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- Herausgeber: Valley Publishing Ltd.
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
This is the 1st Psychic Visions Novel from USA Today Bestselling author Dale Mayer.
The visions could destroy her. But they might help him catch a killer…
Shunned and ridiculed all her life for something she can’t control, Samantha Blair hides her psychic abilities. She lives on the fringes of society – until drawn out.
Against her will, she taps into a killer’s victims. Each woman’s murder, blow-by-blow, ravages her mind until their death finally releases her.
Sam goes to the authorities, but will the rugged, no-nonsense detective in charge of tracking down the killer want anything to do with her?
Detective Brandt Sutherland only trusts hard evidence. Yet Sam’s visions offer clues he needs. Desperately. He learns they come at a terrible price though. And the more he discovers about her abilities, the more worried he gets. Her visions threaten the killer.
Danger and desire collide. And now Brandt must play a deadly game he dare not lose. If he does, Sam won’t have a vision of the next murder.
She’ll be the victim…
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Monday’s child is fair of face;
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe;
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving;
Saturday’s child works hard for his living.
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
—Old English nursery rhyme poem, first recorded in 1838
Books in This Series:
Tuesday’s Child
Hide ’n Go Seek
Maddy’s Floor
Garden of Sorrow
Knock Knock…
Rare Find
Eyes to the Soul
Now You See Her
Shattered
Into the Abyss
Seeds of Malice
Eye of the Falcon
Itsy-Bitsy Spider
Unmasked
Deep Beneath
From the Ashes
Stroke of Death
Ice Maiden
Snap, Crackle…
What If…
Talking Bones
String of Tears
Inked Forever
Psychic Visions Books 1–3
Psychic Visions Books 4–6
Psychic Visions Books 7–9
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
About This Book
Complimentary Download
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About Hide ’n Go Seek
Sneak Peek from Hide ’n Go Seek
About Simon Says…
Author’s Note
Complimentary Download
About the Author
Copyright Page
About This Book
The visions could destroyher.But they might helphimcatch a killer…
Shunned and ridiculed all her life for something she can’t control, Samantha Blair hides her psychic abilities. She lives on the fringes of society – until drawn out. Against her will, she taps into a killer’s victims. Each woman’s murder, blow-by-blow, ravages her mind until their death finally releases her. Sam goes to the authorities, but will the rugged, no-nonsense detective in charge of tracking down the killer want anything to do with her?
Detective Brandt Sutherland only trusts hard evidence. Yet Sam’s visions offer clues he needs. Desperately. He learns they come at a terrible price though. And the more he discovers about her abilities, the more worried he gets. Her visions threaten the killer.
Danger and desire collide. And now Brandt must play a deadly game he dare not lose. If he does, Sam won’t have a vision of the next murder. She’ll be the victim…
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KILL OR BE KILLED
Part of an elite SEAL team, Mason takes on the dangerous jobs no one else wants to do – or can do. When he’s on a mission, he’s focused and dedicated. When he’s not, he plays as hard as he fights.
Until he meets a woman he can’t have but can’t forget. Software developer, Tesla lost her brother in combat and has no intention of getting close to someone else in the military. Determined to save other US soldiers from a similar fate, she’s created a program that could save lives. But other countries know about the program, and they won’t stop until they get it – and get her.
Time is running out … For her … For him … For them …
DOWNLOADfree military romance? Just tell me where to send it!
Chapter 1
March 18 at 2:35 a.m.
Samantha Blair struggled against phantom restraints. No, not again.
This wasn’t her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn’t her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own. Then the pain started. Still she couldn’t move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul, while dying nerves screamed.
The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching away all thought. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued.
Sam screamed. The terror was hers, but the cracked, broken voice was not.
Confusion reigned, as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on?
Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror.
She’d become a visitor in someone else’s nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she’d linked to this poor woman, whose life dripped away from multiple gashes.
Another psychic vision.
The knife slashed down, impaling the woman’s abdomen, splitting her wide from rib cage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam’s mind. She cringed.
The other woman slipped into unconsciousness. Sam wasn’t offered the same gift. Now the pain was Sam’s alone. The stab wounds and broken bones became Sam’s to experience, even though they weren’t hers.
The woman’s head cocked to one side, her cheek resting on the blood-soaked bedding. From the new vantage point, Sam’s horrified gaze locked on a bloody knife, held high by a man dressed in black from the top of his head down. Only his eyes showed, glowing with feverish delight. She shuddered. Please, dear God, let it end soon.
The attacker’s fury died suddenly. A fine tremor shook his arm, as fatigue set in. “Shit.” He removed his glove and scratched the exposed skin.
In the waning moonlight, from the corner of her eye, Sam caught the metallic glint of a ring on his finger. It mattered. She knew it did. She struggled to imprint the image before the opportunity was lost. Her eyes drifted closed. In the darkness of her mind, the wait for Death was endless.
Sam’s soul wept. Oh, God, she hated this. Why? Why was she here? She couldn’t help the woman. She couldn’t even help herself.
Sam welcomed the next blow—so light, only a minor flinch undulated through the dreadfully damaged body of this woman. Maybe the poor woman had passed on. Sam’s tortured spirit stirred deep within the rolling waves of blackness, struggling for freedom from this nightmare.
