Deadly Relations

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Alexa Grace

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Christy Carlyle of Gilded Heart Design

ISBN-10: 098559392X

ISBN-13: 978-0-9855939-2-6

For my amazing, loyal readers

A special thank you to Sgt. Adrian Youngblood of the Seminole County Sheriff's Office, Major Crimes Unit, who patiently answered my questions and reviewed each chapter for accuracy as I wrote this book.

I am also grateful to Lieutenant Patrick J. Flannelly of the Lafayette Police Department for answering my questions specific to Indiana.

Thank you also to the wonderful experts at Crime Scene Writers.

Any mistakes here are entirely mine.

Thank you to my editor, Vicki Braun
, who painstakingly edited this book.

Much appreciation goes to the Beta Reader Team who devoted their personal time to review each page of this book: Karen Golden-Dible, Carolyn Ingham-Duncan, Gail Goodenough, Melody McAllister Novellino, Kelsey Summer, Barrie MacLauchlin, Rhonda Dennis, Kelly Struth, Nate Kitts, and Cindy Lawyer.

Thanks also to Melissa McGee, Megan Golden, Nancy Carlson and Karen Golden-Dible for their help and support.

I want to express my appreciation to my family and friends. Without their love, encouragement and support, this book would not have been possible.

He hid his car in the woods and hiked back to the house. He’d been planning what he was about to do for a long, long time. The first seed of the plan was planted when he was seven years old: Mama locked him out of the house for wetting the bed, just as the school bus arrived with his classmates hanging from the bus windows, laughing and taunting him, as he stood outside in his soiled pajamas. The plan strengthened with each beating with the long, black, leather belt Daddy left behind after the divorce. The beatings grew more frequent, and just about anything could inspire one, whether it was a stolen snack before dinner, or because she had another one of her headaches.

His was a plan that had been honed and perfected over the years. He’d put in time for practice, too, unfortunately for the five women he’d killed over the years. What surprised him was how much he enjoyed killing the women. It was anger that motivated him, but each killing gave him a sexual release like he’d never had. He’d become proficient at murder. Three of the women had not even been discovered, he’d hidden them so well. The other two would become cold cases soon. As Mama always said, practice made perfect.

He entered the old farm house and laid the jug of kerosene he’d carried from his car down on the linoleum floor.

He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket. Then he stood back and took a good look at the woman, lying on her stomach, strapped to the kitchen table with duct tape. He’d removed her panties and flung her dress up so he could reenact a scene that was repeated throughout his childhood, up until the time he’d grown big enough to fight back. It was a scene that played in brilliant Technicolor in his nightmares every night.

“
Good choice livin’ in the country, Mama. A good five miles between farms makes things that much easier for me. No one’s going to notice the fire until it’s too late,” he said, laughing as he walked into the kitchen.

“
Oh, what is it you’re trying to say? Hard to talk with duct tape stretched across your face, isn’t it?” he asked as his mouth pulled into a sour grin.

When she noticed he had Daddy’s long, black, leather belt in his hand, she started to whimper. Mama knew what was about to come. Hadn’t she done it to him a million times before?

“
I even remember the chant, Mama,” he told her. “You repeated it with every beating, so how could I not remember it?”

He popped the belt, the crack echoing through the small house. Mama flinched as he moved closer.

“
Little girls are pure and go to heaven. But little boys are dirty and go to hell.” His voice grew husky, changing back from the imitated falsetto. “Isn’t that what you would say, Mama?”

He pulled the belt over his shoulder, whipped it down across her buttocks, and laughed at her muffled screams. “Oh, Mama. Does that hurt?” He pummeled her with the belt until her flesh was so bloody it looked like raw hamburger. He checked her pulse. The bitch was still alive. But that would be remedied soon.

He strode into the living room to a vintage red kerosene lantern Mama owned, in case the house lost electricity during a storm. He slammed it to the floor. Rivulets of the oil ran over fragments of red shattered glass, sinking into the old carpet covering the floor.

Going into the kitchen, he pulled a hypodermic needle out of his pocket and jabbed it into his mother’s neck. “This will make you too drugged to move, Mama. Got to get you off this table and into a living room chair. It’d be a little suspicious if somehow enough of you was left after the fire, and it was discovered you were duct-taped to your table.”

He watched her a few minutes until she lost consciousness, and he was sure the drug had taken effect. He then carried her into the living room and deposited her in her favorite easy chair. For good measure, he found a book nearby, opened it and placed it on her lap, so that it would appear Mama was enjoying her book when the “accident” happened.

Opening the kerosene jug he’d brought, he poured it over his mother and around the living room. As he headed for the front door, he pulled a book of matches out of his jeans back pocket. He struck a match, and when it lit, tossed it near his mother. He stood back as the room exploded with flames. He dashed through the door and watched from the driveway as the inferno engulfed the small house. Aroused, his hand flew to his member and massaged it as ripples of heat became a tidal wave. He moaned aloud with the erotic pleasure he always got when he’d slain his prey.

