Chasing Evil (Circle of Evil) (3 page)

“Yeah, but he wasn’t quite done.” Cam pointed to each picture in turn. “B-E-N-A-L-L….”

“Smart ass.” He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the deadly sharp elbow she aimed at his ribs. “I think it spells B-I-T-E-M-E.”

“No, not letters.” Sophia looked at them searchingly. “Nothing?” She opened up her purse, which Cam noted for the first time was the same pink shade as her suit and shoes. Once again he marveled that the two of them had ever gotten together. She was designer clothes and he was get-me-the-hell-out-of-this-suit as soon as he got home every night. She was soft spoken and he was…what the hell had she called him once? Charmingly abrasive. They were champagne and beer. Oil and water.

Tinder and spark. Unbelievably combustible. And a smart man didn’t play around with fire.

Sophie slipped a three-inch square mirror out of its case and walked to the screen, holding it over each photo in turn. “How about now?” He, Connerly and the ME surged closer to stare at the reflections.

“Damn. That looks…” Gavin squinted. “Is that…it looks sort of like a twelve. Doesn’t it?” Sophie moved the mirror to the next photo. “And that…is it a fifteen?” He looked at Cam for verification.

“That’s what I’m wondering.” Sophie’s voice was filled with a combination of satisfaction and grimness. “If I had to guess I’d say he’s numbering his victims.”

He sat on the Centennial Lakes park bench, his face buried in a newspaper and waited for the approaching jogger. The woman was a creature of habit. Every weekday morning, weather permitting, she headed to an area running path between nine and nine-thirty. The trail in this park was only one point five miles according to the map he’d downloaded. This was her third trip past him and her pace was slowing. She rarely ran more than five miles a day and usually alternated between four parks in the area. Cagey enough not to follow a set routine between them, but that was all right. He’d been following her long enough to familiarize himself with all of them.

As she passed him, he kept the paper shielding his face. He already knew what she looked like. It wasn’t the facial features he focused on anyway. A few days after they were taken even the loveliest weren’t so attractive anymore. Personality was meaningless, too. All became obedient when properly instructed, although certainly he’d had his favorites among them.

But the body mattered. Especially the ass.

He lowered the paper, gazed over the top at the woman as she passed by. He liked the way her tits bounced a little, even constrained as they were by the designer spandex. Matching shorts showed a butt that was shapely enough even for his exacting taste. He could feel himself growing hard as he thought of having her to himself.

His meticulous research had garnered no fewer than six possible targets that met every criteria on the list. The hunt was always more gratifying in larger locales. With so many prospects he could afford to be choosy, while keeping the others to be considered for a later date. It hadn’t taken long for Courtney Van Wheton to rise to the top of his list.

He folded the paper carefully and got up, holding it casually to hide his straining cock. This last surveillance had been a formality. He just had to finalize the details for the snatch.

A smile crossed his lips at the prospect. He was a bit vain about his looks so he wasn’t surprised when a nearby young woman pushing a stroller returned his smile with one of her own. He ignored her. She was too young and he’d learned long ago the merits of sticking with the mandatory requirements. Van Wheton would be his very soon. He’d come to appreciate the anticipation. Within the first few hours of being taken, she’d be moved out of state. Just vanish, with no trace.

She couldn’t know it, but her days of freedom were coming to an end.

Chapter 2

She resisted the slight pressure he was bearing on her hip. Facing him was a mistake. Hiding her emotions required an effort that was currently beyond her. She felt shattered. Pleasantly limp and dazed. At least that was the reason she gave herself for the fuzziness of her thoughts.

“I’m not good at this.”

His lips curved against her shoulder, and she heard the amusement tinge his words. “I beg to differ.”

She kicked his ankle, then had her foot captured when he threw a leg over it to pin carelessly. But she was shocked to hear his voice go sober. “Think I don’t know you’re the cautious type? We’re both a bit out of our element here. But just because something isn’t planned doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.”

Somehow she finally found the strength to face him. When she did she found him too close. Too warm. Too intense. “Usually it does.”

He smiled again and she felt her bones going lax. Up close his eyes were more gold than brown and humor warred with desire in them. Oddly it was the humor that had her heart rate accelerating.

“Only because you equate planning with control. Admit it.” He took her earlobe in his teeth, worried it gently. “Wasn’t it just a little bit fun to lose control a while ago?”

To admit the truth would be to lose completely. Because ‘fun’ didn’t begin to cover the devastating effect the man had had on her senses. Was still having….

The ring of his cell phone was a welcome interruption from the ViCAP reports Cam was poring over. The FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database was an invaluable way to compare details from violent crimes involving unidentified human remains. His initial queries had yielded little, so he’d inputted more general details of this case. Going over the resulting reams of information was making his eyes bleed. He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes before picking up the cell, squinting at the screen before answering it.

“Prescott.” Working his shoulders tiredly, he checked his watch. It was after seven. Time to head home, grab a beer and put his feet up to watch the Cubs game he’d DVR’ed last weekend. They’d lost—again—but at least it’d been close. Still worth viewing.

“It’s Beckett Maxwell.”

