Kill Without Mercy

  Hopping into the shower, he pulled on clean jeans and a Houston Texans sweatshirt before heading into the living room.

  Expecting Teagan to be passed out on the sofa after downing an impressive amount of tequila, he was pleasantly surprised to discover his friend walking through the door with two Styrofoam cups and a white pastry bag.

  “Damn, is that coffee?” he demanded.

  Dressed in his usual uniform of camo pants, T-shirt, and shitkickers, Teagan headed straight for the kitchen. “Coffee, doughnuts, and the latest gossip,” he muttered.

  Rafe’s gut cramped with fear as he followed in Teagan’s footsteps, watching as his friend fired up the computer that Rafe had left on the table. “Annie?” he rasped.

  “Not her,” Teagan reassured him, his expression grim even as Rafe breathed a sigh of relief. “But another woman went missing last night.”

  Oh . . . shit.

  “From Newton?”

  “Yep.” Teagan began to tap on the keyboard. “A Brandi Phillips. Her husband went to the cops this morning saying that she didn’t come home from her shift at the hospital in LaClede.”

  Rafe planted his hands on the table and watched his companion work his magic. In a matter of minutes the photo of a pretty dark-haired woman appeared.

  “What else do you have on her?” he asked.

  Teagan brought up a screen that looked like an employment file. “Twenty-seven years old,” Teagan read out loud. “Graduated from Newton High School, then went to a community college to get her LPN license.”

  “Children?” he demanded.

  A few more clicks and Teagan had her medical records pulled up. “Two sons,” he said. “Seven and five.”

  “Damn.” Rafe straightened. She matched the sketchy profile of the typical victim chosen by the Newton Slayer. So what did that mean? “It has to be a copycat,” he muttered, even as he grimaced. He didn’t like the feeling he was floundering in the dark. Even a man who depended on gut instinct understood the importance of hard facts. “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “There’s a small table next to the front door of Annie’s childhood home.”

  “What about it?”

  “I want you to take it to Houston and have Max pull off the fingerprints.”

  Teagan frowned in confusion. “A hunch?”

  “Not this time,” Rafe denied. “That’s the one thing I’m certain Don White touched.”

  “Yeah, along with a hundred other people,” his friend muttered.

  Rafe couldn’t argue. But a long shot was better than no shot.

  Right?

  “We might get lucky and discover the true identity of Don White,” he said.

  “If he has a criminal record he’ll be in AFIS,” Teagan agreed. “But I still don’t know what it matters now.”

  “Neither do I,” Rafe admitted, ramming a hand through his damp hair. “But it’s possible something in his past might help us. If nothing else, Annie deserves to learn the truth of her past.”

  Teagan gave a grudging nod. “Fine, but I don’t like leaving you here alone.”

  “Go,” Rafe insisted, his mind already centered on how quickly he could get to the local motel. He didn’t want Annie to be alone when she discovered there was another missing woman.

  He was stepping toward the doorway when Teagan placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Just as a heads-up, I put cameras in this room and the living room, so you might want to keep your hairy ass covered when you’re roaming around the house,” he warned, pointing toward the small device that was tucked on top of the cabinets. “And if you intend to have company over, you need to keep your activities confined to the bedroom. I don’t mind watching, but only if I’m going to be invited to join the fun.”

  Rafe regarded his friend in genuine surprise. “You put me under surveillance?”

  “Yep,” he admitted without apology. “And you try to disable them and I’m going to come back and set up house with you,” he warned. “Your choice.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Interfering bastard.”

  Chapter Six

  He washed the blood from his hands, his body still tingling with the cathartic bliss that came after a kill.

  How had he forgotten how sweet it was?

  Watching the life fade from the bitches’ eyes.

  Catching the soft gasp of their last breath.

  To know he’d rid the world of her evil.

  He had to make it safe.

  For Annabelle . . .

  Always for sweet Annabelle.

  Annie woke with a sudden start, blinking in confusion.

  How long had she been sleeping?

  Reaching for the cell phone she’d left on the narrow table beside the headboard, she was startled to discover it was after eight.

  Amazing.

  Seven straight hours of uninterrupted rest.

  It was like a miracle after nearly a week of waking every fifteen minutes.

  Climbing out of bed, she took a quick shower and wrapped herself in a robe as she left the bathroom. Then, crossing her fingers the ancient coffee machine would heat the water to a temperature above lukewarm, she moved to the dresser that also doubled as a TV stand, a desk, and kitchenette.

  It was there she at last noticed the small envelope that’d been shoved beneath her door.

  She froze, dread twisting her stomach.

  She wanted to believe it was a flyer from a local restaurant, or even a copy of her bill from the motel office.

  Or maybe it was simply a mistaken identity, she acknowledged, catching sight of the name that had been written in careful block letters.

  ANNABELLE

  She was officially Annie.

  It wasn’t a nickname for Anne. Or Angelina.

  And certainly not Annabelle.