With one last surge of energy, the woman opened her eyes and locked on to the killer’s gaze staring back from within the mask. In ever-slowing heartbeats, her—and Sam’s—circle of vision narrowed, until the two soulless orbs blended into one small band, before it blinked out altogether. The silence, when it came, was absolute.
Gratefully Sam relaxed into the woman’s death.
Twenty minutes later, Sam bolted upright in her own bed. Survival instincts screamed at her to run. White agony dropped her in place.
“Ooooh,” she cried out. Fearing more pain, she slid her hands over her belly. Her fingers slipped along the raw edges of a deep slash. Searing pain made her gasp and twist away. Hot tears poured. Warm sticky fluid coated her fingers. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” she chanted.
Staring in confusion around her, fear, panic, and finally recognition seeped into her dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains on the ceiling, shining through the slapdash coat of whitewash on there, and Sam’s banged-up suitcases, open on the floor. An empty room—an empty life. A remnant of a foster-care childhood.
She was home.
Memories swamped her, flooding her senses with yet more hurt. Sam broke down. Like an animal, she tried to curl into a tiny ball, only to scream again as pain jackknifed through her. Torn edges of muscle tissue and flesh rubbed against each other, and broken ribs creaked with her slightest movement. Blood slipped over her torn breasts to soak the sheets below.
The smell. Wet wool fought with the unique and unforgettable smell of fresh blood.
Sam caught her breath and froze, her face hot, tight with agony. “Shit, shit, and shit!” She swore under her breath, like a mantra.
Tremors wracked her tiny frame, keeping the pain alive, as she morphed through realities. Transition time. What a joke. That always brought images of New Age mumbo jumbo to mind. Nothing light and airy could describe this. Each blow leveled at the victim had manifested in Sam’s own body. This was hard-core healing time for Sam—time when bones knitted, sliced ligaments and muscle tissue grew back together, and skin stitched itself closed.
Sam understood her injuries had something to do with her imperfect control, paired with her inability to accept her gifts. Apparently, if she could surmount the latter, the first would diminish. She didn’t quite understand how or why. Or what to do about it. Her body somehow always healed; the physical and mental scars always remained. She was a mess.
The physical process usually took anywhere from ten to twenty minutes—depending on the injuries. The mental confusion, disconnectedness, sense of isolation took longer to disappear. She paid a high price for moving too soon. Shuddering, Sam reached for the frayed edges of her control. It wouldn’t be much longer. She hoped.
Nothing could stop the hot tears, leaking from her closed eyelids.
This session had been bad. Apart from the broken ribs, there were so many stab wounds. She’d never experienced one death so physically damaging. Nervously she wondered at the extent of her blood loss. If she didn’t learn how to disconnect, these visions could be the end of her—literally.
Just like that poor woman.
Sam hated that these episodes were changing, growing, developing. So powerful and so ugly, they made her sick to her soul.
Several minutes later, Sam raised her head to survey the bed. The pain was manageable, although she wouldn’t move her limbs yet. Blood had soaked the top of the many Thrift Store blankets piled high on the bed. Her hollowed belly had become a vessel for the cooling puddle of blood. Shit. The stuff was everywhere.
The metallic taste clung to her lips and teeth. She rolled the disgusting spit around the inside of her mouth, waiting. She wanted to run away—from the memories, the visions, her life. But knowing that pain simmered beneath the surface, waiting to rip her apart, stopped her. Weary, ageless patience added to the bleakness in her heart.
Ten more minutes passed. Now she should be good to go. Lifting her head, she spat the bloody gob onto the waiting wad of tissue and noted the time.
Transition had taken fifteen minutes this morning.
She was improving.
Oh, God. Sam broke into sobs again. When would this end? Other psychics found things or heard things. Many of them saw events before they happened. She saw violence—not only saw it but experienced it too.
Occasional shudders racked her frame from the coldness that seemed destined to live in her veins. The odd straggling sniffle escaped. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been warm. Dropping the top blood-soaked blanket to the floor, Sam tugged the motley collection of covers tighter around her skinny frame. Warmth was a comfort that belonged to others.
She wasn’t so lucky.
She walked with one foot on the dark side—whether she liked it or not. And that was the problem. She’d been running for a long time. Then she’d landed at this cabin and had been hiding ever since. That was no answer either.
Her resolve firmed. Enough was enough. It was time to gain control of her gift. Time to do something, even if just reading more books on psychics, maybe finding one she could talk to. This monster had to be stopped.
Plus, Christ, she was tired of waking up dead.
Chapter 2
June 16 at 10:23 a.m.
Two months later, the police station, a huge stonework building, towered above Sam, blending into the gray skies above. Or maybe she just felt small. Insignificant. She couldn’t imagine choosing to spend time in this depressing place. It only needed gargoyles hanging from the dormers to complete the picture of doom.
The entire idea of what these people did defeated her. She understood the necessity, yet, given her insider knowledge, this whole human-viciousness thing was too much. She wouldn’t be here now, except another woman had been murdered.
Given her past interactions with the police, even that wouldn’t have been enough to make her sign up for more. The last cop she’d dealt with had been one badass bastard.
No. The ring had brought her here.
