Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (22 page)

Then he’d realized that the young kids at the Boys’ Club liked his crude pieces, so he kept up the hobby.

Tonight he carved a deer, whittling and smoothing the wood until he felt himself relaxing.

But he thought of Liz in his bed, and his sex hardened again.

He’d broken his own rules by getting involved with her. By caring so much for anyone.

But there was something about Liz that made it impossible not to care.

Sweat soaked the back of Nick’s shirt. The bastards who’d taken him at gunpoint had refused to let him go. Instead they’d tied him up, tossed him into a chair in some kind of interrogation room, and beaten him until he was so weak he’d passed out at one point.

“You know I’m an agent with the TBI,” Nick growled. “Just tell me where the Commander is, and we can make a deal.”

The big burly guy in camouflage, who appeared to be the leader of this militant group, crossed his beefy arms. “We told you we don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you. I saw your posts on that damned website. You support what he did. You helped him escape.”

“That’s because pussies are running the government now. Someone has to take action to defend this country.”

“Commander Blackwood is not doing anything for the country,” Nick said. “He took advantage of innocents in a crazy experiment that even the government realized failed. Why else would they cover it up?”

“The same reason they lie to the public and don’t tell the citizens about terrorist attacks they know are imminent.”

More conspiracy theories.

“You think teaching those young boys to kill is protecting our country? You’re brainwashing them to commit murder based on your own paranoia.”

The man clenched his assault rifle. “You must have been a disappointment to your father.”

Nick opened his mouth to argue, but the asshole raised the weapon and slammed it against his head. He grunted in pain, his head swimming. Another blow came, then another. Nausea threatened, and he passed out again.

When he stirred, he struggled with the wire they’d strapped around his hands. Two of the big guys stood watching him.

He had to get out of here. Save himself. Bring Jake and backup to disband this group.

The wire cut into his wrists, and he twisted and fumbled to undo it until blood dripped down his fingers.

One of the soldiers took his fists to him again. Another blow and another, and Nick spit blood at his attacker’s feet. Driven by his survival instincts, he lunged from the chair and slammed his head into the man’s gut, knocking him backward. Head-butting him, he dug his elbows into the man’s chest, striving to render him unconscious.

Seconds later, two of the militants rushed in and dragged him off their leader. Nick cursed and threw a kick at the bigger guy, but another blow to the head made him fall to his knees.

Before he could recover, they hauled him out of the room into the dark. Nick scanned his surroundings, using his weight to slow the men down.

“We going to kill him?” one of the men asked the other.

“Probably. But we’ll wait for our orders.” A low laugh. “Not that anyone will ever find him out here.”

Nick summoned his energy and pushed to his feet again, but they had the advantage and shoved him into a hole in the ground.

He blinked to orient himself, but it was so damn dark he couldn’t see, and he toppled down a set of stairs and landed with a thud at the bottom. He ate dirt as he rolled to his back, and the darkness swallowed him.

Above him, the wooden door slammed shut and hammers pounded.

Fuck. They were nailing him into this godforsaken hole in the ground. Then they’d probably pack up, move their headquarters, and leave him here to die.

Chapter Twenty-Three

F
or the first time in ages, Liz slept peacefully. No nightmares to terrify her. Instead she dreamed that she and Rafe were living together in a beautiful cabin in the mountains, happy and content. Snow fluttered down, Christmas music played in the background, and the tree sparkled with white lights.

Three stockings hung from the hearth—one filled with rattles and baby bibs in anticipation of the baby they’d have.

She jerked awake, then rolled over, but the space beside her was empty. Rafe’s head print still remained on the pillow, and she inhaled his masculine scent, missing him already.

Stretching to relieve the kinks in her muscles, she ducked into the shower, almost hating to wash off the scent of Rafe’s lovemaking.

But she and Rafe had a job to do.

She dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, then dabbed powder on her cheeks to cover the dark spots beneath her eyes that betrayed the sleep she’d lost this week.

A little lip gloss, and she hurried to meet Rafe.

The scent of coffee and bacon wafted toward her, and she found him sipping from a mug while he flipped the bacon in the pan. She was tempted to run her hands over his back and greet him with a morning kiss.

But the look he gave her when he glanced over his shoulder made her pause. Just like he had the last time they’d gotten close, he already seemed to be pulling away.

“Smells good in here,” she said, testing the waters.

He shrugged. “Figured we’d need breakfast before we hit the road.” He gestured toward the cabinet above the coffeepot. “Mugs are up there.”

