Kill Without Mercy

  Hauk hesitated, as if he was going to try and convince Rafe he was in no condition to be out riding over rough country roads. Then, catching sight of Rafe’s grim expression, he gave a slow nod of resignation. “Fine.” He conceded defeat. “But first we need to stop by the motel so I can get my equipment.”

  They all knew that Hauk’s “equipment” included his high-powered sniper rifle.

  The retired soldier could kill at a thousand yards.

  Not a bad wingman to have around.

  Rafe turned back to Teagan. “Once you get into the surveillance cameras, let me know,” he commanded. He was used to taking charge. “It will help us narrow down the search if we know which direction the truck went.”

  Teagan nodded. “Will do.”

  Rafe glanced toward Max, who was looking less than pleased with Rafe’s sudden burst of restless energy. “Will you run point?”

  Max grudgingly nodded. “Of course.”

  It was Teagan who stepped forward to express what was on all their minds. “Be careful, Rafe,” he warned in somber tones. “Martin Emerson will be desperate to keep Annie. If you cross his path, he won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Annie didn’t need to see the ugly flush on her brother’s face to sense his rising agitation.

  Eyeing him with a growing concern, she tried to think of some way to ease his distress.

  “Can I have some water?” she at last demanded.

  It was an embarrassingly clichéd diversion tactic, but surprisingly it worked.

  “Of course, sweetie.”

  The fevered glitter in the pale eyes was instantly replaced with concern as he turned to hurry across the cement floor to a small refrigerator that was hooked up in the distant corner.

  His distraction gave Annie a limited opportunity to take an inventory of her surroundings.

  It was without a doubt a basement. The floor and walls were cement, with two miniscule windows that allowed in a small amount of sunlight.

  From her position on the cot, she could see a wooden shelf shoved against a back wall filled with home-canned vegetables, old Tupperware, and broken appliances covered in cobwebs. Closer to the cot was a stack of bikes that looked like they hadn’t been used in years.

  Beyond that there was nothing to be seen except the small fridge and a washer and dryer that had obviously been bought in the seventies.

  No tools that she could use as a weapon. No telephone or computer she could use to contact Rafe. Nothing she could even use to set a fire to attract attention.

  Annie sent a quick glance toward a narrow flight of stairs that led to the main house, catching sight of a closed door that was no doubt locked, before Martin returned with her water.

  Taking the bottle with her free hand, Annie cautiously scooted up to lean against the chilled wall behind her.

  “Where are we?” she asked, taking a deep drink.

  She hadn’t entirely been trying to divert Martin.

  She truly was thirsty.

  Probably a side effect of being drugged.

  He stood next to the cot, his lean body covered in a pair of loose jogging pants and a matching jacket.

  “My temporary home,” he answered, casting a dismissive glance around the musty basement. “Very temporary.”

  She took another drink. “Where are the owners?”

  “They’re an elderly couple who are spending the winter in Arizona,” he explained. “I rented the house from them for the winter.”

  Annie choked on the water.

  She didn’t know what shocked her more.

  The sinking knowledge that there was no hope the owners might return and call the police, or the fact that Martin had actually gone to the time and effort to arrange a place to stay.

  “You rented it?” she managed to ask in a strangled voice.

  “Yes.” Martin looked pleased with himself. “It’s amazing what can be accomplished on the Internet these days.”

  “True.” Annie struggled to force a smile to her stiff lips. “So you . . . planned to come to Newton?”

  “Of course.” He hesitated, briefly lost in an unpleasant thought. “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  He blinked, as if coming back from a great distance.

  “Because we hadn’t finished our game.”

  Game? An icy premonition inched down her spine.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He leaned down to gently remove the empty bottle from her hand.

  “You will.”

  She watched as he turned to toss the bottle into a nearby trash can. There was a strange tension humming around his slender body.

  Not the same agitation as when he was forced to think of their mother.

  This was . . . excitement.

  Which was even more disturbing.

  “Did you know that I would come to Newton?” she asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  He reached out to lightly brush her hair from her cheek, his touch making her shudder. “Because we can share our thoughts.”

  She gasped, her eyes wide.

  Wasn’t it bad enough she’d been forced to see into the mind of a killer?

  No one wanted to live with that kind of curse.

  But to think that the killer could actually see into her mind . . .

  God almighty.

  She pressed her head against the wall, futilely trying to avoid his lingering touch.

  “The visions,” she breathed.

  “Yes.” He smiled his sweet, sweet smile. “They began when you were just a baby. At times it was the only way I could comfort you.”

  Sickness rolled through her stomach.

  If Martin knew that she could share his thoughts, then he had to know she’d seen him stalking the poor women. And that she would feel compelled to try and stop him.

  “So you deliberately lured me here,” she muttered.

  Something that might have been genuine regret darkened the blue eyes as he abruptly turned away and paced back to the corner of the basement. He reached into the fridge before returning to the cot and shoving an apple into her hand. “Here.”

  She furrowed her brow, wincing as a pain shot through her head.