“Sheriff.” Cam straightened in his chair. Maxwell was the sheriff in Boone County where they’d found the second victim. “Good to hear from you.”

“Appreciate the invite to the daily briefings. I plan to start making them, as soon as I’m close to being fully manned again.” A tinge of frustration sounded in the man’s voice. “Have one deputy out on vacation and another broke his foot falling off a ladder. Not on duty, thank God, but still…”

Cam gave a tired laugh. Wondered if he had time to stop by his favorite sandwich shop before it closed. It was a mom and pop operation and their hours were set more by mood than schedule. But their meatloaf sandwiches made up for the erratic hours. “Just tell me you haven’t had a report of another disturbed grave, and my day will be complete.”

“Not that I’ve heard. It’s something else.” Cam heard the rustle of papers. “I’ve have been reading through your briefing reports. Also got the lists you sent.”

One of the first tasks Cam had completed was a list of registered sex offenders in the state who had been convicted of violent crimes against women and released in the last three years. The names he’d deemed most promising he’d given to a couple agents to pursue. The rest he’d turned over to police departments and sheriff offices in counties where the felons resided for the law enforcement officers to coordinate checks with assigned parole officers.

“With two men out on leave I’m guessing you haven’t completed the felon checks I sent.”

Maxwell chuckled ruefully. “Getting there. Feel certain I can check off one. No parole officer on the second so still talking to employers, neighbors and family members. But something else came up last night. Had a report of a bar fight just outside Madrid’s city limits. Guy by the name of Gary Price sent three guys to the hospital in a dispute over a woman. Witnesses all agree the three men moved on Price first, but I ran everyone’s name as a matter of course. Price just moved to the area eighteen months ago. Did sixteen years in Missouri for an attempted car jacking. The woman driving resisted, so he beat her badly enough to put her in a coma before taking off with her car. When she came out of it, she ID’d him. Had seen him at the garage she had her car serviced at.”

“Sounds like a scum bag all right.” Cam checked the time again, hopes of grabbing that sandwich growing dimmer. “But not the kind of scum bag we’re looking for.”

“Maybe not. Probably not,” Maxwell corrected himself. “But one of my deputies took the statement of the woman at the bar last night, the one at the center of things. Price had attached himself to her and she couldn’t shake him. She finally told him in pretty plain language to leave her the hell alone. He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her close, holding his lit cigarette an inch from her forehead and told her she’d look real good wearing his brand. That’s when the other three guys moved in and Price put them all down before leaving.”

Cam straightened in his chair, interest caught. “But Price has no history of sexual assault?”

“Nothing shows up on his sheet.”

“How long has he been out of prison?”

There was a sound of rustling papers as Maxwell located the information he was looking for. “Four years. He moved outside of Madrid as soon as his parole was up.”

“What brought him there?”

“Couldn’t say. Maybe the property. He got a pretty good deal on the acreage he bought at auction.”

Cam mulled the information over. Price was clearly violent, but a sexual sadist developed over a long period of years. It was unlikely that he’d suddenly evolved into one after a stint in prison.

Unless he’d never been caught for past sexual crimes. It was entirely possible that there were other graves, scattered over the state—or further—that had gone undiscovered.

“Price likely has nothing to do with these crimes.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

“You going out to see him anyway?”

“I figured I’d swing by and have a look at him myself this evening.”

Mind made up, Cam had a mental picture of that meatball sandwich sprouting wings and flying away. “I think I’ll keep you company on that trip.”

The sun was doing a slow bleed across the rose and black horizon by the time Maxwell’s county-issued Jeep made its way down the rutted lane leading to Price’s house. A large dog of indeterminate breed raced down the gravel drive toward the vehicle, barking a warning. Beckett pulled to a stop in front of a two-story clapboard farmhouse, next to a newer model black Dodge Ram pickup.

Cam scanned the area. Across a graveled expanse, a large machine shed situated at the back corner of the property nestled close to a hulking rustic barn. A small metal corn bin that looked as if it hadn’t seen use for decades sat like a sentinel next to the barn. Part of the sheet metal on the bin had come loose and gaped open on one side. There were two other smaller framed wooden buildings on the opposite side of the property. Both were gray and weathered, each leaning crazily, as if goading the next straight line wind to flatten them.

“Pretty isolated out here,” Cam observed. The dog had stopped a dozen yards away from their vehicle, still heralding their arrival. “The last farmhouse we passed was five miles back.”

“Price bought just the building site and five acres. The farmland surrounding the property was sold separately,” the sheriff answered, putting the Jeep in park.

Cam squinted into the distance. A fully-grown windbreak of fir trees provided privacy on three sides. An open field of six-inch corn faced the property across the gravel road to the front. Then he looked at the Ram. “That Price’s truck?”

“Fits the description I got from the Department of Motor Vehicles.” Turning off the ignition Beckett peered out the window toward the dog that gave no signs of tiring. “Let’s hope that animal is all bark, no bite.”

“I’ll do better than hope,” Cam gibed, opening his car door. “I’ll let you lead the way.”