This morning’s killer had worn a similar ring to the one Sam had seen a couple months ago in another vision. She’d caught only a brief glimpse of it then, with the memory surviving transition to burn an indelible mark on her heart. Even the mask and gloves had looked similar. The biggest nail in this guy’s coffin had been the energy. Like DNA, the energy for each individual was unique, a personalized signature so to speak. Both killers had the same energy, the same variations in wavelengths and ripples. Even the same vibration. But that was hardly police evidence.
Knowing that some asshole had killed again filled her heart with sorrow and slowed her steps. Several fat raindrops splattered her face—the joys of living along coastal Oregon.
The weather didn’t bother her; the crowds and noise did. And the smell. Exhaust, sweat, and perfumes mixed to become something only a city dweller could love. No, the outlying community of Parksville suited her perfectly. The trip into Portland was only twenty minutes on a good day.
Strangers with umbrellas shouldered past her. Would any of them believe her if she told them about the murders she’d witnessed, experienced? She’d faced distrust and skepticism with every foster family. As a precocious six-year-old, she’d told her foster mother’s coworker to look after her son better. She’d been punished at the time. But, when the boy had drowned in his backyard pool, Sam had really suffered. She’d been dumped back into the system, and the label “odd” had been added to her file. Her gift scared people.
Today she had no choice. She had to come here. She couldn’t stand by and let this guy kill again. Still it was a long shot to ask the police to believe her, when she couldn’t supply a time frame, a name, or even the location of victim or killer. She just didn’t know.
She squared her shoulders. Hitched up her faded jeans. No more. Disbelief or not, she had to do this. She ran up the last few steps.
The interior of the station felt no less imposing. Twenty-foot-tall ceilings lined with dark wood created a doomsday atmosphere. Great. She lined up and waited. When her turn arrived, she stepped to the counter.
The officer glanced at her. “Can I help you, miss?”
Wiping her damp palms on the front of her jeans, she took a deep breath and muttered, “Yes.” She paused, eyeing him carefully. How could she tell the good cops from the bad ones?
The older-looking officer, his expression encouraging and steadfast, helped calm her nerves. Except her ability to judge people had never been good. Sam hesitated a moment longer, before the words blurted out on their own accord. “I need to talk to someone about a murder.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Two murders.” Even she recognized the apology in her voice.
His eyes widened.
Okay, she sounded like she had one screw loose. Still there wasn’t any delicate way to approach this. She dropped her gaze to her tattered sneakers, almost hidden beneath her overly long pants.
“What murders, miss?” His voice, so kind and gentle, contrasted with the sharpness of his gaze.
Shifting, she glanced around. She didn’t want to talk about this out in the open. The line of people started several feet behind her. Still… she leaned closer. “Please, I need to speak with someone in private.”
She twisted the ribbing of her forest-green sweater around her fingers—a response to the intensity of his gaze. Catching herself, she stilled, as if locked in space and time. Not so her stomach, which roiled in defiance. This had to happen now, or she’d never force herself back again.
When he nodded, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Go take a seat. I’ll contact someone.”
Sam spun away and stumbled into the next person in the line behind her. Flushing with embarrassment, she apologized and retreated to a chair against the far wall. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face, as she calmed her breathing. She’d made it this far. The rest… Well… she could only hope it would be just as easy.
It wasn’t.
“Okay. Let’s go over this one more time.” The no-nonsense officer sat across from her in the small office. His crew cut had just enough silver at the tips to make him distinguished-looking, accenting what she suspected would be a black-and-white attitude.
He scratched on the notepad for a moment and frowned. He tossed his pen and opened a drawer to search for another one. “Two women have been murdered? You just don’t know who?” He glanced from his notes to her, in inquiry.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“Right,” he continued, staring at her. “You don’t know by whom? You say one man killed both women, but you don’t know that for sure? And you don’t know where these women could be. Is that correct?”
Sam nodded again. Her fingers clenched together on her lap.
“Therefore, these women, if they existed and if they were murdered, could have lived anywhere in the world—right?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Right, but…”
“Just answer the question. Could these women and their supposed killer be, for example, in England?”
Her shoulders sagged. Why couldn’t anything be easy? “Theoretically, yes. But I’m not—”
“I have enough dead women right here in Portland to go after. Why would I waste time working on a ‘possible two more’ who could have happened anywhere? Not only that… but you’re saying that one woman was strangled and then stabbed, and the other one was just stabbed. That’s not normal. Killers tend to stick to the same method for all their kills.” His annoyance pinned her in place. “Prove that a crime has happened.”
The detective tilted his head back, his arms gestured widely. “Show me a body, either here or somewhere else, and I’ll be happy to contact law enforcement for that area. Until then… if you don’t have anything else, why don’t we call it a day?” He waved in the direction of the door.
Sam stared at the irate officer, her initial optimism long gone. The problem was, everything he’d said was true. She didn’t have anything concrete to tell him. She’d hoped the description of the ring would help validate her story. Frustration fueled her irritation. Both boiled over.
“It’s because of my abilities that I know these murders occurred close by.” Sam poked her finger toward the floor. “I’m not strong enough to pick up images from so far away. These are your cases—you just need to identify them.”
“How?” he snarled. “You’ve given me no physical descriptions, no names, and no location markers. How can I identify them?”
