“Well, I’m done following,” the man snapped. “We torch the bodies, then go our separate ways.”
Hunter slipped his hand into his pocket. He wanted to play with the man, but already the sun was beginning to crest the horizon. Time was running out.
“Executioner, or should I call you Lou?” he mocked. “You’re hurting my feelings.”
“You don’t have any feelings.”
“You’re wrong.” Hunter took another step forward, and then another. Until he was standing a mere inch from his companion. Killing should be an intimate thing. Something that he could savor. “I feel anticipation.”
The man scowled. “Hey, back off.”
Hunter stood his ground. “Haven’t you wondered what happened to your companions?”
“Not really.” Like most narcissists, this man was incapable of thinking about anyone but himself. Hunter hadn’t worried for a minute whether he would start to question the disappearance of the others. “I assume that they got tired of your stupid game and moved on. Just like I’m going to do.”
Hunter pulled his hand out of his pocket, revealing the pistol he had clutched in his fingers.
“I suppose you could say they moved on,” he agreed with a low chuckle.
The disciple glanced toward the gun, then back at Hunter’s wide smile. He looked more baffled than terrified.
“What are you doing?”
Hunter gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “I suspected that you weren’t very smart, but even you should realize what I’m doing.”
He pointed the weapon directly against the man’s forehead. It seemed to at last prove that he wasn’t screwing around.
“No, please,” the man rasped, lifting his hands in surrender. “You were right. I’m nothing without you.”
Hunter smiled. He could almost smell the fear in the air.
This was what he craved. The control. The knowledge that he was in absolute control of life and death.
“I’m your god,” he breathed.
The man nodded, sweat dripping down his face. “Yes.”
“The sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry,” he quoted softly. “You could not see a cloud, because no cloud was in the sky.”
Executioner frowned in confusion, but before he could speak Hunter squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot echoed through the nearby canyon, making Hunter’s ears ring. He preferred to kill with his hands. Not only was it more satisfying, but a gun had the tendency to attract unwanted attention.
On the other hand, if you wanted someone dead, there was nothing more efficient.
And he wanted his companion dead.
Stepping back, he watched as the man tumbled forward, revealing the impressive hole in the back of his head. Any doubt of whether it was a survivable wound was answered. No one could live with most of his skull blown open.
In fact, Hunter was fairly certain he was dead before he hit the ground.
With a grimace, he circled the lifeless body and grabbed the man’s ankles, pulling him until he was next to the pyre. Then, grabbing the red plastic container he’d left next to his backpack, Hunter sprinkled his disciple with gasoline.
The pungent smell clung to the air as he tossed the empty container onto the top of the pyre. A reminder that he needed to be careful as he shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the lighter.
Using his thumb to strike a flame, he leaned toward the large pile of kindling he’d stacked at the bottom of the pile. There was a loud swooshing sound as the dry wood instantly caught fire.
Nothing like a California drought, he acknowledged as he scurried away from the sparks that were already dancing on the breeze.
Within minutes the flames had grown into an inferno, easily destroying the bodies. At the same time the sun moved above the horizon, spilling golden rays across the beach. Not perfect timing, but close enough.
Turning, Hunter moved to grab his backpack and hurried up the trail. As much as he might want to linger and enjoy the sight, he wasn’t a fool. The state park authorities were always on the lookout for fires. They would be swarming to this area the second they caught sight of the smoke.
Besides, the smell was hideous.
Once he reached the top of the trail, he moved across the nearly empty parking lot. He halted at the small compact car that Executioner had rented when he reached California. He didn’t think the man was smart enough to suspect that he might become a victim, which meant he might have left something behind that would reveal their identities.
He grabbed the sheet of paper from the rental agency and Executioner’s suitcase before he closed the trunk and crossed the lot to the white van waiting near the exit. He climbed directly into the back and tossed the case across the narrow space. He’d dispose of it later.
“Took you long enough,” the driver complained, starting the engine.
Hunter didn’t bother to glance in his direction. Like his other disciples, the man would grouse and complain, but in the end, he would do as he was told.
“I had some unfinished business.”
“Can we go?”
“Yes.” A shiver of anticipation curled through the pit of his stomach. “It’s time to take our game to the next level.”
Chapter Twenty
December 28, California
Griff woke early and slipped out of bed. He was careful not to wake the woman curled beneath the blankets beside him.
Standing next to the mattress he studied her tangled blond hair and pale face. After a day being forced to pace the floor, the poor woman had been unable to sleep. A fact that might have pleased him, since she’d turned to him for comfort more than once during the night. But he hated the knowledge that she was tormenting herself with guilt.
It was after five in the morning before she at last stopped her tossing and turning and fell into an exhausted slumber.
Now she was oblivious as he bent down to brush a light kiss over her curls and headed into the bathroom.
By eight o’clock he’d made coffee and was waiting for Rylan to pull into the driveway. He opened the door and, barely waiting for his friend to step across the threshold, grabbed him for a fierce hug.
Just having Rylan back in California was a huge relief.
