Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel)
Read Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) Online
Authors: Rita Herron
Also in Rita Herron’s Slaughter Creek series
Dying to Tell
Her Dying Breath
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Rita Herron
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477820056
ISBN-10: 1477820051
Cover design by theBookDesigners
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013954787
To my fabulous editor, Lindsay Guzzardo, and my great agent, Jenny Bent, for giving me the idea for the beginning of the book!
And to my other fabulous editor, Maria Gomez, for liking the creepy factor!
May we plot many more murders together . . .
Contents
Prologue
T
he hand floated in the creek in the thin stream of light. A golden circle illuminated the blood seeping from the mutilated cartilage and skin.
It was beautiful, really, the fingers curling upward as if reaching for help.
Pathetic as well as beautiful.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
Or maybe those gnarled fingers that had once clawed to escape were now curled toward the sky, reaching for the hand of God or some angel to grab the hand and pull it up to heaven.
The hands of a woman were supposed to comfort a child. To gently stroke and ease a little one’s pain. To be loving.
But that hand had never been loving.
And it certainly did not belong in heaven.
It had brutalized him and so many others.
Rightfully so, it lay in its own abyss of misery, separated from the body and mind of the person who’d used it in vicious ways. A bloody stump drifting aimlessly in Slaughter Creek, where the fish and bugs would gnaw away the remaining bits of skin until only the thin layers of jagged bone remained.
An eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand
. . .
The woman’s vile face suddenly flashed in his mind. A wicked gleam had brightened the dull hues of her eyes as she prepared to strike.
That gleam had faded tonight.
Pure, sweet pleasure stole through him, rippling through the very air that he breathed as his body hummed to life.
She had deserved to die.
Finally.
It is my time. I don’t intend to waste it entertaining mindless, frivolous things. I have an agenda.
This woman was only the beginning of those who were to receive their punishment.
From them I will take back my sanity and my mind, and get my revenge
.
They would suffer.
And then I can live
.
Chapter One
T
wo teenagers found a severed hand floating in Slaughter Creek.”
Special Agent Rafe Hood tightened his grip on his cell phone. At Special Agent Nick Blackwood’s words, an image of another case where a woman’s body had been left near water flashed in his mind, making his gut knot with dread.
That case hadn’t ended well.
Rafe had nearly lost his job.
And his relationship with Special Agent Liz Lucas, the profiler on the case, had been permanently damaged.
Could this possibly be the same killer?
No. Different MO. That woman’s neck had been slashed; her hands hadn’t been amputated.
Besides, Rafe had shot the bastard, sending him over a ridge into the raging current below. There was no way he could have survived.
“Has the rest of the body been recovered?” Rafe asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’m on my way,” Rafe said as he jogged to his black SUV.
“Jake and I will meet you there.”
Rafe hit disconnect to end the call, flipped on the engine, punched the address into his GPS, and sped from the parking lot of the TBI office. He’d just finished a debriefing with his chief where they’d hopefully tied up the case revolving around Arthur Blackwood—aka the Commander—and the inhuman experiments he and others had conducted on innocent children years ago at Slaughter Creek Sanitarium.
The latest arrest of Senator Stowe had come as a shock to everyone. Stowe had finally admitted he’d worked with Blackwood in spearheading the experimental CHIMES—Children in Mind Experiments—program, which had destroyed numerous lives.
Seven children had been used as guinea pigs, tortured, drugged, and given electroshock treatments to alter their personalities and minds, all in hopes of creating perfect soldiers for the United States. Instead of names, they were given numbers to make the project less personal and eliminate the human element.
Neither Nick nor his brother Jake—Blackwood’s sons, the elder now the sheriff of Slaughter Creek, the younger an agent with the TBI—had known that Rafe had an underlying agenda: to find out whether the brothers knew about the project and their father’s activities.
Rafe had cleared the two men and passed along that info to his superiors.
And now this severed hand—was it a random crime, or could it be related to the project?
The city landscape gave way to wilderness and the Tennessee mountains as Rafe drove toward Slaughter Creek. Thick forests populated only by wild animals stretched for miles. The winding switchbacks climbing the steep mountain ridges were scenic but dangerous; it would only take one wrong move for a car to careen over the edge into the ravine below.
