Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (5 page)

“A vacation with security,” Jake added. “Please, Amelia—it’ll be easier for Nick and me to do our jobs if we don’t have to worry about you.”

Sadie curved an arm around Amelia. “He’s right, sis. Besides, we can take canvases and paint. The mountains in the winter are so beautiful.”

Amelia chewed her bottom lip, her voice low. “I suppose.”

Sadie’s tone gained enthusiasm. “A cabin on the river sounds inspirational, too. If it snows, we can go sledding with Ayla and build a snowman.”

“I’ll go with you to help you get situated,” Jake said.

Amelia paused, the tapping continuing on her arm. Nick noticed a cut mark that hadn’t been there before. Cutting hadn’t been a characteristic of any of her alters.

Unless she’d developed a new one that nobody knew about yet . . .

Chapter Five

H
e stared into the woman’s cold, listless eyes, excited to have his next victim.

Whoever said looks could kill was right.

Hers had destroyed him as a child.

Now it was his turn to destroy her.

He laid her body out on the floor of the sanctuary he’d created for himself, the plastic beneath her crinkling as her limbs fell limply by her sides.

He paced, ticking off the information in his head as if a computer had been turned on, spewing out details.

There were three layers to the eye: the outer layer, the sclera, in which the cornea formed a bulge at the front of the eye; the middle layer, the choroid, which formed the iris toward the front; and the inner layer, the retina, which contained nerve cells that processed visual information and sent it to the brain.

That was the part he found most interesting. The retina had millions of sensitive nerve cells that converted light into nerve impulses.

So did her brain tell her eyes that she liked watching children be tormented, or was something about her nerve impulses warped?

Eyes were supposed to be precious gifts, enabling us to enjoy the beauty of the world.

But hers held nothing but ugliness. Evil.

Now those eyes stared, wide open, terror and shock etched into the brown irises, the whites bulging as if they might explode as she struggled to escape.

She had never expected him to find her. To seek revenge. She thought she’d obliterated his free will and the fight inside him, that she could control him with those devilish laser looks.

Not anymore.

He removed the scalpel from his pocket and held the shiny blade above the pale skin of her cheek, smiling as the steel glistened beneath the light. Cutting her up would be just like dissecting an animal.

She kicked harder, yanking at the heavy chains holding her down. The metal rattled, music to his ears, as panic distorted her stark features.

“What is the old adage about the eyes?” he murmured as he pressed the scalpel to her cheekbone.

She screamed, a shrill animal noise that echoed in the empty building, boomeranging over and over. They were so far from anyone that he didn’t bother to try and stop her cries.

No one could hear her.

“Yes, yes, I know what it is,” he said, his voice singsong.
“ 
‘The eyes are the window to the soul.
’ 
”

She shook her head back and forth violently as if she’d suddenly guessed his intentions.

Really, she had odd features. The cheekbones were set too far apart. Her face was asymmetrical, one eyelid drooping lower than the other. A dark mole dotted the corner of her lip, a melanoma probably.

Odd that with her training, she hadn’t bothered with treatment.

“Oh, and there’s the other—‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
’ 
” His bitter laugh echoed off the concrete walls. “But there’s nothing beautiful about you.”

A tear seeped from her eye and trickled down her cheek, then another. His brain told him that this was simply nature’s way of cleansing the eye; this woman had no real emotions.

His pulse pounding with lust for the kill, he pierced the skin below her left eye. The chains clanked with her protests. A drop of blood seeped from the scalpel point, whetting his appetite for more.

He leaned close to her ear, watching her terror as he whispered, “But you have no soul, do you?”

Slowly he raised the scalpel and jabbed it into her eye socket. She screamed, flailing and crying, the wretched sounds reverberating around him.

Soon she would realize that crying and screaming wouldn’t help. And it sure as fuck wouldn’t stop him.

Because he’d been called to rid the world of the ugliness, just as a preacher was called to give a sermon and save lost souls.

In a way, he was saving souls too. Saving others from the abuse this woman inflicted.

And he was just getting started.

Rafe wove through traffic, veering off on a desolate-looking road that seemed to lead to nowhere.

He and Liz lapsed into silence as they covered the miles. Dry grass and land stretched far across the countryside, an occasional house or roadside stand popping up. A gas station with a sign reading
BOILED PEANUTS
sat at the crossroads, a produce stand on the opposite side. Run-down chicken houses sat on a hill near a chimney marking where a house once stood.

Liz considered the profile of the killer. She needed more information first.

“Regina’s son J. R. lives out here?” Liz asked.

Rafe nodded.

“I wonder what he does for a living.”

“I suppose we’ll find out.” Rafe cut her a sideways look. “Liz, you didn’t have to come back for this. You know I could have handled the case.”

“True, but I need to work. I sure as heck don’t intend to let what happened destroy me.” Memories of Rafe looking at her with lust made her body tingle for his touch. They’d been attracted to each other from the start, but they’d tried to keep their relationship professional.

Rafe had big hands, strong hands. The things he could do with them made her crazy with desire.

She wanted to feel those hands on her again. Because his touch made her pain dissipate.

Do. Not. Go. There.

It had hurt too badly when he’d walked away to even consider getting close to him again.

And she had her secrets.

Besides, his look didn’t hold desire now. More like disdain.