He rounded the car and joined the sheriff to walk through the open wire gate and up to the house. Keeping a wary eye on the dog, he noticed the kitchen door was open. Light spilled through the screen door onto the paint worn wooden porch. “Looks like someone’s home.”

“Did I mention this guy’s former parole officer in Missouri said he was given to fits of rage and had anger management issues?”

“Sort of picked up on that.” The dog behind them drowned out the sound of their ascent up the four porch steps.

“Boone County sheriff, Mr. Price,” Beckett called out as he pounded on the screen. There was no sign of a doorbell. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Cam peered through the half open door. It led into a kitchen caught in a sixties time warp of avocado green. A light from the adjoining dining room lit that area, showing an overturned chair and a bottle on its side. Beer ran across the scarred table and trickled in a steady stream to the threadbare green carpet below.

“DCI, Mr. Price.” Cam tried again, pounding hard enough to have the screen door rattling on its hinges. “Come on out here so we can talk.”

Silence greeted his words.

Cam nodded toward the lightweight navy jacket hanging on a doorknob inside the kitchen. An unmistakable shape protruded from the pocket of the garment. “That looks like an illegal firearm.”

“It’s a felony in a con’s possession,” Beckett agreed, his hand on the baton at his waistband. “Our duty to check it out.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Cam reached out and opened the screen door, stepped inside the kitchen. Beckett was right in back of him. Once inside he stopped, his gaze going to the bottle on the dining room table. Liquid still leaked steadily from it. Whoever had spilt it hadn’t done so long ago.

“Mr. Price?” Beckett called out.

Cam did a semi-circle around the adjoining doorway to check for anyone hiding just inside it before stepping into the dining room. A quick scan showed it empty. He could see now that next to the bottle was a paper plate with a mound of bones and a half eaten chicken wings on it. A white Styrofoam takeout container next to the plate was empty, save grease stains and crumbs. Wide slatted blinds covered the double front windows in the room. An ancient box fan sat on one windowsill, drawing in the cooler evening air. Its motor labored like the grinding gears on Cam’s first Honda.

A flat screen television hung on the wall of the darkened room next door, looking out of place among the dated furnishings. The shelves below it were stacked with electronics. The TV was on and tuned to ESPN. One analyst droned on to another about an upcoming baseball game.

“Someone was in a hurry,” murmured Maxwell from behind him.

“His hurry probably started as soon we headed up the lane.” Cam sidled along the wall, skirting the heavy furniture lining it. Mentally sketching the house’s dimensions, he figured the darkened adjoining room led to the front door and to a stairway to the upstairs. The only question was which the man had used.

Or whether he was in the shadowy next room, waiting for them. Perhaps with another weapon.

He stopped to listen. There was nothing to hear over the fan. Something about the stillness was disquieting.

Half turning his head, he gestured to Beckett and the sheriff backtracked across the dining room to flank the other side of the double sized entry into the living room. “Gary Price!” he called out, his hand on his weapon. “Boone County Sheriff. Show yourself.”

Cam’s hand crossed to his shoulder harness, his fingers hovering. His skin prickled the way it had when he’d been deep undercover, and a scene was about to go wrong. The image on the television switched to the opening pitch. He waited, barely breathing. Thirty seconds. Sixty.

A door banged open. The two men moved as one, swinging into the room, weapons in their hands. A man stood framed in a doorway leading to the upstairs.

“Get your hands up where we can see them. Up! Up!” Cam shouted.

“Jesus Christ. What…” The man’s hands raised slowly as Beckett went to frisk him professionally.

“He’s clean.”

Cam holstered his weapon as the other man yelled, “What the fuck are you doing in my house? You got a warrant? Huh? You damn well better have a warrant!”

“Are you Gary Walter Price?” Beckett asked, re-holstering his weapon.

The man lowered his hands. “Who the hell wants to know?”

“Boone County Sheriff Beckett Maxwell. This is DCI agent Prescott. Answer the question.”

Sending a look in Cam’s direction the man smirked. “DCI. What’s that stand for? Dicks of Iowa?”

“Funny guy,” Beckett observed. “We haul in all the jokesters and give them all the time they need to work on their stand-up routine. Something about a cell seems to dampen the sense of humor, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok. I’m Gary Price. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing in my house.”

Cam eyed him. Price didn’t look like the type who could take on three inebriated bar patrons and emerge without a scratch. He was five ten, one–eighty, with longish dark hair, and sporting a day’s growth of beard. His sleeveless undershirt bore evidence of the meal they’d interrupted. His jeans and tennis shoes had seen better days. Cam’s gaze lingered on the prison tats on the man’s throat and knuckles. He’d done hard time. Which meant he was a whole lot more threatening than he appeared.

“Why didn’t you answer when you heard us calling?”

“Didn’t hear you. I went upstairs to put my damn pants on.” The man’s voice was a snarl. “I was sitting at the table trying to catch a breeze when I heard the dog raising hell. There’s no law saying a man’s got to answer the door in his boxers, is there?” He stopped, his gaze going between Beckett and Cam. “This about the fight last night? ’Cuz a deputy already took my statement. Got a bar full of witnesses who’ll tell you I didn’t throw the first punch.”