Savage Cinderella (22 page)

Seeing Brinn pull away from Justin gave him a
sense of satisfaction. She would never feel a man's hands on her
body and not think of him. He had marked her and it didn't matter
how much time passed, she would always belong to him. He watched
through the binoculars. She was frowning and there was a serious
look of desperation on the young man's face. The boy wanted her; it
was clear. The idea sent blood boiling to the surface.

"Sorry, Son, she isn't yours, and she never
will be." When Brinn turned back to Justin and fell into his arms,
every nerve in Stockman's body fired. He let out a string of curses
that sent two older women who were hiking past him scrambling to
give him a wide berth on the trail. He gained control of himself
and once more found the raven-haired girl and her companion in the
view of his binoculars. When the couple continued on the pathway,
Stockman pulled up roots and followed along the cliff's edge.

He kept his distance, blending with the
hikers, naturalists, and families out enjoying the state park's
pristine trails and hills. He had shaved for the occasion,
eliminating any traces of the face she might vaguely recall, once
bearded and scruffy. Whenever he was on a hunt, he was
clean-shaven, well-groomed, and innocuous as a lamppost.

He smiled at passersby and nodded casually at
small children, making faces at them when their parents were
otherwise engaged. The children would giggle and he smiled in
return. He could have any one of these little lambs, he considered,
as a troop of Brownies brushed by, chattering and giggling in their
little blue uniform tops decorated with patches and pins.

He corralled his attention back to the field
glasses that brought Brinn and Justin into focus. His eyes held
fast to his prey. He had not been successful over the years without
learning to curb his appetite and avoid distraction. Besides, his
rule was that he could only have one at a time. He’d have to
dispose of his other little prize when he brought this one home. He
couldn’t have them combining forces against him.

These were lessons he’d learned from his
father. When he died, Fernell Stockman had left him a legacy that
included a compulsion to possess young girls, and a cattle ranch
complete with a slaughterhouse. The drugs he kept for tranquilizing
the animals had come in handy.

Not one for doctors or public officials, the
old man refused treatment of any kind. Instead, he expected his
only son to care for him at his bedside until the bitter end when
the cancer took over. When the old man started coughing up blood
and could no longer get out of bed, he had begged his then
twenty-two year old son to end his suffering. With little argument,
and his heart colder than even he could have imagined, he held a
dirty pillow over his father's face until the struggling stopped
and the lifeless body was empty of breath. Roy would have used
those drugs first if he’d wanted it to be painless, but Fernell had
earned his death.

It was a relief, really. Like a heavy burden
had been lifted from Roy’s shoulders. There would be no more cruel
criticism, no more beatings, and no more feeling like he’d never
measure up. He was tired of being nothing but a painful reminder of
his mother’s sins. He buried the old man out behind the shed next
to the woman who had abandoned them both, marking the spot with
nothing but a plain flat stone. There was no love lost between
father and son. The old man was a miserable bastard, but once he
was gone, Roy was alone. Loneliness was its own cross to bear.

Stockman had to admit he'd at least learned
how to survive from his father. The old man had taught him
everything he needed to know about running the slaughterhouse
attached to the barn. He taught him how to deal with paperwork and
clients. It was Roy’s idea to take the night watchman’s position
part-time. It supplemented his income and gave him a legitimate
excuse to wear a uniform that earned him some respect.

His father hadn’t lived long enough to test
that theory, but at least the locals regarded him as a solid
citizen. No one questioned his reclusive lifestyle as long as he
plastered on the friendly smile and charm that disarmed even the
curious busybodies at the local grocer. People were suckers for a
compliment or a stupid joke. He knew how to tell people what they
wanted to hear—to convince them he was something he wasn’t.

Most importantly, Fernell Stockman taught his
son that women were weak, helpless creatures. That they should be
shown their place from the time they were young or they would grow
up and become faithless whores who would betray a man at every
turn.