All the fight slipped down her back and drained out her toes. She studied him for a long moment. How could she get through to him? “The first woman will be in your case files, and, for this morning’s victim,… chances are, the murder hasn’t been called in yet. I’d hoped that knowing there was more than one victim would make you take notice.” She paused. “Can’t you use the ring to track down the killer?” She leaned closer. “He will kill again, you know? You will remember this conversation later.”
He shrugged, his eyes darting to the open doorway. He obviously wished she’d disappear, preferably forever.
Sam assessed his face and found only disbelief. Her shoulders sagged. It wasn’t his fault. He’d reacted as she’d expected. Skeptical and derisive. Sam flipped her braid over her back and rose. She’d tried. There’d be no help here. “Fine. I don’t have any proof, and I didn’t think you’d believe me, but,… well, I had to try.”
She straightened her back, thanked the glowering officer, and escaped into the hallway. Ahead, the front window glinted with bouncing sunlight. Freedom beckoned. Her pace quickened. By the time she’d rounded the corner and caught sight of the front entrance, she’d broken into a half run.
*
11:10 a.m.
Detective Brandt Sutherland smiled at the young rookie. “Thanks, Jennie. I appreciate this.”
Pink bloomed across her features, accenting her age, as did the ponytail high on the back of her head. Did they still wear those in school? As a new recruit, her arrival last week had caused quite a stir, her fresh innocence a joy to the department full of jaded detectives.
“Sure, any time.” She gave him a shy tilt of her lips at first, which then turned into a real grin, before she hurried back to her desk. Still in the hallway, Brandt opened the file and glanced at the photos. His stomach dropped. His mood plummeted further, as he checked out the other pictures in the stack. Another one. Damn it.
A commotion down the hall caught his attention. Glancing up, he frowned. What was that? A small bundle of moving clothing and flying hair bolted toward him. Brandt jumped out of the way. His open file smashed against his chest, only to end up in her path anyway, as the tiny woman dodged sideways in a last-ditch attempt to miss him.
As she stumbled, he reached out to steady her. “Easy does it. Watch where you’re going.” His hand never quite connected, as she slipped away like thin air.
Huge chocolate-colored eyes, framed by long velvet lashes, flashed. “Excuse me,” muttered the waif, before she continued her sprint to the front door, her long braid streaming behind her.
“Wait,” he shouted, but she’d gone, leaving Brandt with an impression of soft doe eyes—evocatively large, yet filled with unfathomable pain. Brandt felt like he’d just been kicked in the stomach—or lower. Mixed impressions from those eyes flooded his mind. Frustration. Defeat. Pleading for help but no longer expecting to receive any. Yet he could have sworn he sensed steel running through her spine. Somewhere along the line, life had knocked her down but not out. Never out.
He took several steps after her, only to watch her bolt out the front door.
Who the hell was she? He shook his head in bemusement. Two seconds and he’d felt enough for a psychological profile. Yeah, right. Still, how could anyone have that much torment going on and still function? Staring after her, he wished she hadn’t escaped quite so fast. He didn’t know what she needed or why, but surely he could have helped somehow.
His curiosity aroused, he walked into the office at the end of the hall and studied the lone occupant. “Kevin, were you just talking to that young lady?”
“What young lady?” Detective Kevin Bresson looked up from his keyboard, his gray eyes confused and disoriented. Reaching up, he jerked on the knot of his tie.
“The tiny one who’s all eyes.”
Kevin’s brows beetled together and then comprehension hit. “Oh, the skinny one.” He shook his head and grimaced. “Jesus, I’d stay away from her, if I were you.”
Brandt stared toward the front entrance, unable to forget her haunting image. Or his inclination to follow her. A compulsion he had trouble explaining even to himself. “Why?”
“The moon must be full or close to it—the wackos are coming out of the woodwork.”
“She’s nuts?” Brandt pulled back slightly, jarred by Kevin’s comment. “No way.”
“Yep, crazy as a bedbug.” Kevin checked his desk calendar, pointed at today’s date. “Look at that. I’m right. It is a full moon tonight.”
Brandt readily admitted that he didn’t know much about the cosmos; still he’d have bet his last dollar that sanity lived in those eyes. Also a hint of desperation too, as if she’d hit the end of her rope maybe, but at least she’d known it.
“So what did she want?” Brandt worked to keep the interest out of his voice.
Kevin tossed down his pen on his desk and leaned back. “She tried to tell me this crazy-ass story about waking up inside another woman while she was being murdered.” Kevin snorted. “I’ve heard a lot of stories over the years, but that one topped my list.”
Brandt straightened, stepped closer. “She’s a psychic?” He didn’t quite know how he felt about that.
Kevin shot him a disgusted frown. “If she is, she’s not a very good one.”
Brandt frowned. “Why? What did she have to say?”
“Something about a killer murdering two women. Both times, she says, she witnessed the murders as they happened, from inside the dead women’s bodies.” Kevin shrugged, as if to say, People, what can you do? “Even odder, she says this killer used a different MO each time.”
That was unusual, yet not unheard of. Brandt only had to think of the current animal he was hunting. If Brandt was right about him, this guy constantly changed his methods.
