Cold Fear (17 page)

Kit stared at her.

“I guess what I’m asking is, do you think he could have done it? Attacked Helena?” Izzy finished awkwardly.

Kit’s lips parted and she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Really
? “So why did he say the cops would crucify him if they found out? Found out what?”

Kit turned and walked to their mother’s grave. Izzy followed at a distance. Her mother’s stone had fresh flowers and a little Christmas tree—presumably left by Kit or Uncle Ted.

“It’s not what you think, Iz.” Kit picked up her purse, which lay beside the stone. “Damien has been in trouble with the law before. If they find out he was smoking pot, he’ll get kicked out of school and he wants to graduate high school and try and get a decent job.” She looked up, eyes pleading. “There’s no way I’d be with him if I thought he’d hurt Helena.”

After a moment Izzy nodded. What else could she do? “Promise me one thing.”

Her sister closed her eyes. “What?”

“
If
you have sex—which you shouldn’t be doing, but God knows you wouldn’t be the first seventeen-year-old to do it—please, please, use protection.” She raised her hands when Kit opened her mouth to argue. “I don’t want to hear anything except that promise, right now.”

“I’m not an idiot.” The expression on her sister’s face shut down. “Sure, I promise.” Kit knelt beside the grave and pulled away some of the longer grass. She stayed that way for a few minutes while the anger and sorrow of the last few days dissipated. “I wish Mom was buried next to Dad.”

A shudder went through Izzy at the idea.

“She always said how much she loved him.”

Izzy closed her eyes and clenched her hands into fists to try to contain the emotions that welled up inside her. They’d both idolized him.

“I’m glad she’s not here to see this.”

Izzy nodded. She was glad, too. For different reasons.

Kit straightened the flowers and then picked up the little Christmas tree before rising to her feet. “Helena put this here before Christmas.” She sniffed tearfully, the moody teen shifting into the grief-stricken young woman. “We’d better take it down else we’ll have bad luck.”

Tears streamed down Kit’s cheeks. This time they streamed down Izzy’s too.

She sniffed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, Kit.”

Kit gave her a wobbly smile. “Me, too.”

Izzy’s phone buzzed and she dried her eyes and checked the screen. A slice of dread cut through her. The police chief needed to see her, urgently.

*     *     *

H
E DROVE ALONG
a highway he hadn’t traveled since Ferris Denker had been caught. He whistled along to some classic rock station on the radio, feeling happier than he had in ages. He laughed as he remembered the scare Izzy Campbell had given him last night. Scared him out of his ever-loving mind. First the cat rubbing against his leg as he’d wiped prints off the lock and door, then Izzy coming outside with her fricking gun drawn. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen his face.

If she hadn’t gotten that shot off, he might have taken her. The idea of having Izzy Campbell at his mercy was tempting. Taking her from beneath the nose of the FBI? Electrifying. Izzy was something else. He admired her. She was smart and pretty. But underneath that cool front, lay deliciously dark secrets. All these years he’d watched the family from the shadows, wondering if the day would ever come when he revealed what she’d done. So it was just as well he hadn’t taken her last night because then the show would be over and it was too much fun to rush. He licked his lips. He was getting aroused again and he glanced in the back of the van. He’d taken a whore. Given her some coke and tied her up so tight she’d be in agony if she woke up, but not dead. She wasn’t dead. Anticipation was driving him crazy, but he had to do this right, and he wasn’t some amateur who couldn’t control himself—well, except for Helena and that had worked out fine. His buddy Ferris was relying on him and he loved the fact he was the one outside orchestrating this shit, when Ferris had always considered himself the brains of their little club.

Another thirty minutes and he saw the turn off. The sign was so weathered and faded he wouldn’t have been able to read it unless he’d already known what it said. “St. Joseph’s School for Boys.”

