Insatiable Desire (8 page)

Clarissa fought tears of sympathy as sixty-year-old Eloise continued to babble in denial.

Ronnie reached for his mother, extracted the photo, and set it on the desk. “I’m so sorry, Mama, but you have to listen to me. It’s true about Tracy. Someone killed her.”

Eyes wild, Eloise jerked Ronnie by the collar and shook him. “What kind of mean-hearted joke are you trying to pull? My Tracy is coming back. She just moved out, but she’ll be here for dinner later on. She promised.”

She released him, whirled around, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned back to the scarred counter. “I’m making her favorite, country fried chicken. And I just popped a peach cobbler in the oven. Why don’t you get the ice cream churn and we’ll make some homemade ice cream to go with it.” She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “You can stay if you want, Clarissa. I always cook plenty.”

“Mama,” Ronnie said in a fragile voice. “Mama, I’m not trying to be mean or playing a joke . . .” His voice cracked and tears rolled down his cheeks. “I saw her, Mama, she’s dead . . .”

Eloise shook her head in denial, pain and shock glazing her eyes, eyes the same color as her daughter’s. Clarissa would never forget the way they’d looked in death, wide and staring.

And all that blood . . .

She banished the images. Had to help this woman cope with the truth.

Eloise poured oil in a cast-iron skillet, turned on the stove to heat the pan, then hastily scooped flour into a bowl. She reached for a chicken breast to dip it in egg, but Clarissa flipped off the heat and cradled the woman’s hands in her own. Eloise’s body tensed, her fine bones cracking with tension.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Canton,” Clarissa said softly. “But it’s true. Ronnie and I just came from seeing Tracy. Sheriff Waller is with her now.”

“No, no . . . Please stop this, Clarissa.” The older woman trembled with the realization that she had to face reality, a reality that was every parent’s worst nightmare.

Clarissa simply waited, allowing her the time she needed to accept the truth.

“I can’t lose my baby,” Eloise cried. “I gave life to her; she can’t be gone.”

“I wish it wasn’t true,” Clarissa said, giving Ronnie a compassionate look as he dropped into the straight chair at the table and lowered his head into his hands again.

“The sheriff is going to stop by later,” Clarissa said. “He’ll need to talk to you, Eloise. And once the coroner finishes, he’ll send Tracy to the funeral parlor; then you can see her.”

“The ME?” Her voice broke, sounded distant. “You can’t let them cut up my baby.”

Clarissa swallowed. “Eloise, I’m sorry, but Tracy was murdered. An autopsy will help find her killer and put him away.”

Eloise’s eyes dulled as reality interceded, and her legs buckled. Clarissa caught her just before her bony knees hit the wood floor. Panicked, Ronnie lunged up and helped Clarissa carry her to the sofa, where she curled into a fetal ball, her horror palpable as her anguished sobs echoed through the room.

Vincent’s agitation with the deputy intensified as the hour wore on. He didn’t care what the homeboy thought—he hadn’t chosen to come to this podunk town and join this case, but he would damn well find the sadistic animal who’d carved up the Canton girl and played in her blood.

Irrational jealousy snaked through him though as he remembered the possessive streak Bluster had for Cla-rissa, but he shoved it away. Vincent didn’t do jealousy. Didn’t allow himself to care about a woman enough to let her relationships with other men bother him.

He couldn’t care about Clarissa, either.

“You ready?” Sheriff Waller heaved a breath, his belly shaking with the effort. “CSU is finishing up.”

Vincent nodded. “I guess we’ve done all we can here. The forensics team had better be thorough.”

“We’re not backward like you guys from the FBI think, if that’s what you mean. We have a decent unit,” Waller said with a scowl.

Apparently Bluster was right. Folks were sensitive around here. But they’d asked for his help, and if he had to insult a few locals to do it, so be it. As long as he solved this damn case. Because as much as he hated to admit that Clarissa might be right, three deaths in the small community within this short time frame raised suspicion.

“Are we stopping by the vic’s house?” Vincent asked.

Waller frowned. “Her name is Tracy, not the vic,” he muttered as he tugged his uniform khakis up to meet his belly. “Around here, everybody knows everybody else, so you’d do good to use her name.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. He’d long ago stopped referring to victims by name. Keeping them impersonal was a survival tactic that had kept him alive and sane.

