Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (2 page)

The need for those answers had become the driving force in Liz’s life.

So she’d earned a degree, joined the TBI, and worked her way up to a position as a behavior analyst.

Meanwhile her mother’s case had gone cold. But not in her mind.

Then a few months ago, Liz caught a break.

Guilt nagged at her for thinking of another woman’s murder as a break, but the similarity in MOs had given her reason to have her mother’s case reopened. Rafe had agreed to help her look into the murder.

Because they were already involved. Had slept together.

Then a woman disappeared. Another single mother.

The day after Liz’s profile aired, the killer came after Liz, but not before killing the woman he’d abducted before her.

Liz had to live with that death.

She rubbed the puckered scar along her neck, a constant reminder that she wasn’t the same woman she had been before the kidnapping. That even with all her training, she’d still been weak, had lost to him. That he’d marked her with his ugliness.

The fact that he’d stolen her confidence hurt more than anything.

He’d also ruined her reputation—or at least Rafe Hood’s trust in her, trust that had meant so much to her, just as he had. But how could she ask Rafe to totally trust her again when she’d kept things from him?

She wouldn’t allow Harlan to take anything else.

Her determination renewed, she returned to the kitchen and grabbed a breakfast bar while she watched the news, mentally outlining her day.

Yoga after the news to relax her. Then she’d hit the gym for fitness training. After a pounding workout, the shooting range.

She had to stay in shape in case Harlan rose from the dead.

And when—or if—her boss finally assigned her to a case, she needed to prove she could do the job.

“This is Brenda Banks reporting to you live from Slaughter Creek, where last night a woman’s severed hand was found floating in the creek near Pine Grove RV Park. Sheriff Jake Blackwood along with Special Agent Nick Blackwood, who headed up the investigation into the Slaughter Creek Sanitarium project, are both at the scene, along with the medical examiner, Dr. Barry Bullock.” Cameras panned to the wooded area, where she spotted Nick Blackwood in a heated phone conversation.

The camera focused on another man as Brenda approached him with her microphone.

Rafe Hood.

The world seemed to stop, life crashing in around Liz. Rafe looked even more handsome and intimidating than he had the last time she’d seen him, standing over her hospital bed.

He’d walked away because she’d failed.

Sunlight flickered off his dark, chiseled jaw. His thick black hair was too long, brushing his wide shoulders, which stretched against the confines of that white button-down shirt.

Lord God, she knew the muscles that lay beneath, and for the first time in months, her body hummed to life, aching with the need to touch him.

But that had been a mistake the first time.

One she wouldn’t repeat.

Not that Rafe wanted her. He’d made that plain and clear the night he’d left her alone, traumatized and angry and . . . so in love with him she could barely draw breath.

Still, she craved his arms around her. To feel his lips on hers. To have him remind her that she was still desirable, even though the killer had scarred her inside and out.

And tainted her soul with the need for revenge.

In the background she saw Nick heading toward Brenda. Other crime techs combed the woods in search of evidence.

“Special Agent Rafe Hood of the TBI is here as well,” Brenda continued, drawing Liz’s attention back to the reporter. “Can you tell us what you know pertaining to this case?”

“Not much at this time,” Rafe said in that gravelly voice. “I can verify that a severed hand was discovered in the river. It belonged to a white female, mid-fifties. As of now, we haven’t located a body, but we’re still searching. If anyone has any information regarding this crime, please contact the local police.”

“You have search teams combing the creek for the body now?” Brenda asked.

Rafe nodded, but he looked distracted. His dark brown eyes were scanning the woods as if he expected the person who’d severed the hand to be watching.

Maybe he was, Liz thought. He could be anywhere, even right in front of them, and they might not know it. Some criminals liked to return to the scene and watch the police scurry around, chasing false clues.

Some even insinuated themselves into an investigation.

The police had to stay on their toes.

She’d learned the hard way—no one could be trusted.

He placed the jar on the shelf he’d built for his trophies.

Trophies—that was what the federal agents and profilers called the treasures men like him took.

The bloody stump and fingers were dirty and vile, the fingernails jagged and bitten to the quick, the skin pocked with early liver spots. An ugly hand.

And a reminder that that hand would never hurt anyone else.

A smile curved his mouth, and he massaged his cock, which had grown thick with excitement as he’d watched the life drain from the bitch.

The cops would recover the rest of the body soon. A pity that he hadn’t had a meat grinder to dispose of it, so nothing else would be left behind except for this hand. The bad hand.

Really, he had no use for the rest of the woman’s remains. Just the hand.

His medical training kicked in, his photographic memory flashing anatomical details. Twenty-seven bones comprised the skeleton of the wrist and hand. Three main nerves—the median, ulnar, and radial—innervated the hand. The bones—carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges. Five phalanges made up the fingers. The thumb was the most mobile.

More information about the wrist and the scaphoid, one of the bones in the first row of carpals, streamed through his mind as he studied the treasure in his jar.

It wasn’t the anatomy that had enticed him to keep the hand. That hand spoke to him. Had punished him. Had slapped and beaten him and made him feel intense, excruciating pain.