Roy had grown up with that lesson literally
burned into his flesh, his father's fury at his mother's betrayal
fueling the cruel rule of thumb he lived by. Annabelle Stockman had
died in childbirth, committing the worst act of betrayal his father
could fathom: she’d left him, and Fernell Stockman had cursed her
soul and taken it out on his son every day of his life.

Roy watched Brinn approach the car across the
parking lot. The young man opened the door for her and then climbed
in on his own side. They pulled out of their spot followed by the
jarhead in the pickup who was obviously there to keep trouble at
bay. Two dark sedans fell in behind. Stockman grimaced and fell
into line far behind the caravan of vehicles, his own car dirty,
but not too dirty, new, but not too new. He had to be careful. If
she’d told the police everything she could, they’d have found him
already.

He couldn’t afford to watch and wait for the
day when she would be alone and vulnerable again. He needed to find
a way to get close to the girl and shut her up for good. For now,
his only objective was to keep his secrets safe.

Picture Perfect

"That's the same car as in the other picture.
Wait—back up. Yes, there it is again—the gray Buick." Brinn’s
father pointed out, reviewing the slides over Justin’s shoulder.
The face of the driver was indistinguishable, but the car was
definitely a match. Justin bookmarked the photos and moved through
the next slides one at a time.

They sat at the kitchen table huddled over
Justin's laptop. "Stop!" Brinn yelled. Justin backed up a
frame.

Brinn stared wide-eyed, scrutinizing the
people in the crowded background. It was a shot taken in front of a
restaurant in midtown. The face looked only slightly familiar, but
the eyes captured her attention. The cold black glare was trained
on her as she posed alone in front of the statue of a winged horse,
smiling easily and unsuspecting of her stalker. A tingle ran down
her spine. It was him. He no longer had his dark beard, but the
shape of the face was right, the thin lips and dark, slicked back
hair that formed a widow's peak high on his forehead. And those
eyes...

Brinn swallowed, her throat going dry. "I
think that's him." She closed her fists tight in an effort to
curtail the shaking that crept into her limbs and the hair that
rose on the back of her neck.

Justin wrapped a protective arm around her
shoulder. "He can't hurt you anymore, Brinn. We won't let him." Her
father nodded in silent agreement while Justin expanded the photo
and zoomed in on the face.

“
Print that up. I'll run it
through the national database." Her father’s voice had taken on a
note of cautious enthusiasm. “Go back to the photo of the Buick.
Can you zoom in on the license plate?" Justin found the photo and
tapped the screen, which instantly enlarged the car's front bumper,
clarifying the numbers and letters. “Print that up as well,” her
father said. "Have you thought about putting your photography
skills to use for the police department?"

Justin looked up at the man, his expression
half joking. "I don't think I'd be happy taking pictures of dead
bodies and crime scenes." He glanced at Brinn, a sparkle coming to
his eyes. "I prefer to use my talents to capture nature's beauty."
He hit the print button.

Brinn wanted to take comfort in the presence
of the two determined and capable men at her side, but the knot in
her stomach doubled as the face of her tormentor rolled out of the
printer in vivid clarity.

Capturing the Enemy

Brinn sat in the waiting room listening to
the conversation that was escalating through the crack in the open
door. She and her father had come to the Atlanta Police
Commissioner's Office for answers, and her father was determined to
get them. His voice rose and Brinn flinched at the anger in his
tone. "What do you mean you can't arrest him? Roy Stockman is our
man!"

After running his license plate and picture
through every possible data base, and doing some serious cold case
digging, Brinn’s father had found out that Roy Stockman was the son
of Fernell Stockman, a man suspected in a missing person’s case
twenty-five years before. The man was ruled out after his son
confirmed his alibi and the only witness could not pick him out of
a lineup. No witness, no body, no evidence, no case. It appeared
that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree in this instance and
that Roy Stockman had taken over where his father had left off.

Brinn could see the two men and hear every
word of the conversation from her seat outside the Commissioner’s
office. Commissioner Paulsen rubbed the sweat from his brow. "He's
out of our jurisdiction, John. I have to hand the case over to
South Carolina State Police."