“Did she offer any proof? Some way to identify the killer? Did she know who the women were?” At Kevin’s shaking head, Brandt felt pity for the woman. He hadn’t been here at this station for long, and he didn’t hold a position that invited confidences—detectives were the same across the country. Some were good cops with limited imagination; some had too much imagination and had a hard time playing by the rules. Kevin appeared to be squarely on the side of the disbelievers and rule makers.
Brandt, well, he’d admittedly done more rule breaking than was probably good for him. Old-fashioned detective work did the job most times but not always. And he didn’t give a damn where the help came from, as long as it came. He couldn’t resist asking, “Anything concrete?”
“Nope,” Kevin answered, with a superior half smile. “I told you—lots of nothing.”
Brandt stared out the hallway, teeming with people. It had to be lunchtime. “Damn.” Just before walking through the doorway, he turned back one last time. “Nothing useful?”
“Nope, nada.”
Disgusted, Brandt walked away. At least that partly explained the panic in her eyes.
“Except the ring,” Kevin called out, snickering.
Brandt spun around. “Ring? What ring?” He walked over and put his palms on the desk. “You didn’t mention a ring.”
Kevin leaned back in surprise, his hand stalled midair. “Hey, easy. I didn’t think anything she said mattered.”
“Fair enough.” Grappling for patience, Brandt threw himself down in the chair. “What did she say?”
“Fine.” Kevin shifted to the side and reached for his notepad. He flipped through the pages, until he found what he wanted. “She didn’t say much,” he said, frowning at his notes. “She woke up twice, ‘inside’ different women, while they were being murdered. She sees what the women see, and, when they die, she snaps back into her own body.”
Brandt frowned, puzzled. “Odd ability to have. Where does the ring fit in?”
“She said that, when staring out of the women’s eyes”—Kevin rolled his eyes at that—“she couldn’t see much of the attacker because he wore a full ski mask, like a balaclava. You know? The ones with only holes for the eyes and mouth. She remembers his eyes being black and dead looking. And …” He paused for effect.
Brandt glared at him in annoyance. “Come on. Come on. Stop the melodrama.”
“Jeez, you’re a pain in the ass today. What gives?”
Brandt rolled his eyes. Camaraderie was slowly developing with Kevin. Brandt had joined the East Precinct four weeks ago—but on a temporary basis. His boss had arranged for Brandt to have an office and to have access to all files, current and cold, as he searched for information on a potential serial killer, before heading up a task force, if his findings warranted one.
He’d come into contact with this killer years ago and had run him to ground in Portland a year ago. Then nothing. A year. He couldn’t believe they still didn’t have a lead. This killer had become his nemesis. His Waterloo.
Most of the guys here had accepted Brandt. It would take time to develop more than that. Time he didn’t have.
“Fine then.” Quirking one eyebrow, Kevin continued to read. “She mentioned seeing a ring during the one murder, and then she thought she recognized it again during the second one,” he said in an exaggerated voice.
“Did she describe it?”
Kevin nodded and glanced down at his notes. “Some sort of four-leaf-clover pattern with a diamond in each of the leaves. A snake, or something similar, coils between them. According to her, one of the stones was missing.”
Brandt sharpened his gaze. “Color? Size? Gold? Silver?”
Kevin searched again through his notes and shook his head. Casting an eye at Brandt, he said, “She didn’t say, and,… honestly, I didn’t ask. I thought she was off her rocker.” He scrunched his shoulders. “Jesus, her cases aren’t even related, yet she says it ‘feels’ like the same killer. Something about having the same energy signature. Whatever the hell that means.” He dropped his gaze, a frown furrowing his brows, as he doodled on the corner of his notepad. “I gather you’re not dismissing her story?”
Brandt considered that. He’d used psychics before. In fact, he’d been friends with Stefan Kronos for a long time. The reclusive psychic was a difficult person to get close to. And even more difficult to be close with. The man was painfully honest. Brandt knew what valuable information they could give but also knew using them could be a crapshoot.
“I don’t know what to think. The changing MO thing is unusual, but it happens. That’s why I’m here, after all. If she had concrete information, it would have been easy enough to check out against our cases. But she didn’t though, did she?”
Kevin shook his head. “Not really. The last murder happened this morning, which could mean that we haven’t found the victim yet, or it happened in a different country, and we’ll never hear anything about her. Oh, yeah, this morning’s victim had a tiled ceiling with deep crown moldings and frilly pink bedding. That is, if any of this can be counted on.” He waited a heartbeat. “Here. Go for it. I’ll log it in, but you can have this.” He ripped off several pages from his notepad. “Personally I think it’s all bullshit.”
Brandt half nodded and returned to his office. Bullshit or not, he’d still check it out.
An hour later, Brandt slumped back in his computer chair, stumped. Killers were normally predictable in their methods. They stayed with what worked, and few killers changed that. Those who did had been in business for a long time. They’d evolved. This made them incredibly difficult to hunt—as Brandt well knew.
He checked Kevin’s notes again. With only a comment or two on the women’s hair and the way they’d died, it would be hard to identify the victims. He had too many possibles to sort through. In a busy metropolis like Portland, murder was an everyday affair.
Speaking into empty air, he said, “This is ridiculous. I need details, damn it.”