He turned onto a dirt road bearing a hand-painted sign that read
HOG HOLLER
, the SUV bouncing over gravel and ruts. The area was flat, the land parched and deserted, winter taking its toll. Why anyone would choose to live out here, she didn’t know.

They veered around a curve, and then she spotted a small clapboard house on a hill. Beside it, several pigpens housed dozens of animals.

Mud splattered a long cement building that Liz assumed was the slaughterhouse.

An ax hung on the wall outside, stained in blood.

If Regina’s son slaughtered animals for a living, he obviously had a strong stomach, and the sight of blood didn’t disturb him.

Would he cut off a woman’s hands to get revenge against her for hurting his mother?

Rafe scanned the property, his mind assimilating to the fact that Regina’s son, J. R. Truitt, raised and slaughtered animals for a living. He also lived off the grid, miles from anywhere, meaning he could easily have brought Ester out here and killed her, and no one would have heard her scream for help.

Rafe parked, wiping perspiration from his forehead, the stench of the pig houses assaulting him as he climbed out. He blew out a breath to stifle the smell, then glanced at Liz, who coughed as she slid from the passenger side.

“You can stay in the car if you want,” Rafe offered.

Her gaze shot to his.

Understanding dawned. She still didn’t have closure over Harlan, and she thought she could make up for that lost feeling by locking up this killer.

Jesus. He understood the drive, the compulsion to solve a crime and bring justice.

He’d hoped to give that to her with her mother’s killer.

But he’d failed. He’d missed something on the case—Harlan’s real motive. Why he’d come after Liz’s mother in the first place.

Why he’d stopped killing for years, then started again.

“I’m not going to fall apart on this case, Rafe. You can trust me.”

That wasn’t the problem. He didn’t trust himself around her. And he sure as hell didn’t want her anywhere near this latest psycho. “I do, but you also suffered a terrible trauma only a few months ago. Everyone needs time to recover.”

Liz squeezed his hand. “Stop treating me with kid gloves. I survived. I’ve had therapy and time to heal.”

“Have you?” he asked softly. “Healed, I mean?”

Pain darkened her eyes. “Rafe . . . please . . .”

Emotions crowded his throat. “I can’t help but worry about you.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Liz said, struggling to keep her voice from quivering. “But I need to work, Rafe. I need to find this guy.”

He was well aware of her devotion to her job, but he didn’t necessarily like it. His gaze shot to the scarf around her neck. Images of her bloody body and weakened state, her throat slashed.

The front door of the house screeched open, jarring Rafe from his thoughts, and he swung around. A heavyset man with a shaved head, wearing overalls stood on the rickety porch, aiming a shotgun at them. Tattoos snaked up and down both arms, and his left hand was scarred badly, as if he’d been in an accident.

Or perhaps one of his hogs had mauled him.

He also seemed sweaty and out of breath, as if he’d been running, or he’d just gotten home.

“What the hell you doing on my property?” he bellowed.

“Mr. Truitt,” Liz said, throwing up a hand to calm him. “I’m Special Agent Liz Lucas, and this is Special Agent Rafe Hood, with the TBI. We just want to talk.”

Truitt kept the gun trained on them. “You’re a fed?”

“Actually, the TBI is state.” Rafe gestured to the gun. “Now, like I said, put down the gun.”

“It’s about your mother,” Liz said.

“My mother is dead,” he snarled.

“That’s why we’re here.”

Rafe’s hand itched to put Liz back into the car. To protect her. He stepped forward, half blocking her in case the man took a pot shot. “We talked to the staff at the nursing home where your mother stayed and heard that a nurse named Ester Banning mistreated your mother.”

He shifted, lowering the shotgun to his side. “Yeah. But that was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that you’ve forgotten what she did,” Liz said softly.

“So?” he asked.

“Ester Banning’s body was found in Slaughter Creek.”

Truitt’s lip curled up. “That bitch is dead?”

“Yes.”

Truitt grunted. “I thought she was too mean to die.” He rubbed a hand over his pocket
.

Rafe stiffened, then stepped to the right, again trying to block Liz.

Instead of another weapon, though, Truitt pulled a cigarette and lighter from his pocket, propped the shotgun against the front of the house, and lit up.

“Haven’t you seen the news?” Liz asked.

“Naw, TV’s broke. And I don’t get the paper out here.”

Rafe cleared his throat. “We’re trying to find out more about the Banning woman. If we can retrace her steps, find out where she went after she left the nursing home, it might lead us to her killer.”

Eyes narrowed, Truitt took a long drag on his cigarette. Rafe stepped onto the porch, still worried about how the man might react when he realized they were treating him as a person of interest in Ester’s murder.

Hoping to relax him, Liz paused to pet the mangy dog sprawled on the tattered plaid sofa on the porch, next to an old washing machine. Muddy work boots were tossed beside it. A broom, toolbox, and dust-coated dog bowl sat next to the door.

“I don’t know where she went, and frankly I don’t care.” Truitt tapped ashes onto the porch floor.

“Mr. Truitt,” Liz said, “we understand that you filed a lawsuit against Ester.”

“Hell, yeah, I did. You would have too, if you’d seen bruises on your mama like I did. Bad bruises and bedsores.” He cursed beneath his breath and blew smoke into the air. “But then Mama died, and the lawyer said the hospital fired Ester, so I figured wasn’t no point in spending money to go to court.”