It was only justice that she’d felt the same before she died.

Then again, leaving the body would give the police something to do. Things to investigate.

Then he could prove that he was smarter than them.

He was in charge of his own destiny. And he could be anyone he wanted to be. A chameleon.

Pure joy warmed his insides as he ran a finger over the jar holding his souvenir.

Her blood was on his hands now, and it tasted like wine.

Anticipation flooded him.

Soon it would be time for another drink.

Chapter Two

A
s the news story continued, Liz massaged the ache in her leg. The break had healed, but sometimes it still throbbed when the winter chill set in.

“Special Agent Hood,” Brenda Banks continued, “you assisted in the investigation into the recent Slaughter Creek Strangler case, which we now know was directly related to the CHIMES project. Do you think this crime is also related?”

Rafe shot the reporter an irritated look. “It’s too early to tell at this point. Now, excuse me. I have work to do.”

Special Agent Nick Blackwood reached Brenda, but he looked angry, worried. They spoke in hushed voices.

Something was wrong.

A second later Brenda straightened her jacket and pushed the microphone toward Nick, her professional demeanor intact. “Agent Blackwood, can you confirm that Arthur Blackwood, the man awaiting trial on multiple murder charges, and the man who oversaw the CHIMES Project—”

“My father.”

Brenda cleared her throat. “Your father, yes.” She likely wasn’t used to such bluntness. “Can you confirm that he escaped from prison last night?”

Nick’s eyes turned steely. “Yes, it’s true. He killed three guards during the breakout and is considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you know anything about his disappearance, please call the FBI immediately.”

Brenda’s fingers seemed to tighten around the microphone. “Do you think his escape had anything to do with the severed hand found in the creek?”

Nick glared at Brenda with an intensity that made Liz shiver. Commander Blackwood had killed almost everyone related to the CHIMES project and had put hits out on those investigating it. He’d also tried to kill Brenda.

Meaning she was in danger now.

“As Agent Hood said earlier, it’s too early to tell. Removing body parts has not been a part of the Commander’s MO, though.”

“But not all of his subjects have been accounted for yet,” Brenda pushed.

“That’s true.”

“And the last case, in which the woman named Seven strangled and killed several men—she was not only Commander Blackwood’s daughter but a victim of the experiment, correct?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That’s true also.”

“So the killer could be another one of his subjects?” Brenda suggested.

“It’s possible, but purely speculative at this point. This crime could be completely unrelated.” Agent Blackwood exhaled. “However, we do believe that the Commander had an accomplice who aided in his escape. When that person is found, he or she will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

A commotion started in the background, and Brenda’s cameraman panned across the area. A shout erupted from one of the crime-scene workers, several hundred feet from the spot where the hand had been found.

Brenda pivoted to watch the action. “Folks, stay tuned for more on this late-breaking story. We’ll bring you details as they unfold.”

“We have a body!” the crime tech yelled.

Nick and Rafe jogged toward the tech. Brenda and the cameraman hurried toward the scene, but Nick stepped in front of them to prevent the victim from being captured on camera.

Liz zeroed in on Rafe. Judging from his grim expression, the scene was bad.

She paced the room, agitated, the need to do something nagging at her. She grabbed her crochet hooks and started to work on a new blanket. Her therapist had suggested she find a hobby, something to occupy her hands and mind while she healed. She’d read about a charity that donated handmade blankets to hospitals for sick children. Fifty blankets later, and her hands had finally stopped trembling every time she remembered the past. But the news story haunted her, and she had the sudden urge to join the case.

To stop feeling sorry for herself.

The bottle of antianxiety pills she’d been prescribed mocked her from the table, and she tossed the crochet hooks into the basket. Making the blankets was rewarding in its own way, but she was a detective. She’d worked damn hard to make it at the bureau. To be a profiler at her age.

But going back to work meant facing the ugliness again, confronting cold-blooded killers like Harlan.

Her hand trembled, and she reached for the bottle of pills. But a voice echoed in her head. A voice that called her a coward.

Anger surged through her. She had good reason to be scared. She wasn’t a coward.

Maybe she just didn’t want to hunt down killers anymore.

She touched the scar again, then gritted her teeth. She could resign from the TBI, and no one would think badly of her. Agents burned out all the time.

But Liz was a fighter. She always had been. Always would be.

She had to go back. She’d show everyone that that bastard hadn’t defeated her.

Liz reached for her cell phone.

It was time for her to come out of hiding.

Rafe grimaced at the sight of the woman’s battered body. Her dress, a floral-printed orange housedress, was torn and ripped to shreds, hanging in wet patches around her pale arms and legs. Bruises covered her limbs—caused by the killer pre-mortem.

Rafe’s eyes moved to her hands.

Or where they should have been.

The unidentified subject—unsub—had cut off both of them. Where was the other hand?

The leader of the crime team, Lieutenant Marc Maddison, who’d also worked the previous case with the Blackwood brothers, approached Rafe as one of the crime techs laid the woman’s remains on the grassy embankment.

Leaves fluttered to the ground in the breeze as the crime team continued to search the bushes for more evidence, moving upstream.