  That didn’t, however, keep her hands from shaking as she snatched the envelope off the nasty green carpet and tore it open.

  Her dread only increased as she pulled out the folded paper and read the short note:

  One for sorrow,

  Two for luck...

  What the hell?

  Feeling as if she’d been contaminated, she threw the envelope and paper on the shabby chair beside the door and rushed back to the bathroom to hop back in the shower, scrubbing herself red before drying off and pulling her hair into a braid.

  Then, forcing herself to return to the main room, she dressed in a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater, her heart lodging in her throat as there was a sharp knock on her door.

  Christ, now what?

  She hesitated, desperately hoping whoever was out there would assume she was gone and simply walk away.

  Of course, with her current streak of shitty luck there was barely a pause before there was another knock, this one louder than the first.

  “I know you’re in there,” a male voice called out. “Open the door.”

  Licking her dry lips, she forced her feet forward. A serial killer didn’t knock on a motel room door in the middle of the morning, did he?

  Leaving the chain attached as she cracked open the door, she allowed her gaze to slide over the short, stocky man with a large head shaped like a block and thinning brown hair and brown eyes.

  He looked like one of those men who drove a Ford pickup and mowed their grass every Saturday morning.

  Solid. Dependable. Boring.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, well.” He planted his hands on his hips, emphasizing the belt strapped around his pudgy waist that held the leather holster. Her heart stuttered with fear at the sight of the handgun only inches from his fingers until her brain managed to register the brown khaki uniform. Clearly he was some sort of official. “What do you know,” he continued with a pronounced Midwestern twang. “The rumors are true. Little Annie White.”

  She frowned. Was there something familiar about the man? “Have we met?”

  “I’m Sheriff Brock.”

  “Oh.” Sud
denly she had a memory of that square face appearing directly in front of her as a blindfold was removed from her eyes. “You found me in the bomb shelter.”

  He gave a nod. “I did.”

  She cleared her throat. “Is there something you wanted?”

  “We need to speak.”

  Damn. Annie grudgingly reached to slide the chain off its track so she could pull open the door and step onto the narrow sidewalk.

  The morning had barely gotten started and already it promised to be a crappy day.

  “About what?” she demanded.

  He glanced over her shoulder. Was he trying to see if she was sharing the room with someone?

  Creep.

  “Can we go inside?” he asked.

  “Actually I’d rather not.” She reached to pull the door shut. She didn’t like the feeling he was here to snoop into her business. “Such a small space makes me claustrophobic.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  She didn’t like to be in enclosed places with other people.

  Which made her cubicle at the accounting firm a place of near torture.

  “We could go for a coffee—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you just tell me what you have to say.” She interrupted the man’s smooth invitation, indifferent to the hardening of his expression.

  She wasn’t in the mood to worry about proper manners.

  “Did you hear the latest news?” he abruptly asked.

  She stiffened. Was this a trick question?

  “Did they find Jenny?” she asked.

  “No.” His jaw clenched. “Another woman is missing.”

  Annie wasn’t even aware she was moving until her back hit the closed door. “Oh my God,” she breathed, her stomach heaving with a wave of nausea. “When?”

  Despite her horrifying vision last night the news still came as a violent shock, her knees threatening to give way as she met the sheriff’s hard glare.

  “Last night. She left the hospital in LaClede after her shift as a nurse and never arrived home,” he was saying. “Her name is Brandi Phillips. Do you know her?”

  She blinked in confusion. “How would I know her?”

  “She was a few years older than you, but you would have gone to Newton Elementary School together.”

  The shock began to recede enough for Annie to realize that this man wasn’t here to catch up on old times.

  Did he suspect that she had some information about the missing women?

  “I didn’t keep in contact with anyone from Newton after I left,” she snapped.

  “Then why are you back?” he pressed.

  She squared her shoulders, not about to reveal she’d seen both women in her visions.

  It was bad enough she’d shared her secret with Rafe Vargas.

  “It’s personal.”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “Did you remember something about the previous murders?”

  She abruptly grimaced. The details of the day she’d been found in the bomb shelter were sketchy, but she’d read the reports.

  Not only had her father been asleep on the cot, but there had been seven mutilated female bodies stacked in the back of the bomb shelter.

  One of them had been Sharon Brock.

  “I don’t remember anything about your wife, if that’s what you’re asking,” she muttered.

  He grimaced. “I was too late for her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s the past.” The light brown eyes hardened with a combination of frustration and . . . was that anger? “Or at least I thought it was. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I don’t know what this has to do with me.”

  “Did your father have a partner?”

  She blinked at the abrupt question. “A partner?”

  His jaw clenched. “Was there a relative or friend that he used to spend time with? Someone he might have encouraged to follow in his footsteps?”

  Annie’s breath tangled in her throat at the implication that her father had groomed an acquaintance to become a killer.

  “No.” She shuddered. There were a lot of things in her past that were fuzzy, but not this. “If my father wasn’t working on the farm, he was spending time with me or one of our neighbors. There was no one else.”

