Native Cowboy (21 page)

“What the hell are you talking about?” Morningside fought the handcuffs, rattling them as he kicked at the backseat.

“I’m talking about the other women you murdered,” Mason barked. “The ones you buried with the stones.”

“You’ve got it all wrong.” Morningside balked again, his eyes wild. “I didn’t kill those women.”

Rage fueled Mason’s temper. “You cut out their damn reproductive organs and left navel fetishes at Dr. Winchester’s.”

Morningside shook his head in denial, then continued to shout his innocence as Mason slammed the door, locking him in the car.

“You did a good job there, Detective Blackpaw,” Agent Whitehead said.

“I just want a confession for those murders. I don’t want this bastard ever seeing the light of day again.”

Agent Whitehead’s expression reflected concern. “Something’s not right.”

Mason turned his back to the man who was ranting and beating at the window. “Don’t tell me you believe him.”

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “He’s definitely disturbed, and I heard him confess to the bombing, but I’ve been thinking about this. It’s unusual for a serial killer to change his M.O. Morningside chose a public venue to make a statement with the bomb. That’s a totally different profile from a man who literally butchers a woman in cold blood and buries her in a ritualistic style.”

Mason glanced at the car where Morningside was still vehemently denying the murder accusations, and cold fear knotted his insides. They’d found all those photos on his wall, which made him look guilty.

And he’d been ready to beat the hell out of the man for a confession.

But what if he was wrong?

Sweat exploded on his forehead, and he gestured to the sheriff. “Drive him to the station and lock him up. I have to call Cara and make sure she’s okay.”

Agent Whitehead stepped aside, and he punched in Cara’s number. Her voice mail clicked on automatically, which struck him as odd. Dammit, where was she?

Frantic, he called Brody. “She’s not here, man. She left a note saying she was making a house call.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Couple of hours,” Brody said. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Mason explained that they’d arrested Morningside, but that there might be a second suspect, that the Navel Fetish Killer might still be on the loose.

“I’ll ride out and check her cabin,” Brody said.

“Let me know if she’s there.” Mason paced by his car while the sheriff climbed in the front of the squad car and started the engine. But Agent Whitehead still looked worried.

His mind raced with the possibilities. The clinic was closed, and Sadie Whitefeather was here. Maybe Sherese would know.

He called her number, his heart ticking as he waited on the reply. Four rings later and Sherese answered.

“Sherese, it’s Detective Blackpaw. Do you know where Cara is?”

“One of our patients, Delia Nez, called in that her little boy was sick and she had car trouble and couldn’t make it to the clinic. Dr. Winchester drove out to see them.”

Mason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have you heard from her since?”

“No.” Sherese’s voice cracked. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Give me that address.”

Sherese recited it, and he put it to memory and raced toward his car.

Agent Whitehead followed on his tail. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Cara took a house call. I’m going to see if she’s all right.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, go with the sheriff and see what you can get out of Morningside. If he killed those women, find out.”

She nodded and headed to the squad car. Isabella and Sadie and Carter were watching. “Stay here with the women,” he told Carter. “Make sure they’re safe.”

Carter pulled Sadie to him, and she hugged Isabella to her side, and the three of them walked into the house while he tore down the drive from the Morningsides’ house.

The place was on the other side of town, a good ten miles away. He rolled down the window, struggling to breathe, the images of the dead women’s corpses in the ground taunting him with each mile.

He couldn’t allow that to happen to Cara.

Not to the woman he loved.

But what if you’re too late?

Tremors racked his body, and his arms were jerking so badly he almost had to pull over. He cursed his weakness.

He could not fall apart now.

Hopefully Cara and the baby were safe. Cara was simply doing her usual thing, taking care of others. She had to be alive.

Surely God wouldn’t allow something bad to happen to a wonderful, giving woman like her.

He crossed through town, weaving through traffic, and using his siren to bypass the worst, then maneuvered the side streets until he reached Delia Nez’s place.