Rafe lost track of time as anxiety needled him. Everyone at the bureau knew that Nick and Jake had been searching for the missing research subjects, but the original files were missing, complicating the investigation. Four of the subjects had been murdered to cover up the project, and one had become a trained killer before committing suicide on Blackwood’s command. Amelia Nettleton, a local and Jake’s sister-in-law, the subject known as Three, had developed multiple personalities, and was undergoing therapy to merge her alters.
The last subject they’d located, Seven, Jake and Nick’s sister, had been dubbed the Slaughter Creek Strangler after she was found to have murdered several men, but now she was in prison under psychiatric care.
The subject called Six was missing, his real name unknown. Law enforcement believed Six and Seven had escaped a compound where they’d been held prisoner.
Seven had refused to reveal where Six was hiding out.
Rafe reached the turnoff for the deserted RV campsite along the creek where the severed hand had been discovered. As he wove through the pines and oaks lining the graveled road, late-night shadows flickered between the moonlit patches, creating an eerie glow. Ahead he spotted Nick’s black sedan, Jake’s sheriff’s car, and a battered Jeep Wrangler. He assumed that the two other vehicles parked there belonged to the crime unit and the ME, although if they hadn’t found a body, this might not qualify as a murder.
Yet.
Rafe swung his SUV between two trees and parked, then climbed out and strode toward the Blackwood brothers. Crime-scene tape had been strung around the area, and flashlights dotted the woods as searchers combed for the body.
A camera flashed as one of the techs photographed the scene. Two teens were near a boulder by the water. The taller one leaned against a pine tree, his face ashen. The stocky guy next to him tried to look tough, although the way he jiggled his leg betrayed his nerves.
“These are the boys who found the hand?” Rafe asked.
Nick gave a quick nod. “Bo and Roy Crowley. Said they were here for a campout and fishing. They’re both pretty shook up.”
Rafe studied them for a moment, wondering if they could possibly have put the hand there, seeking attention. Some teenagers played sick, twisted pranks. He also couldn’t dismiss the idea of gang warfare. And God knows drugs could be a factor.
But the boys’ eyes appeared clear. And he didn’t see any tats or clothing that indicated gang membership.
“Where is it?” he asked.
Nick gestured to the ME with a grim look. “Dr. Bullock is examining it now.”
Bullock peered over the rims of his glasses where he was stooped by the water’s edge. “Hand belonged to a woman. My guess is she was mid-fifties. Bone cut straight through, probably by an ax.”
Rafe grimaced, and the stocky boy leaned over the rock and threw up. His brother looked as if he might join him, but instead he dropped his head into his hands and gulped in deep breaths.
“Did you find the weapon?” Rafe asked.
Jake knelt to look at something on the ground while Nick answered Rafe. “No weapon. No body. But the crime unit will scour these woods and drag the creek until we find it.”
“It’s possible the person survived,” Rafe said. “Have you contacted ERs and hospitals?”
Jake looked up at him. “Done. I also called to see if any mental patients had been released recently or escaped, but both were dead ends.”
“Except for Six,” Nick interjected.
Jake nodded. “Except for Six.”
Rafe shifted. “We’ll need to look for inmates who’ve been paroled as well.”
Jake stood. “I’ll get right on it.”
Rafe nodded and then turned to the boys. “When did you guys get here?”
The thin one wiped clammy sweat from his forehead. “We camped down the creek last night, then hiked up here this afternoon. Went swimming for a while, roasted some hot dogs, then decided to fish.” He shuddered, his eyes straying to the hand. “That’s when we . . . found it.”
Understanding dawned as the ME pulled a fishhook from the index finger. He had a feeling these kids wouldn’t be fishing in the dark again.
“I’m going to give them a lift home.” Jake’s sympathetic gaze shot toward the kids.
Rafe raked a hand over the back of his neck. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here with Nick and help search.”
Maybe by morning they’d have the body. Then they could identify their victim. That identification might lead them to the killer.
Nick’s cell phone buzzed, and he checked the display. Lips thinning into a straight line, he punched connect. “Special Agent Blackwood.”
