A Deadly Love (18 page)

“They care.”

She tossed the towel in the trash and sighed. “I know. I’m as concerned about Stephanie and the others as they are. It’s just so frustrating feeling like I can’t even walk out my own back door. We live in constant fear of what will happen next.”

“It won’t be forever, but until they stop this man—”

The phone rang, and Brooke jumped. Pressing her hand to her chest, she lifted the receiver. Her heart pounded.
Good news or bad?
“Hello.”

“Brooke, it’s Carter.”

Her shoulders slumped.
No news at all.
“Hi, Carter.”

“I’m sorry I had to cut out on you last night.”

“That’s all right. The evening wasn’t exactly relaxing and fun even before—” The words stuck in her throat.

His sigh carried over the line. “Let’s take a break, have a nice dinner, think about something else for a few hours. I’m free tomorrow night.”

She rubbed her forehead and frowned. “It wouldn’t seem right. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help them by sitting at home worrying.” His tone held and edge.

“No.” She straightened, irritation stiffening her spine. “Thank you for asking, but no.”

He was silent for a moment. “Maybe another time, then.”

“Sure. Goodnight, Carter.” She hung up the phone and turned to face her grandmother.

A smile stretched across her wrinkled cheeks. “See, you’re making better decisions already.”

****

The clouds parted, and stars glimmered in the moonless sky. The house was a darker shadow in the night. Brooke was tucked away inside, asleep. Earlier, she’d been mere yards from where he stood. So close he could see her hands shake, hear the quaver in her voice as she called the dog.

He’d been tempted to take her. So tempted. His hands had twitched with longing to reach out and close around the soft skin of her arm. But it wasn’t her time yet.

Inside the house, the dog barked, a cacophonous racket loud enough to wake the dead. A light snapped on in an upstairs window. Brooke’s room.

A sigh shuddered through him. Soon. It would be her turn soon. As quietly as he’d come, he slipped away into the night.

Chapter Eleven

Dillon stomped through the underbrush, pausing every few yards to tag a tree with orange paint. A blue jay squawked overhead, and the wind whistled through the dense branches. Faintly he heard the sounds of his men calling back and forth as they worked their individual sections. It was a clear, sunny day without a hint of warmth. He sprayed paint on the thick trunk of a Douglas fir and moved on, skipping the smaller trees, leaving them to grow.

He’d stopped clear cutting when he took over the reins of Big Timber. After years spent studying forestry management, he was a firm believer in selective harvesting. It was better for the environment, and in the long run, more profitable. He sprayed another shot of paint and pressed onward. This tract of land was several miles from town, far from the area he and the other volunteers had spent the last few days searching. They’d come away empty. Again. Harley had called off the search, deeming it pointless. Wherever the women were being held, it wasn’t in the forest.

Wind gusted from the north, sending a chill through his heavy, canvas work jacket. A smell carried on the air, so strong and offensive, he gagged. He dropped the paint canister and stumbled toward the area from which the odor emanated. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The rotting carcass of a deer or bear would produce such a stench. Covering his nose with his sleeve, he prayed he’d find one or the other. Fear he wouldn’t trickled like ice water down his spine.

He pushed through a thicket of Sitka spruce and dwarf maple and halted, his knees buckling. The body hung on a redwood, one of the few growing near a thick grove of fir trees. Animals had been at her, and what was left was barely recognizable.
Except for the cloud of dark, curly hair.
Matted and tangled, it hid most of her ravaged face. Some sort of long, white garment, similar to what Cybil had worn, covered her body.

Dillon sunk onto the soft, needle covered floor of the forest and focused on breathing through his mouth. He pressed his eyes tightly closed, waiting for the world to stop spinning. When he was confident he wouldn’t heave up his breakfast, he turned his back to the tree and pulled out his cell phone. Two bars. His hand shook as he punched the buttons to connect the call.

Harley answered his personal line. “Sheriff Boone speaking.”

“Harley, I found her.” His voice broke.

“Dillon, is that you? ...barely hear you.”

He stood and walked several yards. A third bar lit up on the display, and he took a deep breath. “I found Tricia.”

“Jesus.”

