The Watcher
Authors: Jo Robertson
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Serial Killers, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense, #Thrillers, #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense
Copyright © 2011 Jo Robertson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 146113613X
ISBN-13: 9781461136132
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61397-632-6
Riveting and suspenseful, Jo Robertson’s debut THE WATCHER is not to be missed! THE WATCHER will grab you by the throat and keep you turning pages until the pulse-pounding final page. If you like Lisa Gardner or Nora Roberts, you’ll love Jo Robertson!
- Jeanne Adams, RT nominated author of Deadly
Little Secrets and Deadly Little Lies
NY Times Best Selling Author Brenda Novak says of THE WATCHER, “Debut author Jo Robertson’s romantic thriller will leave you breathless. You’ve never met a serial killer quite as sinister as this one. Or a hero and heroine who have so much to lose.”
Award-winning author of Romantic Suspense Loucinda McGary says, “THE WATCHER will keep you up all night with its finely drawn characters, taut suspense, and the creepiest villain ever!”
While it doesn’t take a whole village to birth a book, it certainly takes a whole family, whether a family of genes or a family of choice. In my case many thanks to my very large family for their creative ideas, unfailing support, and decisive opinions: My husband Boyd (otherwise known as Dr. Big), my daughters – Shannon, Kennan, and Megan, my sons – Lance, Robb, Tyler, and Rand. Love you all!
Special thanks to my critique partner Loucinda McGary, aka Aunty Cindy, and all the wonderful women writers of The Romance Bandits.
Special kudos to Shannon Spicer for telling me when the story sank and when it soared. And to Megan Banks for being an amazing copy editor.
For my longtime friend and teaching partner, Kelly Kerns, who believed long before I did.
Contents
Preston, Idaho, Fifteen Years Ago
The girl was pretty in a fresh, outdoorsy way.
The bounce and tangle of her yellow hair fascinated the boy-man. When she bent to ruffle the dog’s fur and attach the leash, the frisky animal danced away from her. Finally looping one end around her hand, she set off, long legs stretched before her as she matched her stride to the dog’s pace.
With her free hand, she clutched the coat front that covered a dress the color of buttercups, and she wore black strappy shoes made for church, not a brisk walk. Early winter wind whipped her dress up and blew hair across her eyes.
But he knew their color well. Her eyes were as vivid as the violet blood of an eggplant’s skin. The deep purple of the pansies his grandmother grew in boxes beneath the kitchen window. The flowers woven in his mother’s hair in a faded picture he’d once seen.
The brilliance of that color made him notice the girl several months ago as she stood outside the Cavalier Store on Ramsey Avenue. Juggling a carton of milk in one arm and her school books in the other, she nearly bumped into him. When he reached to steady her, those flashing eyes narrowed in the challenging way of teenage girls.
Under the force of her scowl, he touched the sparse hair above his lips, the sprinkling of zits across his chin. She didn’t say a word to him, but her eyes darkened with irritation.
Why the hell was she mad at him? He’d only tried to help.
A familiar wash of shame flooded over him, his face burned, and he ducked his head to slink away. After a block he risked a backward glance to find the girl balancing her load, oblivious to his existence. She’d forgotten him already. He clenched his fists at his side and hurried away.
She wore her soccer uniform that day, and he figured out she’d be at practice on the high school soccer field after school. Every day until the season was over.
During daily practice, the grassy edges of the field were deserted, so he’d found a good hiding place some distance from the field where he watched the players through his binoculars. The rocky outcropping banked up to several scrub pines, and his dusty green outfit camouflaged him from the coach.
His body tingled with a secret thrill as he spied on her. He never got tired of watching her race down the soccer field, her toes teasing the ball in front of her, the sudden right turn she made before she slammed the ball into the goal. Her slender legs were surprisingly strong, the muscled sinews tightening beneath the skin.
Panicked that he’d lose track of her when the season was over, he followed her home after one soccer practice. He discovered the isolated farm where she lived with her parents and a giant chocolate retriever named Shamus. He hunkered beside an outbuilding that night and watched her as she completed household chores. She worked energetically and sometimes seemed to be everywhere at once. Her quick, lively movements stimulated him in a way he didn’t understand.
When the lights went out in the farmhouse, he hunted for a place to camp out in the woods, his bedroll and backpack hidden in the dense forest. He ate his food cold from tin cans and drank from the creek, this outdoor lifestyle familiar to him by now.
He waited nearly a week to make his move. On a late Sunday afternoon, he saw the parents drive away in a battered pickup without the girl. Silence descended on the farm in the near darkness. She’d been left alone.
This was his opportunity.
The dog now pulled the girl along after him, straining at the leash. The animal must weigh at least a hundred pounds, almost as much as the girl. That could be a problem.
The boy-man trailed the girl and dog as they made their way down to the creek bed. She let the dog tug her forward along the water’s edge. Her voice reached the boy-man where he watched from a grove of aspen trees, their bendy white limbs dipping down to cover him.
He glanced through the gloom toward the farm house. How long before her parents returned? How long after that before they missed her? He kept upwind of the dog and hurried after the girl, his heart drumming a staccato beat in his chest. He’d never found a purple-eyed girl before.
It was a sign.
The cabin was rank with the coppery smell of blood. The boy-man hovered over the girl’s body, his hair slick with perspiration, his eyes dilated with excitement and fear. He pressed his ear against her chest, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing. He held his finger under her nose, searching for the moist sign of breathing, pinched the nostrils closed. No movement, no reaction.
She was dead.
His heart thumped like a bass drum in his ears. He’d seen a dead body once. At his mother’s funeral. He had reached into the casket to touch her hand, surprised that it was as rubbery-hard and cold as a mannequin.
The girl’s body was still warm and soft, her face was blotchy from crying, and the blood on her arms and stomach made her look like she was sick or sleeping instead of dead.
He frowned at her features. Using water from his canteen and a dirty rag, he washed her face. The blood smeared to a pinkish color like an artist who’d used too much water on the canvas.
With his thumb he pulled one eyelid open and quickly stepped back. The eyes were now a cloudy, dull color, where before they’d been brilliant, the irises tinged black at the edges. Their glittering color had excited him.
Disappointment furrowed a deep ridge between his eyes.
What now?
He looked helplessly around the cabin, shuffled from one foot to the other.
He picked up the shoes, dress, and underwear from the wood floor where he’d tossed them earlier, removed the strips of rawhide from her wrists and ankles, and pushed her arms to her sides. Then he spread the clothing on top of the body and pushed the tips of her toes inside the black shoes.
Better. The bright yellow dress looked cheerful against the blood-spattered mattress. The golden color matched the girl’s hair and was pretty in spite of all the rips in it.
He stood back to examine his work. Blood had started to ooze through the front of the dress. He lifted the hem of her dress, removed the panties, and stuffed them in the pocket of his heavy hooded parka.
Something to remember her by.
Morning light filtered through the thick canvas window covering. He’d been here all night and didn’t have much time left. He wished it had lasted longer. He wished he’d – well, next time, he promised. Next time, he’d pick the
right
girl.
He looked around the rough cabin again in momentary confusion as the enormity of what he’d done swept over him.
What if they caught him?
No, no, they wouldn’t find her until the snow melted, not even then unless someone happened to check out the abandoned cabin. If they didn’t find her quick, the animals would burrow their way in, and there wouldn’t be much left to find.
He closed the door and secured the sturdy padlock. As he trudged off through the Idaho hills, his boots sank through the snow’s crusty top. The snowmobile was four miles east of the cabin, hidden beneath a cluster of low-hanging scrub pines.