If You Hear Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (26 page)

Playing nice, that’s what he was doing. Wanted to brown-nose anybody he thought might do him good. Looking good for some smart-ass state cop was more
important than standing up for his own people. Fuck Nielson, too.

Hell, they could all go fuck themselves.

They needed to give Lena Riddle a bad guy and that’s what Prather was for them—the bad guy, even though all he’d done was try to help that stupid, irritating cunt who couldn’t figure out what was good for her.

Stupid whore. His eyes narrowed as he thought back to how she stalked onto his grounds and demanded he do something. Bitch had nerve. Had that fucking puppet of hers with her, too. Law Reilly. Boy was always sniffing around her like she was a bitch in heat.

Hell, he might be in on this, too. Probably was.

They needed to be taught a lesson.

All of them.

That was what they needed.

H
ER NAME WAS
J
OLENE
H
OLLISTER AND SHE KNEW SHE
was about to die.

Oddly, she found she was ready.

She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to face anything else this bastard had to hand out either.

Ever since she’d tried, and almost managed, to escape, he had … changed. If a monster could become more monstrous, then that was what had happened. He hadn’t touched her—not since the day he’d dragged her kicking, struggling, and trying to scream, back inside this place, her private, personal hell. After that final, brutal rape, he hadn’t touched her, but he still scared the hell out of her.

He hadn’t touched her, and he hadn’t tried to force her to eat, either. Once or twice a day, he forced water down her throat and that was it. It was as though he wanted to do the bare minimum to keep her alive.

She was weaker now, no longer able to do much more than shove at him as he freed her and pulled her off the small cot where she had lain restrained for the past week.

The thing stank to high heaven because he hadn’t let her free, not even once. So she had lain in her own filth. His hands weren’t gentle as he hauled her to the small,
hand-rigged bathing area she’d used before and as he doused her with cold water, her weakened legs gave out under her.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t attempt to force her to stand.

It was like he no longer saw her as a living, breathing creature—not even a plaything.

Yes, he had become more monstrous … in some ways. She was no longer remotely alive to him, and in some ways that terrified her more than anything else he’d done to her.

But at the same time, it was a relief. If he no longer saw her as alive, it was because he meant to see that she didn’t remain that way much longer.

And Jolene—
please God, forgive me
—couldn’t live like this much longer.

She wanted, needed, craved death and soon, he’d give it to her.

It was a chore, he was disgusted to discover.

She lay under him like a limp dishrag, boneless, barely breathing, the healing bruises standing out against her pale, pale skin. Her pupils were mere pinpricks, and there was little life left in those hazel eyes.

Of course, when he lifted his hand and started to methodically beat her … that changed.

For a moment.

The brilliant, stark light of pain flared in her eyes.

Her screams once more rang in the air.

But even the pain in her eyes faded, and her screams went silent far too soon. Reaching down, he closed a gloved hand around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, until she gasped and groaned and whimpered her way back into consciousness.

And still, she looked at him out of swollen, bruised eyes … dull eyes.

Setting his jaw, ignoring the stink that lingered in the air, he went to the small footlocker and withdrew a clear bottle. She was lax and limp—it was like trying to initiate intercourse with a corpse and while he could deviate from the plan, he chose not to.

He didn’t like using the lubricant unless he was taking a woman anally, but he wasn’t about to fuck a dry stick, either. Sometimes, the violence alone was enough for him, but she had to struggle, had to give him … something.

She had nothing for him now. Barely any life left in her.

He didn’t let it anger him, though.

As he turned back to face her, he smoothed a hand over his bare scalp and knelt down next to her. “You really were one of the best … for a while,” he said.

It should have ended better than this. So much better.

Her eyes were dull as she stared straight ahead and when he covered her body, she didn’t even flinch.

In her mind, Joely was already drifting away. She knew what he was doing. Pain blistered through her, but she was only vaguely aware.

He would rape her again, she realized. She’d thought he was done with that. But no. He’d do it again and she didn’t want to be here for it.

Let him do it.

In her mind, she cried out for Bryson … for her fiancé, the man she loved. In her soul, she wept for him.

And in her heart, she mourned the life she could feel slipping away.

In life, she’d been very lovely—that serene, almost peaceful, angelic beauty covering an impish sense of humor and wicked intelligence.

In death, that serene, peaceful beauty was broken, shattered. He’d taken his time with the rape, taken his time before he slowly choked the life out of her, and by
the time her life ended, her face was so swollen, not even her own mother would have recognized her.

He didn’t care for that, but it had been necessary for his plan, and in the end, it didn’t matter to him how she looked now. Even as he carefully trimmed her hair to chin-length, he was more focused on how she had looked before.

That night.

Forever, he would remember how Jolene Hollister had looked that night when he had dragged her back into his place and flung her against the wall—her eyes bright with terror, her heart racing, and her strong, slim body struggling. So alive. So alive, so defiant. Even as she fought him and lost, she’d been strong and defiant … and his.

Only his.

