Her Dying Breath (26 page)

When he entered, a perky blonde sat at a receptionist desk facing him. He glanced past her to what was obviously a therapy area housed with workout machines, bars, and exercise balls. Smaller rooms for individual therapy flanked this space, equipped with tables and relaxation tapes. The whir of machines, voices, and the grunts of a young guy gripping bars as he struggled to walk mingled with chatter from two men in wheelchairs in the far corner.

“Hi, I’m Teresa. Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

Nick offered her a smile, then introduced himself and flashed his credentials. “I understand that a man named Darren James came here for therapy.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, but let me ask Jose. He runs the center.”

She bounced up from the seat and dashed over to speak with the men in wheelchairs. Nick was surprised when the Hispanic man rolled over to him. “I’m Jose. You’re asking about a patient?”

“Yes, sir,” Nick said. “A man named Darren James. What can you tell me about him?”

Jose rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss my patients with you. Why are you asking about him?”

“Because he’s dead,” Nick said bluntly.

Jose’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

“He was murdered. So anything you can tell me about him might help us find his killer.”

Jose massaged his thigh. “What do you need to know?”

“What brought him here to the rehab facility?”

“He had a head injury when he first returned from Afghanistan, and a shattered ankle. But he also had emotional issues.”

Sounded like Logger.

“Did he come for treatment voluntarily?”

“The physical therapy, yes. The counseling he balked at.” Jose’s face grew pinched. “Finally I convinced him to join one of the support groups for vets. I thought he was doing better, having fewer panic attacks. Dealing with his anger issues. He seemed excited about returning to work.”

“Where did he work?” Nick asked.

“Some kind of security company. He said he couldn’t talk about it, that he had to sign a confidentiality clause.”

Nick arched a brow. “Did he have any family?”

“No, that was the shame of it. His mother died of cancer while he was deployed. He didn’t even get to attend the funeral.”

That would do hell to a man.

Nick removed a photograph of Jim Logger from his pocket and showed it to Jose. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Yeah, that’s Jim. I believe Darren told him about the job. Got Jim pumped up, thinking about his future.”

So the two men were connected through both the rehab facility and the security company.

Jose’s brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me Jim’s dead, too?”

“I’m afraid so,” Nick said quietly.

Jose mumbled a shocked word. “Did the same person kill them?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Nick removed his phone from the clip at his belt, retrieved the photo of the dead man in the woods, and showed it to Jose.

“How about this man? Was he a patient here as well?”

The picture was grainy and dark, the man’s face a muddy gray, his features distorted. Jose took a few minutes to study it.

“I don’t recognize him.”

Hell, he’d hoped to find a common thread between the three men. Then again, there might be one.

The security company.

Both Logger and James had worked for it.

And the company might have serviced that compound where the woman had been burned.

Brenda wanted to be working. But the doctor insisted she rest, and her parents had practically forced her to go back to their house for the night.

No amount of arguing had convinced them that she would be safe, left alone with a concussion.

“You can stay in your old room. It’ll be just like it was when you were little,” her mother said as she plumped the pillows on the white iron bed where Brenda had spent her youth.

Brenda crawled in bed and played nice, but she felt like a prisoner. “Thanks, Mother. I am tired—I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Of course.” Agnes’s diamond earrings twinkled in the sunlight streaming through the sheers. “Call me if you need anything.”

In a rare emotional moment, her mother paused and brushed back her hair, tears in her eyes. “I know you’re independent, honey, and you don’t want me hovering, but I couldn’t stand to lose you.” She sniffed. “I may not be the best mother, but I’ve tried.”

Brenda’s throat swelled as déjà vu struck her. It felt as if she and her mother had done this before, as if her mother had cried over her bed when she was younger.

But she couldn’t place the memory.

And she’d never been seriously ill before. No car accidents.

In fact, she’d had a charmed life. Lonely sometimes, but safe.

She knew she shouldn’t complain, that the Bankses had given her everything she could have ever asked for. Compared to Amelia’s life, and Grace Granger’s, hers had been a fairy tale.

But she still wanted the truth. And that was something Agnes and William refused to give her.

“I’m lucky to have had you,” Brenda finally said.

Her mother hugged her, then wiped her eyes as she left the room.

Too antsy to lie in bed, Brenda walked over to study the photographs on her wall, high school pictures of cheerleading, prom, and graduation. The pictures told the story of a happy, well-adjusted girl.

But something had always been missing, a part of her that was lost.

She slipped into her old desk chair and rummaged through the drawers. Movie ticket stubs from when she’d dated Jake, a concert ticket a stoner named Lonnie had taken her to in her rebellious stage, her old high school ring.