He turned down the rutted, overgrown road, the suspension rattling and bouncing over the uneven ground. He drove past the decaying red brick building with its central clock tower. The school had been abandoned thirty years ago, but the building had been falling into disrepair long before that. Most of the windows were broken, the ground floor ones boarded up to prevent break-ins. Why they bothered was beyond him. There were bats in the belfry and rats in the cellars, damp and rot on every level in-between. A fire had taken one wing of the building a few years after they’d graduated. It had been the final straw for the school and it had shut its doors forever. Maybe Ferris had set the place alight himself.

He wished he’d thought of it first.

He drove on, past the tennis courts and the overgrown athletics track. His gut churned as he remembered all those boys with their skinny legs and knobby knees. The changing rooms had been burned to the ground years ago. He and Ferris had seen to that, smoking dope and pissing into the flames.

He wished the gym teacher was still alive so he could kill the bastard. His hands shook from the fury of what the man had done to him. Ferris had always said the guy had set them free, allowed them to become who they truly were, but he didn’t believe him. He’d been created by one man’s twisted lust and what he’d become was payback for no one giving a damn.

It was so clichéd for the abused to become abusers, but this was a school and it had taught him well.

He drove farther until he hit the edge of a wood. He looked for the path, but it was so overgrown he couldn’t see it. Shit. Ferris had told him to display the corpse wearing Beverley’s bracelet directly over the spot where they’d buried their first victim, under the noses of their teachers. Obviously, he’d altered that plan when Helena had interrupted him in the dunes, but this would work. In fact, in terms of getting attention, two murders worked far better than one. He parked and got out, parted the brambles where he thought the path should be. Thorns caught at his clothes, but he brushed them aside with his thick work gloves. He pushed through and spotted the hut that had covered the well. There.

He grinned and went back to the van, opened the back, dragged off the tarp.

The whore rolled on her back, twisting against the bonds, dilated pupils telling him she was still high. He grabbed her ankle and dragged her roughly toward him, bending to haul her over his shoulder. She was a prostitute he’d picked up, with a micro skirt, black leather bustier and desperate eyes. The black patent leather heels had shone brightly in the sun, attracting his attention. That’s how he’d chosen her. That’s how he’d known she was the one.

He tramped through the dense undergrowth with the woman over his shoulders, batting away the briars. Hell. The area was almost totally reclaimed by the forest. Crazy how fast that happened. His heart beat a little faster at the thought of what was to come. His erection strained against his zipper as the woman struggled against him. The coke was wearing off. She was starting to understand this wasn’t some drug-fueled hallucination. This was real.

He went past the well. Beyond was a large American oak that had probably been planted before the revolution. He turned right, pushing through the saplings and bushes. There, finally, a large clearing with a series of large stones that formed a circle about ten feet in diameter. He dumped the woman on the ground.

The woman’s terrified eyes met his, clearer than they had been when she’d first told him the price and climbed into the cab. She wasn’t worth what she’d asked but he hadn’t planned on paying her. He took off his gloves and removed a condom from his back pocket and covered himself. The DNA floating around in her pussy should keep the cops busy for a year. Get a few johns some interesting visits from the cops, that was for damned sure. He placed the condom wrapper carefully in his vest pocket and zipped the pocket. He’d shaved his body hair to prevent leaving any behind. There would be no mistakes this time. He put his gloves back on, wishing he could touch her the way he wanted to and knowing it was impossible. She was a token. A cheap gift for Ferris. The hunger was growing stronger, as if by allowing himself to take Helena it had destroyed the control he’d always prided himself on.

It was temporary.

Ferris was in trouble and he’d allowed his monster a little extra freedom to feed. He’d lock it back down soon. Chain it up and beat it into submission so he didn’t end up in a cell like Ferris’s.

He leaned down and ripped the duct tape off her mouth.

He didn’t care if she made noise. There was no one around for miles.

She screamed and he hit her, his excitement growing as she fought him. Maybe the coke had given her strength but she had more spirit than he’d imagined. The sight of those heels kicking in the dirt pushed him over the edge, making his brain bleed with want.

She fought and fought, but in the end, it didn’t take long.

“Do you see it?” he asked her.