“She’s been dead a few days, maybe longer. God. You might want to send someone else.”

The sheriff’s voice was granite hard. “I’ll come. Where are you?”

Dillon gave his coordinates. Tears burned his eyes as he glanced over at the tree. “She’s just hanging there. Should I—”

“Don’t do anything! Stay away from her for Christ’s sake. Don’t touch anything.” Emotion vibrated in his voice. “Just wait for me to get there.”

He pressed his hand against the back of his neck and stared up at the blue sky. “Harley, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

It was nearly an hour before the sheriff arrived, accompanied by an entourage that made it clear this was no longer a local investigation. Dillon and his crew waited at the end of the dirt logging road where they’d parked. It was past noon, but he didn’t feel like eating. Just the thought of food made his stomach roll. They’d packed up their gear as it seemed obvious they wouldn’t be working in this section of forest again anytime soon, not with an active murder investigation in progress.

Dillon slid off the tailgate of his pickup. Car doors slammed. Harley, followed by his deputies, headed in their direction. The two state detectives, Watkins and Hanks, were with them along with a trio of men wearing suits, ties, and spit shined patent leather shoes. The dusty road took the gleam off before they’d gone ten feet.

“The FBI agents I contacted were already en route when you called.” The sheriff was pale, his mouth a tight, pinched line. “They’ll be taking over the investigation once the detectives and I bring them up to speed. Dillon, these are agents Washington, Polk, and Johnson. This is Dillon Tremayne, the man who discovered—the victim.”

Dillon’s brow shot up at the Presidential names, but his old friend didn’t so much as crack a smile. Dillon shook hands with Washington, a whip thin black man with liquid brown eyes. Polk was a fireplug with attitude to burn if his sneering expression was any indication. Johnson was—a woman. His eyes widened as he shook her hand. With ruthlessly short, dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses, she towered over the other two agents.

Harley cleared his throat. “Dwayne, you stay here and take statements from Dillon’s crew. Once you have them, they’re free to leave. The rest of us will head out to the crime scene.”

Dillon fell in step between Harley and Detective Watkins, a short distance ahead of the others. Dead branches crunched under their boots. Robins chirped in the fir trees. He let out a long sigh and broke the silence between them. “Why do you suppose he left her way out here?”

“Maybe he didn’t want her found right away.” The detective’s voice was gruff.

Harley frowned. “Maybe he didn’t want her found at all. We’ve been beating the bushes closer to town for days. A dog couldn’t bury a bone without someone unearthing it.”

“Laying out this timber sale has been on my calendar for a while now. You know how gossip is; half the town probably knew we’d be working up here this week.”

Harley kicked a fir cone, sending it ricocheting off a tree. “So he wanted her found, but not immediately. He was looking for a little breathing space.”

“Or he wanted the focus to stay on the hunt for the women who are still alive.” Dillon shoved his hands in his pockets. “The sick bastard must get off on staying one step ahead of us.”

The detective nodded. “Once he’s killed them, the fun goes out of it for him.”

“The tree is just up ahead.” He touched Harley’s jacket sleeve. “She’s in worse shape than Cybil was. If the FBI is taking over, there’s no reason for you to see Tricia like that.”

The sheriff jerked his arm away and stared at Dillon. His eyes were as cold as frozen mud. “I’ll do my job. My relationship with the victim ended years ago.”

“Still—”

“Drop it, Dillon. I can handle it.”

“Fine.” He walked the last few yards and stopped, head down, hands jammed in his pockets. He swallowed hard as the stench wafted on the breeze. Harley’s indrawn breath and strangled cry hit him like a fist to the gut. He didn’t look up. “Can I go back to my truck now?”

Watkins cleared his throat. “I’ll walk with you. I’ll take your preliminary statement and lead the coroner back when he gets here.”

“I suppose that works.”

The short, stocky FBI agent narrowed his eyes at Dillon. “Don’t make any plans to leave town. We’ll be talking to you again real soon.”

His fists clenched in his pockets as he met the man’s gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.” Turning on his heel, he headed back the way he’d come.

“That guy’s an ass.”

Dillon glanced over at the detective hurrying to keep pace with him, then ducked under a low hanging tree limb. “Who, Polk?”