“Thanks for coming, man.” He pulled back, leading his friend into the kitchen.
“No thanks necessary,” Rylan said, slipping off his jacket to reveal his casual shirt and jeans. The younger man studied Griff with obvious concern. “You’ve always been there for me.”
“True.” Griff forced a smile as he poured Rylan a cup of hot coffee and crossed back to hand it to him. Together they leaned against the counter. “I remember getting out of bed at three in the morning to pay off your bar tab so you didn’t get the crap beat out of you.”
Rylan chuckled, a portion of his tension subsiding at Griff ’s teasing.
“Hey, we’d just made our first big score,” he reminded Griff. “I thought we should celebrate.”
Griff arched a brow. They’d been seniors together in college since Griff had managed to finish in three years rather than the traditional four. At the time, Griff had completed a school project that created a computer program that could perform facial recognition at twice the speed as any other. Rylan had been confident that he could sell the program.
And he had.
For a ton of money.
When the first check had come in, Rylan had headed to the local hangout and gotten plastered along with half the student body.
Griff, on the other hand, had put his money in the bank and gone to bed early. His way of celebrating.
Just a wild and crazy dude.
“We?” he demanded.
Rylan tried to look innocent. “I drank several toasts in your honor. I swear.”
Griff sipped his coffee. “And the night you decided to sneak into the Rapson headquarters and got arrested? That was another three-o’clock-in-the-morning phone call.”
Rylan shrugged. “I was trying to prove to them that they had a shitty security system. If you’ll remember I managed to score us a twenty-thousand-dollar project.”
Griff ’s lips twitched. He’d been furious when Rylan had phoned from jail. They’d been in California less than a year and Rylan had been determined to get a contract from the corporation that owned more than a thousand storage units throughout the state. When they refused to believe there was anything wrong with their current system, Rylan had sneaked his way into their headquarters, telephoning the CEO of the company from his own office.
The president had predictably called the cops, who’d hauled Rylan to jail.
Thankfully, the board members of the corporation had been impressed by Rylan’s ingenuity, and not only dropped all charges against him, but also rewarded them with a hefty contract.
“Fair enough.” Griff ’s smile faded as he set aside his mug. “I just want you to know I appreciate your sacrifice. This was supposed to be your family time with Jaci and your father.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Rylan waved aside his words. “To be honest, it wasn’t that great a sacrifice. Jaci was about to start baking five dozen chocolate chip cookies, and she was giving me a look that said she was expecting me to help.”
“I thought she was cutting back on her catering business?”
Rylan grimaced. Griff understood that his friend didn’t object to Jaci working. She was an artist in the kitchen. But he had insisted that she try to slow down. She’d been burning the candle at both ends for years trying to make ends meet.
“She has,” Rylan said, his expression frustrated. “But that doesn’t stop every church, club, and local charity from calling her whenever they have a potluck dinner to raise money.”
“So you get to be her sous-chef ?”
“Sometimes I wash dishes,” Rylan said dryly. “And other times I get to keep Riff and Raff from causing complete chaos.”
Griff laughed. The thought of his sophisticated, charismatic friend spending his days with his hands in dishwater and corralling Jaci’s gigantic mutts was mind-boggling.
“A year ago you were walking the red carpet with a pretty starlet and planning to spend the holidays skiing in St. Moritz,” he said.
Rylan’s features softened. “There’s no place I’d rather be than spending the night in that small farmhouse with Jaci in my arms.”
“Amazing.”
“It is,” Rylan agreed. “Once you find the right woman all your priorities will change.”
Just a week ago Griff would have felt a stab of envy. What man didn’t want to find a lover and companion he could spend the rest of his life with?
Now he just smiled.
“I’ve already discovered that,” he said.
Rylan frowned. “Carmen?”
“Yes, Carmen.”
There was an awkward pause before Rylan cleared his throat. “Do you remember our conversation when I came back to tell you I intended to marry Jaci?”
Griff nodded. He’d been standing in the kitchen when Rylan announced his intention to return to Missouri and live with Jaci, although he’d promised that he would travel back to California on a regular basis. Griff had been genuinely happy for his friend, but he’d also known that Rylan’s protective instincts had been in hyperdrive when Jaci’s life had been threatened.
“I warned you that a man shouldn’t make important decisions in the heat of battle,” he said.
Rylan eyed him, as if he was trying to bore deep into Griff ’s brain.
“You were right. It wasn’t the time to make any big decisions.”
“Then why didn’t you take my advice?”
“Because I love Jaci. And I’ve known her my entire life.” He said the words as if they were undeniable facts. “You barely know this Carmen Jacobs.”
Griff narrowed his gaze. He didn’t need to know Carmen since she was riding a tricycle or making macaroni art. There’d been an undeniable connection between them from the beginning.
“I know her well enough to give my life to protect her.”
Rylan parted his lips, no doubt intending to continue the argument. Then he caught sight of Griff ’s expression and he instead heaved a small sigh.
Rylan never bothered fighting losing battles.
