Hide and Seek Read online

  Rebecca walked Macy and Bennett out the door. After Macy gave her a business card, they moved out to the parking lot. The half moon was bright. She checked her watch. Seven thirty.

  “I think Tobi’s killer was practicing with the rape victims and he came close to murdering Ms. Kennedy,” Macy said. “He figured it out with Tobi.”

  “Yes, he did.” Bennett looked almost resigned. “We have to solve this case.”

  “I know.” She studied the deputy. “We both have a lot riding on this.”

  Bennett nodded. “We’re in this together.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Macy said.

  Bennett shoved out a breath, shaking her head.

  The quip was intended to breach the strain always humming between them. But judging by Bennett’s deepening frown, it was going to take a blowtorch to thaw out the deputy’s icy layers.

  He was thirstier than he thought and grabbed another beer, drinking until it was drained. Another rim shot and a miss. He scooped up the empty beer can and slammed it into the trash.

  “You’re a disappointment,” he said to the semiconscious woman in the corner. “I expected more of a challenge from you. The best wins are earned.”

  Air hissed over her lips as he threaded his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

  “Look at me.”

  Her eyes twitched, and that was enough for him to know she was still in there. They still had at least one more moment to share.

  He squeezed, and her body’s primitive reflexes sent a warning to her muscles, which tensed. He held steady pressure. His erection pulsed. His heartbeat quickened.

  Five, six, seven, eight.

  Older and wiser, he didn’t want death to come in a quick, heady rush. No more spiking adrenaline to ruin his rhythm.

  Nine, ten, eleven.

  Her pulse slowed, and a faint gurgling sound rumbled in the back of her throat. Her eyes were barely open. This wasn’t their first dance. And now he completely dominated her. She no longer fought. Cried. Or begged. And oddly, he was as disappointed as he might be after a fine meal ended or a fine glass of good scotch was emptied.

  Her mouth opened wide, sucking in air, and reminded him of a beached fish. Slowly her eyes closed completely.

  “Open your eyes.” His ripe, breathless excitement sounded adolescent. “I want to see your eyes.”

  A tear trickled from the corner of her right eye, but she didn’t look at him. She didn’t respond and her muscles slackened. His fingers ached and his muscles cramped.

  Twenty, twenty-one. Beyond forty-five seconds, the brain started to die and drift to a space past fear and terror.

  He didn’t want her to cross into the unknown just yet. He wanted to savor his victory. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he rubbed the cramps and sore joints of his hand, trying to remember a time when his body didn’t ache.

  He grabbed her upper right arm, savoring the feel of her flesh in his hand. Unable to resist, he sank his teeth into her flesh. He bit hard, tasted her blood in his mouth, but he felt no reaction from her.

  “I’ve won, sweetheart. I wanted to keep the game going. I liked the way you cried when you were scared. Sexy as hell.”

  As he traced the purple bruises along the column of her white neck, he kissed her still, full, soft lips. “I am a winner.”

  Finally, he slowly pulled off his mask. The air felt cool again against his sweaty skin.

  The mask had been a necessity in the early days when he hadn’t worked up the courage to kill. But even after he had no longer been afraid to kill, he’d kept the mask because it incited fear.

  He walked to a small refrigerator, grabbed a beer, popped the top, and took a long swig. It didn’t quench the bone-deep thirst that had plagued him for as long as he could remember. It was a craving. A need to prove he was a winner.

  This death should have taken the edge off his thirst, but it didn’t come close to chasing away the restlessness. A few days ago, he had been ready to explode with the need to prove himself. And he had. He had demonstrated yet again he was on top of the heap.

  Yes, he felt more control now, but the calm would not last. It never did. The hunger would soon return, and it would consume him until he was forced to find another woman.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tuesday, November 19, 8:15 p.m.

