Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (8 page)

Liz rolled her shoulders to alleviate the tension thrumming through her. Night had fallen, her headlights slicing across the asphalt as she drove along the winding road toward her house.

Her ears popped as she climbed the mountain, and she swallowed, slowing as a deer raced from the woods across the road. She’d driven these mountains forever, but still on nights like tonight, when images of death and violence filled her head, shadowy ghosts floated between the trees, and the cries of the dead floated around her.

Hoping to calm her nerves with her favorite acoustics, she flipped on the radio, scanning through until she found the Coffee House station. Another car zoomed up on her tail, and she checked her rearview mirror.

His headlights were so bright that the glare was blinding her. She flipped the mirror up to diffuse the light, blinking to clear her vision. But the car jolted forward, then sped up beside her, skimming her side, jolting her toward the embankment.

She gripped the steering wheel, slowing to let him pass. The road twisted sharply right, and she swerved just in time to avoid plunging into the ravine as the other car raced on. She squinted to read the license plate, but the sedan had already disappeared into the darkness like a bullet.

Her breath puffed out as she righted her vehicle and accelerated. She wanted to catch the other car, but another curve caught her off guard, and she skimmed the guardrail. Reminding herself that it wasn’t worth dying to catch the creep, who was probably drunk, she forced herself to slow as she pulled back into her lane.

By the time she’d reached her house, her muscles felt as strained as her nerves. She parked, then looked through the windshield, and thought she saw the silhouette of a man.

Ned Harlan was standing in the shadows behind a moonlit live oak.

Could it be . . .

All these days and nights she’d imagined him coming back for her. Whispering her name in the dark.

Slitting her throat until the blood drained from her.

Her therapist had convinced her she was delusional, suffering from PTSD.

But this didn’t look like a damn illusion to her.

She pulled her weapon and got out of the car. She would kill him this time.

But when she inched closer, the image faded.

God . . . she blinked to regain her focus.

She scanned left and right. Trees rustled. Gray clouds moved, covering the moon, making it even darker. A bobcat wailed from somewhere in the mountains.

After the attack, she’d seen Harlan everywhere. On the street. In the coffee shop. In the woods behind her house.

In the street when she’d gone shopping.

Her therapist assured her that her reaction was normal, that victims often felt as if their attackers had returned to stalk them.

That Ned Harlan was dead.

Her hand shook as she held her weapon at the ready, making her way up the sidewalk to her front door. Leaves rustled in the wind, and the sound of her own erratic breathing filled her ears.

Had she imagined Harlan’s face watching her?

She fumbled with her key, but finally managed to unlock the door. She’d left a light on in the den—she always left a light on—but it was off now. A tremor ran through her as she reached for the light switch.

Then the faint scent of a man’s aftershave hit her. A musky odor.

Harlan’s scent. Dear God,
was
he alive?

Or was she imagining things again?

Chapter Eight

R
afe didn’t want to make the drive back to his cabin. He wanted to be close in case Liz needed him.

Why he felt that way, he didn’t know. Hell, it had been months since he’d seen her. Since the night she was rushed to the ER.

But this case stirred up old anxieties and memories. Memories of that night.

And the nights in bed with Liz, the best nights he’d ever had.

He rented a room at the Slaughter Creek Inn, then walked across the street to the diner for a late dinner. The place was virtually empty, although when he entered he heard two old-timers talking about Ester Banning’s murder.

A middle-aged waitress brought him a plate of country-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and biscuits. He thanked her, then dug in, but his phone buzzed halfway through.

“Rafe, it’s Nick. Any progress on the murder?”

“Too early to say. We brought a man in for questioning—a pig farmer whose mother was abused by Banning. He admits to hating her, had motive and opportunity, but we didn’t get a confession. I thought sitting in jail overnight might change his mind.” Rafe sipped his sweet tea. They could hold him for twenty-four hours, but then they’d have to charge him or let the bastard go. “How about news on the Commander?”

“Nothing definitive there either. We questioned Seven, but she’s not talking. And so far we haven’t found a connection between the Banning woman and my father. She wasn’t on the visitor log, and none of the inmates near Blackwood’s cell remembered hearing him talk about her. We’ll keep looking.”

“So how did he escape?”

“Took a homemade dose of some concoction to make him sick enough to go to the infirmary. Stabbed a guard there, then stole his uniform and weapon. All the authorities have been notified at the airports, bus stations, train stations, and ports.”

They suspected the Commander had connections that ran deep and wide, though. He’d been involved with the CIA. Hell, the government could have helped him escape to keep him from disclosing information about the project. Not that Blackwood had talked. But since Senator Stowe’s arrest, no one was safe.

Everyone was a suspect.

Liz inhaled deeply as she entered her house, reminding herself that she was a professional agent. She was trained. Smart.

And she’d learned her lesson.

Sure, Harlan had gotten the jump on her once, but he’d caught her off guard because his accomplice had approached her, pretending to be a woman in trouble, one of Harlan’s victims fleeing the cabin where Liz had tracked him. Liz’s protective instincts toward females had kicked in, overriding her sense that something was off, that she was walking into a trap.

She’d never let down her guard again.

Holding her gun at the ready, she started to call for backup. But she was taking antianxiety medication, and if Rafe found that out, she’d look unstable.

She quickly scanned the den and kitchen, an open room with a bay window overlooking the woods and river.

She eased open the pantry. Everything seemed in place. No one inside.

One look at the corner chair where she kept her crocheting, and something about the way the supplies were arranged struck her as odd—had she left the yellow blanket on top, or the purple one?

God, you are crazy, Liz. An intruder certainly wouldn’t bother with your craft supplies.