She dug in the bottom drawer, smiling when she discovered the book she’d started writing when she was twelve.

She flipped it open, laughing at the crude drawings, but her laughter died as she skimmed the pages. Her story evolved around the kids at school.

Amelia. She’d described how crazy Amelia was, that Amelia had an imaginary friend named Bessie. Little had they known then that Bessie was an alter personality triggered by Arthur Blackwood’s mind-control techniques.

Another page showed a crude sketch of Grace Granger, annotated with Brenda’s observations of the troubled girl. Then there was one of Joe Swoony.

Regret filled her for the nasty way she’d depicted them, not knowing what she knew now—that they had all been victims of horrific abuse.

An idea began to percolate, and she grabbed a notepad and began to sketch out her thoughts. She would do individual pieces on the victims, as she’d planned.

And she would title the series
The Slaughter Creek Seven
.

Even if she couldn’t investigate with Nick this afternoon, she could start on these profiles.

She picked up the phone to call Grace Granger’s mother. She would start with Grace.

And she would finish with Seven.

Nick met Jake at the ME’s office. Dr. Bullock introduced them to his assistant, a thirtysomething brunette named Dr. Carrie Culpepper.

“I like bugs, she likes bones,” Bullock said with a cheeky grin.

Nick simply nodded in response while Jake chuckled.

“Since you two keep shoveling the bodies in here, I called in reinforcements,” Bullock said. “Dr. Culpepper is going to perform the autopsy on the woman in your fire. I’ve been working on the man.” He led them over to the table where their victim lay. Bullock had already washed off the dead bugs and made the Y incision.

“You’ve identified him?” Nick asked.

“Yes,” Bullock said. “Since your first victim was in the military, I took a chance that this guy was too and searched those records. His name was Sergeant Luther Mason.”

Bullock scowled. “Thirty-five years old. Also a man who worked out, although his liver indicates he was a heavy drinker.”

“Tox screen?” Nick asked.

“Rohypnol in his system.”

Jake cleared his throat. “Hmmm. That suggests our victim didn’t go with the unsub willingly?”

“The drug definitely helped him along,” Bullock said. “But there’s no trace evidence of fluids from the female.” He picked up the guy’s wrist and pointed to the rope burns. “Just like Logger, he was bound, hands and feet.”

He rolled the man sideways. “But unlike Logger, this guy sustained whip marks on his back.”

“She’s escalating,” Nick said. “Becoming more violent.”

“Either that, or this kill was more personal,” Jake said. “Maybe this guy hurt her before.”

Bullock nodded. “That fits with the degrading way she left his body in the woods.”

“Sergeant Mason,” Nick said, addressing the dead man, “did you work for the same security company as Logger and James?”

And if he had, what had those men done to Seven?

Seven arranged the dolls in the child-size chairs, around the table. They were beautiful dolls, each with her own hand-painted porcelain face. Each different, unique, just waiting for a little girl to love her.

Cora with the dark ringlet curls and baby-pink lips and dress made of blue satin. Amber with the golden-blond strands, sea-green eyes, and burgundy ball gown. Tamara with hair as red as leaves in the fall and an emerald necklace that showcased her white wedding gown.

Tears blurred Seven’s eyes as she placed a china cup in front of each of them.

You’re too old for dolls.

But now that she was free, she would have them.

Images of her childhood taunted her, and she squeezed the teacup so tightly that it shattered.

Seven watched the little girl on the street skipping rope and laughing. Her friend, a chubby girl with red hair and freckles, hugged her doll to her.

The happy little girls didn’t belong in this neighborhood. Not where he lived.

Oh, he acted like he loved little children. But that was a trap.

Love wasn’t supposed to hurt like that.

What if he hurt one of these little girls?

She shivered, her knees knocking together.

She was scared. Lonely. Still hurting from the latest beating by the Commander, this one because she’d failed another one of his tests.

They were standing at the edge of the schoolyard, where kids were playing tag, riding the teeter-totter, and swinging. She could see more kids inside, building with blocks and painting with their fingers and playing dress-up. One tiny blonde held a baby doll to her.

“I want a baby doll like that,” Seven said.

The Commander gripped her hand. “Soldiers don’t have dolls.
”

“But I don’t wanna be a soldier.” She stomped her foot. “I wants a doll.”

He slapped her so hard she stumbled backward. Then he dragged her toward the hole.

“Sit in there, and then you’ll forget about dolls.
”

“No!” Seven cried. “I don’t like the dark!”

But he shoved her in that deep dark hole where all the bad kids went.

Then the metal lid clamped shut and the light went away, and she couldn’t breathe or see or hear anything at all.