  En route to the police station, Macy searched the Internet for the cologne Beacon and discovered it was widely accessible online as well as at the local mall in Roanoke. She ordered a travel size and asked that it be shipped to the sheriff’s office. Smells could trigger memories, and she was prepared to have all the former victims smell the scent to see if helped them recall details.

  When Macy and Bennett pulled into the station’s parking lot, a news van from Channel 9 was parked and waiting. Macy swallowed a curse and kept her gaze forward, wondering if reporters had a secret power drawing them to cops when the timing was at its absolute worst.

  “He’s from Roanoke,” Bennett said. “His name is Peter Stuart, and he covered Tobi Turner’s disappearance multiple times over the years. A couple of his stories went national. He’s not had national coverage for several years, and I know he sees this as his ticket back to the top.”

  “That kind of ambition is dangerous. I’ve seen guys like him broadcast information before it’s verified.”

  Bennett frowned but kept her thoughts to herself.

  Macy’s attention was drawn to Stuart’s fit frame, which stretched over six feet tall. A dark suit coupled with trimmed black hair framed an angled face that TV loved and she found uninspiring.

  “Deputy Bennett!” Stuart shouted as he jogged across the parking lot, his microphone outstretched like a fishing pole ready to yank up whatever nibbled on its line. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  The deputy squared her shoulders, stopped, and turned. This was an active investigation, but like it or not, they were on display. Macy paused, and neither made a comment as he reached them. Behind him was a man with a camera perched on his shoulder.

  “We understand search and rescue has returned, and they have not found Debbie Roberson,” Stuart said.

  This was news to them both, but neither gave a hint.

  “What do you think happened to Debbie Roberson?” Stuart asked. “Has she been murdered?”

  “We’re still investigating the case and do not have a statement at this time,” Bennett said.

  “You’ve got to give me something. Search and rescue said nothing,” Stuart said.

  Nevada wasn’t the chatty type, so Stuart must have been at the park when Nevada and Ellis exited the trail empty handed.

  “As soon as I have information, I will brief you,” she said.

  “Tobi Turner has a similar look to Debbie Roberson.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Just saying you have females with similar looks. One is dead and the other is missing.”

  Bennett stiffened, the faint hint of color rising in her cheeks as she shook her head. “No comment at this time.”

  “Are you sure about that, Deputy?” he challenged.

  Macy immediately spotted the deputy’s protective posturing. What was it about the reporter that put the deputy on edge?

  “What is your name, Special Agent?” Stuart asked.

  Normally the FBI stayed in the background on these local investigations. But to turn away from the reporter and the rolling camera would send a bad message to the public. “Special Agent Macy Crow.”

  “Do you have a comment?” Stuart asked as he watched Bennett turn and walk toward the station.

  “No, sir. When we have an update, we will call a press conference.” Macy caught up to Bennett. Both were silent, each knowing the less said publicly to the media, the better. Whoever was out there was likely watching and taking in everything they were saying.

  Once inside the station house, Macy asked, “You know him?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “He’s a loc
al reporter.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  Bennett faced her. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Are you two dating? Do you have any kind of relationship?”

  “No.”

  Macy noted the faint rush of color in the deputy’s face suggesting there was something between the deputy and the reporter. “Then that leaves a professional relationship. You were the one who told him about the rape kits.”

  Bennett stared at Macy with an icy, unreadable expression, which Macy realized now was a defense tactic. The deputy wasn’t trying to be a badass. She was scared.

  “News of the untested rape kits made it to Nevada and to the media. How did that happen?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Though Macy could force the issue now, she didn’t. There was more Bennett wasn’t saying. She could theorize all day about what the deputy was holding back but opted to wait and watch her more closely. Most people eventually tipped their hand in some way.

  Bennett typed in the access code, and the door opened. Nevada was waiting for them on the other side. He held a half-empty water bottle and was still dressed in hiking gear that was now muddied and sweat stained.

  “Looks like you managed to slip by Mr. Stuart,” Bennett said.

  “It’s a gift,” Nevada said.

  “Stuart tells us you didn’t find anything,” Macy said.