  “I’m not hungry,” she muttered, dropping the apple on the cot.

  Martin clicked his tongue, a chiding expression on his thin face. “You should eat more fruit. You’re too pale.” He lowered himself to perch on the edge of the cot, his hand cupping her cheek. “From now on I’ll ensure that you take better care of yourself.”

  She shrank against the wall, turning her head to knock away his hand.

  In her mind all she could see was the women screaming in fear as this man chased them through the dark.

  “No, please . . .”

  Martin stiffened, his eyes troubled as he studied her terrified expression. “Annabelle, don’t be afraid of me.”

  She licked her lips, knowing it would be impossible to lie. Not only was her heart pounding a thousand miles an hour, but her entire body was trembling.

  “I’m trying, but it’s not easy when you drugged me and now have me handcuffed to the bed.”

  His lips thinned. As if he didn’t like to be reminded that he’d kidnapped his own sister. “It’s necessary,” he muttered.

  “Why?” She ignored the tiny voice in the back of her mind that warned she didn’t want to probe into Martin’s obsession with her. For now, she had to cling to the belief that she could forge some sort of connection with her brother and hope she could lull him into a sense of complacency. Maybe then he would release her from the handcuffs and she would have a chance to escape. “If you wanted to see me, you could have knocked on my door. Or better yet, you could have contacted me through the Internet,” she pointed out. “I would have come to you without hesitation.”

  His lips drooped in a petulant frown. “I told you, we hadn’t finished our
game.”

  Game.

  There was that word again.

  She searched his delicate features. He looked so innocent. Like the typical boy next door.

  It seemed impossible to accept that beneath the All-American good looks was a ruthless killer.

  “Does this game have anything to do with the missing women?” The words were out of her mouth before she could halt them.

  On cue, Martin’s face flushed, a feverish glitter entering his eyes as he abruptly shoved himself to his feet. “They must be punished,” he rasped.

  Oh God. She hadn’t intended to stir up his crazy.

  What if she’d triggered some need to kill and he went after another woman?

  God, she would never be able to live with herself.

  “Martin—”

  “Marty,” he corrected with a distinct edge in his voice.

  She sucked in a slow, deep breath. “Marty, they didn’t do anything to deserve to be punished,” she said in careful tones.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me,” she urged.

  As long as he was in the basement talking to her, he wasn’t out hurting other women.

  Yet another bonus to keeping him focused on her.

  “She’s evil.” His features twisted into a mask of pure hatred. “So evil.”

  Annie’s chest tightened. “Who is?”

  “Mother,” he snarled. “Do you remember?”

  She gave a hesitant shake of her head. “No.”

  A tight smile curved his lips. “I’m glad.”

  So was Annie. She was growing certain that her mother had been just as twisted as her brother.

  “Did she hurt you?” she asked in a soft voice.

  Absently Martin shoved up the sleeve of his jacket, turning over his arm to reveal the dozens of round scars that marred his skin. “Sometimes.”

  There was the scrape of metal against metal as Annie leaned forward, the handcuff biting into the flesh of her wrist. Not that she noticed. She’d braced herself for some sign of abuse. Rafe’s research had revealed that her brother’s childhood had been far from ideal.

  But not . . . mutilation.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. “Those are cigarette burns.”

  He jerkily shoved the sleeve back down his arm, his face tight with remembered pain. “She told everyone that they were an accident. Just like my broken arms and black eyes were accidents.” He grimaced, pressing a hand to his chest. “Later she became smart enough to hurt me where my scars could be hidden by clothes.”

  Oh . . . God.

  Annie felt pity clench her heart.

  It did nothing to lessen the horror of what this man had done. Or blind her to the fact that he might snap at any moment and slice her throat.

  But the thought of any young, vulnerable child having to endure such agony from his own mother made her want to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her sincerity unmistakable.

  He gave an absent nod, his eyes haunted by a past that had destroyed his future. “The beatings weren’t the worst,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “It was the days I spent locked in the closet that I hated the most.” He glanced toward the windows, almost as if making sure they were still there. “I can’t breathe in the dark.”

  A tear trailed down her face. How many nights had she lain in her bed, somehow convinced that she’d gotten a raw deal? She couldn’t think of anything worse than having a father who was the renowned Newton Slayer.

  Now she realized just how immature she’d been.

  She’d been raised by people who loved and protected her.

  First her father. And then her foster parents.

  It was a gift she’d taken for granted.

  But never, ever again.

  “Oh, Marty,” she murmured.

  “I tried to be good.” Martin jerkily walked toward the stack of bikes near the end of her cot before turning to pace back toward the washer and dryer. He appeared lost in the past. Almost as if he’d forgotten she was even there. “I tried to do whatever she wanted, but it was never enough.”

  Annie wiped away her tears, her heart aching. “She was sick.”

  “No.” He spun back toward her, fury vibrating in the air. “I told you . . . she was evil.”

  Her heart missed a beat. Dammit. She felt like she was walking through a minefield, never knowing what was going to set her brother off. “Okay,” she quickly agreed.