She offered a tentative smile, opened the cabinet, and chose a handmade mug. He placed the bacon on a plate lined with a paper towel, then scooped eggs and toast onto more two plates, carried the food to the table, and set it by the orange juice he’d poured. Butter and jelly waited on the table.

“Thanks,” she said, suddenly feeling awkward. Early morning sunlight filtered through the trees, glittering off the soft coating of snow on the ground, dappling golden lines across the oak table. The scene felt cozy, so intimate, that she ached to reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

To kiss him and beg him to come back to bed, where they could forget about murders and dead bodies and focus on loving each other all day.

But being needy would only drive Rafe away and prove to him that she wasn’t ready to be back at the bureau.

“Where should we start this morning?” she asked.

Rafe spooned a bite of his eggs into his mouth and chewed. “The sheriff who handled the Lintell woman’s murder. See if Brian Castor or his brother were persons of interest in that case.”

A strained silence stretched between them as she ate. Finally, Liz couldn’t stand it any longer. “Rafe, about last night . . .”

He threw up a warning hand. “Forget about it, Liz. It’s normal to need a tension release.”

Anger hit her. “Is that what we were doing? Just releasing tension?”

His level gaze showed no emotion. “Of course.”

Liz gripped her coffee cup. She certainly didn’t intend to declare her feelings when he obviously didn’t reciprocate them.

He rose to clear the dishes, and her gaze strayed to the bookshelf, where a dozen or more wooden carvings filled the shelf. On the table, a deer stood, staring at her. She hadn’t noticed it last night.

Not that she’d noticed much. Her nerves had been frayed, her senses on overdrive. All she’d thought about were Rafe’s hands and mouth on her.

“Do you carve the wooden animals yourself?” she asked.

An odd expression flared in Rafe’s eyes, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Yeah. It’s a hobby.”

“They’re beautiful,” Liz said. Primitive and rough looking, just like him. “Do you sell them?”

“I make them for the kids at the Boys’ Club.”

Liz’s heart skipped a beat. “You volunteer with the Boys’ Club?”

Rafe shrugged. “Yeah. One of my social workers took me when I was a kid. I met an older guy who mentored me and kept me out of trouble.” He ran his finger over the head of the deer. “He taught me how to whittle.”

Liz’s heart melted. Rafe had always held his emotions close to the vest. He was so dedicated to his job, so good at tracking down evil, that she’d never imagined him with children at all, much less volunteering to spend time with them.

He set the deer back on the table, with a sigh. “There’s a little kid there now, Benny, about four, just lost both parents. I thought he might like it.”

Tears nearly blinded her. Beneath that tough, steely veneer, Rafe was tenderhearted.

He might want a family of his own some day. Something she could never give him.

Rafe stepped onto the porch to phone Jim Laredo, the sheriff who’d investigated the social worker’s murder.

The subject of his volunteer work made him feel raw, exposed. Maybe because he related to the troubled kids so well—to their personal tragedies, to the violence they’d suffered at the hands of people who were supposed to love and care for them.

Sheriff Laredo answered on the third ring, his breath rattling. Rafe explained that he needed to talk to the sheriff, and Laredo gave him directions to his house.

His cell phone rang just as he hung up. “Agent Hood.”

“Rafe, it’s Jake. Have you heard from Nick?”

“No,” Rafe said. “Brenda asked Liz the same thing last night, but neither of us have talked to him.”

“Hell,” Jake muttered. “Brenda’s frantic. He didn’t come home last night. And he’s not answering his cell. Can you get the techs to trace his phone for a location?”

“Sure.” Trepidation mounted in Rafe’s belly. Nick had been chasing a lead about the Commander. Maybe he’d gotten too close and stumbled into trouble.

He had no doubt the Commander would kill his sons to protect himself and his secrets.

They hung up, and Rafe punched the number for the lab and requested the trace. “Call Sheriff Blackwood if you find him.”

Liz returned from the bedroom with her purse, her face strained, and they headed out to the SUV together. The memory of the erotic pleasure they’d shared teased him, tempting him to love her again.

Not going to happen now. He had to focus.

Sun fought with the storm clouds in the gray sky, the temperature dropping to the thirties as they drove around the mountain toward the neighboring town of Patchy Rock. A saloon, a saddle and tack shop, and a western boot store flanked one side of the street. Signs advertising trail riding and a dude ranch were tacked all over town. Other signs announced a whitewater rafting company and outpost a few miles on the other side of the mountain.

Apparently Sheriff Laredo had retired ten years ago and moved near the outpost, so Rafe passed through Patchy Rock and wound onto the country road leading to the river.

Farmland sprawled between the town and outpost. A junkyard and flea market sat on top of a hill, along with a country store boasting Native American crafts.