  He shifted his gaze from Bennett to her. “The reporter was waiting for us at the north entrance. He’s surmising that we discovered nothing.”

  “You traveled the entire route?” Bennett asked.

  “We did.”

  “Did you find anything on the trail?” Macy asked.

  “We did not, Special Agent. And we spoke to two sets of hikers who haven’t seen anything either.”

  “Did you get their names?” Macy asked.

  Nevada slid long fingers into a pocket on the side of his leg and handed Macy a crisply folded piece of paper. “Names and telephone numbers of both sets.”

  Bennett glanced at the list Macy was holding. “Do you think she was ever on that mountain?”

  “I don’t. If she was taken from the parking lot, she likely was transferred to another vehicle. I would bet money that neither she nor her attacker stepped foot on the trail.”

  Macy pocketed the list. “We spoke to Rebecca Kennedy, and she’s willing to work with a forensic artist.”

  “Good. Ellis is ready and willing as well,” Nevada said. “She said she’d be here first thing in the morning.”

  Bennett placed a call to Ellis Carter and confirmed her morning appointment with the sketch artist. Her call to Rebecca Kennedy went to voicemail, so she left her name and number and requested a callback.

  “There’s not much else we can do tonight,” Nevada said. “Bennett, go home and get some rest.”

  “I’ll be back early in the morning,” Bennett said.

  Nevada nodded, and when she left, he said to Macy, “I’m parked out back. I’ll drive you to your motel and pick you up in the morning.”

  His help was convenient, but he was also too easy to rely upon. It wouldn’t help her bid to regain independence. “No, thanks. I prefer to have my own transportation. See you in the morning.”

  Nevada didn’t press, and she left the sheriff’s office and walked to her car. Settled behind the wheel, she locked the doors before starting the engine.

  As she drove, she kept the radio off, needing the silence to process the day. Her mind kept circling back to Tobi Turner’s textbook, with the girl’s handwriting scrawled in the margin. “You were a smart girl, Tobi. What did he say to you that was so charming?”

  She parked at the motel and, grabbing her backpack, walked by the lobby on her way to her room. The evening clerk at the motel front desk shot her a couple of curious glances, but the guy had the sense not to pry.

  In her room, she locked her door, dropped her pack on a small chair, and eased onto the bed. She popped two ibuprofen and then carefully lay back.

  Promising herself she would not yet fall asleep, she let her eyes drift shut as she replayed the evidence she’d collected that day. Three rapes and a murder connected by DNA. Debbie Roberson and Cindy Shaw remained missing. Was she trying to force puzzle pieces that weren’t meant to fit together?

  She heard a horn honk as a vehicle drove by the motel; someone down the hallway was digging ice out of the ice machine. As the footsteps moved closer to her door, her hand went to her gun as she listened. The footsteps came and then passed by her door. The heater in her room kicked on.

  Her grip on her gun eased and the sounds outside faded. She felt herself drifting. Once, her eyes snapped open, but then they quickly drifted closed. Just five minutes. Five minutes to rest her eyes and give the ibuprofen a chance to work.

  In the distance a young girl called out to her. She didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  Silence.

  Her fingers brushed the grip of her weapon. “Who is it?” This time she was on guard and in no mood to play guessing games.

  “I need your help.”

  The voice was a soft whisper but loud enough now for her to make out the words.

  “I need your help. I’m lost.”

  “Who are you?” Macy asked.

  “It’s dark and black and I’m afraid.”

  “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me who you are.” Macy’s training kicked in, and she began ticking through her list of priorities. Identify subject. Ascertain danger.

  “Help me.”

  Ahead, Macy saw the outline of a woman. Long hair brushed the edges of broad shoulders. Macy moved toward the woman, but no matter how many steps she took, she couldn’t seem to reach her.

  “Identify yourself,” Macy said.

  The thump of Macy’s heart filled the silence, and she was about to repeat her request when the woman whispered, “I used to be Cindy Shaw.”