"Who’s in charge there? I want this handled
carefully, but I need this guy in custody, now. You know Brinn
won't be safe until this psycho is behind bars!"

"He'll be picked up on suspicion, but I'll
bet he lawyers up quick." Bud Paulsen sat back in his chair folding
his hands over his paunchy midsection. His white shirt was wet from
perspiration, no match for the August heat of Atlanta, even with
air-conditioning. Brinn strained to hear what the two men were
saying. "My first priority is getting him off the streets," Paulsen
said.

"I’m glad we're on the same page." Brinn saw
the tension drop from her father’s shoulders.

"I've made it clear to Chief McCafferty of
Special Victims, who is handling the situation in South Carolina,
that bringing this guy in is of the utmost urgency. But you know as
well as I do that Stockman will be out in a day if we don't have
more than Brinn's ID. And if there is any doubt on her part, he
could walk." The big man sat forward, steely gaze narrowing
conspiratorially. "What we need is to get a search warrant, gather
evidence, and make an arrest. I'm sure that with the proper
documents in place, and a bit of leverage from some higher-ups,
Chief McCafferty could be persuaded to expedite procedures—in the
spirit of interstate cooperation, of course."

John shook his head at the balding,
round-faced commissioner. ”I know as well as you do the political
games that play out between the courts and this department, despite
our common goal of ridding society of scum like Roy Stockman.” He
rubbed his brow. “I hate politics.” Then he shook his head. “The
fact that the criminal justice system often ends up working out
better for the criminals because of the incessant red tape is the
reason I took this job to begin with. I’ve got a few connections.
If it’s a warrant you need, I’ll get it. We can't give him a chance
to slip through our fingers." Her father’s frustration was mirrored
in Paulsen's heavy sigh.

"A lot is riding on your daughter's ID.
Everything else we have so far is circumstantial."

John leaned across the table, knuckles
planted in fists on the desk. "When Briana went missing, I gave up
my Senate seat and spent whatever it took to follow up every lead,
no matter how small, to find her. I couldn’t sit up on Capitol Hill
and wait for someone else to suffer the same way my wife and I
had—the way Briana had.” His voice grew softer, more controlled,
but Brinn could make out the words he said by watching his lips.
Her heart ached for the torment in his eyes. "After years with no
leads, I’d almost given up. But the possibility that she was still
out there somewhere made me want to keep fighting.”

His voice had sunk to barely a whisper. A mix
of sadness and gratitude filled Brinn’s heart. All the years that
she thought no one wanted her—that everyone was gone, and that
there was no one looking for her—and all that time, her parents had
never given up.

He straightened, donning a stern face of
professionalism to gloss over his pain. “I decided to run for the
D.A. position, hoping to find vindication in putting away the kind
of scum that preys on children. It was all I could do for her then.
Now that she's back, things are different." He stared down at the
man behind the desk. "Briana will identify him. You just bring the
sick son-of-a-bitch in." John stopped at the door and turned,
addressing the Police Commissioner one last time. "This one's
personal, Bud. I want this man to pay for what he did to my little
girl."

Bud Paulsen nodded. "I understand, John, but
we have to handle the case by the book or we could lose him. Short
of catching him in the act, Briana's testimony is all we have. You
know how those defense lawyers are with victims, especially after
such a long time. They’ll run her through the wringer trying to
prove reasonable doubt." He paused and let out a slow breath. "Are
you sure you want to put her through a trial?"

Her father glanced at her across the waiting
room, meeting her solemn gaze with a small smile of appreciation
and then shook his head wearily at the Police Commissioner. "I've
been dealing with victims and the families of victims for a long
time, Bud. If I thought she was better off burying it, I'd say no,
but Brinn is no longer a victim; she's a survivor. The victims are
the other little girls whose bodies went missing and never showed
up again. The parents and families of those little girls are the
victims. You know as well as I do that this monster will keep going
until someone stops him." His voice rising again, he composed
himself and added, "I want more than anything to protect my
daughter, but if she is ever to be free of this nightmare, she has
to confront him and put him away."