Leaves rustled in the wind. An animal howled somewhere from the forest. The creek water lapped at the shore.
Nick angled his body toward the creek and looked across the mountains, his shoulders going rigid.
“What the hell?” A pause. “You’re fucking kidding me.” Another tense second, then Nick spun back toward him and Jake. Rage glittered in his dark eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Rafe asked.
“The Commander’s escaped prison.”
Liz Lucas jerked awake, gasping for breath. But she couldn’t get the air into her lungs. She was trapped.
Back in that hellhole where she’d been kept for days.
She jumped from bed, throwing open the blinds to let the sunlight stream in. Heedless of the temperature outside, she opened the windows next.
She needed air as much as she needed light.
She’d been deprived of both once.
Never again.
Self-recriminations screamed through her head. Had she survived? Or was she just the broken shell of the woman she’d once been? A woman afraid of her own shadow?
Hearing sounds and voices in her sleep—and that grating sharpening of the man’s knife as he prepared for his next kill?
That kill was supposed to be her.
Desperate to regain control—and her sanity—she leaned against the French doors in her bedroom, wishing she could open them and step outside without worrying about being attacked. Dawn was just cracking the sky, the moon still a sliver on the horizon as early morning shadows flickered above the trees.
Spanish moss hung like spiderwebs draping the ground, making the woods look even creepier.
But she didn’t dare go out yet. What if
he
was out there? Ned Harlan, aka the Blade. What if he found her and returned to finish the job?
He’s dead, she reminded herself. He had been for months. At least, according to the police report.
But his body had never been found.
Although Liz was a profiler and had studied behavioral analysis, she also dealt in facts. Without a body, she could never be quite sure that Harlan hadn’t made it out of that river alive.
But it had been months since the attack. It was time for her to get over it.
Hating the paranoia clawing at her, she rushed to close the windows again, then brewed a pot of coffee and took a mug out to the glider on the screened-in porch that ran the length of her Williamsburg house, overlooking the river. A porch with a security alarm to keep intruders out.
Instead, it felt like a prison.
How many sleepless nights had she spent curled up like a terrified cat, watching the woods? Seeing imaginary shadows, stalkers and predators lurking in the dark, just waiting to snatch her and kill her?
God knows she’d considered selling and moving to another state. Every time she looked out at the water, she remembered the cabin where he’d kept her. The section of river where he’d taken her to slice her throat.
The same place where her mother had died.
Rafe had run up to her and saved her—but her captor had escaped.
And it had been too late to lock up Harlan and make him face the families of his victims.
Too late because Liz had made a mistake and gotten the profile wrong. Hadn’t realized the man who’d killed her mother and several women had been working with a partner. A female.
Rafe had killed the accomplice and shot Harlan. But his body had never surfaced.
If he had survived, she would find him one day and make him pay.
Until then . . .
She had to take it one day at a time. Focus on the fact that she was alive.
Liz studied the photo of her mother in the locket she wore close to her heart to keep her near. The photo had been taken at Christmas. Wavy brown hair curled around her heart-shaped face, and she was smiling. That particular day, Liz had given her a pair of silver earrings she’d bought from a local art festival The earrings were supposed to be light catchers; they twinkled different colors as the sunlight bounced off the cut glass inside the base.
Her mother was wearing the earrings the day Harlan abducted her, but they’d never been recovered.
Liz balled her hands into fists. That phone call from the police had changed everything in Liz’s life. At sixteen, instead of dating and shopping for a prom dress, she’d been grief-stricken and in shock. Instead of looking at college catalogs, she’d studied crime-scene photos of her mother’s death and hounded the local police for answers.
Her grandmother had begged her to move on and let the case go. To enjoy her teenage years.
Then Gran had passed, and she’d been alone.
Graduation night, she decided to study police work. The courses in behavioral science and analysis interested her most.
She was obsessed with understanding why the man who’d killed her mother had been so brutal. Why he’d slashed her throat.
Why he’d taken her life when there had been no apparent reason to target her. He hadn’t known her personally. She’d never wronged him in any way that the police could discover.