  He clenched his hands, visibly regaining command of his composure.

  Then, with one of his mercurial changes of mood that she was beginning to suspect was par for the course with Martin, his expression cleared and the sweet smile returned. “The only decent thing she did in her miserable life was give me you.” He moved back to the edge of the cot, gazing at her with blatant devotion. “You were a blessing that saved me.”

  Annie believed him.

  She wasn’t a psychiatrist, but she could understand how Martin would have latched onto her.

  He was an abused young boy who was no doubt kept isolated from the world. He would be desperate to love and be loved.

  Tentatively she returned his smile. If she could keep him focused on his happy memories with her as a baby . . . she might just survive.

  “I was very lucky,” she told him. “Most boys wouldn’t consider a younger sister a blessing.”

  “You were mine to love,” he said in fierce tones. He angled his chin, the gesture oddly familiar. It was what she did when she was feeling defensive. “Mother barely remembered she had a baby, and Father was never around. I was the one who fed you and rocked you to sleep. I kept you clean and warm and safe.”

  She held his gaze. “You took good care of me.”

  He leaned down, brushing his fingers over her hair. She had a feeling it was something he’d done a lot when she was little.

  “It was what I was meant to do,” he said softly. “I’m your guardian angel. Which is why I had to stop her.”

  “Mother?” she asked, even though she already knew who he meant.

  “Yes.”

  “I understand,” she hastily assured him, hoping to keep him from shifting back into his scary mode. “I truly do, Marty. No one should have to endure what she did to you.”

  Despite her effort his face tightened as he abruptly straightened, his hands clenched into tight fists.

  Definitely scary mode.

  “I didn’t care about me,” he informed her, returning to his pacing. “The bitch no longer had the power to hurt me. But I couldn’t bear having you tortured.”

  Annie made a sound of shock. “She tortured me?”

  Martin sent her a puzzled glance, as if he was caught off guard by her reaction. “Of course she did,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “First it would be a slap or a shove when you were in her way. Then she started to lock you in the closet for hours and hours.” He rubbed his arms, as if suddenly feeling the chill in the air. “I couldn’t bear to hear you cry.”

  Annie bit her bottom lip, a long-forgotten memory trying to surface against her will.

  She was in the dark. Alone and terrified.

  But there was a voice that she could hear over her sobbing. A low, soothing voice that helped to ease her fears.

  “You talked to me,” she muttered. “Through the door.”

  “Yes.” His expression lightened. Was he pleased she could remember? Annie wasn’t. She wanted to forget the horrible memory. Along with the mother who’d do that to a little kid. “I used to read to you,” he continued. “The Velveteen Rabbit was your favorite.”

  Annie hid a grimace. That explained the book that’d been left on Rafe’s porch swing.

  “And the nursery rhyme you sent to me?” she asked, oddly confused that she would remember the book and not the poem. “Was it a favorite too?”

  His expression tightened, his eyes wary. “No, that was my promise you wouldn’t be hurt.”

  She gave a shake of her head. “I don’t under
stand.”

  “I know.”

  “Martin—”

  “That last day she took you into the bathroom,” he interrupted, clearly unwilling to explain the significance of the poem. Probably because the meaning was only in his twisted brain. “She told me she was going to stop your crying once and for all.”

  It took a minute for the meaning of his words to penetrate.

  Hell, she hadn’t yet managed to wrap her brain around the fact her mother had locked a three-year-old child in a closet. Now Martin was telling her . . . what? That the coldhearted bitch intended to kill her?

  “Oh my God.”

  Martin nodded at her horror, his somber expression revealing that he truly believed what he was telling her. “She was going to drown you,” he said in insistent tones. “I had to stop her.” A spasm of pain seemed to clench his entire body. “I had to.”

  Annie felt a stab of guilt.

  It might be ridiculous, but she felt as if it was somehow her fault that Martin had been driven to the point of murder.

  He had, after all, confessed that he’d become so inured to his mother’s abuse that she no longer had the power to hurt him.

  Not until she’d been born.

  Then she’d become the tool to punish him even more.

  Instinctively she reached out to grasp his hand. “You saved me, Martin,” she assured him. “I’m alive.”

  He gazed down at her, his eyes oddly glazed. “But you’re still in danger.”

  She frowned. Something was happening. Something that was making the air prickle with a dangerous tension.

  “No, Marty,” she murmured in soothing tones. “You saved me.”

  He shook his head, the flush returning to his face as he squeezed her fingers. “She’s after you.”

  She flinched, covertly trying to pull her out of his painful grip. “Who?”

  “Mother.”

  Mother? Oh hell. Annie’s blood ran cold. She was losing him. She could almost feel him slipping into his madness.

  But how was she supposed to stop it?

  She tried the obvious.

  “Martin, Mother’s dead.”

  “No.” He gave a violent shake of his head. “She’s here.”

  Annie glanced around the basement. “In this room?”

  He leaned down until they were nose to nose. “Everywhere.”