  The sheriff appeared unconvinced by her insistence. “And you’re here alone?”

  “I told you I was.”

  “Did you make plans to meet someone here?”

  Annie was distantly aware of the sun shining in a clear blue sky, the crisp breeze tugging at her damp braid, and the sound of tires crunching on gravel, but her attention remained glued to the man who was eyeing her with open suspicion.

  “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  He gave a lift of one shoulder. “People are starting to talk.”

  She couldn’t halt her small flinch as he struck at her most vulnerable nerve.

  Dammit. The mere thought of being the focus of attention was enough to make her break out in hives. “About me?”

  “You know how small towns thrive on gossip.”

  Her heart clenched with a bittersweet urge to be back at her foster parents’ isolated ranch.

  Maybe if she’d just stayed there she wouldn’t have started having the visions and she wouldn’t have come to Newton and she wouldn’t have to endure . . .

  No. With a stern effort she shut down the cowardly train of thought.

  She couldn’t hide from the world forever.

  “What are they saying?” she forced herself to ask.

  “They’re wondering if it’s more than a coincidence that you show up after fifteen years and women start disappearing again.”

  The fact that it was exactly what she was expecting didn’t make it any easier to hear.

  Being a victim of her father hadn’t ever halted people from wondering if she was somehow involved in the crimes.

  “You can’t imagine I have anything to do with it?” she rasped.

  “I’m a cop. Everyone is a suspect until I rule them out.”

  She wrapped arms around her waist. “Not me. I wasn’t even here when Jenny went missing.”

  His expression remained hard with suspicion. “Where were you?”

  “In Denver.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “Several hundred colleagues,” she informed him in cold tones.

  He studied her for a long, unnerving minute. Was he disappointed he couldn’t pin the disappearances on her?

  “You still haven’t explained why you’re here,” he growled.

  “Because she doesn’t have to tell you anything,” a male voice drawled as a shadow fell over them. “Not unless you intend to arrest her?”

  Sheriff Brock stilled, like an animal who’d sensed a predator in his territory. “And you are?” he barked, puffing out his chest as if trying to make himself more impressive.

  A wasted effort.

  Even dressed in casual jeans and a sweatshirt, Rafe managed to exude the sort of male dominance that made everyone around him seem . . . less.

  “Rafe Vargas.”

  The older man frowned. “Any relation to old man Vargas?” “Grandson.”

  “I heard you were in town cleaning out the house.”

  “I am.”

  The sheriff watched as Rafe moved to her side, standing close enough to hint that they were more than casual acquaintances.

  “You two know each other?” he asked, his voice accusing.

  Rafe placed an arm around her shoulder. “Yes.”

  There was a tense silence before the lawman was once again concentrating on Annie. “You said you weren’t meeting anyone.”

  “A happy accident,” Rafe assured him in mocking tones.

  The sheriff gave a grunt of annoyance, his gaze never wavering from Annie. “How long are you planning on staying in town?”

  She shivered, barely resisting the urge to paste herself against the man standing at her side. “I’m not sure.”

>   “You intend to remain at the motel?”

  She shrugged. “For now.”

  The sheriff’s fingers twitched as if longing to give her a good shaking. “You might give some thought to returning to Denver.”

  Her chin tilted. Yeah. So easy to be brave when Rafe was her backup.

  “Are you suggesting that I leave town?”

  “We can’t be certain it’s safe for a young woman to be on her own.”

  Rafe pulled her closer, the heat of his body helping to ease her shivers. “She isn’t on her own,” he said, the hint of warning unmistakable.

  “I’m speaking with Ms. White,” the older man growled, sparing Rafe an annoyed glare before returning his attention to Annie. “Let me be honest. There are some in town who consider your return a bad omen.”

  In one part of Rafe’s mind he knew he was overreacting.

  Okay, the sheriff struck him as a petty tyrant who liked to use his position to intimidate others. And he was clearly being a prick to Annie. But it wasn’t completely unreasonable that he would be suspicious of her return just when females started going missing. Or that he would be happier to have her out of town until they caught whoever was responsible.

  But Rafe didn’t give a shit about any pressure the sheriff might be under. Or his excuse for being at the motel.

  All he was interested in was getting rid of the bastard before he upset Annie even more.

  “I think you’ve said enough,” he said, his voice a low command.

  A flush touched the older man’s cheeks, but he stubbornly refused to back down. “Look, I’m just trying to save Ms. White from the hassle of dealing with locals who are looking for someone to blame.”

  “Really?” Rafe flicked his gaze toward the small knot of gawkers who’d already gathered on the corner. “Maybe you should concentrate on finding the missing women.”

  There was a low hiss as the sheriff grabbed the grip of his gun, no doubt imagining the pleasure of lodging a bullet in Rafe.

  “Not a bad idea, asshole,” the older man snarled, leaning forward to poke a stubby finger into the center of Rafe’s chest. “A smart cop would start with the stranger who just arrived in town. Why don’t we head to my office for a chat?”