“It’s not going to come to that,” he promised.
Griff glanced toward the wide opening that led toward the staircase. For now, Carmen was safely tucked in his bed. But he wasn’t stupid enough to think that she was going to be willing to remain locked in this house forever.
A day, maybe two, and she was going to insist they do something to try to find the killer.
“I hope not,” he muttered.
Rylan reached out to squeeze his shoulder. A silent promise that Griff wasn’t alone.
“I called in some favors while I waited for my flight,” the younger man told him.
Griff had expected no less. “And?”
“The California Bureau of Investigation has promised to send agents to assist the local cops,” he said. “If the killer . . . . or killers . . . hope to mimic the Morning Star, they’ll have to bring the bodies to the beach at some point.”
Griff shoved his fingers into his hair, frustration bubbling through him.
“Assuming that they intend to copy the killers in the book.”
Rylan frowned. “I thought that was your theory?”
Griff paced across the floor. He couldn’t shake the sensation that he was missing something. Like they had all the pieces to a puzzle, but they’d put it together wrong.
“It’s a theory, but so far the only real evidence we have is the pictures that were sent to Carmen, and the bodies that were found in Kansas,” he said. “They both point toward one of the killers she profiled, and there were the flowers that were sent to her hotel room. Still . . .” His words trailed away as he gave a shake of his head.
“Is there something else you want me to do?” Rylan demanded.
“I don’t know. I—” His words cut off as the phone he’d stuck in his front pocket suddenly vibrated. Pulling it out he felt a surge of hope as he saw the name on the screen. “Speak of the devil,” he breathed.
“Who is it?”
“Nikki.” He pressed the phone to his ear and paced into the living room. “Tell me you got the bastard.”
His brief optimism was immediately squashed. Nikki not only denied any leads on the killers, but she revealed that he had even more reason to worry about Carmen. With a terse good-bye, he slid the phone back in his pocket and called out for Rylan to follow him.
He was in his office and seated at his desk when Rylan hurried to join him.
“What happened?”
Griff fired up his computer, his hands unsteady as he typed on the keyboard.
“Carmen’s PR firm received another packet of photos,” he said.
Rylan sucked in an audible breath. “Like the first ones?”
“Yeah,” Griff said. “This time they realized that it might be important and opened it. Once they saw the pictures they sent them straight to the FBI, who contacted Nikki. She’s on the way to Baltimore.”
Rylan grabbed a chair and set it next to Griff. He leaned forward as Griff clicked into his e-mail.
“Why Baltimore?”
“Because the bodies that went with those photos were found early this morning by a homeless man.”
Rylan stiffened. “How many?”
“Four,” Griff said. “And it gets worse.”
“Tell me.”
“Nikki didn’t go into many details, but she did say that the women had been laid side by side, like those in Kansas. And all the women were strangled and left with copies of Poe’s ‘Raven’ on their chests.”
Rylan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look surprised. Of course, he dealt more directly with the law officials who used their products. Including agencies that battled against terrorists.
There were few things left to shock him.
“Just like in Carmen’s book,” he said.
“Not exactly,” he corrected. “Nikki said after the cops sent her the preliminary photos from the crime scene that there were a few obvious differences.”
“What differences?”
“They were all blond.”
It took a second before Rylan muttered a curse. “Just like Carmen.”
“Yes.”
An ugly dread clouded his mind, bringing with it visions of dead women who looked like Carmen.
Christ. It didn’t make any sense. There were dozens of true crime books written every year. Maybe hundreds. Why would the killers become obsessed with Carmen? Was there some personal connection? Or just an unlucky trick of fate?
The unanswerable questions spun over and over, churning the acid in his stomach. If he didn’t end up with an ulcer, it would be a miracle.
“Is there more?” Rylan thankfully interrupted his dark thoughts.
Griff nodded. “There was a man who was in the same abandoned house. He had a gunshot to the head just like the one in Kansas.”
Rylan wrinkled his brow, trying to piece together the relevant details with what they already knew.
“So this time there were four women, not five.”
Rylan gave a slow nod. He hadn’t really considered the change in M.O. Was it important? A part of a pattern? Or had they been interrupted before they could get the fifth victim?
“That’s what the cops told Nikki.”
“And what about the man? Do they think he’s one of the killers?”
Griff turned his attention back to the computer, scrolling through his messages.
“She just got an ID on him. She said she sent me the file,” he said.
Easily finding the e-mail, he opened it to find a rap sheet attached.
“Josh Lucroy,” he read out loud. He studied the fuzzy picture of a guy with a square face and dark hair that needed to be combed. He had small eyes and looked half asleep. There was nothing that indicated he might be a ruthless serial killer. His gaze lowered to his arrest report, annoyed when he realized that it was official. Which meant that his juvenile records were sealed. The arrests didn’t show up until he turned eighteen. “Looks like he got picked up for peeking in windows. And exposing himself in a park.” His gaze skimmed over the petty crimes, moving to the bottom of the list. “Christ. He set a homeless person on fire.”