He took care to clean up the loose hair, taking only what he needed and tucking it safely away, then gathering the rest to be disposed of. He could do that easily enough in the morning.

Tonight, he had another task to see to, and instead of his normal routine, he had a new plan in mind.

He took little notice of the bruises as he cleaned her carefully, wrapping her body in a sheet of plastic before carrying her out of the trees under the cover of darkness.

This was a risk, but it was a calculated one.

One he felt he needed to take.

He’d made a bad mistake in judgment thinking nobody would pay any attention to Lena Riddle if she reported anything unusual. She’d reported it, and yes, people had paid attention. So it was time to give them something to find.

From his truck, he could see the lights on in the house, could see the shadow of the occupant moving around. The shades were drawn, but he could still see movement, the odd flickering light that told him the TV was on.

A night owl, a fact that had played in his favor.

Lena Riddle was a problem. One he needed to deal with, and over the past few days, he had come up with a solution.

There was one major problem and that was Lena herself, but there were smaller problems that added to the whole.

She was so sure of herself, so cocky and confident.

Too many people seemed to believe her, and part of that was just because she was so cocky and confident.

Shake that confidence, even a little, and like a house built on sand, the entire structure might very well collapse.

And even if it didn’t … well, they needed a body.

So he would give them a body … and a bad guy.

She’d forgotten how damned eerie and empty a big house could be at night.

Especially when you couldn’t sleep.

The floorboards squeaked.

Outside, the wind wailed.

A storm was blowing in and although it wasn’t cold, she found herself rubbing her arms, chilled to the bone.

She thought about turning on the TV, but this late at night, her best bet was infomercials, lousy horror movies, or worse. Something gross and scary, the last thing she needed when she was already freaked out for reasons she couldn’t entirely explain.

As midnight edged past and she still couldn’t settle her restless mind, she thought about reading. Absently, she realized the wind was dying down. Maybe the storm would blow over. She sighed and moved over to the window, absently adjusting the blinds.

And that was when she felt it.

The eerie sensation of … wrongness.

Her breath lodged in her throat and she peeked through the blinds, staring out into the darkness. Her breath came in hitching gasps as she tried to breathe past the knot that had suddenly lodged itself in her throat. Tried to breathe … and couldn’t.

Tried to breathe … and damn near screamed. Clapping a hand over her mouth, Hope Carson breathed out a prayer against her muffling palm. One step after another, she backed away from the window.

She’d just seen a shadow.

Out there in the darkness, where she shouldn’t be seeing anything.

Moving toward Law’s workshop.

A man.

Carrying … something.

Phone calls at close to one
A.M
. were bad news.

Really bad news. Nobody called at one
A.M
. just to chat, so whoever was on the phone must really need to talk … but he was still going to commit bloody mayhem.

Grouchy, irritable as hell, Law grabbed the cell phone from the bedside table and snarled, “What?”

“Law …”

Hope’s shaky, terrified whisper was a splash of icy cold water, and one hell of an effective wake-up call.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

Lena knuckled her eyes and tried to make sense of the words coming out of the receiver, but so far, they weren’t making much sense.

“Where’s your cop? Is he there with you?”

“My cop? You mean Ezra?” Lena asked. Coffee. She needed coffee—especially if she was supposed to make sense of a phone conversation with Law at … what time was it again?

“Yes, Ezra, unless you’re shacking up with Prather now, too. Damn it, Lena, wake up, this is important.”

“Law, honey, trust me. Whatever weird story question you got, it needs to wait until—”

“It’s not a fucking story!” Law snarled.

If it wasn’t for the underlying fear she heard in his voice, that tone alone would have had her back going up and she would have torn into him. As it was, it served to wake her up. Very, very well. Slowly, she sat up. “Okay, then. What’s going on?”

“Is he there with you?”

“No.”
More’s the pity …
Part of her wanted to make some snide comment about him being presumptuous—except Ezra had spent four nights with her this past week—and just think, last week, they weren’t even really talking. Sighing, she rubbed her neck. “He had a doctor’s appointment with a specialist in Lexington and said he wouldn’t be fit for human consumption, so he was heading home once he got back in town.”

“Is he in town?”

“Yes,” she said slowly.

“Call him. He needs to come pick you up.” Law blew out a breath. “I need you to go to my place and you need to do it now—have him come pick you up right away. It’s got to be him, Lena. Nobody else. Not Roz, not Carter. Ezra. You understand?”

“No. Not in the least. Law, what’s the deal?”

In a grim, angry voice, he said, “I’ve got to call the police.”

“The police … what in the hell is going on?”

“I … I’ve got a friend staying out there. She thinks she saw somebody out near my workshop—I don’t know. But I can’t call the sheriff and report it until somebody else is out there. Lena, if she sees a uniform, she’s going to freak out. I need you there.” He hesitated for a few seconds and then quietly, his voice a raw plea, added, “Please?”

The phone rang.

Ezra came awake instantly, even though he’d been caught in the midst of one weird-ass dream involving a physical therapist, his high-school gym teacher, clown school, and Nascar.