He needed a time frame or details of the victims themselves. How could Kevin not have asked for more? Not that he could blame Kevin. The city was overrun with nutcases. Who could tell them from the normal people these days?
He scratched down a couple more questions, before returning to his screen. This particular nut had a name—Samantha Blair. He tried to fit the name to the image of the skinny panicked woman from the hallway.
Back at his screen, he brought up all the information the database had to offer, which was scant at best. She was twenty-eight years old with no priors, no outstanding warrants, and no tickets or parking violations.
The phone rang, interrupting his search. “Hello.”
“Hi, sweetie. How are you today?”
Brandt leaned back with a grimace. “Mom, I’m fine. I told you yesterday. The headache was gone when I got home. Nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, dear. I just wanted to call and make sure you’re feeling better.”
“I am. How are you? Are you ready to leave that place yet?” Brandt pivoted in his chair to stare out the window. The sun had streaked through a few of the gray rain clouds, lighting the sky with colored swaths.
“I’m not that good. My hip has mostly healed, but it still feels weak.” She sniffled slightly.
Brandt grinned. What her hip had to do with a fake cold was anyone’s guess; still she pulled out a sniffle every time.
His mom should be sitting out on her little deck to her own apartment, not in the assisted living center a few miles out of town. She’d been happy there—very happy. She still had her apartment. This center was supposed to be a temporary situation. Somehow, every time Brandt mentioned her leaving, her lung condition or diabetes acted up, or she came up with some other excuse to stay a little longer. The center didn’t mind. They were in the process of adding a new wing to accommodate more seniors. His mom had money and paid her way.
To be closer to her, Brandt had requested the switch in precincts to this particular location.
Her voice almost back to normal, she asked, “Do you have time for lunch today?”
“No. Today’s not good.”
“Oh, dear. Well, how about tomorrow then?”
“Mom, I’d love to, if it’s just the two of us. No more prospective girlfriends, okay?”
“Now, honey, I wouldn’t do that. You explained how you felt about my ‘interfering,’ as you called it. But still,” his mom said, her raspy voice dropping to a sad whisper, “I do want to see you settled before I die.”
“Oh, hell,” Brandt muttered. The sweet long-suffering tones somehow conveyed lost hopes and dire endings soon to come. “Mom, you aren’t dying. And I am in the hands of a good woman. Many good women in fact.” Her shocked gasp made him grin.
“Don’t say that. You need a wife, not those… those …” she spluttered.
He couldn’t help but chuckle at her outrage. She deserved it for her constant interfering in his private life. Her persistence came closer to smothering than loving.
Brandt groaned under his breath. He straightened, stretching his back. “Enough about my girlfriends. Mom, is there anything else you need? Because I’ve got work to do.”
“No, I’ll save it for lunch tomorrow at the Rock Café. Be there at one o’clock, like you promised.”
Brandt’s chair snapped forward, his feet hitting the floor hard. “What? What’s this?” She’d hung up on him. “Damn it.”
Irritated, he stared at the phone in his hand. His mother’s machinations were legendary, and, though he hated being outmaneuvered, it was his fault. He’d been letting her get away with this for years, so no changing the status quo now.
Good humor restored, he returned to his computer screen. According to Kevin, Samantha lived in the nearby community of Parksville, where she worked at a local vet’s office part-time. The sparse facts didn’t begin to explain the haunted weariness that had so touched him. He’d seen a similar look in the families of victims and those at the bottom of their world.
He forced his attention back to Kevin’s notes. It appeared Samantha had said something about both women having long hair. The one from several months ago had been a blonde, who’d been strangled. So, how many unsolved cases could he find with long-haired murdered victims?
His fingers flew across the keyboard. Three cases listed for the last year. One of them flagged as possible prey of the Bastard, the serial killer he’d followed to Portland. A killer who had been active for decades, possibly all over the States, with no one connecting the dots—until Brandt.
This killer’s victims were always young beautiful women, either happily married or in strong committed relationships. All had been raped. And that’s where the similarities ended. Some women were strangled in their beds; some stabbed in their living rooms, while others tortured for hours. Portland was the geographical center of the most recent attacks.
The police had an old DNA sample that had degraded over the years and a couple hairs from very early cases—and no one to check them against. This asshole had started his career before the labs became so sophisticated. He’d adapted and learned well. To date, they had no fingerprints and no hits on any databases.
That’s why Brandt had trouble convincing his boss that they had a serial killer. Hence his job, pulling together everything he could find to get the backing for the task force to hunt down this asshole.
A knock sounded on his door. “Move it, Brandt. We’ve got another one.”
Chapter 3
11:27 a.m.
Sam sat in her dilapidated Nissan truck at the stoplight. Who was that man she’d mowed down in the hallway? It might have been a fleeting contact, but he’d left a hell of an impression. Strong, determined, surprised, and even concerned. Sam wrapped her arms around her chest. Not likely.
A honk from behind catapulted her forward. She drove down Main Street, before pulling into the almost empty parking lot at the vet’s office, her insides finally unfurling and relaxing after the tough morning. The animals always helped. It’s not that she didn’t like people because she did. But the foster home mill didn’t give her much opportunity to understand close relationships.
Whenever she’d tried to get close to another child, either they or she’d ended up shipped out within a few months. Sam had grown up watching the various dynamics around her in bewilderment. From loving kindness to sibling fighting to lovers breaking up and making up, everyone appeared to understand some secret rules to making relationships work.