He swiped perspiration from his forehead as he spotted Cara’s Pathfinder and parked behind it. But anxiety clawed at him as he approached the house.

Except for a dim light burning in a back room, the house was dark.

Not a good sign.

He pulled his gun, inching up the steps and keeping his senses honed for sounds inside. Voices. A cry. A child.

Anything.

But it was eerily quiet.

Pulse pounding, he pushed open the front screen door and crept inside. The den was dark but appeared empty.

The light was coming from a back room. Walking as quietly as he could, he crept toward the room. To the left, he spotted a nursery. Empty, as well.

But an acrid odor seeped from the other room, an odor that he’d smelled too much of lately.

The stench of death.

Praying it wasn’t Cara, he held his gun at the ready in case he was walking into an ambush, then scanned the room. He’d seen a lot of dead people in his career, and the women he’d seen buried lately had been among the worst.

But this woman hadn’t been buried yet. Instead, the bastard had butchered her and left her in a pool of her own blood with an amulet resting on a stone at her head.

Bile rose to his throat. Morningside wasn’t the Navel Fetish killer.

No, some other man was.

And he’d used Delia Nez to lure Cara into his trap.

Chapter Twenty

Fear immobilized Mason for a heartbeat, but his training kicked in. God help him, he didn’t have time to hesitate.

Every second Cara was missing meant she might be closer to her death.

He punched Agent Whitehead’s number, quickly scanning the room for any signs of Cara. Her medical bag sat on the floor, yet it remained unopened.

Meaning the woman had been dead when she’d arrived, and Cara had been ambushed.

Cold sweat beaded his skin, and he growled at the phone, relieved when Agent Whitehead finally answered.

“It’s Blackpaw. Did you get anything from Morningside?”

“Nothing new. He’s in a holding cell now. He still insists he didn’t murder those women.”

“Dammit, I don’t think he did, either. Cara was supposed to be on a call, but I’m at the woman’s house and she’s dead. Same M.O. as the others.”

“Dr. Winchester is there?”

“No, she’s missing,” Mason said through clenched teeth. “The real Navel Fetish Killer has her.”

The agent’s breath whooshed out. “What can I do?”

“Send a crime unit over here. And see if your people can trace Cara’s phone. Her medical bag is here, but she keeps her phone on her.” The phone was a long shot, but it was the only place he knew to start. Hopefully the killer hadn’t found it and tossed it.

Mason gave her the coordinates, then yanked on a pair of latex gloves and pressed two fingers to the woman’s body. Rigor had already set in.

The killer had probably watched her bleed out when he’d made the phony call to Cara’s answering service.

A photograph of a small baby sat on the woman’s nightstand, and another bolt of fear slammed into him. So far, the Navel Fetish Killer hadn’t hurt any children. He prayed he hadn’t started with this woman’s baby.

But where was the child?

Heart banging against his chest, he rushed into the bathroom and checked the tub and closet, but they were empty. Relieved, he combed the rest of the house, the baby’s room and closet, the pantry. A sickening thought occurred to him, stories of other cases where people had murdered children and thrown them away, and he made himself check the trashcans outside.

When he found them empty, he leaned forward, braced his hands on his knees and drew a relieved breath.

Still, where was the child? Had the killer taken it with him?

* * *

C
ARA BATTLED PANIC
as the car rolled to an abrupt stop, jarring her so badly pain rocked through her abdomen again, fear choking her.

What if this was the real thing? Not another Braxton Hicks contraction?

Dear God, she couldn’t be going into labor now.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had to be strong. Had to figure out a way to escape, to reach Mason.

Remembering her phone at her waist, she struggled to reach it, but her hands were bound behind her back. She raised her knees, trying to bring them high enough for her to somehow get to it, but her belly was too big.

She fumbled, twisting and turning, desperate to untie her hands, but suddenly the trunk lid swung up. It had been so dark in the trunk that for a moment light blinded her, and she had to blink to adjust her eyes.