Watkins grinned. “My wife would call it short man’s complex. Polk has it in spades. Don’t let him rattle you.”

“You’ve worked with him before?”

The detective nodded. “The other two keep him in line and get the job done.” His smile disappeared. “How, exactly, did you come across the body?”

“I was marking trees for harvesting. My men were scattered throughout this sector.” He let out a long breath. “The smell hit me, and I went to investigate, praying I’d find a dead animal. No such luck.”

“She’s definitely been there for a few days. An autopsy should be able to narrow it down.”

Dillon frowned. “You’re thinking he killed her last weekend.”

“Friday was a new moon.”

“So he murdered Tricia and then went after Stephanie.”

Watkins stopped beside the vehicles. The logging crew was gone, and the deputy was nowhere in sight. “That’s my guess.” He pulled out his notebook and a stubby pencil. “Let’s get the particulars—the time you found the body and your subsequent actions.”

Dillon ran through the sequence of events. Pressure built behind his temples as he spoke, and he rubbed the back of his neck. He’d kill for a couple of double strength aspirin and maybe a shot or two to take off the edge.

“I think it was around one o’clock when you and Harley arrived with the entourage of dead presidents.”

The detective’s lips twitched. “Don’t call them that in front of agent Johnson. She gets ticked off, and that woman is meaner than a rattlesnake when she’s riled.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Are we finished?”

Watkins slapped the notebook on his thigh and glanced up as the coroner’s van drove into the clearing. “Yep, you’re free to go, but I’m sure the FBI agents will have follow-up questions.”

Dillon paused beside his pickup. “Quite frankly, I’m worried about Harley.”

“It’s clear he’s taking the deaths of these women personally. This is his town.” The older man dropped a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thanks.”

Dillon backed his truck and headed down the rutted, dirt road, pressing his hand against the tight knot in his chest. The bastard who’d killed Cybil and Tricia had made it personal, for him as well as Harley. The murdered women were a part of his childhood. The ones missing were close friends. The sun glinted off his windshield as he stared up at the cold, blue sky. If the killer remained true to his pattern, they had less than two weeks before the next full moon, before Marnie’s time ran out and someone else he knew disappeared.

****

Brooke turned in a circle, a satisfied smile curving her lips. The dining room looked gorgeous. After stripping off the old, faded wallpaper, she’d added chair rails that matched the antique crown molding, then painted the lower walls pale green. New wallpaper in a delicate ivy pattern covered the upper walls. Her grandmother had sewn forest green drapes to accent the pair of tall windows overlooking the side yard.

“You did a magnificent job, honey.”

Brooke wrapped an arm around her grandmother’s waist. “
We
did a stupendously awesome job. With your old lace tablecloth and Wedgwood china gracing the table, breakfast will be an occasion to remember at Ransome House.”

“I certainly hope our guests think so.” June crossed her arms over her bright turquoise T-shirt. “Speaking of guests, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the bedrooms.”

“Fresh paint and new linens will make a huge difference without killing our budget. Maybe some new curtains in the bedroom James used when we were kids.”

“I’ll make a set as soon as we get the fabric. I forgot how much I enjoy sewing.” Her brows lowered, and defiance sparkled in her eyes. “My room may need a bit of additional clearing out and sprucing up. I have over fifty years of clutter up there.”

Brooke stared at her grandmother’s set expression. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m moving out of the best bedroom in the house. It makes perfect sense, and I won’t hear any arguments.”

“Where exactly do you intend to sleep?”

“I was thinking we could clean out the storage room adjacent to the pantry. It’s full of nothing but old crap.”

Brooke grinned at the snap in her grandmother’s voice. “You’re calling broken toasters, three legged chairs, and moth eaten blankets crap?”

“Don’t forget your grandpa’s collection of worn out work boots he refused to throw away. He was the packrat in the family, not me, but I’ve been too lazy to get rid of all the useless things he hoarded.”

“I don’t know, Grandma. That room isn’t very big.”

“It has a built in closet. All I’ll need is a bed and a dresser. In a few more years, I’ll be too old to run up and down the stairs, anyway.”