He listened to what his boss had to say, the information doing a lot to remove from his brain any thoughts of sultry sex with a sultry sheriff. In fact, by the time Wyatt was finished, Dean’s mind was filled with nothing but red rage.
Because it appeared they were too late.
“What is it?” Stacey asked after he’d disconnected the call.
He’d already begun pulling on his jeans, hoping the shadowy room, and the fabric, were dark enough that she wouldn’t notice the bloodstains on them. He’d change the minute he got back to the hotel.
“Dean?”
“They think they’ve identified the latest victim.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, drawing a hand to her mouth.
“She’s a teenage girl who disappeared from a mall in Bethesda, Maryland, Friday night. She’d fought with her parents that day, and then with her boss, and the local guys figured her for a runaway. But when they found her wallet and her car in the mall parking lot, and all the security cameras in the area shot out, they changed that theory.”
“Cameras shot out?” she whispered.
“It isn’t the first time. Our guy’s damn good with a twenty-two rifle. He shot out the cameras at another location when grabbing the third victim.”
“So there’s no doubt he’s got her?”
“Very little.”
She covered her eyes, as if wanting to block out a horrible sight.
He knew exactly what she was trying to block out. Because the same vision had filled his mind from the moment he’d read the transcript of that last sick online auction.
Beheaded.
“Twenty-four hours,” she finally whispered. “Is there any chance she’s still…”
“No,” he snapped, crushing his own tiny bit of hope that the girl, Amber something, was still alive. “I don’t think so.” He finished yanking on his clothes, then kissed her roughly. “I’ve got to go to Maryland. I’m going back to the hotel to meet up with Stokes and Mulrooney so we can all go.”
She nodded. No tears, no regrets, no sighs that he was walking out on her right in the middle of their first night together.
Damn, he liked her.
“Call me when you have more news.”
“I will.” He kissed her again, more gently this time. Stroking her soft, almost-dry hair, he murmured, “Be careful. Keep your head down and leave this alone until you hear from me, okay? I don’t want you doing anything to attract this bastard’s attention.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt the case.”
“I don’t mean the case, Stacey.” He cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I mean you. Just because we’re friendly lovers doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you. I want to know who the hell left that hateful message for you on the porch.” Frowning because he wouldn’t be around to help her deal with that situation, he quietly added, “The box is in the trunk of your squad car.”
“Thank you. And don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m sure that isn’t connected to the Reaper case.”
“I know. It’s not his style.” He offered her a grim smile. “Believe me, if I thought it was that bastard, I wouldn’t be leaving you here alone.”
She nodded, completely understanding, not arguing. She saw the sense in what he was saying without his having to explain a thing or justify himself. What a rarity.
Damn, he could love her.
Which was the last thing he could afford to think about as he said his good-byes and left to go try to find the Reaper’s latest victim.
For the first several hours after receiving that anonymous e-mail message, the Reaper lost himself in the Playground. He disappeared from the dirt world, the one some people called real, but which he considered only dark, drab, ugly, and colorless. No life at all, just existence.
In that world, someone was trying to do him harm. Someone actually believed he could be blackmailed. Unacceptable.
He needed to escape in order to think about it and decide on a course of action. He couldn’t panic, couldn’t allow rage to make him do something stupid. Only one location calmed him now; only one provided any real escape. In the sunlit, warm, beautifully colorful world that was the Playground, no one could ever touch him. He’d never be betrayed. Never criticized. Never hurt.
He did all the hurting, of both the game-generated ’bots who inhabited Satan’s Playground, as well as personalized avatars created by those who wanted to see what it would feel like to be murdered.
And now it was even easier to do. He had lots of new toys to try out. He’d just bought some new custom-made weapons and implements to enhance the torture chamber that existed in the dungeon of his cyber castle: vises and blades, whips and chains, a stretching rack, gallows, and a spike-lined box. All perfect.
He’d filled a pit of snakes and rejoiced as a dumb bitch had broken her ankles and been devoured after he’d tossed her in. He’d finally experienced the excitement of seeing someone drawn and quartered. How wonderful a death; and how weak and pathetic people were to have stopped using it so long ago.
He loved his new toys. Worshiped them. He couldn’t stop touching them, testing each one several times as he acknowledged just how perfectly equipped he was to do his job now.
And he did it. Throughout most of the night, he gave free rein to his violent fantasies. Walking among the others, he plucked victims randomly, bringing them back to his lair and spending hours doing things to them.
If life were fair, he could have such a chamber in this cold, ugly world. Hearing the real cries, smelling the blood, tasting the fear that dripped from every pore of his victims, that would be heaven on earth. Acting furtively in the night no longer gave him enough satisfaction. He longed to take his time and enjoy it, to play and play, as he could in the Playground.
And now, even that could be lost.
Which was why he finally said his farewells with a few more swipes of his scythe and emerged from the light back into the darkness. Damp air assaulted his nostrils, and from within the walls he heard mice skittering around. Whenever he’d gone on a long visit away, his senses were always heightened upon his return. Even his eyes saw clearly into the darkness of his basement hideaway, and he couldn’t help picturing it laid out as a second dungeon.
There would be no room for the gallows, or for the pit. But a table with chains at the head and foot, a spike-covered board, those would be just fine.
“I will,” he whispered. If he got through this new threat to his safety and security, he’d do it. Somehow, he’d bring prey here and enjoy them for hours. Even if it meant removing others who might stand in his way.
Starting with the blackmailer.
Because in the long night of violent pleasure, when his mind had been washed clean with blood, the truth had come to him. He’d seen with utter clarity what he should have realized right away.
He knew who’d sent the message. There was only one person it could have been.
Warren Lee.
Everyone knew the crazy man had cameras protecting his house. That he’d have them along the perimeter of his property, seeing into the adjacent woods, should have come as no surprise. He should, in fact, have expected it and done something about it before Lisa. But he gave himself a break. After all, it had been his virgin experience.
The black-and-white photo was fuzzy, and shot from above, probably the top of the whacked vet’s fence. Lee must not have realized the significance of what he had. But he’d held on to it, knowing it meant something.
Then the FBI had started poking around, looking for Lisa’s body. And Lee had put two and two together and come up with murder.
“He won’t be easy to get to,” he muttered, his own voice stark against the silence. “Not easy at all.” The man lived in a fortress of his own. And he would defend it. Violently, if necessary.
“Damn him.” Why did that old bastard have to go putting his nose into it? What did Warren Lee need with money, anyway?