He contemplated the facts so far. It was possible the deaths were related, or that a single killer might have used another death to distract the police and cover for a murder. He had to interview each of the victims’ families and friends, look for a motive.

He also wanted to know why the killer had left that piece of black rock as his calling card.

Night cast its claim on the sky and land, painting shadows along the path as he and the sheriff headed to the squad car. A red-tipped hawk with a breathtaking wingspan soared above the ridges, and Vincent paused to watch it. When the bird found its prey, it would swoop down and tear it apart with its sharp talons. The low growl of a mountain lion echoed from a distant peak, its hunger call warning smaller animals to run for their lives.

Just as a killer was out there hunting for his next victim.

As he climbed in the car, and Waller guided the vehicle around the curvy mountain roads, the darkness beckoned him, drawing him into his seductive lair. He had to climb into the killer’s head to discern his motive, understand his past, the reasons he chose to kill.

The reason Vincent was good at his job. He understood the drive, the hunger, the bloodlust that drove these crazies.

A sinister laugh caught in his throat, burning like acid eating at his control. His father had told him he had bad blood, that he was just like him.

If he allowed the dark side to win, would he become as cruel and violent as his father?

Clarissa buried her head in her hands and tried to drown out the voices. A dozen more dead had risen, crying out to her, but she had to shut them out. Had to focus.

Why were they all bombarding her now? Normally she could control them. She avoided the graveyard and the mines where so many had died. But the past two days, her head had been filled with tormented pleas.

Doc Pirkle, the town’s resident physician, stepped from Eloise’s room with a frown. “Are you all right, Clarissa?”

She nodded, her head throbbing from the incessant cries. But she couldn’t complain, not when Eloise was suffering. “Yes. How is she?”

“Struggling. But I gave her a sedative, so she should sleep through the night.”

He glanced toward the back. Ronnie had disappeared outside to work on the back porch he was building for Eloise’s weathered house. The sound of him pounding nails into wood drove home the force of his anger, but the chore was therapeutic, a coping technique.

A picture of Tracy sat on the counter, and she ran a finger over it. Another image flashed in her head. Tracy climbing into a faceless man’s car. The terror in her chest when she realized the man was dangerous.

“I’m worried about them,” Doc Pirkle said.

“I’ll take care of them tonight,” she said softly.

He squeezed her hands. “Your grandmama and mama, God bless their souls, would have been proud of you.”

Clarissa tensed, willing herself not to react. Her grandmother yes, her mother—no. Clarissa had tried to forgive her mother for leaving her, but the ache of being alone all these years haunted her constantly.

She had to be alone, though. No one else would understand her. Accept that her nights often meant communing with the dead. That sometimes she related to them more than the living.

The doctor let himself out, and she started to make tea, but a knock at the door made her rush to answer it.

Sheriff Waller and Vincent stood on the front stoop, both looking tired. Waller mopped at his forehead while Vincent simply let the sweat trickle down his jaw without bothering to stop it, a cool expression on his face as he met her gaze.

“We came to speak to Mrs. Canton,” he said without preamble.

“It’s not a good time,” Clarissa said. “Doc Pirkle gave her a sedative. She may be out for the night.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” Vincent said. “I thought you wanted to find this killer.”

“I do, but Eloise Canton is in shock and can’t tell you anything tonight that she can’t tomorrow.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “For heaven’s sake, I don’t want her having a heart attack. I don’t want to live with her death on my conscience.”

For some reason she didn’t understand, coldhearted Vincent took a step back. Only a fraction of an inch, but an emotion akin to pain darkened his soulless eyes before he masked it.

“If Doc thinks it best, we’ll come back in the morning,” Sheriff Waller said.

Vincent glanced inside the house. “Do you know if Tracy had a computer or cell phone?”

Clarissa frowned. “I don’t know. You might check her apartment.”

Sheriff Waller rubbed the back of his neck, then turned to Clarissa. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No, thanks. I’m staying with Eloise and Ronnie tonight.”