But the moment the light began to fade in her eyes was the moment he exploded and he kept going, remembering how good it had felt to die. Remembering the blinding whiteness and the call of angels and wishing he could have stayed there with them.

He finished, breath hoarse in his chest, wishing it didn’t have to end, knowing it did. He pushed her hair away from her forehead. She was better off now. He’d done her a favor. He knew there was an afterlife, he’d glimpsed it—a world of such beauty, a white tunnel of light, and the feeling of peace and tranquility and welcome unequaled on this earth.

It was a trade of sorts. By taking what he wanted using brute force, sex became a million times more satisfying. In return he sent them to a better place.

Ferris needed to torture his victims to eke out as much pain as possible; he just wanted to watch them die.

He cleaned up the site. Removed her clothes and the ropes. The duct tape. He posed her, more out of deference to Ferris than his own inclinations. Although there was no denying he liked to look at the things he owned. Usually he had to hide or disguise the fruits of his labor, never being acknowledged and, more importantly, never being caught, unlike poor old Ferris. It was worth it, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy this short explicit playtime in an effort to help out an old buddy.

He bent down and inserted something inside her body, leaving it visible to anyone who looked. He got a kick out of the act even though it wasn’t his craziness he was recreating. Ferris said he couldn’t leave them covered in his DNA. He couldn’t leave them alive with their memories, so he marked them with something else. Something tangible.

He leaned down and picked up the black patent heels with shaking hands and cradled them gently against his chest. He didn’t know why he took them. The gym teacher had always made them remove their shoes at the door—apparently even pedophiles liked a clean floor. For whatever reason, the shoes reminded him of each act of complete domination. All he had to do was touch their shoes, and he could relive each one of them floating away as pleasure filled his body.

It made it real for him, over and over again.

He’d have to get rid of them soon. He knew that, too. And the photographs. They were evidence linking him to murder and he wasn’t dumb.

He scanned every inch of ground, checking his pocket for keys and wallet. He’d left his phone in the truck, disabling the battery and SIM card as soon as he left the islands. Taking every precaution.

Satisfied that he had everything, he stood back and admired his handiwork. She hadn’t been pretty in life, but now she was beautiful.

“Sleep tight, angel.” He smiled.

Chapter Eleven

G
RAINS OF SAND
scoured the pale dome of the half-buried skull. A seagull cried out overhead, waiting to see whether or not it was going to scavenge an easy meal in what little remained of the corpse.

Not on his watch.

Frazer stood with his arms crossed, overlooking the dig site.

As soon as they’d uncovered the first bone, the ME had been called. Simon Pearl had sent one of his assistants because he was busy finishing the autopsy on Helena Cromwell. Noting the state of deterioration of the body, the assistant had also arranged for a forensic anthropologist to meet them back in the lab. The skeleton had long since been picked clean of flesh by critters that lived in the sand. Little else remained except some tattered pieces of gray material, probably duct tape. The crime scene technicians had worked their way meticulously through layers of loose sand. Sieving every scoop for potential evidence.

Randall approached from the direction of the beach and the two of them moved away from the others.

Frazer was careful to keep his voice down. “I want a lockdown on any information about a possible ID on the victim until we are one hundred percent certain who this is. Let’s compare dental records and rush DNA before we inform the family.”

The one good thing about finding someone you cared about dead, it beat the hell out of never knowing what happened to them. Just ask Mallory Rooney.

Randall nodded. This was what they’d both feared when they’d recognized the name on the medical alert bracelet. The Denker case was already making headlines as his execution neared. The anti-death penalty lobby was in full battle cry, whining about how unfair it all was to the condemned prisoner. They’d think differently if it was their loved ones murdered, and there had never been any doubt Denker was one hundred percent guilty. But that wasn’t Frazer’s issue.

Good or bad, the death penalty was on the statute books of some states in the US and he’d do everything he could to make sure the justice system was served. It might be a little hypocritical considering he’d taken the law into his own hands in the past, but when weighing the balance of good and evil, right and wrong, his conscience was clear.