Two miles down the road, Rafe made the turn to Laredo’s. The former sheriff lived in a small cabin nestled at the foot of a hill, near a creek that flowed into the river. Rafe parked, and he and Liz waded through the weeds to the man’s front door. When Rafe knocked, a dog barked, its toenails clacking on the floor inside.

“Hang on,” a man shouted.

A minute later the door swung open and a short, chubby man with wiry hair greeted them. “You got to be those feds.”

Laredo rubbed a hand over his belly, which strained against a dark gray T-shirt. “Come on in. I pulled up that file after you called. Been a couple years, and my memory ain’t what it used to be.”

They followed him inside to the den, a small room overloaded with hunting and fishing magazines. Pictures of three children, ages toddler to teenager—obviously grandchildren—sat on top of a pine table, behind a plaid couch.

“Nice-looking family,” Liz commented.

Laredo gave them a blustery grin. “Yeah, I’m right proud of
’
em. Just wish my Haddie was still around to enjoy them. Lord, how she loved little ones.”

Liz bit her lip, a wave of sadness showing in her eyes, but it disappeared a second later.

“Do you remember the Lintell case?” Rafe asked as they claimed wooden chairs around a round pine table.

“It was about two years ago.” Laredo opened the file on the table and skimmed it. “The Lintell woman was a social worker for the county. She did school and home visits for a while, then took a job placing kids in foster homes and arranging adoptions.”

“How exactly did she die?” Liz asked.

Laredo jammed a pair of reading glasses on. “Stabbed in the chest with a steak knife.”

“A knife from her own kitchen?” Rafe asked.

The sheriff nodded. “Never found the weapon, though. Assumed the killer took it with him and got rid of it.”

“What about other forensics?” Liz asked.

Sheriff Laredo used his finger to find his place on the page. “A stray hair, short. Dark. Male. Never matched it to anyone.”

Rafe folded his arms on the table. “Did you have any suspects?”

“No one who panned out. Neighbor said she heard shouting and saw a black Jeep leave the place the night before the murder, but nothing on the day of the murder.”

“Did you trace the Jeep to anyone?”

“Yeah, some drug addict girl who had her kid taken away because she was a junkie.”

“A good motive for murder,” Liz said.

Sheriff Laredo shrugged. “Yes, it was. Except that at the time of the murder, the girl was in a cell.”

“I imagine she wasn’t the only one angry with Ms. Lintell,” Rafe said.

Laredo made a low sound in his throat. “Naw, the woman had a tough job. But everybody she worked with said she was fair. She tried her best to get the druggies and alcoholics to clean up so they could get their kids back. Believed in family and worked hard to reunite the birth parents. She was a foster herself.” He hesitated. “She always followed up with the families to make sure they took good care of the kids she placed.”

“But one of the foster parents or birth parents could have had a beef with her,” Liz said.

“Goes with the job. But there wasn’t enough evidence to pin down the killer. And nobody wanted to dole out names, especially in adoption cases.”

Rafe knew the drill. Everyone guarded their secrets. The addicts who got clean wanted their kids back but had to prove themselves. The adopted parents wanted privacy and to know that their children couldn’t be jerked away and given back to the parents who’d screwed them over in the first place. And confidentiality issues with adoptions were always an issue.

“How about a man named Brian Castor?” Rafe asked. “Did his name come up in your investigation?”

The sheriff looked back over the file. “Matter of fact, it did. Found a note at Lintell’s house with Brian Castor’s phone number on it.”

“Did you question him about Lintell’s murder?”

“Yeah, but he had an alibi. Was out of town at some premed function. A couple of other students verified it.”

Students could have lied for him. “Did you learn anything about Brian’s brother?”

Sheriff Laredo shook his head. “Not much. According to Lintell’s notes, his name was Jeremy. There was something else that was weird, though.”

“What?” Liz asked.

The sheriff lit a cigar. “Crime tech found DNA on the victim they thought belonged to the perpetrator.”

Rafe’s heart jumped a beat. “Whose was it?”

“That was the strange thing. DNA had an odd genetic marker to it.”

“What do you mean?” Liz asked.

“Lab said it looked like the person’s DNA had been altered.”

Rafe clenched his jaw. “We found a similar drop of what we believe is the killer’s blood on Ester Banning.”

“Were any of the Lintell woman’s body parts removed?” Liz asked.

Sheriff Laredo shook his head.

Liz frowned. “Maybe she was his first kill, then he got a taste for it and perfected his MO.”

“We need to compare those samples,” Rafe said. “If they match, we’re looking at the same killer.”