  In the distance a ringing yanked Macy out of the haze.

  Her eyes popped open and she sat up, her hand on her weapon as she looked around the room. The chain on the lock was in place. The phone rang as traffic rumbled by the motel outside.

  She sat still, and her heart rate settled as she glanced toward the red digital letters of the bedside clock: 9:01 p.m. She had been asleep for only twenty minutes.

  “You know what, Cindy? If you want my damn help, you’re going to have to do better than screwing with my sleep.”

  She fished her phone from her pocket. “Special Agent Macy Crow.”

  “It’s Nevada. We found Debbie Roberson.”

  Macy rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her head. In her other dreams, she’d had conversations with her father, brother, and one with her adoptive mother. They’d all been people she’d known, and each could be explained away by old memories being rechanneled in a brain that was still rewiring itself. But whatever she’d just experienced had been different.

  She cleared her throat. “Is she dead?”

  “According to Deputy Bennett, she’s alive and well and at the station right now. Want a ride?”

  She’d been wrong about Debbie. Was she also wrong about Cindy Shaw? Jesus. Her thoughts used to be so linear. She never had crazy dreams. She followed hard evidence and not feelings. “I’ll be out front in fifteen minutes.”

  Ninth graders didn’t mix with senior football players, but Matt had his chance to run with the big dogs. He sat in the back seat of Tyler Wyatt’s new red truck, sandwiched between the meaty shoulders of Doug and Benny Piper. Deke Donovan rode shotgun in the front seat next to Tyler.

  The headlights of Tyler’s truck cut across the Wyatt barn’s aged wood and the yellow crime scene tape floating in a breeze. Excitement glowed from Tyler’s eyes when he glanced into the rearview mirror and caught Matt’s expression. “You sure you want to do this?”

  Matt puffed his chest, trying to forget the promise he’d made to his mother. “Sure, why not?”

&nbs
p; “Aren’t you afraid of what your mommy will say if you get caught?”

  Matt wasn’t stupid. He knew Tyler and the boys saw him as their Get Out of Jail Free card. If they got caught trespassing at the Wyatt barn and nosing around a crime scene, they were counting on his mom going easy on them.

  “I’m not afraid.” That was a lie. He was nervous. But he wanted to prove to the guys they didn’t need to keep him at arm’s distance because of his mother.

  “Then let’s go inside,” Tyler said.

  A cold wind chilled his skin when he got out of the truck. The lights of the truck shining behind them, the five boys walked toward the barn. Tyler ripped off the crime scene tape, balled it into a loose knot, and tossed it aside.

  Inside the barn, the headlights illuminated the dismantled shaft. For a moment none of the boys spoke as they took in the scene. “I popped Amy Meadow’s cherry here,” Tyler said. “And to think Tobi was watching us the whole time. Maybe I should tell Amy. Be fun to see her expression.”

  As the other boys laughed, Matt chuckled, too, but he felt no joy. Being here didn’t feel right.

  Tyler picked up a loose board and whacked it hard against the shaft. The brittle wood split up the center, and a large section fell to the dirt floor. He handed the board to Matt. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Matt took the stick and cocked it like a baseball batter.

  “Go on, hit it,” Tyler said.

  “It feels kind of wrong,” Matt said.

  “Wrong? What’s wrong about it?” Tyler asked.

  “I don’t know. A girl died here.”

  “It’s not like you’re hurting her, unless maybe you’re afraid her ghost is going to get you.”

  The other boys goaded Matt until finally he swung and hit the shaft. Another large section of wood splintered and fell into the dust.

  The boys cheered, and Tyler clamped his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Breaking stuff makes you feel like a winner, right?”

  Part of him did enjoy the destruction. It felt good to release some of the anger that was always chewing on his gut.

  Tyler leaned closer and in a voice loud enough for them all to hear said, “Amy isn’t the only one who lost her cherry here. Know who else did?”