Everyone but her.
She’d tried several relationships, even had several short-lived affairs. In the last few years, they’d been nonexistent.
Sam locked her truck and walked through the rear door of the vet hospital—her kind of place. She had a kinship with animals. They’d become her saving grace in an increasingly dismal and lonely world. She stashed her purse in the farthest closet, peeled off her sweater, and tossed it on top. Then she tucked in her T-shirt and got to work.
Moving through the cages, Sam grinned at Casper, a tabby cat who’d lost his leg in a car accident. “Hey, buddy. How’re you doing?” She opened the door and reached inside. Instantly the cat’s heavy guttural engine kicked in. She pulled the big softy out of the cage, careful of his new stump. The bandage had stayed dry at least. That had to be a good sign. She gave him a quick cuddle. “Okay, Casper, back you go. I’ll get you fresh water. And how about a clean blanket?”
Sam bustled about, taking comfort in the mundane and in the service of others—animal others. She hummed along, until she came to the last cage. Inside, a heavily bandaged German shepherd glared at her. She halted at the hideous warning growl.
She stretched out a hand to snag the chart hanging from the front of the cage.
The growls increased in volume.
Sam stepped back to give the injured animal more space. She’d intruded in his comfort zone, something she could respect. Bending to his level, she spoke in a soft voice. Without his trust, taking care of him wouldn’t be pleasant for either of them. And this guy looked like he’d seen the worst humanity had to offer.
The growl deepened but stayed low-key. A warning without heat.
Sam could respect that too. She sat cross-legged at the edge of his space and continued to talk to him, until he calmed down.
“Hey, Sam. I didn’t hear you come in.” Lucy, the gregarious vet assistant, had a voice that boomed throughout the farthest corners of the room, giving Sam no opportunity to ignore it.
She hunched her shoulders at the intrusion, keeping her gaze locked on the dog. “I came in the back,” she called out in a low voice.
The dog stared at her.
Sam shifted slightly and narrowed her gaze. The shepherd’s gaze followed every movement. She grimaced. Strange, but she could almost sense his interest.
“There you are. What are you doing sitting on the bare floor like that? You’ll catch a cold.” Lucy’s voice sounded behind Sam’s shoulder.
Sam jerked, then twisted around to greet the large older woman, and, for a startling moment, saw another Lucy instead—Sam’s murdered best friend Lucy, from a decade ago. The long familiar brown hair appeared braided off to one side, with her sweet smile spread across her face. The image was old and faded and yet still heart-wrenchingly clear.
Pangs of guilt wiggled in Sam’s belly. The dog’s low growl tore through the image. Sam shook herself, concentrating on the office manager and not her old friend. “Hi, Lucy.”
The older woman fisted her hands on ample hips. “Come on out front and have a warm cup of tea.”
Sam glanced at the dog. His black gaze locked on the two women.
Lucy reached down a beefy hand to help Sam get to her feet. Sam winced. This morning’s vision had left her stiff and sore. Her police disaster had left her aching.
With slow careful movements, Sam brushed off her clothes and hung the chart back on the dog’s crate.
“Jesus, girl, you’re freezing. Lord, this child can’t even take care of herself, let alone no animals.”
Sam shook her head at Lucy’s habit of directing comments to the Almighty above. Still Lucy had a point. Cold, Sam’s constant companion, had settled deeper in her bones. She found herself propelled to the front offices and the small cozy lunchroom. There, a hearty nudge pushed her to the closest chair. Within minutes, a hot cup of strong tea with a single serving of cream arrived before her.
Lucy, with a second cup of tea, took the chair opposite Sam.
Unable—and unwilling—to stop them, Sam confronted her memories of the other Lucy. That Lucy had loved her tea too. The two of them had shared many cups. During one such moment, Sam had broken her own rule and had trusted her enough to tell her about her “gift.” Poor Lucy. She’d thought it had been so cool. Then one night, after drinking too many B-52s, she’d told everyone, once again making Sam an oddity, an outsider. And reminding Sam of a sad truth—even friends couldn’t be trusted. A lesson she hadn’t forgotten since. Her friend had died an ugly death. And Sam couldn’t help her. More guilt.
Sam sighed.
“Heavy thoughts?” asked Lucy gently. “Care to share?”
Sam’s mouth kicked up at the corners. “Nothing worth sharing,” she murmured.
Lucy leaned back, with an unsurprised nod. “Just so you know, I’m always here, if you ever want to talk.” After a moment, she continued in a bright cheerful voice. “Here. Try one.” A plate of cookies appeared beside her hot mug.
“Thanks.” And Sam meant it. Choosing a peanut butter cookie, she bit into it. She closed her eyes, a tiny moan escaping. In the darkness, the rich buttery peanut taste filled her mouth. Delicate yet robust and sooo good.
“Not bad, huh?”
Sam nodded, wasting no time in popping the rest of the morsel into her mouth. Lucy nudged the plate closer. Sam grinned and snatched up a second cookie. Lucy gave her a fat smile of pleasure.