The sign for the old fishing lodge at Devil’s Creek swayed unsteadily in the wind, making another knot of fear clamp her throat. The place was miles from nowhere.

No one would see their car or hear them out here.

Then a cold hand grabbed her arm and wrenched her upward. “Come on, Doc, it’s time we settle this.”

Cara’s throat closed at the sound of the deep voice. A familiar voice.

My God, no wonder he’d known her patients and their history.

She wrestled with his grip as he hauled her from the trunk. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

But he didn’t answer. His eyes blazed a cold trail over her, then he dragged her through the woods.

Cara screamed for help, but they were in the middle of nowhere, and she knew no one could hear her.

He was going to kill her and bury her here with the stones.

Then what would happen to her baby?

* * *

M
ASON MET
A
GENT
W
HITEHEAD
and the crime unit at the door. Jody’s face was familiar as well as the young guy with her.

“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to process another one,” Jody said.

“So was I,” Mason said grimly.

He turned to Agent Whitehead while Jody and the crime tech began to examine the body. “Any word on Cara’s phone?”

“Not yet.”

“Listen,” Mason said. “The victim had a baby. The child is not here, so we need to find him.”

Agent Whitehead’s face paled. “You think he took the baby?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to look through her phone to see if I can find a relative.”

Agent Whitehead nodded. “I’ll have one of my guys see what he can find.”

Mason searched Delia Nez’s purse and found her cell phone, then scrolled through her calls. He found a listing for a Polly and Larry Nez so he hit connect. The phone rang several times and rolled to voice mail, so he left a message saying they needed to contact him immediately, that it was regarding their daughter.

“My guys are searching for an address for the parents,” Agent Whitehead said. She took a look at the body, then pivoted, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth again.

“We’re missing something. Except for the bombing, Morningside fit the profile.”

“There has to be someone else who fits it, as well.” Mason paced to the front room then out the door. Storm clouds rolled across the sky, the sun waning. It would be night soon, and he was no closer to finding Cara and his baby or this killer.

Mentally he ticked over the details of the profile, over the killer’s M.O., over his conversation with Cara. Agent Whitehead stepped outside but remained silent for a moment.

“We missed something,” she said again. “I keep thinking about the overkill with the women.”

Mason raked a hand through his hair. “Cara was disturbed at the way the organs were removed.” He snapped his fingers. “What if our killer had some kind of medical training?”

Agent Whitehead’s eyes widened. “You may be on to something. The other characteristics of the profile could be the same, but if he had medical training, that would narrow down our list.” She clenched her cell phone. “Let me call our analyst and have her search military records.”

He gripped the porch rail as he listened to her talk to her associate. “Just like before, we think he’s a Native American, probably suffering PTSD, was in the military. He may have lost his family while he was deployed, the wife left him, or had a child and gave it up for adoption. Narrow it down to men with medical training, as well.” A pause. “Yes, call me back when you have something.”

“I’ll call Cara’s assistant,” Mason said. “She knew the patients. Maybe one of their spouses or ex-boyfriends fits that description.”

When she answered, she sounded frantic. “Did you find Cara?”

“No,” Mason said. “But Delia was murdered and Cara’s missing.”

A terrified sob wrenched Sherese’s throat. “You think he has Cara?”

Mason had to swallow twice to make his voice work. “Yes, and Morningside is in custody so he didn’t kill Delia. The killer fits the same profile as Morningside except he had medical training. Can you think of anyone associated with the clinic, maybe a patient’s spouse or ex who fits that description?”

“I don’t know about the background of all the patients,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’d have to look at their files and they were destroyed in the fire.”

Dammit. If he had Cara’s computer he could send it to her. Maybe it was in her car. He rushed outside to retrieve it but it wasn’t inside. “If you think of anyone call me back.”

“I will, and Mason, please bring Cara back.”

“I intend to.” Although defeat and fear weighed on him. He had no idea how long the killer had held the other victims before he’d killed them. And if he was playing out his end game, his violence and timing might be escalating.