“All right, but call if you need anything.” The sheriff gave her hand a squeeze, and she smiled in gratitude, knowing she had her work cut out for her. Eloise would likely wake with nightmares, and Tracy’s ghost would probably haunt her all night.

Tracy needed help to move on.

If she hadn’t fully realized her fate, finding Clarissa there with her grieving mother and brother would force her unfortunate destiny to sink in. Then her wails of sorrow would begin.

And the only way to end them was for Clarissa to see that Tracy’s killer paid. Doing that meant working with the sheriff and Vincent, a man who had his own dark secrets.

A man who made it obvious he didn’t want anything to do with her.

“We need to go to the girl’s apartment tonight,” Vincent said. “And call a CSI team to examine Tracy Canton’s car.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Sheriff Waller asked. “I’m dead on my feet.”

“You want to find Tracy’s Canton’s killer, then it’s tonight. By tomorrow the scene and her car might be contaminated. The killer could have destroyed any link to him he might have left behind.”

Waller heaved a weary sigh and then phoned for a team to confiscate the car and another one to meet them at Tracy’s house as he drove to a run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of the town.

“I want this place dusted for prints,” Vincent told the CSI. “Anyone and everyone who has been in here needs to be accounted for.”

The crime scene investigator nodded and the two young men went to work.

“All right, Waller, let’s tear this place apart,” Vincent said. “Look for notes, phone bills, journals, calendars, a computer, cell phone, anything that might offer a clue as to who Tracy might have met up with lately.”

Waller rubbed his chest, his ruddy cheeks showing his age and failing health, but nodded. He might not like to take orders, but at least the man had enough sense to admit he was in over his head and to ask for help.

Which meant he was smarter than that worm of a deputy who had his dick in a knot over Clarissa.

Shit. He had to get his head back in the case and forget about Bluster. It was possible a local might have snapped and turned into a killer. A local whom no one would suspect, whom the girls might willingly trust.

He spotted the computer in the alcove to the left, strode toward it, then sifted through the mail on the small desk. “Here’s her cell phone bill.”

Sheriff Waller glanced at it and grimaced. “Don’t see anything suspicious.”

“Maybe not, but let’s cross-check the numbers with the other victims’ phone records, see if they had any friends in common. Check their landlines, too. Maybe we’ll find a connection.”

Waller scratched his chin. “I’ll request the landline records first thing in the morning.”

“While you’re at it, get Bennett’s. We need to know if Tracy called him when her car broke down,” Vincent said. “I’d like to take the computer and examine it.”

Waller nodded, and Vincent carried it to his car. If Clarissa was right, and the unknown subject—UNSUB—used the victim’s greatest fear as his MO, he could glean that information by asking questions. Reading a journal. Talking to her or e-mailing her. Hacking into a chat room. The possibilities were endless.

They spent the next hour searching and found no leads, no journal with personal dates, just Tracy’s school planner, a calendar listing doctor and hair appointments, and a neat, orderly apartment. He did find service records on her car, work that had been done at the dealership where she’d bought it, not at Bennett’s garage.

Waller’s cell phone rang, and he answered it, mumbling beneath his breath. A minute later, he disconnected and turned to Vincent. “That was Bluster. He brought Bo Bennett in for questioning.”

Vincent nodded. “Then let’s go have a chat with Mr. Bennett.”

As Vincent and Waller entered the police station, the sound of cursing echoed through the halls.

“What do you mean dragging me in here, Bluster?” Bennett growled. “I told you where l was last night.”

“Just settle down, Bennett,” Bluster ordered.

Vincent studied the suspect. Bo Bennett was a meathead thug with prison tattoos and a bad attitude. His dark eyes narrowed with accusations as Vincent leaned against the scarred table where Bo was seated, his beefy body swelling over the wooden slatted chair.

“We just need to ask you some questions, Bennett,” Vincent said.

“Who the hell are you?”

Vincent flashed his ID. “Special Agent Valtrez, FBI.”

“He’s here at my request,” Waller cut in. “Tracy Canton was murdered last night. Where were you, Bennett?”

Bennett released a string of expletives. “Just because I have a rap sheet, you’re going to blame every shitty thing that happens around here on me.”

“It’s a fair question,” Vincent said calmly. “Answer it.”