Her mouth full, Sam considered the woman beside her. This Lucy gave from the heart, freely offering acceptance and reserving judgment. Sam understood the value of the gift. At the same time, all that emotion made her nervous. “Thanks for the tea and cookies.” She took her cup to the sink.
“What do you think of our new patient?”
“The German shepherd.” Sam spun around. “What happened to him?”
Lucy rose and brought her cup to the sink. “Sarah found him.” Lucy turned around. “You remember my daughter, Sarah? She works at the seniors’ facility …” Without waiting for a response, she continued talking. “She called in to say a resident had found the dog injured in the parking lot. Dr. Wascott drove over and picked him up.”
Sam watched as Lucy turned on the hot water and dribbled a little dish soap over the cup in her hand. Sarah—Sam vaguely remembered—was activity coordinator at a home between here and Portland.
Lucy gazed at Sam. “He was in tough shape. And, since he woke up after surgery, well …” She placed the clean cup upside down on the drying rack. “He won’t let any of us near him, unless he’s sedated.”
Sam chewed on her bottom lip. “Is he eating? Drinking?”
“Through his IV,” Lucy said, with a small grim smile. “We’ll see what he’s like when it comes time to check his wounds. Don’t get too attached. His prognosis isn’t good.”
Already halfway through the doorway leading to the back of the hospital, Sam stilled and glanced back, seeing only concern in the other woman’s eyes. Resolutely Sam headed to her charges.
The shepherd’s low growl warned her halfway.
“It’s okay, boy. It’s just me. I’ll be taking care of you. Give you food, fresh water, and friendship. The things that help us get along in life.” Although she kept her voice quiet, warm, and even toned, the growl remained the same.
She couldn’t blame him.
He might get along without friendships, but she wanted them. Except for her friendship with Lucy long ago, Sam had never had that elusive relationship that others took for granted.
Sam approached the dog’s cage with care. According to his chart, he’d had surgery to repair internal bleeding and to set a shattered leg. On top of that, he’d suffered several broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder bone, and was missing a huge patch of skin on both hindquarters. Written in red and circled were the words: aggressive and dangerous.
The growling stopped.
Sam squatted to stare into his eyes. The dog should have a name. He didn’t give a damn. But a name gave the dog a presence, an existence,… an identity.
“How about …” She thought for a long moment. “I know. How about we call you Major?”
The dog exploded into snarls and hideous barking, his ears flattened, and absolute hate filled his eyes.
“Jesus!” Sam skittered to the far corner of the room—her hand to her chest—sure her heart would break free of its rib cage.
“Is everything okay back here?”
Sam turned in surprise to see one of the vets, standing behind her, frowning. “Sorry,” she yelled over the din of the other animals that had picked up the shepherd’s fear. She waited for the animals to calm down before continuing. “I’d thought of a brilliant name for the shepherd, but, from his reaction, I think he hates it.”
The vet walked over and bent down to assess his patient. “It could have been your tone of voice or the inflection in the way you said the name. He’d been abused, even before this accident.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “I’m not sure, but it might have been kinder to have put him down.”
“No.” Sam stared at him in horror. “Don’t say that. He’ll come around.” At his doubtful look, she continued, “I know he will. Give him a chance.”
That she seemed to be asking the vet to give her a chance hung heavy in the room, yet she didn’t think he understood that.
He stared at her, shrewdness and wisdom in his eyes.
Then again, maybe she’d misjudged him. She shifted, uneasy under the intense gaze.
“We’ll see. We’ll have lots of opportunity to assess his progress as he recuperates.”
Sam had to be satisfied with that. She knew the dog was worth saving, and so, damn it, was she. Her salvation and that of the dog were tied together in some unfathomable way. She could sense it. She’d fight tooth and nail to keep him safe.
In so doing, maybe she could save herself.
*
11:45 a.m.
The Bastard had been busy.
Brandt grimly surveyed the room. The woman lay sprawled across the bed, killed by multiple stab wounds, if the massive blood loss was anything to go by. Any number of perps could have done this, but Brandt knew the scene would be clean. Squeaky clean, just like every other one he blamed on this asshole.
And the woman would have drugs in her bloodstream, just enough so she wouldn’t have been able to struggle—at least not much. A signature obvious from the more recent cases. Brandt frowned. This case would move to the head of Brandt’s list. Ammunition for a task force to put this asshole behind bars.
His fists clenched and unclenched. Christ, he wanted to kill the Bastard himself.
Blood spattered the walls, carpet, the trashed bedding,… a few drops even going so far as to hit the ceiling. A large pool of black blood had congealed on the floor beside the night table. This woman hadn’t been murdered—she’d been butchered. She must have been in a drugged sleep at the time of the attack. The only signs of struggle were on the bed and not many of them at that.
She also had long brown hair with a hint of a curl in it at the ends. Or would have had if the stands weren’t flattened by the weight of the dried blood. The bedding was some kind of ruffled rose paisley thing. Two points to Samantha Blair. Deep crown moldings on the ceiling gave her a third.
“Brandt, the young man who called this in is waiting out back.”
Adam was the youngest member of the team, with only six months’ experience behind him. Always pale, today his red hair and freckles stood out more than ever, giving his face a clownish appearance. He tried to look anywhere but at the body on the bed. “Kevin said you can take the lead. He’ll be here soon.”
Another test. Fine with him.