But paranoia still seized her, defying common sense. Her hands shook and her vision blurred as images of the dark place where Harlan had held her resurfaced. There was no air, she couldn’t breathe . . .

She counted to ten to calm herself. She could not relapse now. Could not give in to those damned panic attacks.

Inching her way down the hall, she glanced in the bathroom, then her office, finding them empty as well.

Tension knotted her muscles as she eased her way to the master suite. But the room looked intact. Her bedding was in place, the windows closed, her vanity just as scattered with jewelry and makeup as she’d left it.

Her vanity was in complete disarray. She kept telling herself she’d organize it, but she never seemed to find the time.

Her therapist had actually applauded her for being able to let go in that one area of her life.

Liz must have fooled her, if she thought Liz was in control. Just the hint of an intruder had brought it all back.

She summoned her courage, determined to prove she was on solid ground.

If one day on the job made her come unglued to the point of imagining Harlan again, she’d never convince Rafe she was stable enough to work with him.

She inhaled several deep breaths, struggling to separate reality from delusions. But the lines were blurred . . . she still smelled him in her house. Garlic . . . the faint scent of garlic clung in the air. Garlic . . .

He’d chop it up and put it in the food he gave his victims, food to make them sick. So sick they’d be weak and couldn’t fight him . . .

Yes, chop, chop, he’d told her as he’d sharpened his knife. Chop, chop, he’d cut the vegetables and smash the garlic.

Chop, chop, he’d slice her neck . . .

She shuddered, nausea burgeoning. He had been here, hadn’t he?

Or was that smell only in her head as well?

The wind chimes tinkled as Amelia slipped outside her condo to meet her lover.
Ting. Ting. Ting
. They were music to her ears. Playing a beautiful melody that the wind and nature created on its own.

Now she knew her infatuation with them had come from the experiment.

But she refused to give them up. They were both a good and a bad reminder of the past, and she chose to focus on the positive.

Still, her mind raced with dos and don’ts. Sadie had urged her to pack so they could leave for the safe house in the morning.

The thought of being confined reminded her of her days at the sanitarium. Sadie assured her they’d take canvases and paints. Painting was the one time she felt safe.

Sane.

But would she ever be?

Jake insisted she and Sadie both needed protection from Arthur Blackwood. And so did Ayla. Jake’s five-year-old was the Commander’s only grandchild. What if he tried to kidnap her?

Amelia would die herself to protect that precious child.

She wove through the garden, missing the summer flowers but enjoying the hardy ones that, thanks to several of the residents’ gardening skills, bloomed year-round.

The moon painted a path through the foliage as the sound of frogs and crickets echoed in the air.

A breeze made goose bumps scatter on her arms, and she considered turning around and running back to her place. If she hid from Six, she’d never have to know if he’d been bad.

Never have to ask him if the experiment had turned him into a killer.

The sound of leaves rustling made her pause, and she clenched her teeth, battling the voice in her head. Rachel whispered that she was a whore, that she should repent and run from this man.

That sex was dirty and wrong.

She shut out the voice.

Amelia reached the creek, where the air was filled with the sound of the water rippling over the jagged rocks. But suddenly she sensed someone else there.

A shadow moved from an oak tree. Then his hands were on her. “I’ve missed you.”

His breath bathed her neck, and then his lips trailed kisses down her throat. Amelia’s knees buckled. In spite of her fears, she had missed him, too.

But if he’d murdered that woman, she had to break it off. She had to tell Sadie and Jake . . .

“Did you miss me, Amelia?”

In spite of her common sense, erotic sensations heated her blood, and she turned in his arms. They had known each other since they were children. Had suffered together under the Commander’s thumb.

He couldn’t be the man who’d cut off that woman’s hands.

His fingers skated down her arms, and then he peeled away her blouse. Cool air brushed her nipples as he stripped her lacy bra and placed his lips on her tender skin.

Amelia moaned. She’d been alone so long, had struggled with the voices in her head.

Had nearly died at the hands of Blackwood.

She refused to let him take everything away.

Six knew the truth about her, and he still wanted her. Still found her desirable.

What other man would?

She was broken. Damaged.

She clung to him now, desperately needing that love.

He closed his lips around one nipple and tugged it into his mouth. She gripped his arms, holding on to him as he pushed her down to the ground.

Their clothes flew off, and he entered her with a deep, hard thrust. She closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his thickness inside her as he built a frantic rhythm, naked skin gliding against skin, sweat mingling, their breaths rasping out as her orgasm claimed her, and he tipped over the edge with her.

They lay curled on the ground together for several minutes, but reality broke through the euphoric haze surrounding Amelia. “Did you know that the Commander escaped?”

Six stilled in her arms and looked at her with a coldness that she’d never seen before. “We are what we are because of him,” he said finally.

Fear seized Amelia, as she recalled the image of Ester Banning’s dead face, and she pushed away. “I have to go.”

He grabbed her arm. “Why are you running from me, Amelia?”

“I’m not running,” Amelia said, her voice cracking. “But Sadie and her husband, Jake—he’s the sheriff, you know—want us to go to a safe house until the Commander’s caught.”

“Yes, the Commander might come after us,” Six said. “Do what your sister says. I don’t want him to ever hurt you again.”

Tension thrummed through Amelia. “What about you? He might target you, too.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Six said, an evil glint in his eyes. “I’m not that terrified kid anymore. If he tracks me down, I’ll cut off his damn head. Killing him is the only way we’ll ever be free.”

A shudder coursed through Amelia, and she quickly dressed, then ran back toward her condo and locked herself inside.

Inside, she picked up her paints and began to purge her emotions. An image of the Commander found its way onto her canvas, only this time his head had been cut off.

And Six was standing over him, smiling at the blood soaking the man’s chest.