuous tone. Gravelly voice from too much smoking?