In no particular hurry, he walked to his vehicle, turning to watch the fire occasionally as he went. When he reached the woods, he spotted his car a short distance away. It was stuffed with moving boxes. He’d accomplished the one thing he wanted to do since childhood. He’d destroyed evil.

He’d leave Ohio for his new job in Indiana. It was time for a fresh start.

A tear slid unchecked down Jennifer Brennan’s cheek as she stared at the casket of her baby’s father, while the minister spoke words of support. She didn’t hear a word.

The end of the long Indiana summer was nowhere in sight. A September breeze rustled leaves in the tall oak trees surrounding the cemetery, cooling her skin, which was heated by the bright sunlight and rising temperature. The humidity was thick, temperature at least eighty degrees, and no shade near the gravesite. Wiping moisture from her forehead with the back of her hand, Jennifer thought about her baby.

Had he lived, her baby boy would have been five years old. Once Jennifer had learned she was carrying a boy, she’d named him after her father, Tim. She was eight months pregnant and shopping for a baby crib with her mom, Megan. Feeling bigger than a barn, she waddled instead of walked. They’d found the perfect baby bedding set called “Stars at Night,” with stars and prints in shades of warm blues, yellows and browns. It matched the light yellow walls they’d painted the week before in baby Timmy’s room.

They only needed a crib. They were in Foster’s Furniture on Main Street when the pain started radiating from her back to her belly button. She used the breathing techniques she’d learned in childbirth class and thought she might be having false labor pains. It was too soon. She and her mom were following a saleswoman to the back of the store to see a vintage-looking oak crib when a wave of pain slammed into her like a freight train. Jennifer had moaned and leaned against a dresser for support, her legs feeling like they might give out. Her panties became wet, and she felt something trickling down her leg, into her shoes. She looked down to see blood. Jennifer remembered screaming before she lost consciousness. She’d lost her baby.

Paul Vance, Timmy’s father, had been her world for two years when they both attended Indiana University in Bloomington. There was a time when she thought she loved Paul more than life itself. Christ, she used to think he was her soul mate. All that evaporated the night she told him she was pregnant with his child.

Jennifer grieved for what could have been if things had been different between Paul and her. It was the unanswered questions and doubts that made it hard. Could things have been different if Paul’s reaction to her pregnancy had been joy instead of anger and fear? Was she wrong to have expected delight when they were both juniors in college, with Paul on a football scholarship, a professional football contract hanging like a bright star in his future? Was she wrong to refuse his marriage proposal?

Right or wrong, she’d associated Paul Vance with the living nightmare that ensued after that night. Had it not been for Paul’s abandonment when she’d needed him the most, she would never have had thought about giving her baby away, nor would she have gotten involved with an illegal adoption agency that resulted in her abduction — and probable murder, had she not escaped.

It wasn’t just that she couldn’t forgive Paul. She couldn’t trust that in the future, when things went wrong, he would stand by her — and do the right thing. In the two years immediately following their son’s death, they’d tried to recapture the love they once had. She blamed herself for each failed attempt to get back together. He’d destroyed her trust and she couldn’t get past it — no matter how many times Paul begged her.

Jennifer remembered the last time she’d seen Paul. He’d arrived for a visit as handsome as ever, and happier than she had seen him for a while — since before the Indianapolis Colts had benched him for a knee injury. He’d been picked up by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and was ecstatic. He was in such a good mood; he took her to Deer Run State Park, where they hiked and had a picnic. They’d spent hours together hiking and swimming.

When they returned, Paul showed no signs of leaving until the society page fell out of the Sunday newspaper they were reading. Paul was on the front page, photographed with his model girlfriend of the moment. Paul made a beeline for the door and the visit ended. Jennifer knew their relationship was over, and probably had been for some time. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but it was time for both of them to move on.

The next day, the first of September, the small private plane he was taking to Tampa had engine trouble. The plane went down thirty minutes after takeoff, thus ending Paul’s young life.

She felt her father’s arm around her shoulders as the minister handed her a long-stemmed red rose. Shakily, she moved to the casket and placed it on top. “Good-bye, Paul.”

Jennifer followed her father as he led her mother and her to the awaiting black limousine. Her cousin, Frankie Hansen — who was more like a sister than a cousin — followed them, along with her husband. Lane Hansen carried their three-year-old daughter, Ashley.

Jennifer had already heard from Paul’s attorney, who announced that Paul had left a great deal of money for her in a trust. That’s what men like Paul did, Jennifer thought, they spent money and set up trusts to relieve their guilt. Did that mean Paul had finally felt responsibility for abandoning her when she needed him most? It didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t want his money.