Dr. Bullock knelt to examine the corpse. The crime techs’ cameras flashed, capturing images of her injuries for analysis. Another CSI, a man named Perkins with thick ropelike scars on his arms, focused on the ground in the area where the body had been found. Brenda and her cameraman had been forbidden to take pictures and ordered to stay behind the crime-scene tape.

“Can you tell the cause of death?” Rafe asked.

Dr. Bullock used a magnifying lens to study the victim’s wrists and the bloody stumps where the killer had inflicted his damage. “This small wound at the base of her neck indicates that the killer subdued her with a stun gun. She probably bled out from the amputations, but I won’t know until I get her on the table. If there’s water in her lungs, she might have been dumped in the creek alive.”

Tension tightened every muscle in Rafe’s body. Either way, the woman had suffered. “See if your guys can find the other hand,” he said to Maddison.

Brian Castor, one of the CSIs, stooped down beside the ME to snap close-ups of the woman’s injuries. He seemed especially intrigued by the bone and skin around the severed part of her arm.

“What do you think, Dr. Bullock? Was she beaten? Any sign of sexual assault?” Rafe asked.

Dr. Bullock raked dirt and leaves from the woman’s lower extremities. “I don’t see signs of sexual assault, but the water could have washed away fluids. I’ll have to perform a more extensive exam when I get her to the morgue.”

“How long do you think she’s been dead?”

“Since last night. But again, this creek water is frigid. The temperature could have slowed down decomp.”

“Let me know what you learn from the autopsy.”

Heated voices rumbled from the top of the hill, and Rafe saw Nick arguing with Brenda Banks. Brenda had helped solve the Strangler case and exposed Nick and Jake’s sister as the killer. She was also writing personal profiles on the subjects of the experiment.

Nick said something about the Commander, that he wanted Brenda out of the picture. Judging from the snippets he heard, Nick wanted Brenda to go to a safe house. But Brenda wanted the story.

Stubborn woman. She reminded him of Liz.

Dear God. Liz. If she saw this news report, it would resurrect memories. Nightmares of her past.

A past where he’d failed her.

His cell phone buzzed. His chief.

He punched connect. “Yeah?”

“Agent Hood, I just got a call. Agent Lucas is going to be working with you.”

“What? No!” Hell, no.

“Yes,” the chief said tersely. “We’re running short on manpower. With Blackwood’s prison escape, we need every agent we’ve got. Besides, Liz insists she’s ready to come back to work.”

Sweat beaded on Rafe’s forehead. “She called and
asked
to work this case?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want her here. She needs more time.” He scraped a hand over his beard stubble. “You of all people should know that. You’re the one who told me she had paranoid delusions, that she was on medication.”

“Well, the doc has cleared her, and she’s tapered off the meds,” the chief said.

“She still could be fragile.”

“If that’s the case, don’t go messing around with her.”

The chief didn’t have to tell Rafe that. He’d lost his focus last time because he’d let his emotions get in the way.

Still, memories of holding Liz in his arms, of their naked bodies gliding together as they made love, pummeled him.

Then an image of her—bloody, beaten and traumatized from her captivity, and her scream as Harlan slashed her neck . . .

“Tell her to let me handle this case,” Rafe said. He hated the desperate pleading in his voice.

“I realize it’s dangerous and that she’s walking a fine line, but she’s also driven like no agent I’ve ever known, and she’s a damn good profiler,” his chief said. “We need her, Hood.”

The chief hung up, and Rafe cursed. He had screwed up by touching Liz the first time.

He wouldn’t touch her again. And he sure as hell wouldn’t allow himself to care for her.

Because a curse dogged him. Every time he cared about someone, they ended up dead.

Rafe used the new computer program the TBI had purchased to organize the photos of the crime scene that he’d displayed at the meeting.

The chief filed in, along with Lieutenant Maddison and Dr. Bullock. Their expressions reflected the same grimness he felt. CSIs Castor and Perkins also joined them. Castor spread out photos of the body, along with close-ups of the amputated portion of the victim’s arms.

CSI Perkins fidgeted with his glasses; he seemed jittery, as if he was agitated or excited. Rafe wasn’t sure which. It might have been his first case. Or maybe the thrill of detective work just excited him. It definitely took a certain kind of person to enjoy his field of work.

Everyone took a seat, chairs scraping as the men settled down. A second later the air shifted as Liz walked in. Nothing like a gorgeous woman to stir up the testosterone.

Rafe’s heart instantly jumped. She was even more stunning than he remembered in his dreams. And man, did he dream about her.

Almost every damn night.

She was every
man’s wet dream. Silky blond hair, legs to die for, a mouth that tasted like honey and sweetness . . . one that had kissed him senseless and done wicked things to his body.

She was also smart and feisty and had survived some hard knocks in life without letting it sour her on every person she met. Had the cases destroyed her trust?

They damn well had his. Trust was not in his vocabulary.

Suddenly his gaze was drawn to that dark blue satin scarf around her neck, and his throat tightened. She’d worn it to hide the scar.